#what if he steals her money what if what if what if like MY RELATIVES IN CHRIST I DID NOT DO THIS

[imwritesometimes]

"but what will you do if she ends up not liking her marriage?"

like.... lmao.... WHAT? what will *I* do?!??! nothing! she chose to run off and secretly marry a guy years older than her that she'd known for a couple months. she chose this as a grown woman over 30 not some naive 19 year old relative I should intervene for

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

1968 [Chapter 2: Hera, Goddess Of Childbirth]

A/N: Enjoy Chapter 2 a little early! See you on Sunday for Chapter 3 🥰

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

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

Word Count: 5.4k

Tagging: @arcielee @huramuna @glasscandlegrenades @gemmagirlss1 @humanpurposes @mariahossain @marvelescvpe @darkenchantress @aemondssapphirebussy @haslysl @bearwithegg @beautifulsweetschaos @travelingmypassion @althea-tavalas @chucklefak @serving-targaryen-realness @chaoticallywriting @moonfllowerr @rafeism @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @herfantasyworldd @mangosmootji

💜 All of my writing can be found HERE! 💜

You are buzzed at a private party in the Rainbow Room of Rockefeller Center, Midtown, February 1966, chandeliers and candlelight, pink and red hearts made of paper hanging from shimmering strings and littering the floor. Your roommate Barbara Nassau Astor—yes those Astors, Astor Avenue in the Bronx, Astoria in Queens, “the landlords of New York”—brought you along tonight, and the chance to be swept up into her glittering existence is precisely why your father sent you to a school like Manhattanville College of the Sacred Heart. Barb knows people who know people who know other people and every single individual in that grand design is wealthy and worldly and could possibly lead you into the generous arms of your future husband. You are from Tarpon Springs, Florida, heiress to a sea sponge fortune, and your father nurses powerful ambitions of intermingling his blood with the Northeastern elite.

You scan the selection as you sip your Pink Squirrel. You could marry a doctor and sit in the living room waiting for him to come home at 9 or 10 or 11 p.m., fix him a Whiskey Sour or a Sazerac, listen to him bemoan the complexities of nerves and veins before accompanying him to bed and repeating the whole process the next day. You could marry a lawyer or an advertising executive, and your fate would be much the same. Your own parents are partners in life and business, but you have seen enough to know how rare this is. These men of the Rainbow Room, 65 floors above icy streets radiant with headlights, want a wife whose hands will stay manicured and idle: nannies will tend to the children, maids will clean the house, mistresses will massage the knots out of the muscles of his back. And you—a relative upstart, new money among ancient bloodlines—will have no right to demand otherwise.

A man interrupts your reverie. He wants to know about the pendant you wear around your neck. You sigh before you turn to him; you resist the instinct to roll your eyes. And then you see him. Tall, blonde, blue-eyed, with a curious intensity and a teasing little smirk, an Old Fashioned in his grasp like molten gold. You don’t know it yet, but he is a senator from New Jersey, very recently elected, victorious yet still hungry. He steals the oxygen out of your lungs. He drowns you in the amber-musk warmth of his cologne.

“It’s Athena,” you say, touching your fingertips to the silver medallion self-consciously; and you are rarely self-conscious. The black polish has been scrubbed from your nails and replaced with a soft, shimmering champagne. You spent two hours this afternoon having your hair painfully teased and arranged into a Brigitte Bardot-inspired updo.

“Goddess of wisdom.”

“And war and peace. And math.”

“Math?” He is intrigued.

“That’s what I’m studying at school. Math.”

“And yet you are not disinterested in the humanities. You know Greek mythology.”

“Well, Tarpon Springs has a lot of Greeks, and that’s where I’m from, so.”

“Studies math. From Tarpon Springs, Florida. I’m learning everything about you.” He smiles, this magnetic stranger who has captured you like a moon lured into a planet’s gravity. He swallows a mouthful of his Old Fashioned, moisture glistening on his lips. “Do you like Greek food?”

You can’t seem to follow his words. Blood is rushing into your face, hot and dizzying. “What?”

“Greek food. Have you tried it? Hummus, tzatziki, gyros, spanakopita, horiatiki, baklava.”

“Oh yeah, I’ve had it. It’s great.”

“My family owns a house on Long Beach Island,” he says casually. “We eat a lot of Greek food there. You should join us for dinner sometime soon.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Very soon. Maybe this weekend. Are you free?”

No, you’re not; but you’ll cancel plans until you are. “Um, okay. Sure. And who…sorry, I might have missed it, but…who are you…?”

“Aemond Targaryen.” And he shakes your hand like you’re someone who matters. “I’m a senator. I’m trying to end the war.”

With him, you could be a part of something magnificent. With him, you could help save the world.

~~~~~~~~~~

Asteria is the goddess of falling stars, but the home of rising ones. On the north end of Long Beach Island, New Jersey—only 100 miles south of the sleek bladelike skyscrapers of Manhattan—lies the sprawling Targaryen estate. The nine-acre property features one main house and another three for guests, a swimming pool, a tennis court, a ten-car garage, a boathouse, a pier, and an ample stretch of beach that abuts the Atlantic Ocean, open water with nothing interrupting the infinite, miles-deep blue from the East Coast to the Iberian Peninsula. It is the first week of July, 1968, and your 23rd birthday. You are lazing in a lounge chair on the emerald green lawn and eating your third slice of melopita, a cheesecake-like dessert made with honey and ricotta. It originates from the Greek island of Sifnos.

“You two can’t murder each other while I’m gone,” Aemond says. He’s sitting between you and Aegon. His stitches have healed, the worst of his pain has subsided, his poll numbers have only improved since the assassination attempt. He has a glass eye that he can insert for public appearances, but he dislikes it; at home he wears a leather eyepatch that still unnerves the children. Tomorrow, Aemond is flying to Tacoma to campaign ahead of the Washington State Convention on the 13th. Most of the family will be joining him, with only three Targaryens remaining at Asteria: ailing Viserys, useless Aegon, and you, officially too pregnant to travel by plane. You are wearing a floral, flowing, two-piece swimsuit. The sun is blazing in a clear sky. The record player is piping out Time Of The Season by the Zombies.

Aegon waves a hand flippantly, then adjusts his preposterously large blue-tinted plastic sunglasses; he is shirtless, flabby, very sunburned. “I’ll barely be here.”

Aemond looks over at him, amused. “Oh yeah? And what pressing engagements do you have to attend to? I’d love to know.”

You take a bite of your melopita and scatter crumbs across the swell of your belly: seven and a half months along. “I’m sure the prostitutes miss him.”

“They do,” Aegon snaps. “I’m their favorite customer.”

“Well you’re a reprieve for them. It’s always over so quickly.”

Aemond is snickering. Aegon says to him: “23, huh? A 13-year age difference. She could almost be your daughter.”

“And 17 years younger than you. She could definitely be yours.”

“That’s how Aegon likes his girls,” you say. “Too inexperienced to recognize end-stage degeneracy. Still stumbling their way through Shakespeare for English class.”

“Why can’t she stay at the brownstone?” Aegon asks irritably. Aemond owns a historic townhouse in Georgetown for when Congress is in session, though he’s rarely been there since he announced that he was running for president.

“Because Doxie is here to make sure she’s taken care of,” Aemond replies. Eudoxia has been the head housekeeper of Asteria for decades, a formidable battleaxe of a woman who speaks very little English and has a seemingly endless supply of patterned scarves to wrap around her ink black dyed hair. There currently aren’t any permanent staff stationed at the brownstone, and Aemond does not trust strangers. “And because my future first lady is hosting a tea party on the 10th.”

“A tea party!” Aegon gasps, mocking you. “Surely that will patch the wounds of our troubled nation. She’s an inspiration. She’s motherfucking Gloria Steinem.”

“She’s Aphrodite,” Aemond says, beaming with pride, his remaining eye fixed on your belly. He’s lost one piece of himself, but in a month and a half he’ll gain another. “Goddess of love.”

“There must be a more appropriate mythological character. Medusa, perhaps. Lyssa was the goddess of rabies, Epiales was the goddess of nightmares.”

“Aegon, I had no idea you were so…” You search for the right word. “Literate.”

“Io was turned into a cow.” He grins at you, toothy, malicious.

“She’s also one of Jupiter’s moons,” Aemond muses. He draws invisible orbits in the air with his long, graceful fingers. “Beautiful, celestial, pristine…”

“A satellite,” Aegon says. “Mindless. Aimless. Going wherever she’s told.”

Aemond insists as he twists the bracelet around your right wrist, a delicate gold chain he bought during your honeymoon in Hawaii: “Aphrodite.”

“Didn’t she fuck around with, like, everyone?”

“Maybe you should be Aphrodite,” you tell Aegon.

Mimi appears, tottering across the lawn with the straps of her sundress sliding off her shoulders and her Gimlet sloshing precariously in its glass. The children are playing in the surf with the nannies and Fosco, who is entertaining them by diving for seashells and delivering his treasures into their tiny, grasping palms. Criston is supervising from the sand, though he steals frequent glimpses of Alicent as she feeds a wheelchair-bound Viserys—much diminished after a number of strokes—his own slice of melopita, one careful, patient spoonful at a time. “Can we…” Mimi bursts out laughing and almost falls over. She claws her way upright again using the back of Aegon’s chair. “Um…I was thinking…”

“What?” Aegon asks, annoyed, avoidant. If they’ve ever been happy, it was a transient epoch that came and went long before you joined the family. It was before the asteroid killed the dinosaurs.

“We should go back to Mykonos. We had such a nice time in Mykonos. Didn’t we? Didn’t we just adore Mykonos?”

Aegon sighs, glowering out over the ocean. “Yeah, we sure did. Ten years ago.”

“Exactly!” Mimi gushes, oblivious. “When can we go? Next week? Let’s go next week.”

“Mimi, you and the kids will be in Washington, remember?” Aemond says. Alicent will have to be her handler; usually it’s your job to make sure Mimi is ready for photos, eats enough to stay conscious, doesn’t trip over her own feet, doesn’t talk too much to the press.

“Washington?” Like she’s never heard of it.

“The state. Not the city. For the convention.”

“Oh right. Right.” She gulps her Gimlet. You could set your watch by Mimi’s drinking. Tipsy by lunch, drunk at dinner, crawling on the floor chasing the dogs around by 8 p.m. The Targaryens keep a drove of Alopekis, small and white and foxlike. “Well…maybe some other time.”

“After the election,” Aemond says with an abiding, encouraging smile. He tolerates Mimi because he needs her: happy wholesome family, American Dream. Down at the water’s edge, the nannies are giving towels to Fosco and the children as they scamper out of the frothing waves, Mimi’s five and Helaena’s three: Daphne, Neaera—no one can ever seem to spell her name correctly, least of all the six-year-old girl herself—and Evangelos.

Mimi departs, on the hunt for a fresh Gimlet. Aegon reaches into the pocket of his swim trunks—Hawaiian print, royal blue—and pulls out a joint and a Zippo. He sticks the joint between his teeth and goes to light it.

“No,” Aemond says immediately, yanking the joint out of Aegon’s mouth and stomping it into the earth. Then he points down the beach towards the sand dunes. “You know journalists will sneak around trying to get photos. You know we’re never truly alone out here.”

“They can’t tell what I’m smoking!”

“Don’t argue with me.”

“You know there are teenagers getting their limbs blown off in Vietnam right now? I think society has bigger problems than me smoking grass.”

“And yet to solve those bigger problems, I have to win in November. And the suburban housewives will not vote for me if they think I support legalizing marijuana. Trust me, I know. I’ve met them.”

“I wouldn’t want those people’s votes,” Aegon says derisively.

“You’d rather Nixon get them?”

Aegon doesn’t have a speedy rebuttal this time. He contemplates the Atlantic Ocean, the wind tearing at his hair.

“It’s hot as hell,” Aemond says to you, gathering up the newspapers he’s been leafing through, never not thinking about the election, never not strategizing. “Come on. Let’s go inside.”

As you accompany Aemond towards the main house—and of course you follow him, always, anywhere—Alicent waves you over to where she and Viserys are sitting to wish you a happy birthday again. From this vantage point, you can just barely spot Otto and Helaena strolling through her garden, a jungle of butterfly bushes and herbs. The stricken Targaryen patriarch beams at the swell of your belly. Viserys likes you, you are his favorite daughter-in-law, though perhaps this is not so lofty an achievement. Moreover, he likes that you are carrying the child of his decent son. Aemond has already decided on the baby’s name: Aristos Apollo. If it is in fact a boy, you suppose you’ll call him Ari, but he doesn’t feel real to you yet. He belongs to Aemond, to the Targaryens, to the nation, but not quite to you. He is more myth than flesh.

“Nothing is more precious than children,” Viserys tells Aemond, raspy and frail. “I would have had at least five more if I could.” Alicent bows her head, an acknowledgement of her failure in this regard. Viserys expects it. You and Aemond politely avert your gazes.

“Thank God for this baby,” Alicent says. “After the year we’ve had? That the whole world has had? We all need something to be grateful for.”

“Yes,” Aemond agrees, smiling. It must be the promise of a son that has made his maiming go down smoother, and maybe it is his soaring poll numbers too, and maybe it is gratitude that he escaped with his life, and maybe it is even the fact that he has you.

But long after dusk when you’re getting ready for bed—slathering yourself in Jergens, stepping into your chiffon nightgown—as you pass through the sliver of light pouring out of the bathroom, you catch a glimpse of something that stops you. Aemond is standing in front of the mirror with his hands on the rim of the sink, his eyepatch slung over the towel rack, his voided eye socket exposed and gory and irreparably wounded. There’s something in his scarred face that you can’t recall ever seeing before. There is a seething, secret, animal rage. There is fury for everyone who has ever denied him anything.

You remember who you were before you met Aemond at the Rainbow Room in Manhattan at a party you were almost not illustrious enough to attend. You wore your hair long and loose, you downed shots, you smoked, you swore, you slept through class almost every Monday; and then you packed all of this away in your allegorical attic and became someone who could stand beside a senator, and then a candidate, and then a president, someone who could tip the scales of fate.

And you think as you lurk unnoticed in the doorway: Maybe he’s been hiding parts of himself too.

~~~~~~~~~~

July 10th, 10 a.m. He’s snoring on a couch in the living room, the one patterned with sailboats. He’s hugging his acoustic guitar like a child clinging to a teddy bear. Sometimes he plays it for the kids: Get Rhythm, Twist And Shout, Stand By Me, You Can’t Hurry Love. That’s about the extent of his involvement in their lives. He has a law degree from Columbia that his father bought for him. Aside from a brief and disastrous stint as the mayor of Trenton, he has never been gainfully employed. You pour the cupful of ice cubes you collected from the freezer all over his bare chest.

“What the fuck!” Aegon screams as he startles awake. “What is wrong with you?!”

“The guests are arriving in two hours. And you’re going to help me host.”

“I’m not slobbering at the feet of those manicured elitists.”

“It’s easy to say ‘vive la révolution’ from your family’s mansion that you reside in as a professional failure.”

“Yeah, you’re right, I’m so worthless. If only I spent more time hosting tea parties.”

“I can’t small talk with governors and congressmen, so I have to charm their wives instead. That’s how it works, you idiot.”

Aegon rolls off the couch and rubs his forehead, wincing, hungover. In the dining room, Eudoxia is readying cups and plates, polishing silverware, folding napkins. The caterers will be here soon, and there are also three dishes that you made yourself: stafidopsomo, a bread with raisins and cinnamon; rizogalo, Greek-style rice pudding; and baklava you spent hours chopping walnuts for. At least one show of domestic prowess is an expectation, two is impressive, three is above and beyond, something for the other political wives to chatter about. You know the importance of making a good impression on them. They are as much a part of their husbands’ careers as the speech writers, communication directors, fundraisers. “I need a Bloody Mary,” Aegon groans.

“You need to pull your goddamn weight. Everyone else is working to get Aemond elected. Your five-year-old kid is out on the campaign trail and you can’t walk around with a tray of hummus and mini spanakopitas? Are you serious?”

“I’m dead serious,” he says, standing with some difficulty and then shoving by you. “Fuck off, Miss America.”

“Aegon!”

But he’s padding off towards the kitchen with his bare feet, tiki print boxer shorts, bedraggled hair. You follow after him in your spotless white heels and sundress patterned with common blue violets. Your earrings are pearls. You’ve wrangled your hair into a tidy French twist. Aegon is getting a pitcher of tomato juice out of the refrigerator, a bottle of vodka from a cardboard Apple Jacks box. He keeps booze and pills hidden everywhere; you’re always stumbling across his caches.

You open your mouth to unleash something hurtful, something hateful, but then you feel the cold flare of liquid on your thighs as the ocean breeze gusts in through the windows. My dress, you think, alarmed. What did I spill on it? One of the ice cubes you threw at Aegon must have caught on the skirt somehow and melted. That’s your first guess, and it is welcome; water doesn’t stain, and you aren’t sure if you have another outfit that is both formal enough and will still fit you. But when you reach down to touch your leg—now the liquid reaches your knees—your hand comes away red.

You look up at Aegon. He’s staring back at you, thunderstruck, horrified. His Bloody Mary ingredients are now forgotten on the countertop. He shouts for the housekeeper: “Doxie?!”

There is indistinct, cantankerous Greek grumbling in return.

“Doxie! Call an ambulance!”

“I don’t understand,” you say to Aegon, bright clotless blood dyeing the whirls of your fingerprints. I ruined my dress, you think nonsensically. “It doesn’t hurt. Shouldn’t it hurt?”

“Don’t move, don’t do anything, just wait for the paramedics.”

But the edges of your vision are going dark and hazy, and the room spins like a flipped coin. Your knees and ankles fold, bones turned to paper. As you drop, Aegon dives for you. You clutch at him, but there’s nothing to grab onto, no suit jacket, no tie, only skin that glows with sunburn. “If I don’t wake up, tell Aemond—”

“You’re not dying, bitch. My luck’s not that good.”

But his eyes are panicked; and they are the last thing you see before you black out.

~~~~~~~~~~

Arteries of cement, bones like lead, heavy eyelids opening to reveal strange white walls.

Am I dead?

But no: you hurt all over. Heaven isn’t supposed to hurt. There are needles pierced through the backs of your hands, a splitting rawness in your throat.

Was I intubated? Did I have surgery…?

You try to sit up. The pain is blinding; the severed and sutured latticework of your abdominal muscles is a pit of glass. You gasp, moan plaintively, fumble for the nurse call button on the wooden nightstand.

“Will you stop moving?” Aegon says as he walks into the room. He’s slurping on a straw that pokes out from a Dairy Queen cup. The fluid inside is clumpy and red. Instantly, you think of blood, and a wave of nausea punches through the shredded gore that was once your belly. Aegon flops down into the salmon pink armchair beside the bed and props his combat boots up on the ottoman. “They sliced you up like the Black Dahlia. You’re gonna rip your stitches.”

“They did a c-section…?”

“Yeah, you had some kind of uterus…thing. I don’t remember.”

The baby?? Is the baby alright?? “An abruption?”

More slurping. “No…I think it started with a P.”

“Previa?”

“Yeah, that one.”

You remember waking up a few times: on the kitchen floor as men were lifting you, in an ambulance as the siren shrieked. Someone said you were being taken to Mount Sinai in Manhattan. And that makes sense, that would have been Criston’s plan. Mount Sinai is one of the best hospitals in the country. You look around the room for a bassinet or a crib. Instead you see a wheelchair and a myriad of flower bouquets; word has already gotten out, and so the customary well wishes are pouring in. Lady Bird Johnson sent bluebonnets, the state flower of Texas; Abigail McCarthy sent lilies of the valley; Muriel Humphrey sent roses, traditional, safe, uninspiring; Pat Nixon sent blood orange gladioli. Mrs. Wallace, newly deceased, neglected to call a florist. “Where’s the baby?”

“He’s fine. He’s downstairs in an incubator.”

Ari, you think, though he still doesn’t seem real yet. “What…?”

“His lungs are underdeveloped. But the doctors think he’ll be alright. You want a Mr. Misty? There’s a Dairy Queen like two blocks from here.”

“No, I don’t want a Mr. Misty,” you say, incredulous. “I want to see the baby.”

“Well they can’t move him and they can’t move you, so you’ll have to wait.”

“I’m going to see him—” You swing your feet off the bed and feel daggers, fire, a splintering like someone has taken a hammer to your bones. You almost scream; it takes everything in you to choke it down and only gasp as your flesh becomes an inferno. I want a joint, you think randomly, an urge you’d believed you had exorcised from yourself, an archaic relic of a past life.

“Told you,” Aegon says smugly.

You lie panting, helpless, glancing at the phone on the nightstand. “Aemond knows?”

“Oh yeah, I’ve called everyone. He knows.”

“Good. So he’ll be here soon.”

“Sure,” Aegon says, perhaps a tad noncommittally.

“Okay.” You’re still trying to catch your breath. Tacoma is a six hour flight away. Even if Aemond doesn’t leave until morning, he’ll be here by sundown tomorrow. “You can go now.”

“Go?!” Aegon exclaims, then laughs, one of his reckless, taunting cackles. “Oh no. I’m not going anywhere.”

“You definitely are.”

“No, I’m not,” he insists, grinning. “For once in my life, I’m the person who’s exactly where he’s supposed to be. I’m the honorable one. The sacred heir of the favorite son has just been born, and the blessed mother has been sawed in half like Saint Simon the Zealot, and where is Aemond? Where is literally everyone else? Across the continent shaking hands and forcing smiles to win him the great state of Washington. I’m not going home. I’m collecting every second I spend here like coins from a slot machine. I won the jackpot, babe. No one is ever going to be able to call me the family fuckup after this.”

The pain is horrible, insurmountable; you can’t think through it. You close your eyes and try not to sob, to wail, to split yourself open in body and soul. I can’t let him see me break down.

“What’s up?” Aegon asks. “What’s wrong with you?”

“I want a Mr. Misty. Go get me a Mr. Misty.”

“Okay,” Aegon says doubtfully. “What flavor?”

“I don’t care. Not red.”

“They have orange, lemon-lime, grape—”

“Just pick one!” you shout, tears brimming in your eyes. Get out, get out, get out.

“Calm down, psycho!” he yells back, heading for the door.

As soon as he crosses the threshold, you snatch the call button off the nightstand and press it frantically until a nurse arrives. You get more morphine and sink into a stillness like deep water, down, down, down.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s dark outside, stars and a crescent moon. On the television is grainy footage from the Battle of Khe Sanh. American soldiers younger than you are dragging their wounded brethren to a Chinook helicopter for evacuation: bandages, burns, missing limbs and faces. Aegon had dozed off in his chair—assisted by an ample amount of Vicodin, surely—but is stirring awake now. He blinks groggily at the screen.

“It’s so fucking awful,” you say, and Aegon’s eyebrows shoot up; it’s the first time you’ve ever sworn in front of him. You trained yourself to stop when you met Aemond. “30,000 Americans dead, God knows how many Vietnamese peasants, Buddhist monks setting themselves on fire, and for what? So we can say we did everything we could to stop communism? So we can humiliate the Russians? There is no liberation of Vietnam. All we’re doing is making those people hate us. And we’re destroying ourselves too.”

“I didn’t know you cared about the war.”

You look at him, mystified. “Everything I do is about the war.”

“But you never really talk about it.” Aegon yawns and stretches, reaching up towards the ceiling. “You talk about Chanel dresses and tea parties.”

“Well yeah, because it’s…it’s unseemly, I guess. For me to speak on the war. Me specifically.”

He snorts. “Because you’re a woman? Who told you that? Aemond?”

You hesitate, watching the television again. Now there are napalm bombs incinerating villages and rice paddies. “I had a boyfriend before Aemond, you know.”

“What, in kindergarten? Chasing each other around the playground? Illicit snuggles beneath the slide?”

You chuckle, shaking your head. “A real boyfriend.”

“No way. You did not.”

“I did,” you insist, smiling a little. “We met at a party my freshman year of college. He was at NYU studying…oh, I always forgot, that was one of our jokes. It was either archaeology or anthropology. I actually thought I was going to marry him for a minute there.”

“Scandalous.” Aegon is gazing at you with his murky blue eyes, grinning, playful. “What happened?”

“He had a moral crisis about poor kids getting shipped off to Vietnam to be slaughtered while he was tucked safely away in his ivory tower. So he enlisted, and honestly it was shocking how quickly I started to forget about him. We exchanged a few letters, it didn’t last long, I think he was forgetting about me too. But he ended up getting killed in action in October, 1965. His old roommate told me.”

Now Aegon is thoughtful. His crooked grin dies. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s his parents I feel bad for. He was an only child. I heard his father drank himself to death.”

“You’ve been carrying a story like that around with you and you never used it? Not in an interview or an article, not at one of your asinine little tea parties?”

“I can’t,” you confess. “Aemond doesn’t want me to. He doesn’t like to be reminded about…you know. That there was someone else before.”

Aegon throws his head back and cackles, combing his fingers through his disheveled blonde hair. “As if Aemond was a virgin when you met him.”

But it’s not the same. It isn’t to Aemond, and it wouldn’t be to the rest of the world either. It is your eternal disgrace. It is something you will be expected to atone for until you’re in the grave. “Give me a joint.”

Aegon is amazed. “What?”

“I know you have some, you always do. I want one. Give it to me.”

“You smoke grass?”

“I used to. Then I gave it up. But I’m making an exception.”

He gawks at you for a while, then slips a joint out of one of the front pockets of his green army jacket. He places it between his lips, lights it with his little chrome Zippo, and inhales deep and slow. Then he offers it to you.

“I don’t want herpes.”

Aegon laughs. “I don’t have herpes. I swear.”

“Not yet, maybe. Give it time.”

“Are you gonna smoke or not?”

You take the joint and fill your lungs with earth, floral notes, a tinge of spice. It’s been years, but it comes rushing back in an instant as the high hits your bloodstream: calm quiet weightlessness, a sense of wellbeing that fills the honeycomb hollows of your bones. “I need to see the baby.”

Aegon stalls. “The doctors were really insistent that you stay here.”

“And all the sudden you care about rules.”

He considers this, drumming his palms on his thighs. His jeans are ripped; he’s biting his lower lip. Then abruptly, he stands. “Alright.” He grabs the wheelchair and pushes it up against the bed. “Let’s go.”

You take another drag and then discard the joint in your empty Dairy Queen cup. You throw off your blanket and try to touch your bare feet to the cool linoleum floor. It hurts, it feels like razor blades, but you keep going. Then you remember you still have one IV in the back of your left hand. “Wait, how am I going to…?”

“You’re in luck. I am well-versed in needles.” Aegon holds out a palm. Nervously, you give him your hand. He peels off the medical tape, takes a moment to examine the vein, then slides out the needle so smoothly you don’t feel it at all; it barely even bleeds. He balls up a Kleenex from the box on your nightstand and secures it to the wound with the same strip of tape. “You’re welcome.”

“Junkie.” You try to lower yourself into the wheelchair and a yelp rips from your throat.

“Oh, this is pathetic,” Aegon says, but not quite unkindly. “Here.” He leans down in front of you. Too desperate to be prideful, you link your arms around the back of his neck. Aegon’s shaggy blonde hair tickles your cheek; his hands skim gingerly to settle on your waist, steadying you without too much pressure. He helps you into the wheelchair, where you collapse gasping and sweating bullets.

“If you ever mention this again, I will guillotine you.”

He winks. “Relax, little Io. I never kiss and tell.”

“I’d assume you’re usually too plastered to remember the details.”

“Be nice. I could roll you down a staircase.” But he doesn’t; he rolls you into the hallway instead.

The lights in the corridor are dim for night, for dreams. You see a few nurses shuttling in and out of other rooms from a distance, but none seem to notice you and Aegon. He steers the wheelchair into the elevator and you ride it down two floors, then cross another hallway and pass through a set of doors. There must be a dozen incubators, half of them occupied. The nurse on duty—currently cradling a tiny infant in her arms, a girl judging by the pink hat, and feeding her from a bottle of formula—gapes at you.

“Ma’am? You aren’t supposed to be—”

“Shut up,” Aegon tells her, and the nurse doesn’t say another word.

Aegon pushes the wheelchair down the line of incubators until you reach the one with a name card labelled Targaryen, Aristos Apollo. And there he is: unmistakably fragile, impossibly small, blue veins like a roadmap beneath translucent skin, tangled in tubes and wires. In his sleeping face you don’t see Aemond or even yourself, but rather an inexplicable familiarity. You feel like you’ve met him before. You feel like you’ve known him all your life.

You press your hand to the clear, domed wall of the incubator; shadows in the shape of your outstretched fingers fall over Ari’s face. “He’s real.”

“Of course he is.” Aegon is watching you; you can see him on the periphery of your vision, a blur of blonde hair and high cheekbones. When you turn to him, he immediately looks away.

“What?” you ask.

“Nothing.” But his voice is distracted, bewildered, like someone fumbling for a light switch in a dark room.

[strawchocoberry]

I DON’T FEED HER FEAR, I FEED HER HABITS

@joyfulenthusiastwitch requested: fluff and smut boyfriend headcanons with michael kaiser

୨୧ featuring: michael kaiser x fem reader 

ଘ cw: fluff, mention of enemies to lovers, established relationship, possessive boyfriend, smut, rough sex, mirror sex, degradation kink, praise kink, oral sex, choking, dumbification, dacryphilia, breeding kink, creampie

୨୧ synopsis: the emperor bows to none, except for his empress

ଘ wc: 2k

ʚ FLUFF ɞ

Michael Kaiser, the cold and haughty emperor, who has a soft spot for you and only you. He annoyed the living hell out of you for the first few months you knew each other. He was truly insufferable, a total prick. But even he found it difficult to escape little cupid’s bows. 

Waking up in the morning with you in his arms is the best way for him to greet the new day. Kaiser will kiss your forehead and carefully get off the bed, going about having his usual morning conversation with himself in the mirror, stealing glances at your peaceful sleeping form. Every morning, he’ll go out to the garden and pick up a blue rose, then return to wake you up, kissing your lips and offering you the blue rose. 

Expect nothing less than princess treatment from him. Kaiser will open the car door for you, take your hand and guide you to your favourite expensive brand store. Be careful what you look at, because he’s this close to buying the entire shop, since “everything will look perfect on you”. He’ll carry all your bags around, while you’re happily going from one store to another. And of course, he’s paying for everything. 

Kaiser will gladly get on his knees to help you wear or remove your shoes. And if your legs hurt from all your walking, he will not hesitate to lift you in his arms or give you a piggyback ride, whichever you prefer. 

If you ignore him, first of all, how dare you! Kaiser will stick by your side, hugging you and touching you at any given chance to get your attention. If he’s abroad for a football match and notices that you’re active on your social media, yet still ignore him, he’ll bombard your phone with text messages and calls. And if that fails, he’ll start bribing your attention, by transferring money to your bank account. 

Kaiser spoils you rotten. Whatever you want, you got it. There’s nothing he won’t give you. He will, though, sometimes act all high and mighty. “My, my, someone sure is spoiled,” he mocks you, as if he isn’t the one responsible. He might act like he needs a little convincing before finally giving in to your requests, but he only does that because he enjoys seeing you all flustered and stumbling on your words to give him a good reason as to why he should comply with your request. 

Kaiser will tease you and mock you nonstop, just to see you all angry and blushed. He thinks it’s cute. If you curse at him, he will act all offended, but do please continue, because he has just started writing a list of your little offences, which he’ll use later against you. One time, after suffering his relentless teasing, you stole his credit card when he wasn’t looking and immersed yourself in a little shopping spree. 

Kaiser will check on you a few times throughout the day to make sure you’ve eaten and drunk water, because he wants you to be healthy. He also suggested you build up your stamina in order to keep up with him, but he doesn’t really mind. However, sometimes when you’re in the mood and join him in his jogs, it makes him really happy. 

Kaiser will not tolerate anyone who disrespects you, no matter who they are: family and relatives, friends, colleagues, teammates, acquaintances. Nobody dares to cause you any harm on his watch. And he will personally deal with all those who hurt you. 

Kaiser goes to any lengths necessary to make you feel loved and safe and appreciated when you’re with him. This man literally worships the ground you step on. He takes notes of all your favourite things and not so favourites. He is there when you need him, to cuddle you and listen to you pour your heart out. He thanks you for letting him know what is causing such turbulence in your mind and he suggests doing something that you like to take your mind off of it. 

When in public, Kaiser will hold your hand, especially in large crowds making sure he doesn’t lose you. If he’s itching to tease you, he will shamelessly flirt with you, whispering in your ear all kinds of flirtatious little things — both innocent and some more spicy — taking pleasure in your flustered expression. 

Kaiser won’t publicly announce your relationship at first, knowing how obsessed his fans are with him. He will, however, reserve you a VIP seat to all his games, offering all his goals to you, making a slight bow towards your seat. And nobody ever knows that he bows to you and only you, his empress. 

When hanging out in places with other celebrities, Kaiser can’t help but get somewhat irritated at all the attention you get. A part of him feels so proud, flaunting you over for the world to see. Yet another part is awakened, as he possessively wraps his arm around your waist or kisses you deeply in front of everybody present, making it known that you’re his. And if he’s frustrated beyond words, he will pull you closer and bury his face in your neck, curving a nice hickey to mark you. 

ʚ SMUT ɞ

Kaiser loves marking your body. He views you as his personal canvas which he needs to paint in every possible way. He especially loves leaving hickeys and bite marks in parts of your body only he has access to, as they work as a reminder that he owns you. And by all means, he finds it so attractive when you mark him as well. He wears your marks proudly, showing them off and bragging about the woman who marked him. 

His favourite time of the day is when he gets his hands on his bratty little girlfriend. Yes, love, keep getting on his nerves, keep riling him up. Kaiser will have you on your hands and knees on the bed, whimpering and crying at him spanking your ass. He will slap your cunt that’s practically drenched by now, smirking as he licks his fingers clean. He loves when you’re a little brat, because he loves taming you and reminding you who’s in control. 

Kaiser loves to degrade you, especially when you have acted all high and mighty on your bratty ass. “You love it when I fuck you like the little whore you are, don’t you?” and “What happened to that bratty attitude you had a while ago, whore?” He will throw in some praise as well, smirking at how your body shudders, but only when you’re his good little obedient kitten. 

Kaiser finds himself unable to contain his slutty moans, when your lips are wrapped around his cock, taking him in your mouth so well. He will encouragingly ruffle your hair, only to grab it and force you down on his girth when he feels his impending orgasm about to be released. When he pulls out — please! — open your mouth to show him his cum on your tongue, then swallow it and open your mouth again. He will go feral at the sight. 

Kaiser loves eating your cunt. He loves the way you moan every time his tongue penetrates your folds or teases your clit whilst his fingers curl up to hit your sweet spot. If you’re lying on your back and you grab his hair, he will only go harder on you, his arms wrapped around your thighs to keep your shuddering body in place. Watch him place your dripping cunt on his mouth, as you suffocate him, but he doesn’t mind. You have permission to ride his face for as long as you want or to the point he’s suffocated to death; whichever happens first. 

You’re his precious porcelain doll that Kaiser absolutely must break. Watch him manhandle you into all kinds of different positions, restraining you when you try to resist him. He’ll harshly grope your body all over, leaving small bruises that compliment the rest of the marks he’s already left. “Kaiser ngh— I’m cumming—!” Wrong! You’re not cumming until he decides you deserve it. He’ll make you beg him to pick up his pace, whilst feasting on your whimpers. And he won’t let you cum until you’ve begged him satisfyingly enough. 

Kaiser enjoys all the positions that help him penetrate deep in your tight cunt, e.g backshots, prone bone etc. And it’s not just how deep his throbbing cock is in your pulsing cunt that drives the both of you insane. It’s the way he’s pounding into you hard, in a slow or a fast pace, with his hands slamming your hips against him. Great heavens above, the way you tighten around him when he spanks your ass or bites your neck makes him want to come right then and there. 

Kaiser goes ballistic when you’re riding his cock, as he’s lying back, taking in all the glory of your body. His hands will roam all over your body, cupping your breasts, squeezing your waist, slapping your ass. His eyes are always locked with yours, smirking at that seductive expression on your face with your parted lips that moan his name, telling him how good his cock feels. He’ll use his left tattooed hand to choke your neck, before thrusting up in your cunt, having you cream all over him, while tears of pleasure are falling from your eyes. 

The mirror in his room is specifically placed in front of the bed. Kaiser loves choking you, holding you against his chest, forcing you to watch at your fucked out expression in the mirror, as he’s pounding his thick cock in your cunt from behind. Dare and look away from the mirror and he’ll slap your cunt, having you cry out from the intoxicating mix of pain and pleasure he’s driving into your body. 

Kaiser will shamelessly moan in your ear, as he fucks you through your orgasm, chasing after his own. Being on a birth control pill was the best choice of contraception for the two of you, because honestly ever since he bred you once, he just couldn’t go back. He loves breeding you, seeing his cum dripping down your thighs and out of your abused hole. It drives him mad and he sees it as an invitation for him to fuck his seed back into your cunt once more. 

If you’re not out of breath, with puffy red eyes and ruined makeup, unable to think and form sentences, your body fully marked, your cunt filled with his cum and incapable of moving every single muscle on your body, that means that Kaiser didn’t do his job right and he needs to continue trying, until you’re in the aforementioned state. Only then will he be certain that he has provided you with the utmost pleasure you deserve. 

And of course, after every rough session, Kaiser makes sure to take care of his love. Name what you need and he’ll provide it. Food and water? Here you go, baby doll. A warm bath? Give him a few minutes to prepare it for you. Cuddles? He’ll wrap you in a warm blanket and hold you in his arms, kissing your head softly, while drawing soothing circles in your back and whispering to your ear how much he loves you and how good you were for him. 

And don’t forget about him. You might be exhausted, but just telling Kaiser that you truly enjoyed yourself is enough to put a proud smile on his lips. Even a simple “thank you for this pleasure” will be enough. Cuddling with you also helps him calm down, the warmth providing him comfort. Lazily tracing your fingers up and down on his tattooed arm will soothe the tension of his muscles and a little kiss on the lips will put his mind at rest. 

© strawchocoberry — do not copy, repost, translate or reuse my work

[bwabys-scenarios]

Chubby!Reader taking phantom troupe+Illumi and Kurapika shopping with her

characters: chrollo, feitan, uvogin, Shalnark, Phinks, Machi, Pakunoda, Shizuku, Nobunaga, Illumi, Kurapika

warning: slightly suggestive in Pakunoda’s and Kurapika’s

A/N: me on my way to single handedly provide for my chubby hxh fans… this is super self indulgent hope y’all like it!!

Chrollo

-offended on your behalf because of how limiting the clothing options are

-y’all go to like 5 different stores before finding somewhere that sells your size

-“oh! I must be lucky because I thought we’d at least need to go to 3 more before I found my size :3”

-you’re just happy you found a dress and top that looked nice

-he just looks at you like 👁️👁️ “sweetheart… this is not okay.”

-“chrollo this is the first time in 3 years I found clothing in store, usually I have to shop online.”

-will take you to get custom made clothing, nothing is too good for you!!

-honestly he’s pretty appalled by the lack of clothing available for you. you shouldn’t have to get custom made clothing to have something fit you right :(

-also gets you custom made lingerie but cough cough don’t question it

Feitan

-he was watching you shop online and groan because the dress you really wanted was sold out in your size

-“just go to store.”

-“they don’t carry my size in store.”

“… what.”

-this man is itty bitty he has no idea about your struggles 😭😭 he’ll accompany you on your next shopping outing to… observe

-please take him to torrid it would be so funny

-“… they expect young woman to wear this?”

-he holds up an ugly Disney shirt that’s super unflattering. he’s not the best with fashion but even he knows that it’s ugly as hell

-“YEAHH I used to shop here all the time because it’s one of the only shops that has my size in store.”

-you find a dress that looks relatively nice while feitan browses the lingerie LOL… he’s stealing you something, it might not be the clothes you wanted but that black lingerie set speaks to him…

-now if he’s out on a mission he’ll stop by stores and steal you some nicer clothes, you deserve it! (He’s such a cutie patootie UGHH)

Uvogin

-no he absolutely understands your struggles

-he’s fucking huge it’s hard to find clothes in his size too

-tbh he’ll just suggest you make your own clothes or get them custom made, but if you really want him to go shopping with you he will

-literally shocked with the lack of feminine clothing for big women

-he can at least find SOME things his size, and he’s obviously bigger than you

-but you can’t find a single thing

-calls Shalnark to ask him to track down some local shops that carry your size

-will carry all of your bags for you!!(hubby material)

Shalnark

-he just doesn’t believe you until you show him

-he mostly shops online too so will suggest you keep doing the same, but you wanna go shopping with your boyfriend!!

-he has no problem accompanying you, but is doubtful you won’t find ANYTHING

-that is until after you’ve visited the 7th clothing department and there wasn’t a single clothing item in your size! And it isn’t like you weren’t looking hard enough, he looked up the inventory of each store and there was nothing!

-apologizes for not believing you by buying you some boba or pastries

-also the type to get you custom made clothing, tho it will be sorted more to his tastes than yours(the skirts are all way to short and the tops dip a bit too low)

-doesn’t understand why they can’t just sell your size. wouldn’t they make more money that way?

Phinks

-already knows your woes of not being able to find cute clothes in your size

-goes shopping with you literally whenever you want and won’t stop until you find at least SOMETHING(he’s whipped for you)

-got really sad when he found matching couple pajamas and they didn’t have your size(he’s killing someone over this)

-so cute, gets excited with you when you find something you like

-also carries bags

-takes you somewhere nice after. it’s stressful trying on clothes all day, especially when none of them fit!

-Phinks is soft for his lover agenda RAHHH

Machi

-offers to make clothes for you

-probably the second most understanding. she’s seen women’s clothing sections, although she can’t really relate to not finding her size

-will actually hurt anyone that is rude to you while shopping

-likes to help you in the changing room, saying she doesn’t want you to slip(it’s an excuse to feel you up but she’s a lil tsundere so she’ll never admit it)

-if you can’t find anything, she’ll buy you some accessories or stuffed animals, literally will NOT let you pay

-extra sweet on you when you get home, reassuring you that she loves you and that your clothing doesn’t matter to her(she’s trying her best give her a lil kiss for her efforts)

Pakunoda

-as a big chested woman, she can relate a bit! she doesn’t struggle to find clothes as much as you do though

-researches which stores carry your size so you don’t have to go in just to be disappointed

-also will get you custom made clothing, but let’s you choose what you want. she thinks your fashion style is cute!

-gets you custom made matching outfits

-also helps you in the changing room but isn’t hiding her wandering gaze at ALL

-after a fun day of shopping you two cuddle in bed and watch whatever you want!

Nobunaga

-another person that doesn’t really believe you, but because he sees you as a cute lil thing

-will call you silly for thinking they don’t carry your size! your his sweet little girlfriend, why wouldn’t they?

-in for the shock of his life

-literally gets on his hands and knees to apologize

-it’s been like 3 hours and the only thing you’ve found was a hello kitty tshirt that was a little tight on you, but you refused to go home with nothing!!!

-feels bad, will treat you to a nice dinner

Shizuku

-just says to wear her clothes

-“… Shizuku, sweetheart, we aren’t the same size.”

-stares at you for a minute

-keeps staring

-grabs your hand and runs to go shopping with you

-keeps getting lost while you’re in the changing room

-you end up having to have her sit in the changing room with you while you change(she does not mind in the slightest 👁️)

-cannot comprehend why you can’t find clothes in your size

-love her so much but she’s actually the worst to shop with. You spend more time trying to find her than look for clothes

Illumi

-you don’t really have to worry about finding clothes in your size because he has everything made for you, but if you just want to go shopping for the experience he won’t deny you

-cue him contacting the ceo of the clothing store and demanding they start selling your size after you don’t find anything

-hates seeing your sad face, probably won’t take you shopping again unless he’s researched and made sure the place you picked carries your size :(

-so sweet to you, gets you ice cream and buys you jewelry and stuffed animals to make you feel better

-when you get home there’s a rack of clothing Taylor made for you waiting in your shared room

Kurapika

-he needed to go shopping for some clothing too, so he accompanies you

-gets a little embarrassed shopping in the women’s section because people always mistake him for a girl himself

-gets pretty pissed off when an employee rudely says they don’t carry your size

-“Kurapika it’s fine, let’s go somewhere else.”

-will hold your hand protectively as you go from place to place

-when you find a few things, he’s happy for you!

-is a little glad that people thinks he’s a woman because that means he can slip into the changing room with you 👀

-perv!kurapika strikes again

-makes sure you leave the store feeling VERY happy ;)

[a-dumb-sarcastic-bisexual]

Nimona headcanons plus a little bonus at the end

Whenever the trio gets home it's like a switch is flipped off inside their brains and all they want to do is be lazy and relax 

They’ve got very busy and stressful lives and a pretty small home so it’s not uncommon for them to yell when they’re asking a question instead of just getting up

And if they can’t hear each other they’ll just call the other person

One time Ambrosius was yelling asking them what wanted for dinner and was interrupted by Nimona calling him 

He answered the phone and all they said was “What’d you say I couldn't hear you” he didn’t even question it he just kept talking 

Nimona brings dead animals home 

I have this small headcanon that the first time she shifted into her human form was when she met Gloreth 

So before that she was living mostly as different animals and she kind of learned their ways and those ways stuck with her 

So there is a small part of her that sees Bal and Ambrosius as incompetent hunters (can you blame her)

The boys always thank her for her doing a good job and then they wait for her to leave the room before they freak out because MY GOD SHE BROUGHT A FUCKING DEAD RAT IN THE DAMN HOUSE 

There have also been times when she’s brought live animals inside the house the trio spent half an hour trying to get a traumatized bird out of their living room 

I just know for a fact that Bal has a crazy amount of brain damage 

This man has used his head as a weapon and has been hit on the head more times than I can count 

So I feel like he has a really hard time remembering the little details he gets really bad migraines and headaches pretty frequently his eyesight is absolute shit and he has to wear contacts or glasses and he gets really bad vertigo if he doesn’t take care of himself 

This worries the shit out of Ambrosius and Nimona but there isn't much they can do except deal with the symptoms when they show up

So I was thinking about the fact that as far as we know Nimona never told Bal about what went down with Gloreth

But I know that the boys would try and heal the damage that Gloreths legacy left behind  

And in the middle of everything Bal turned to Ambrosius and said “I just wish that fucking eyesore was gone” 

He didn’t have to ask what he meant he knew it was the statue 

So Ambrosius got to work trying to get it torn down 

A lot of people including some distant relatives that he hasn’t heard from in years tried to argue that it was an important monument and that her story touched a lot of people 

To which Ambrosius responded with “I’m her direct descendant if anyone gets to choose what happens to that statue it should be me” 

It was a couple of months into Nimona’s return when the demolition was approved 

The boys had asked him a while after he came back if it was something he wanted 

And all he said was “As long as I get to help” 

It was super therapeutic for both Nimona and Ambrosius 

Like don’t get me wrong the damage she did to Nimona is still there 

And Ambrosius will always have a complicated relationship with his lineage 

But tearing down the “fucking eyesore” heals something inside them

It was supposed to be a month-long process but Nimona and Ambrosius kept going and it was completely gone after two weeks

When all was said and done they collapsed on the couch and went through just about every single emotion you can go through

A little bonus I made my mama watch Nimona with me and here are some of my favorite comments: Mind you when I first put the movie on this woman was acting like I was pulling teeth

“I like the queen she seems nice” (and then she freaked out when she died)

“So they’re nice to him 'cause he’s gold I would just steal the armor what does he have without that?” “Money Mama” “Ah”

“Why are they so mean to him he’s just a baby?” (talking about Bal)

“She’s just like you especially with those freaky eyes” (when Nimona met Bal)

“Oh, so she’s the rhino…. Makes sense”

“Awe she’s cute I can't hate her” (about Nimona again)

“Oh wait she isn’t cute that’s freaky” (when Nimona was the demon baby)

“That’s like you and your sister” (Bal and Nimona interrogating the squire)

“Hey, mama is arm chopping a love language?” “I’m worried that you would even ask me that”

“Oh he’s got issues huh?” (after Ambrosius’ internal freak out)

“Can he die a little quieter… and faster” (after the Director stabbed “Ambrosius”)

“Oh fuck that little blond girl”

We had to pause the movie right before Nimona started her rampage because we were getting tired and I woke up to her in front of the tv with it pulled up on Netflix and she turned to me and said “Can we finish it already?”

“If she sacrificed herself I will never forgive you”

“Do you watch anything with straight people?” “Mama you literally ship them” “That's not an answer” (this is right after Bal and Ambrosius kissed)

“Is there a next part?..... so when’s the next one coming out?” 

Once the movie was over I told her some people thought Ambrosius and Bal were related and she looked me dead in the eyes and said

“You’re joking. No you have no be kidding… He literally said it in the movie!” “Said what Mama?” “oh I love him so much and I lost him whatever will I do” 

And then she kept making fun of Ambrosius for the next three minutes

I asked her who her favorite was and she said Nimona I go “aweee you love me” she looks me dead in my eyes and says “don’t make it awkward”

[mangoisms]

circle k (back to you)

summary: in which you're just the graveyard shift employee at circle k bombarded by vigilantes.

━ chapter eight: where did i go wrong? | read chapter seven

━ pairing: tim drake x f!reader

━ word count: 3.7k

━ warnings: canon typical violence, blood, etc

━ masterlist

━ a/n: sorry for disappearing! essentially, i started grad school and it is So Much Work. but if you'd like some unnecessary rambles on tim and wally's relationship here and in light of their og meeting in robin (1993), you can also find my thoughts on that here <3

 The next day, you don’t hear much from Steph. 

She does text you a few times, mostly reassurances and that she’s working to pull something together. You don’t quite understand but she was so convincing the day before, you let it go. 

You mostly spend the day—after sleeping in—learning your new phone, excited at having something new and so high-tech to play with. Flash texts you several times during the day. Blurry selfies and equally blurry pictures of Keystone and Central. Even a couple of the New York skyline, as he informs you he decided to drop in and visit a few friends. 

You can’t send him much. The clouds that hang in the sky, waiting to pour down on unsuspecting Gothamites at a moment’s notice. The feral cat that hangs out in the alley by your apartments, who you get close enough to to catch mid-hiss. The person on the subway carrying what you suspect to be a possum in their bag but Flash insists is actually an opossum. Whatever the difference is. 

There is a difference!

idk sounds made up

You’re from the city. Of course you think that.

ok WOW

you’re blaming my dead parents for where they settled????

Yes.

wow

You go into work in relatively high spirits, considering everything. 

Black Bat stops by for some gummy worms and a can of Red Bull and you tease her a bit for it.

“Signal’s influence?”

“Better than coffee.”

“Fair enough.”

Red hasn’t been by, you think, watching her go. Not yesterday and not today, though it’s early. He usually stops by nearly every night, if not for a couple minutes. But nothing specifically decrees that he comes by… You’re just used to it, you suppose, and last night’s absence was noticeable.

There’s still time, though. Maybe you’ll see him later tonight. 

Overhead, the AC turns on. They fixed it, along with that electrical issue Red Robin caused last week. It works a little too well, though. These last few days have had you uncomfortably cold, so today, you come armed with a hoodie—Tim’s hoodie, the only piece of clothing you’ve ever managed to steal from him. A bit baggy on him and even more so on you, it’s a pleasant shade of azure blue. One of your more precious possessions since it’s, like you said, the only thing you really have from him. Also a bit of an indulgence right now but… you’re past the point of caring. 

Maritza pops by a little while later, waving at you. 

“Hey, Mari. Here for a Slurpee?”

“That, and I was wondering if you guys have any pain cream… Abuela’s back is hurting her and we ran out yesterday,” she says, lips pursed, glancing at the aisles. 

“Pain cream,” you repeat thoughtfully, stepping around the counter. “We should. Let’s see.”

She follows you to one of the center aisles.

“How’s summer break been so far?” you ask, running your eyes over displays of toothpaste, disposable toothbrushes, and other basic items. 

“Boring,” she sighs. “It’s too hot to do anything.”

You chuckle, tucking your hands in the pocket of Tim’s hoodie; your fingers are cold. They always seem to be. “Books are excellent ways to preoccupy the time.”

“Think I’ve read every book at the library,” she grumbles, which probably isn’t that much of an exaggeration. Gotham’s public library system is drastically lacking; it was only in May did Wayne Enterprises announce that they were investing more money into it. By now, they probably haven’t reached the library here in the Upper West Side. 

“You should check out GU’s then. Kids get free library cards and our selection is fairly expansive. I’m sure you could get away with checking out some things for your abuela, too. At least until they fix everything in the one here.”

“Huh. Maybe.” She moves ahead of you, scanning the rest of the aisle. “Oh, hey, you guys do have some.”

She reaches for a box. 

The door opens. You turn. 

The wink of the kitchen knife is the first thing you see, then the trembling hand, and then the owner to whom it belongs, too. A scrawny man wearing a grey hoodie, the same hood pulled over his head. 

It’s not great at hiding his face, you think dimly, every muscle inside you locking into place. Mari freezes behind you, breath audibly catching in a gasp as he turns the knife sharply on you.

For a second, the three of you just look at each other. 

You break the silence first. 

“All the money is in the register. Take it.”

A lengthy pause, one that amplifies the dread petrifying your insides. Your new phone, with Flash’s contact info, sits in the pocket of your hoodie, weighing it down; your fingers are laced together, cold, hovering right above it and you recall the rundown you’d been given by Flash last night, the… other not-quite-normal aspects of your new phone. 

“Okay, so, on top of the League encryption stuff, there is something else.”

“Are you tracking me?”

“Not… exactly.”

“That’s reassuring.”

“Your location is logged with the League,” he admits. “But it’s secure. You’re registered with me, so only I can look at it. My wife’s phone is like yours. Her information is there, too. A lot of us do it with our families. Not just to keep sensitive information secure, but there’s… a risk that comes with being with us.”

You frown at him. “Does she know?”

He looks horrified. “Of course she does. I don’t go around just tracking her without her knowledge. That’s weird. And messed up. I don’t even actively do it. Not unless she’s been kidnapped or she wants me to. That’s what I’m trying to say. Your location is being tracked but I’m not peeking in on it. No one is, unless a need comes up. An emergency kind of need. And that brings me to my next thing.”

He pauses, looking at you, calculating, but you just nod for him to continue. 

“You have my number,” he says. “So, you can call me. For emergencies or if you just want to talk about your day. But in the case that you can’t call me, if you’re in some kind of danger…” He plucks the phone out of your grasp, turning it over in his hands, pointing to the power button on the side. “Press this three times and it’ll send an SOS signal to me, along with your location. I’ll come. Okay?”

“Are you… sure?”

He seems affronted. “I don’t just do this for anyone. I thought you’d have seen that by now. You’re…” he stops, frowning deeply. “You mean a lot to me, kid. If I can save you, if I have the opportunity to keep you safe, I’ll take it. I wouldn’t ever ask you to leave Gotham because it’s your home and I know the Bats hang around but… this just makes me feel better. You have a direct line to me. Use it.”

“Batman probably won’t like that.”

“Batman can suck it,” he says petulantly. “Especially after what he did to you last week. I take care of my own. No matter where they are. Got it?”

You got it. 

The thought still astounds you even now, that Flash cares that much about you and how ironic it is that you don’t even know who he is under the cowl but maybe you don’t need to. This is still him, isn’t it?

And you would heed his words. Of course you would. You have no interest in dying. You have no hangups about being saved. Flash didn’t think you incompetent, it was just a precaution, a necessity for living in the world you do.

That is true now more than ever.

Especially with how aware you are of Mari behind you, too. 

“Take your hands outta your pockets,” he says.

Your pulse pounds in your ears.

“Just take the money, man.”

You have to be careful but quick. If you could just unlace your fingers and reach for your phone…

Of course, you have no idea how quickly the signal will reach Flash or how fast he’ll even be able to get here…

You guess you’ll just have to trust him. Trust him and his capabilities.

A step forward. A bead of sweat rolls down your back. You can hear Mari behind you, her breath quick and uneven. You’re most worried about her, to be honest. If you go down, what’s going to happen to her? You dread to think about it.

“Take your hands out of your fuckin’ pocket,” he hisses; despite the severity of his voice, his hand is trembling. You don’t get why he won’t just grab the money and go. 

He must think you can call the police or something but even then, it’s not as if the GCPD are reliable. As if they can do anything. 

As for you, there is nothing else you can do. You need to call him. 

“Mari, run!” 

Your hand grapples for your phone at the same time. 

You hear the snick of sneakers on the tiled floors, your fingers slip over the sides of the new case currently hugging your phone, and he surges forward and then—

Just a mere spark, one that jolts you as you realize what happened. It’s small at first, then bigger, then massive, a forest fire eating you alive from the inside out, burning white-hot. 

You can’t do anything. 

You stare at the man in front of you, closer now, close enough to dig his knife right into the soft flesh of your belly. His eyes are wide, too. Like he can’t believe he just did that. Neither can you.

But the worst of it comes when he pulls the knife out. 

The sound that escapes you is foreign to your ears. Your knees give out. One hand presses to the source of your pain, the other lands hard on the tiled floor; your wrist smarts, your arm trembling as you hold yourself up. 

You’re barely aware of anything other than the pain. Throbbing heat, warmth rapidly spreading through the front of your shirt and hoodie. Your vision blurs, from tears and from the pain, your heart pounds so hard, you feel it in your teeth, hear it in your ears above the rush of your blood. 

You manage a glance behind you, relieved to see Mari is gone and hopefully back in the safety of the apartment building next door. Ahead of you, the man is scrambling to get the cash register open, cursing like a sailor and eventually yanking it off the counter and smashing it on the ground, ducking out of your view.

God, you need to call Flash. Not 911, they won’t get here in time, no way, you need him. Before the man decides to cut his losses and kill you. You hope he’ll just take the money and run, but you’ve seen his face, surely he knows that puts him in that much more danger of being arrested—

The door opens. You hear your name from a familiar voice and then someone steps into view. 

Tim’s eyes are wide as he looks at you, horrified, but behind him, your attacker shoots up from the ground and you choke out a warning, an urging to run, to get out of here, you don’t know what you’d do if anything happened to him, no, no, you can’t lose him like that. 

He whips around just as the man swings himself over the counter, letting out something of a war cry, cash held in one hand and the knife in the other. It gleams red under the light. He lunges.

“Tim!”

But his fatal injury does not happen. Instead, you watch him duck out of the way, moving faster, more gracefully than you’ve ever seen, like he’s done this before and the man doesn’t expect it, stumbling with his own momentum. Not stopping, either, Tim grabs the man’s wrist, heaving him over his shoulder until he slams into the ground hard. It’s brutal. It’s violent. It’s nothing you’ve ever seen from Tim, your Tim who… who hates needles and always bemoans going to get the yearly flu shot with you and Steph, your Tim who can get impatient, snippy, but not violent. 

You don’t understand. With the haze of pain, that fact feels oddly upsetting. 

The door opens again. He whips around, geared up for another fight, but it’s just Spoiler, it’s—

Golden hair, familiar blue eyes. A face you know by heart. Even with the bottom of her face hidden. 

They’re both at your side in an instant. In good timing, too, because your arm gives out but before you can crash to the ground, Tim catches you, turning you over in his arms and gently laying you back onto the tile.

“You’re okay,” he says quickly, eyes scanning you frantically. “You’re okay.”

All the movement tugs at your belly, flames flaring for a brief moment, making you dizzy with pain, choking out your voice, leaving you to blink the tears out of your eyes and look up at your friends.

You don’t like the look on their faces. Horrified. Full of dread. It hurts you. 

“Fuck,” Stephanie Brown, also known as Spoiler, says, digging through pouches in her utility belt. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. Oracle, where is the nearest hospital?”

“I know where it is,” Tim says, snapping into action, his hands reaching for the hoodie. “Off Murphy Ave.”

Rrrrrrip.

He tears through the front part of your hoodie—his hoodie—like it’s nothing. Both their faces drop as they see your shirt underneath it but you’re more focused on the first part of what just happened. 

“Did you—have to tear it?” you whine. “This is the only hoodie I have from you…”

“You can have all of my hoodies,” he promises, reaching for the hem of your shirt. 

Another ripping sound. 

Steph reaches underneath you. “Didn’t go through.”

Tim nods. “The sooner we get her to the hospital, the better. I don’t like how much blood she’s losing.”

“I can hear you, you know,” you mutter, more petulant than you want but considering you are bleeding from a stab wound, you think you get to be. 

They both let out strained chuckles. Tim reaches for one of the pouches of Steph’s belt. You wonder how he knows which one to open. You wonder a lot of things. Where he learned to kick ass. Whether he has always known Steph is Spoiler. How he is so calm right now. It tickles at you, like you have all the pieces to the puzzle but the full picture still isn’t coming out. 

And oh, yeah, the burning throb of the stab wound is really sapping your concentration, too. Cold creeps in at the edges, your fingers feeling icy as you clench them. You shiver violently, though it hurts to move like that. 

“You’re gonna be fine,” Steph says soothingly, squeezing your hand. “We just really need to get you to a hospital to guarantee that.”

“You should—fuck!” The gauze Tim presses to the wound sends shockwaves of pain through you. Black spots appearing in your vision, breath squeezing in your throat.

He says your name loudly. “Breathe.”

“Fuck you,” you wheeze out, trying and failing to curl away from the pressure he is currently applying to your wound. “That—hurts—”

“I know,” he says, pained. “But I have to. We have to. I’m sorry.”

“He’s right,” Steph says, brushing some of your hair away from your face. “Come on, talk to me. Ignore what he’s doing. What were you going to say before?”

“My phone,” you mumble, shivering. “Flash gave it to me. S-Said if I press the power button three times, it sends a distress signal to him.”

“That’s kind of him,” Tim mutters, sounding, dare you say it, jealous, which, in your haze of pain, just pisses you off. 

“You absolute asshole, you don’t get to—”

“Stop it!” Steph snaps, lunging for your phone. “Tim, focus on saving her life and not on being an ass right now, okay? I’m calling him. We need that kind of speed. She’s losing too much blood and the hospital is too far.”

He sobers significantly. A bloodied hand reaches for yours. You’re only aware of it because you see it, the sight of his pale skin covered in your blood, his fingers wrapping around yours. He squeezes.

“Can you feel that?”

“K-Kind of.”

“Do it, Spoiler.”

“I’m doing it, Timothy.”

She is. She holds your phone in gloved hands, pressing the button three times, then scoots away from your head, lifting your feet over her lap. 

Tim continues his work, the pressure he continues to apply to the wound making your head spin. Exhaustion creeps in at the edges, making your eyelids drag with each blink. 

No, no, falling asleep is bad. You’ve seen enough movies and TV shows of injured characters to know that. You have to stay awake. 

Steph watches you, concerned. “How long—”

She doesn’t get to finish her sentence as a sharp gust of wind hits all of you. It knocks things off the shelves and then, all of you are blinking up at the Flash, blue lightning fading away.

He breathes your name and in the next blink, he’s next to you, on his knees. 

“Hey, Flash,” you croak. 

“Hey, kiddo,” he says softly, a gloved hand resting tenderly on your forehead. He looks at Tim and Steph. “Hospital?”

“It’s—”

Tim cuts Steph off, staring hard at Flash. “She’ll most likely need a blood transfusion. Her blood type is AB positive—”

“And she’s allergic to penicillin,” Steph tacks on quickly. 

“Got it.” He sweeps you into his arms and you whimper at the movement. “And the hospital?”

“Intersection of Murphy Avenue and Elliot Circle,” Steph tells him.

“Be careful,” Tim stresses. 

Flash gives him a frosty look. “I got it. You’ve done enough.”

Stop fighting, you want to say, but Flash is delightfully warm and you’re so tired. If you rest your eyes for just a little bit, that’s fine, right? 

“Flash—!”

A sharp tug in your belly, gravity pulling on you, and darkness falls over you like a blanket. You surrender without fight.

Voices puncture the veil of darkness. Soft murmurs, soothing tones. 

“She’ll be okay, Red,” a woman murmurs. “You got her here on time.”

“I know, Lin,” someone else says and wait, you know that voice. It’s Flash. He sounds so… harrowed. “But I just… I don’t know.”

“You know what the doctors said. The danger is gone. And with you here… maybe…” she trails off, tone implying something you aren’t privy to.

A deep breath. “Do you think so? I could’ve, earlier, but I didn’t know if it would hurt her and I didn’t want to take the chance…”

“Well… I think you’re a big softy and she means a lot more to you than you ever realized. So… maybe.”

“Maybe,” he echoes back and you want to know, want to ask what exactly it is he and this mystery woman are talking about but you slip back under again.

The next time you resurface, it’s to cutting words and a tension so thick, you feel it, too, even with all your senses muddled, knee-deep in a haze.

“I don’t mind her,” Flash says coldly. “But you, too?”

“She’s my friend. I have a right to see her, too,” someone else says—Tim, you realize. It’s Tim, his tone cutting, temper on the rise. 

“The way you’ve treated her these past two months doesn’t say much about friendship to me.”

“I was going to tell her—”

“Oh, you were going to tell her? Only after you finally fucked it all up being caught hanging out with your friends when you explicitly said you were too busy to hang out with her? Yeah, that’s real great.”

“You haven’t told her,” Tim points out petulantly. 

“Really mature,” Flash scoffs. “I have a good reason to keep it from her. What’s yours? It’s not like you were deprived of her attention. You’re friends. Why the hell would you favor Red Robin over Tim Drake?”

“I wouldn’t expect you to understand—”

“No, I bet you don’t, because it’s easier to excuse yourself that way, isn’t it?” he seethes. “You’re just like him, you know. Just like him.”

You don’t know who they’re talking about. Or maybe you do and it’s just not coming to you. But the comparison isn’t a kind one. The way Tim snaps back in the next second affirms that. 

“She wasn’t talking to me! I was—worried!”

“So, you should’ve talked to her! Instead of going behind her back and befriending her as Red Robin! What the hell did you achieve by doing that?”

“We were going to tell her, too, you know,” the woman from before says, her tone disapproving. “Very soon, in fact. But his situation is different from yours and you know that.”

Silence stretches on.

“Well, I still want to see her,” Tim says quietly, the fight leaving his voice.

“How—” Steph. Her voice cuts out, thick in a way that is unfamiliar to you. She clears her throat. “How is she?”

“Stable,” the mystery woman informs her. 

“Why hasn’t she woken up?” Tim asks. You can just hear the frown in his voice and the vision of him forms easily in your mind, that familiar wrinkle between his brows, pretty pink lips pursed. 

“Anesthesia still needs to wear off,” the woman says. “She’ll wake up soon.”

“But until then,” Flash cuts in, tone still severe. “Feel free to make yourself scarce. Stephanie can hang around. But you? No way in hell.”

“You think she wants that?” Tim shoots back, anger returning. “You don’t know anything. You have no idea. You’re assuming—”

“Yeah, I am. She’s not awake. She can’t tell us. Until then, I—we—can make those decisions.”

“Oh, that’s great. I’m sure she’ll love that—”

“I know what you’re thinking and we’re doing this with good intentions. You can’t say the same, can you?”

That doesn’t help. Fans the flames, if anything, as they keep arguing. 

Ugh. You don’t want to hear this. 

Like mercy, you slip under again. 

reblogs are appreciated!

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[loonylooly]

at this point i'm wondering what sarah is thinking when writing her love interests, like ok it's clear she finds them hot but like....are they good people

Rhys:

UTM lap dance shenanigans

throwing Feyre into danger constantly (Weaver, destroying cauldron, getting the book from Adriata, etc etc)

Still not doing jack shit about wing clippings in Illyria?? Emerie is right there, Rhysand, go enforce your damn laws

Insulting his wife's sister constantly

Almost killed his wife's sister cause she dared give her important medical information

Locked Lucien (MY BOY!!) in the house of wind

Locked Nesta in the house of wind

Didn't give Mor any warning that time he made her face her abusers and she cried i think (ngl i forgot most of it)

Ignoring Hewn City even tho...Kier is like the only bad guy we've seen from there?? Surely there's decent people in Hewn City, don't gotta make everyone suffer

Nesta windhaven kidnapping intervention so she stops spending Rhys' money (if it was really about her own sake, they would've put a stop to it much earlier)

Seemingly alienates everyone in Feyre's life that could and would stand up to Rhys for Feyre's sake. Lucien? Nah, shoo. Nesta? Nah, shoo. Weird thought but Tarquin? Yeah, makes her steal his book.

And last but DEFINITELY not least; demon baby wife death

HE COULD'VE TOLD FEYRE... OR ATLEAST NOT THREATENED TO KILL HER SISTER FOR TELLING HER WHEN HE HOULD'VE TOLD HER IN THE FIRST PLACE??

THERE'S PROBABLY MORE BUT MOVING ON

Cassian:

Barely ever stands up for Nesta in the IC

Aids in kidnapping Nesta to Windhaven so she stops spending whysand's money

Laughs at Nesta when she falls down the stairs

Aids in punishing Nesta for daring to tell Feyre important medical info

Constantly going agaisnt Nesta's wishes and trying to "save her" when she doesn't want him to

That one time Azriel asked Nesta if Cass had pushed her down the stairs...Like are we gonna ignore that?? Personally I'd have a quarter life crisis if my closest friend, who is like my sibling and has known me most of our lives, seriously entertained the idea that i would physically assault the girl I like

general aggressiveness all of ACOSF

aids in bulldozing Nesta's apartment

Rowan goddamn Whitehorn (Who I've yet to see people bashing him somehow,,, HoF rowan was like if ACOSF cassian had a horrific murder baby

Left his pregnant mate alone during a war cause he wanted to prove himself....like..idk man if i had the choice between war and taking care of my pregnant wife i'd pick the wife (did he know she was pregnant? i've kind of forgotten by now)

Rowan's kid would've been hundreds of years older than Aelin.....just think abt that

Literally everything he did to Aelin during training in HoF

Their argument where he PUNCHED HER IN THE FACE

Threatened to whip Aelin...I repeat....Threatened to whip Aelin, an ex-slave....

Told Aelin it'd be better if she died 10 years ago (unprovoked?? bitch you met her like 2 weeks ago just cause she's getting on your nerves doesn't mean you gotta wish DEATH upon her)

Literally was relieved to find out she was only 19 because if she was a few years older she could've been THE CHILD OF HIS BEST FRIEND.

No issue with marrying the cousin of his best friend's child....Imagine if he hadn't met Aelin first.. If he'd met Aedion first, Aelin would've always been the relative of his friend's son to him

FOR THE RECORD i hate all of the SJM age gaps but rowan and aelin's specifically irks me because Aelin LITERALLY CALLS HIM OLD throughout the WHOLE SERIES

Literally tells Aelin he doesn't care about what she's been through and that she is nothing to him after she confronts him for leaving her

Puts Luca in danger by sticking him on to a frozen lake with a monster inside where he'll DIE if Aelin can't save him

Funnily enough, some of the only seemingly decent person guys in SJM 1. Are completely forgotten about in the books or 2. SJM had to make them violently unlikeable

Like we've got:

Tarquin, seemed like a pretty good guy, rightfully pissed that the IC stole his family heirloom, shows up like twice in the books (LET HIM COME BACK SARAH I LOVE HIM)

Tamlin, was pretty decent in book 1, was made violently unlikeable in book 2 onwards

Chaol, very strong morals, generally a good person, loves his wife, made violently unlikeable and boring in late CoM, HoF, and QoS (ToD is one of my favorite books in the series, will praise ToD till the day I die, my boy EARNED his own book)

Aedion, seemed like a good person, strong morals, spent years trading his dignity for the sake of Terrasen, loved his cousin above all else, made violently unlikable in KoA (even tho I think he was justified in being angry about it, i'd be SO pissed)

Sartaq, good guy, strong morals, Nesryn's chapters were some of my favorites in ToD, Sartaq is one of my favorite SJM love interests, i'll never forgive author lady for forgetting about him in KoA (tho i guess she forgot about everyone from ToD? Yrene and Chaol are the only important ones, she barely even mentions Nesryn even though Nesryn's BEEN an integral part of the gang since QoS, giving her the Suki from ATLA treatment)

[she-posts-nerdy-stuff]

Hey!! What do you think about the recurring joke in the SOC duology, of Kaz asking a question, everyone giving answers, and usually a quip at the end? Do you think there's significance in it, or is it just a fun way to show the crows' dynamic?

Sorry if this is a stupid question.

Rule one: there are no stupid questions.

Although these conversations might seem like a relatively surface level aspect of the novels, I think that their significance is in the very way they teach us about the Crows dynamic and tell us so much about the characters. The duology’s biggest success comes from the intense vibrancy of its characters, and it’s these types of conversations that not only help us understand who they are and how they interact with each other, but also that make us laugh and therefore care about the characters all the more. Take the parallel from soc to ck about Matthias’ character development - in six of crows Kaz asks the group what the easiest way to steal a man’s wallet is, and the replies consist of “gun to the back” from Jesper, “knife to the throat” from Inej, and “poison in his cup” from Nina, before Matthias cuts them off and says “you’re all horrible” then in crooked kingdom Kaz asks where the group think he spent the money Pekka gave them for the sale of the Crow Club and 5th harbour, getting “guns” and “ships” amongst his answers and after a pause Nina says to Matthias “this is the part where you tell us how awful we are” but he simply replies “they all seem like practical choices”. This tells us so much about the characters and how they think!!! In the first instance, we don’t yet know the characters very well, so it’s important that we begin to associate the guns with Jesper and the knives with Inej, as well as understand that Nina works with subtle but violent tactics. We learn from this brief interaction that they’ve reached a point in their lives where murder or threatening murder is the easiest way out in every option, and we’ve also arguably learned that they are eager to please Kaz because they are all instantly searching for the answer that will impress him even though he’s sure to just continue on and explain his own thought anyway. We also have no response from Wylan, if I remember correctly at least, which shows the time it takes for him to mesh with the group and his heightened anxiety at the start of the first book. In the Crooked Kingdom interaction, we have a clear transition in Inej’s character from the association of her and knives to the association of her and her dream, a ship and crew of her own, and I’m pretty sure Wylan does reply in that one so it shows his personal progression and how he’s been able to mesh with the group and because more comfortable in his own skin. Matthias’ character development between the two is more obvious and openly commented on in the conversation, but what’s also interesting is that Kaz is there both times with a genuine answer and explanation. Even though he never seems the last to enjoy a joke or quip, when he’s discussing his plans Kaz almost entirely loses the ability to think beyond the job; everything is entirely black and white and categorised by whether it’s relevant, which means it’s what he’s saying, or inessential, meaning what the others are saying.

And what’s possible even more interesting is that you can see this in almost every one of these interactions Leigh Bardugo loves to include (and we love her for, of course). For example, in one of my favourites of these little formulas Kaz asks the group if they know what Van Eck’s biggest problem is. The responses are “no honour” (Matthias), “rotten parenting skills” (Nina), and “receding hairline” (Jesper). This never fails to make me smile; Matthias’ is so quintessentially himself, everything he values and such good summary of why he would be so willing to support anyone, even these thugs and thieves, against Van Eck, Nina’s showcases her dark humour and protective nature, her hatred for Van Eck is sourced far more in his treatment of Wylan and Inej than anything else, and Jesper’s is funny, witty, a genuine ongoing joke (such as Nina thinking that Wylan may need to invest in a hood tonic when she meets Van Eck) and just emphasises his sharp-wit as well as showing growth beyond the desperate need to impress Kaz that he harboured for so long before he properly got to know Wylan. But Kaz’s reply is simply returning to the job, stating that Van Eck’s problem is that he has “too much to lose” and that he revealed exactly how to destroy him by bragging about Alys and their unborn child.

I hope this made sense, it can be hard to tell whether I’ve actually translated my thoughts into the right words haha. Thanks so much for your question!!

[violet-shadows]

Low on Hope (Part One)

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Masterlist

Summary: The youngest of the Archeron sisters went to great lengths to keep her family afloat before her sister went over the wall. The nature of her sacrifice was a secret she vowed never the share. That is, until Feyre and new brother-in-law’s magical abilities spoil her plan to leave the past in the past. When old memories become fresh wounds again, it’s up to a certain Spymaster to help piece Y/N back together. 

Word Count: 3.4k

Pairing: Azriel x Reader (She/Her)

Warnings: violence, prostitution, sexual assault, sexual violence, PTSD, food insecurity

A/N: This one is heavy. I don’t go into extreme graphic detail but if you’re sensitive to mentions of SA, this may not be the one for you. Thank you to the anon who requested this and everyone who had supported my work. 

⊱ —————— ❈  —————— ⊰

Your lungs burned as you darted through the village streets, keeping your head ducked low to avoid recognition. You had been doing this off and on for years, only taking the risk when times got truly desperate, and thus far, you had never been caught. Until that night.

You weren’t a talented thief, you just knew how to pick a mark. Pickpocketing, as it turns out, is relatively easy if the man you’re stealing from is a drunkard in a crowded pub. You only took a coin or two from each, and most of the men you stole from never even noticed the lightness in their pockets. By morning, if they noticed at all, they would blame the drink for any missing money and be none the wiser. That’s how you got away with going to the same pub time after time without raising suspicion. No one would be on the lookout for a thief if they didn’t notice there was stealing afoot.

You probably could have continued your operation indefinitely if you hadn’t gotten greedy. Perhaps greed wasn’t quite the right word for it, though. In truth, you weren’t hungry for coin, you were simply hungry. Times had gotten desperate as the winter months dragged on, and while Feyre had taken to the woods to hunt, you had taken to the pubs. It was desperation that ultimately drove you to risk taking a handful of coins from the open purse of a Lord seated at the bar. He felt the change in weight and had your wrist caught in a bone-crushing grip before you even realized you’d been caught. The fact that he had been drinking heavily was the only reason you were able to wrench your hand free and take off into the night, money going flying as you raced out the door. The man and his friends gave chase, but you were able to lose them in the market, ducking into an alcove while they ran past.

As you huddled in the shadows, catching your breath, the reality of what had transpired sank in. Fortunately, you had the foresight to wear a hat and trousers when you went to the pub, hoping to be mistaken for a prepubescent boy instead of a starving teenage girl. While your family would be safe from the repercussions of your actions, you wouldn’t be able to run the same scheme again. Caught in your own turmoil, you hardly noticed the woman observing you from the stoop of a nearby townhouse until she was merely a few paced in front of you.

“You know,” she said quietly, coming to stand with you in the alcove, “there are other ways a pretty girl like you could make money. More lucrative ways.”

That had been the beginning of the end.

⊱ —————— ❈  —————— ⊰

You woke with a start, sweat coating your back as you thrashed against your tangled bed sheets. It took a moment to orient yourself, your mind still trapped in the memory of that night, but after a few shuttering breaths you remembered. You were in Velaris, in a guest room in the House of the Wind. You were Fae now. That life was behind you.

It had been over a month since you and your sisters were torn from your beds in the middle of the night, and you still woke up confused each morning. Some days, your dip in the Cauldron seemed like a distant dream, nearly forgotten as you navigated this new reality. Other days, most days, the inky black water was a constant fixture in the back of your mind. The Cauldron made you Fae, but it also dredged up memories of your human life you had long avoided revisiting. As of late, your dreams were plagued not by the night your life was changed, but by the things you did and the things that were done to you before. So, you spent most of your days focused outward, trying your best to support your sisters while learning as much as possible about this strange new world. You had long since learned that too much time spent in your own head was dangerous. 

A knock sounded on your door, rousing you from your contemplation. There was hardly a pause before Mor strode in, a warm, if slightly uncomfortable, smile on her face. “Oh good, you’re up. Come, have breakfast with me. Then, we’re going shopping.”

Of the three sisters, you had been by far the most receptive to your hosts, forming an awkward friendship with Mor, who reminded you in many ways of Feyre and Nesta. While Nesta seethed and Elain withered, you sought distractions. Fortunately for you, the two members of Rhysand’s Inner Circle you saw most were Mor and Cassian, both of whom were more than happy to do most of the talking, filling in the gaps you left in conversations. Azriel was around less, but when he was, you found kinship in his steady quietness. He didn’t seem uncomfortable with your abbreviated responses and lack of conversation, but he didn’t try to fill the silence either. You liked Mor and Cassian, but you liked Azriel’s company best.

After breakfast, Mor was keen on bringing you into the city. You had only left the House of Wind in brief stints, being the only one of the sisters to do so at all. Velaris was beautiful and full of life and wholly unfamiliar. While your trips into town were exhausting, they also served as an excellent distraction, a fact which Mor seemed to have noticed. “I should check on Elain,” you said as she motioned towards the balcony.

“She’s… the same.” Mor offered a sad smile and you nodded, making your way upstairs to lay eyes on her nonetheless. When you reached Elain’s room, you found her sitting with Nesta, who was absently leafing through a book. Like you, both sisters were pale and wilted, deep circles under their eyes evidence of fitful sleep. If it weren’t for the lavish room you occupied, the scene before you could have been plucked straight from your memories, a mirror image of the cold, hapless winters you spent in the cabin, nearing starvation and low on hope. At least then, you had Feyre.

Nesta didn’t say anything as you approached, giving you a quick once over before returning to her book. “Hi Elain,” you crouched down beside her, clutching one cold, limp hand. As usual, she didn’t respond, her eyes transfixed on some distant point. “I’m going into the city. I’ll see about getting you some seeds. You could start a garden here.”

Nesta looked up, something like hope flashing in her grey eyes, but when Elain remained frozen, she tossed the book on the side table with a huff and left. An outsider might think Nesta was angry, but you knew better. Nesta was hurt, and scared, and while Elain might need coddling, your oldest sister required space. After a few minutes, you sighed and stood, giving your sister one last long look before you stepped into the hallway. Part of you wanted to tell Mor you needed to stay with Elain, but another part, a more selfish part, feared you might end up just like your middle sister if you stayed in that stuffy, too quiet room.

You blew out a heavy sigh as you shut the door softly behind you and nearly screamed at the sound of a throat clearing behind you. Azriel’s ability to move around undetected was still a marvel, but you appreciated that he was courteous enough to alert you to his presence. Though, you supposed you wouldn’t know if he wasn’t. “I’ll sit with her, for a little while,” whether it was serendipitous timing, a lucky guess, or simply the look on your face, Azriel had practically read your mind. “Mor really wants to play dress-up.”

He gave you a soft smile, then, and you were struck by just how handsome the Shadowsinger was. All of the Fae you had encountered thus far had been attractive, but Azriel’s beauty was otherworldly, especially when he smiled. “Thank you, Azriel. I appreciate it.”

“She’ll come around,” he said softly as if sensing your lingering worry. As he stepped around you to make his way in time, you caught a whiff of his intoxicating smell. It reminded you of cedar and morning dew, like the forest after a mid-spring rainstorm. You were still getting used to your enhanced senses and you fought the urge to inhale deeply as he passed, deciding that it would almost certainly be a faux pas. As you joined Mor on the balcony, you were suddenly ashamed that your thoughts were consumed not by your ailing sister, but the man— male— who volunteered to sit with her.

Since your first meeting, Azriel had drawn you in as though he possessed his own magnetic field. He was gorgeous, that much was obvious, but there was something else about the Shadowsinger that had you enraptured. Since meeting him, and particularly since the incident with the Cauldron, you often found your thoughts wandering to him of their own volition. After everything that had happened, though, it seemed trivial to be so enchanted by him. You often reminded yourself that Azriel, like Mor and Cassian, was just another one of your hosts looking out for you out of obligation to his brother and Feyre. Soon, your sister would return and you would be stashed somewhere safe with Nesta and Elain to wait out the impending unrest. It was best not to get too attached to any of them. 

⊱ —————— ❈  —————— ⊰

Feyre returned a week or so later, appearing at the House of Wind looking very much like she had never left. You ran to her then, throwing your arms around her, swallowing back sobs as the two of you clung to one another. Feyre had always been the sister to which you were closest, and despite how you both had changed drastically, having your sister back was a weight off of your shoulders. 

“I missed you so much,” you whispered, hugging her tight. “I was worried.”

“I missed you, too.” When Feyre pulled back, there were tear tracks on her face. “Are you okay?” 

“Yes, of course.” It wasn’t entirely a lie, and you weren’t about to burden Feyre with your troubles. She seemed to clock the half-truth, assessing the dark circles under your eyes and hollow cheeks, but she didn’t call you out on it. You weren’t fine, but you hadn’t been since long before you went into the Cauldron. Between the war and your other sisters, you didn’t need to throw your problems into the pot.

“Y/N– I’m sorry.” Feyre’s voice broke and you hugged her again, squeezing her tight.

“Not your fault, Fey.” You whispered. There wasn’t much else you could say without drawing her into a conversation about what happened. Recalling the experience was bad enough, you had outright refused to discuss it with anyone thus far, and you planned to continue. You wiped your eyes as you withdrew again, catching Rhysand’s tight smile when Feyre announced she would seek out Nesta next. Perhaps it was cowardly to hide with Elain while the two reunited, but Nesta’s pain was expressed through wrath and you grew weary of playing mediator. If anyone could handle Nesta without your intervention, it was Feyre. 

When you arrived in Elain’s room, you were surprised to find Azriel at her side, speaking to her in gentle, hushed tones. A pang of jealousy ran through you and you were immediately ashamed. Over the past few weeks, the Nightcourt’s Spymaster had taken it upon himself to chaperone Elain when you or Nesta wasn’t at her side, a gesture that you should have appreciated greatly. You were thankful for Azriel’s willingness to sit with your shell of a sibling, but another part of you wished it was you he sought out. It was selfish, you didn’t need company the way Elain did, but you found yourself wishing he would join you when you sat by your own window, observing the city below. 

As you peeked through the door, the misplaced envy and associated shame came over you in a wave and you couldn’t bring yourself to step inside the room. You thought you might have heard someone call your name as you hurried down the hall to your own room, but you ignored it, trying and failing to swallow the lump in your throat. 

⊱ —————— ❈  —————— ⊰

That night you dreamed of hot, foul breath on your neck and a heavy weight pinning you down. The woman who spoke to you that night in the alcove had turned out to be a madam. She assured you that the work wasn’t nearly as difficult as it sounded, that you would get used to it after a while and it wouldn’t be so bad. At first, you had refused her, but when you came home to find Feyre laid up in bed with a fever and only crumbs remaining for food, you reconsidered. Two nights later, you returned to the house in the village and sought her out. Three nights after that, you had your first customer. 

At first it was difficult, the pain between your legs and utter violation of the work weighed heavy on your spirits. But when you brought home food purchased in the market and told your sisters you had found work in a pub kitchen in town, the look of hope on their faces was enough to keep you going back. The work itself did get easier after sometime; with a bit of drink, you were able to take your mind elsewhere as you went through the motions of pleasing your customers. You no longer cried when they left, instead staring blankly at the ceiling until you had enough energy to dress yourself and leave the brothel. At ngiht, though, the shame of it came back, keeping you from sleep. If your sisters noticed a change in you, they didn’t say anything, likely attributing it to your family’s poverty. The money you earned at the brothel was enough to put clothes on your back and some food on the table, but with five mouths to feed and a dwindling population of game for Feyre to hunt, you were still just barely making ends meet. 

The fall before Feyre was taken to the Fairy Realms, a new customer came into the brothel. He was an out of towner just passing through with a cold glint in his eyes, and when he paid the madame, you couldn’t help but notice the conspiratorial look they shared as he pointed you out, slipping a bag into her hands as he did so. The money he gave her was in fact a pay off, a fee men like him paid for others to look the other way. The man, whose name you never got or cared to have, had unusual tastes in the bedroom, and it wasn’t until he had you alone that you realized he was a sadist. 

After that night, you hadn’t been able to get yourself home. Instead, you lay bleeding in the brothel bedroom, wounds on your back from a cruelly weilded blade and your wrists chaffed and bruised from being bound in rough ropes. When you started working for the madam, she had assured you that you needed only to scream if a customer stepped out of line. That night, though, you had screamed yourself hoarse and received no aid. Money was a powerful silencer. 

When you finally limped home the following afternoon, you made up some story about falling down some stairs and staying the night at a coworker’s house to recover. To you relief, you sisters and father believed your tale and didn’t question you as you laid in bed for the next week, aching and fevered. You couldn’t bring yourself to go back after that, the fear of that man halting you everytime you considered. You told your family you’d been let go from the pub, replaced by the owner’s niece who needed work. They bought that as well. 

You bottled up your pain, only allowing it to manifest in your sleep, when you trashed and screamed until one of your sisters shook you awake. Nesta had asked, once, what the nightmares were about. When you told her you didn’t want to talk about them, you could swear you saw a knowing glint in her eyes. 

The time that elapsed after Feyre was taken had allowed you to push down the memories that haunted you, and by the time Feyre returned with Rhysand, Azriel, and Cassian in tow, the nightmares had become less frequent. Then you were taken, dragged from your bed in the middle of the night by strong hands that cared not for your wellbeing, manhandled in a way that felt dreadfully familiar. One by one, you and your sisters were dipped into the infinite blackness of the Cauldron and the trauma of your past was brought forward again. As you floated in that bone chilling water, you relived the violation those nights at the brothel, and when you emerged, the wounds were once again fresh and agonizing. 

Now, the memories came to you in your dreams once again, leaving you panting and heaving when you woke. That night, you dreamt of your final client again. You felt his bruising grip and the sting of the knife against your skin as though it were happening in real time. This time, though, instead of leaving you in a puddle of blood and fluids, the man had torn you from your bed and dragged you, kicking and screaming, to a great vat of black liquid. You screamed as your head was forced underwater, icy water flooding your lungs, and just when you were sure you would drown there, you woke up. 

At first, you could hear nothing beyond your heart racing in your ears. You flailed, kicking the sheets off of your legs in a desperate bid to be free of restraint. Gasping, you didn’t notice the increasingly frantic knocking at the door until it was finally wrenched open. 

Azriel was shirtless, a paid of linen pants sitting low on his hips and in his hand was a familiar blade, Truth Teller. His dark, silken hair was messy and it was clear he had been sleeping. His eyes, however, were wide awake, piercing through the low light of your room as he assessed you. “You were screaming,” his voice was rough from sleep and it sent a shiver down your spine.

“A dream,” you blurted, your own voice raw. “It was just a dream, I’m sorry.” He nodded and seemed to hesitate, as though contemplating his next move. Then, he stepped forward, gently setting truth teller on the end of your bed before approaching the edge. 

“May I?” He gestured to the empty space on your bed and you nodded mutely. “Do you want to talk about it?” You shook your head, not trusting your voice not to shake when you answered him. Slowly, he reached up with one scarred, beautiful hand and stroked your cheeks, wiping away the tears you hadn’t realized you were crying. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, something like hurt flashing in his hazel eyes. 

“Not your fault,” you finally answered. “I’m sorry I woke you.”

“I’m not,” he replied quickly. “You’re not alone in this. If you ever need someone to listen, I’m here.” You heart clenched and for a moment your resolve waivered, the temptation to throw yourself into his arms and cry out all your fears and worries stronger than ever. But you remembered the way he sat with Elain, the gentle way he spoke to her, and you thought better of it. Azriel was not yours to lean on. 

“Thank you, Azriel.” You whispered, drawing a deep, shuttering breath. Sensing the dismissal, Azriel nodded, a solemn look on his face. He retrieved his blade and made his way to the door, turning one last time to look at you. 

“I mean it, Y/N. If you need anything at all, I’m here,” he said it with such sincerity that your heart squeezed. You wanted to believe that you could go to him, but Azriel didn’t have what it would take to fix your broken heart. No one did. So instead, you nodded, the heaviness in your heart returning as he left.

⊱ —————— ❈  —————— ⊰

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[pleasekitasan]

untouchable

pairing: oikawa nii-chan x f!reader, MDNI!!!!!

word count: 5k

tags and warnings: incest, dub-con / reluctance, intoxication, manipulation, virginity loss ( it's a social construct, but tooru-nii wants yours 🥴 ), god complex, all characters are over 18!!, use of "cunt", creampie / unprotected sex, timeskip tooru. if any warnings are missing, please let me know!

a/n: this is my submission for @iwaasfairy's persephone collab! if you haven't checked out her work yet, god lord please do. i'm so honoured to even have my blog & fic on a post of hers!! hope you enjoy tooru-nii being a moral monster to the tune of monster by exo! 😇

i'll flip you over, break you down, and swallow you up

i'll steal you and indulge in you

i'm gonna mess you up

i'm engraved in your heart

so even if i die, i'll live forever

when your nii-chan told the family that he was moving to argentina, everyone ( including you ) was so happy for him. to be able to find your passion in high school and pursue it after isn't something that everyone has the luxury of doing.

on the week leading up to his departure, you would follow him around like a puppy, even going out with him and all his high school friends to drink ( nii-chan would sneak you cups of sake when workers weren't looking ) to make sure you didn't lose a single second with him. by the time you two arrived home, your parents would be asleep or just heading to bed, so it was more than easy to sneak into nii-chan's room and sleep curled up at his side, hands scrunching the front of his shirt as you held on to him, even in your dreams.

seeing him off at the airport was the first time you felt your heart break. he looked so happy and you were, too! just really, really deep inside. ever since you were born, it was tooru-nii that looked after you when your parents were away ( which was a lot ). it was tooru-nii that helped you with your homework after school. it was tooru-nii that put you on the volleyball team as his manager. it was tooru-nii you'd scream for during all his matches. he's your first love — not your mother or father: it was always nii-chan.

after he left, life became bleak. the house felt so much emptier and your days so much darker. the volleyball team was never the same without him, but you stayed as a manager until graduation came around. with nii-chan no longer around, you used your free time to study and got into the best schools in the country, but it still didn't feel like this was the right path or what you should do, even when tooru-nii called to congratulate you.

a year after his departure, it was your turn to wear the black cap and gown, throwing the former in the air with the remnants of a smile twitching at your lips. you aren't sure what you're free from, but you feel relieved and relaxed. the rest of the day was spent bidding your friends farewell, most of them staying in miyagi for college, whilst you accepted a scholarship in tokyo. by the time you get home, your cheeks are tear-stained from the amount of goodbyes you've had to express — you really are going to miss a lot of them, especially the volleyball teammates that supported you throughout tooru-nii's absence.

the dark house suddenly becomes blinding as the lights flicker on and you shield your squinting eyes as the sound of "surprise!" mixes in with "congratulations" ( your parents weren't the best with planning things in general ). laughter bubbles up in your chest and you take a deep bow where you are at the door for all the relatives that stopped by.

"thank you, everyone!" your aunts and uncles, baby cousins and grown ones, even your grandparents were there. they didn't come by for tooru's graduation ( he explicitly said he didn't want a party ), but they stopped by to give you gifts, money, and lots of awkward hugs.

only when the last of your mother's side is done hogging you does tooru steal your attention.

"happy graduation, my sweet little imouto-chan."

your eyes light up, filling with the joy you've been deprived of for the past year.

"nii-chan!" you jump into his open arms without another thought and nuzzles your face into his neck, lips spread into a wide grin. "what're ya doin' here? i thought you were busy with a game this week!"

"well... mom 'nd dad called me up about a month ago to tell me that you're finally graduating. had to make somethin' up so you'd feel surprised. did ya miss me?" his question seems like such a stupid one. isn't it painfully obvious with the way you're clinging to him, ignoring everyone's laughter as they murmur about how close you two must be?

"maybe," you hum teasingly, a giggle leaving your lips when you see tooru-nii's small frown. "of course i did, dummy."

reluctantly, you pull away so things don't look weird ( weirder? ), but tooru's fingers lace with yours as he leads you around the house to greet your father's side of the family, your older brother squeezing your palm when you seem to grow disinterested in the elders' nagging or advice. he's always looked out for you and tonight, you know that this will never change.

\

"nii-chan," you giggle as his hot breath tickles the curve of your ear.

with all the adults gone and your parents resting in their bedroom, it was up to you and a tipsy tooru-nii to clean up, but having the elder dropping items with his butterfingers over and over again made you both agree to leave a note on the fridge saying that you'll clean it up in the morning.

now he's crumbling on top of his bed and he takes you down with him just as you close the bedroom door.

"my imouto, my sweetheart," he slurs a bit, wrapping his arms tightly around you so you're resting on his chest.

there's a smile you can't bite back and you lean up to nuzzle your cheek against his, the proximity and warmth of your older brother after their absence makes the hole in your chest slowly heal, the emptiness filling up with the love you've missed out on.

tooru pulls back a bit and your lips twitch at the corners from the loss, but his palms are quick to engulf your cheeks, his thumbs tracing underneath your doe eyes. even with moonlight as the only light source, you look so breathtaking to him, like you're the only girl he'll ever see.

"love you, sweetheart," he whispers, the smell of alcohol faint, but noticeable. your nose scrunches a bit and you start to lean into one of his hands, nodding.

"love you too, nii-chan. with all my heart!"

"just your heart?" his words catch you off guard and the way you tilt your head with confusion only makes the heat in the pit of tooru's stomach grow. "you see, imouto-chan, i love you with my body, heart, and soul."

his words individually are digestible, but when put together, they only blind you even further, your brows meeting in the middle with your visible lack of understanding.

frustration lines his voice in a thin layer at the way you don't seem to really get what he's saying — how is this even possible after you've pined for him for almost two decades?

"don't you get it, sweetheart?" one of his large hands swallows yours and places your palm in between his legs where his cock is straining against his sweats and boxers ( two layers too many if you ask him ). "i want you in every realm possible."

slowly — painfully slow, you start to comprehend what he — tooru-nii, your brother, is telling you. knowledge flashes in your eyes with a deep frown and you try to pry your hand away from his too warm one, but he fights it, pressing down even harder and bucking his hips into the barely tangible warmth of your tiny palm.

"you can't run away, baby. you made this mess, so you have to be the one to clean it up. take care of me like i selflessly took care of you all these years, sweetheart."

the pressing urge to ask if this is all a joke bubbles in your mouth, but before you have the chance to let it out, he presses his lips to yours with an unmistakable moan. tooru's way past the guilt he's held on to for years and allows himself to indulge in the delectable taste of your mouth, the way you mould so easily against him, as if you were made for him — but you are, aren't you?

only when he notices that you haven't breathed in a while does he pull away, lewd lines of spit still connecting his lips to yours; he leaves them there to let the image burn itself into his mind.

"nii-chan," you choke out, "i-i don't think i can do this... it's weird. i don't love you like this."

there's heartbreak in his eyes, perhaps the very same look in yours as he left for south america one year ago, and you feel your chest clench. when his eyes gleam with moisture in the reflection of the moonlight, you gasp in panic and hurry your hands to cup his cheeks out of instinct. you'd do anything to assure that nii-chan feels better, even if it means breaking moral and ethical codes... right? you should, right? he raised you more than your parents did without asking for anything in return, except this. just one thing, one time. you can do that.

"just one time, nii-chan..." mischief returns to tooru's eyes and he nods with no intent of keeping his promise.

"i promise it'll feel good, sweetheart." his breath is hot on your mouth as his hands slide down your neck, collarbones, and your sides, groping every inch of you he can on the way. "say you love nii-chan."

when he reaches the hem of your dress, he scrunches it in his fists and lifts the fabric up, up, up until it bunches in your underarms. the playful lilt in his eyes turns predatory in a second; the way he looks over your body makes a shiver run down your spine and you rush to cover yourself with your hands, but he's much too quick. two strong hands grab your wrists and pin them down by your head as a deep chuckle rumbles in his chest.

"have you've been holding out on me all these years, imouto-chan?" gentle lips press against your cheek and you feel the curl of his smirk as he trails wet kisses down your neck, his fingers finally releasing you to lift your dress up and off your body, your bra easily undone and stripped off next. his guttural moan fills the room when his hands engulf your tits, fingers indulging as he squeezes your plentiful flesh. a glimmer of hope forms when your eyes water up and spill with tears — maybe he'll see just how unwilling you are, how much you aren't enjoying this, and stop in his tracks. the miniscule possibility is washed away like a grain of sand in a windy wave as you feel the throbbing of his cock through his clothes — the same throbbing feeling you'd experience when he'd sit you on his lap whenever you'd sob and tell him about how issei senpai didn't return your texts ( it was all his doing with his threats to fuck up during matches if issei so much as even texted a period back to you ). it's clear now that it wasn't just the tears that made him so excited, it was the lack of power you had as you slumped on top of him, like you are underneath him, too.

"i love you, sweet pea. do you love nii-chan, too?" he's more pressing than before, his fingers squeezing down on your tits to elicit a response, something, out of you. his expression remains attentive when he wraps his mouth around one of your nipples, flicking and sucking on the peak as the now free hand dips lower and lower, tracing calloused fingertips all the way to your slit where he can witness your body betraying you. his digits get coated with your slick in a matter of seconds from just teasing the petals and you can feel the vibrations of his smug chuckle against your sensitive bud.

your unskilled hands could never provide yourself with the pleasure that tooru-nii instills upon you with only a single digit and he has you moaning, back arching slightly above the sheets.

"oh, god." you want to shut up, to deny him the satisfaction of knowing that he's actually making you feel good while he defiles you, but you've never won against nii-chan in anything — this is no different. slowly, you unravel underneath him, your hands grabbing his shoulders as his lips curl up into a devlish smirk. "i love you too, tooru-nii," you murmur in response a bit belatedly.

hearing it just once is enough. his eyes light up as if you bought him a spot on the olympic team, his head lifting from your chest with a lewd smacking sound of his grinning lips, only for him to trail downwards again, his mouth hot and wet as he quickly dips into your belly button before replacing his finger at your swollen clit with his mouth instead.

instantly, you feel the difference between his fingertip and his tongue, the latter gentler, but quick as he flicks against the sensitive nub until you're whimpering so loud, your hand clamps over your mouth. tooru moves his finger to trace circles around your entrance instead, letting your juice cover the tip of it before he slides into your unpenetrated walls. when he's met with slight resistance at the end of the digit, he pulls away from you with his spit and your nectar stuck to his mouth and chin.

"don't tell me you've never touched yourself, sweetheart... iwa-chan didn't even try to fuck you?" his invasive words make your cheeks flush bright red and you shake your head vigorously in response. your nii-chan's best friend has tried endlessly to deflower you, but you'd always scare him off by saying that tooru-nii would find out and sabatoge matches in response. your threats were empty, but iwaizumi wasn't dumb enough to think that the chance of it happening was none — he's seen the way tooru hovered over you for years, always reluctant to let anyone else have your attention, the captain would've found out one way or another, though if iwa had your consent, it might've been less of a disaster.

"you've been saving yourself for nii-chan all these years, just how it should be. it's almost poetic, really." the smile on his features bring about a shudder from your frail shoulders and you start to close your legs together, but tooru pinches the inner expanse of your thigh as punishment. "don't try to hide from me, imouto-chan. let me see my present and really appreciate it the way a man should."

obedient and submissive, the way he wants you to be — the way you've always been for him — you lay there bare and embarrassed, legs spread as he starts to undress himself. the scarlet that flushed his cheeks and chest is entirely gone now, his hands no longer shaking as he tosses his shirt up and over his head, his words no longer slurring as he calls you a handful of degrading words. the alcohol is already flushed out of his system and the only thing intoxicating him now is you.

in the time he's been gone, the growth tooru has gone through is strikingly noticeable: his shoulders are wider, his arms bulging with twice as much muscle power, his chest puffier and his abs more defined, even in the dark. a hesitant hand reaches up to hold onto his bicep like you used to when you'd try to pry him off of you whilst wrestling, except this time, your fingers are stranded much farther away from each other than you're used to.

"you like how much bigger nii-chan is now, sweetie?" the cocky grin on his lips isn't visible, but it's thick in his voice. with you slightly distracted, he takes the opportunity to rid himself of his slacks and briefs, kicking them off his ankles when they pool there. his question goes verbally unanswered, but he can feel the way your small fingers are starting to run along the strong muscles that lay underneath them, as if silently worshipping.

the single chuckle that escapes his smirking mouth is enough to break you out of your trance, your hand falling from his limb so you can cover your chest with your palms. you're hyperaware of his lingering eyes and the fact that you're both naked in his bed, his gaze unlike that of a loving brother, someone that swore to protect you from other men doing this to you.

"you were made for me, sweetheart. i was the one that asked kaa-san and otou-san for you. without me, you wouldn't be here. don't you think i'm a little... underappreciated?" his words took a twist you weren't expecting and your brows furrow together as you try to process what he's trying to say — are you supposed to be at his disposal because he asked for a sibling as a kid? it doesn't take too long for him to answer your question. "personally, i think you should worship me. thank me for allowing you to be born."

if you weren't under pressure, perhaps you would've done the logical thing and shoved him off of you whilst laughing wildly. he's being ridiculous and his logic is so deeply flawed.

but that's not what you see in your head right now. right now, you see the way your parents praised tooru-nii for every achievement he's earned, no matter how small, while they had overlooked your 1st place spelling bee trophy and the full-ride scholarship you worked so hard for. you think of the leftover pieces of fruit you'd get only if tooru-nii didn't finish off the plate that your mother would meticulously cut for him, your allowance being pennies whilst tooru-nii had a trust fund. every time you'd feel dejected, it was your brother that would tell you "great job" or sit you on his lap as he fed you all your favourite fruits, even if it meant he'd get less of them. you learned to ask your nii-chan for money whenever you needed a new uniform or school supplies.

he was right. you didn't mean anything to your parents and it finally makes sense why you lived in his shadow your entire life, why you relied on him for everything: tooru-nii is your provider, your god.

as comprehension starts to light up in your eyes, your brows unfurrow and your orbs retain their usual doe shape. he sees a sense of recognition flash in them and his lips curl into a crooked smirk — you're his, like you were always meant to be.

"thank you, nii-chan," is the first thing you utter out, tears welling at your waterline again for different purposes this time. this time, you're grateful; you feel blessed to be underneath him. your pathetic whimpers reflect just how sorry you are for your resistance and you part your legs mindlessly to let him enter however he wants — and why shouldn't he? he's taken care of you like one would their most prized possession for almost two decades now.

"that's my girl." the praise rushes straight to your pussy, which just starts to leak with desire, and you moan just from his words. "i'm glad you finally understand, sweetheart. i knew you could do it." he sounds condescending, but the way his warm palm caresses your cheek and his eyes gleam as they bore into yours makes show that he meant his words in a thoughtful manner.

"want you, nii-chan," you mumble, desiring nothing more than to fulfil your life's purpose of giving tooru-nii everything he wants — you're lucky that he wants you right now.

"of course, darling," he responds dismissively, as if your words didn't make a drop of pre-cum fall from his sobbing tip. "just have to make sure you're ready is all." and he does so thoroughly, dipping his head as he lifts your legs up, up, and up until you're almosy folded in half, his own torso bent over so he can press a sloppy kiss against where he knows your clit is restlessly throbbing. he's wreckless as he spreads your slick folds with his pointer and middle finger from below, his chin almost touching the dip between his digits as he feasts on you. the textured surface of his tongue licks a thick stripe from the origin of your sweet nectar and up to your clit that he finds underneath the cloak of your puffy folds, the edge of his wet muscle roughly flicking as his mouth latches on to the surrounding skin so he can suck down.

oh, the noises you make as your hands grip his chestnut locks are almost as intoxicating as your taste, and if there's ever been a time when tooru was pussy-drunk, it was nothing compared to now: he was absolutely inebriated beyond return with you.

he repeats what he did before, tracing circles around your entrance before he slides a finger in only halfway, so as to keep the last remaining evidence of your purity intact, then another to stretch you out — to be the considerate brother he always is, of course.

your back slowly lifts and he feels your fingers curl tighter around his hair, so he doubles down, lapping at your clit with lewd smacks of his lips filling the room until he feels your body tense — and that's when he pulls away from you without pity, the desperate cry from your poor lips that've swelled from how hard your teeth dug into them making it his turn to moan.

you look debauched, but he knows that there's still an ounce of innocence left within you that he's intent on taking.

"sweet imouto-chan," he murmurs as he finally takes your aching legs, folding them so your calves rest on each of his toned shoulders, his knees a few inches from your ass that's almost lifted from the mattress. "won't you tell me you love your nii-chan one more time?" soft lips press along your calf and he noses gently as a show of affection, luring you into saying what he wants to hear again.

"love you, tooru-nii," you respond obediently, lust thick in your voice as you realise how sticky you are between your legs, how much your entrance is clenching on nothing when it should be him instead.

"that's my girl," he repeats, but you don't mind hearing the same sweet words over and over, the possessiveness behind them. from where he kneels, he gets the perfect view of your slit and how it glistens in the moonlight with as much craftsmanship as if you were a hand-painted masterpiece of art about to go up in the louvre.

his cock twitches and chest clenches when he realises that all of it is for him, and that's how it'll be from now on — he'll make sure of it. greedy palms skim down your legs and hips until he can grab at your tits, the perfect size to fit in his hold, using them as leverage as he starts to finally tease his leaking tip against your desperate hole. with skilled thumbs, he flicks your pebbled buds and leans down so he can watch as you become his.

"take it all like a good girl," is the last you hear before he pushes just the head of his cock in, but it's enough to make your eyes widen — this is nothing compared to the two fingers he used to prep you.

"i-it hur—" but he won't have any of that.

tooru pushes in deeper, harder, until he's halfway in and he can feel the resistance of your hymen disappear. but that's when your pain reaches a peak and your back arches off the bed, your tiny hands pushing at his shoulders to try and fight him. the training and growth from his time away from you was all for this moment, to make sure that he can continue going inside of you, despite how much you protest.

"good girl," he breathes out huskily, uncaring of your struggles and the tears that fall down the sides of your cheeks. you're so warm and tight and he wants you sheathed around him completely, so he does it, he takes what he wants. within seconds, tooru bottoms out until his tip is buried deep within your walls and his head lolls, unable to keep it up as pleasure pumps through his veins. "holy fuck," he groans.

your sobs have quieted by now and your body's too limp to do fight back any longer — not that it would've had any impact. selfishly, he doesn't care if you've adjusted or if you will, his hips vigorously bucking against yours so he can pump in and out of your sweltering walls. the sound of his body pounding against yours is only amplified by the liquid shame that covers your thighs and his own.

with watchful eyes, he commits the way your face contorts from pain, then morphs into one of pleasure to memory as he lifts a hand to your cheek, making his weight no longer crush down on your chest as much. he caresses your tear-stained face, feigning pity in his chestnut orbs, but the smirk on his lips is as twisted as his thoughts. god, he loves the sight of you getting fucked dumb, each and every thought leaving your head each time he plunges into your hot, wet walls, until he pushes against the spongy bundle buried deep in you — then your eyes are rolling to the back of your head.

"who's nii-chan's sweet whore?" he grits out through his teeth, trying his best to keep his head from throwing itself back so he can watch you; he doesn't want to miss a single second of this. with the way your mouth only parts to let out lewd whimpers and moans, he knows he won't get an answer, but that's alright.

your gummy walls have already tightened and pulsed around his cock over and over — no surprise when he was the first thing to ever penetrate you, let alone this deep. the hand on your chest drops to hold your hip, prompting you to arch your back as he lets the fingers on your chest find solace in between your slippery folds to draw rough circles around your throbbing clit, forcing relief on you.

"be a good little sister and cum nii-chan's cock while he fills you up," he murmurs in a saccharine voice, so sweet that his proposition doesn't ring any alarms in your head. all you do is nod pathetically and grip his biceps ( when did they get so hard to wrap your hands around again? ) as you brace yourself for another orgasm.

with the extra stimulation of his digits, you feel the coiling hot heat in your core far more than the previous times, your knuckles turning white as you try to contain the feeling, but to no avail with tooru-nii pushing harder and harder into you, drops of his sweat falling onto your tummy.

"n-nii-chan, wait—" you try. you really feel like it's too much, but you see that your cry falls on unhearing ears when tooru starts to moan louder and louder. he pulls his hand back to slap it down against your clit and that's the last thing you remember before you're screaming "nii-chan!" repeatedly in between sobs, finally letting go. your eyes clamp shut and your toes clench so hard, you might've twisted a muscle. the faint sound of "oh, fuck" in your brother's voice lingers when you feel the pressure building up inside of you become lifted, almost like relief. your fingers letting go of him one by one as the strength in your body depletes in the afterglow of your orgasm.

"cutie," his voice sounds almost... in disbelief. "fuck, you there?" his fingers give your aching clit a nudge, jolting you back to reality. "you...you squirted."

in an instant, your eyes fly wide open and you lift your head ( much to the protest of your already sore body ) to see the moisture that glistens on his torso and your thighs, a few drops falling down his legs, too.

"i'm so sorry," you blurt out, shame making your cheeks redden even further, but tooru-nii looks far from enraged or displeased. his smile only widens and he leans in to press a kiss to your wet forehead.

"and what would you have to apologise for, sweetheart?" he seems more pleased — a bit cocky, even — and he slowly slips out of you ( not without a groan ), paying no mind to the mess on his sheets as he lays down beside you, turning onto his side with an arm stretched out under his head, the other hand stroking your damp cheek with the backs of his fingers. "you've been nothing but perfect."

\

the sun in argentina seems so much more powerful than it is back home, your skin having grown just a shade darker despite all the sunscreen you've been using. it was inevitable with how much time you spend on the beach in a skimpy bikini each day after tooru-nii finishes practice with his team — he won't let your feet touch sand unless you're nude or only covering the absolute necessities.

after a few weeks, you've adjusted to tooru's schedule — wake up, go for a jog, eat, practice, beach, fuck, then sleep; rinse and repeat. he never asks if you miss home or if and when you want to go back. you gave up your scholarship and admission to the school you got into the second tooru-nii asked you to move to argentina with him.

the first time he introduced you to his teammates, you couldn't understand any of the conversation taking place above your head, but the catcalls and whistles that came during it made you squirm just a bit. one of them looked at your face, then nii-chan's repeatedly, asking something about siblings you're sure because he said it in english, and you paid enough attention in school to learn that word. but nii-chan just gave a friendly hit to the man's shoulder and shook his head. when you had asked tooru about it later, he gave you a confused look, head tilted.

"you're my sweetheart, darling. i might be your big brother, but i love you much more than that — we love each other more than that." his toned arms pulled you in for an embrace and you returned it with a tight smile, nodding as you lowered your head against his shoulder, a single tear escaping your wet eyes.

this was what you were made for: to serve tooru-nii, no matter where he is in the world. you're his sweet doll, his darling — his perfect imouto-chan.

[dozing-marshmallow]

CHRISTMAS WITH TOTAL DRAMA CHARACTERS(CHRIS, DUNCAN, HEATHER) SCENARIOS

Merry Christmas everyone! So sorry I couldn’t post something Christmas themed sooner, I hope everyone’s been having a wonderful day with family and friends whether you celebrate or not!🎄❤️

CHRIS

Despite the Christmas events he hosted for many networks, Chris didn’t feel he was really celebrating it until he went over to Newfoundland.

Before dinner, you joined him on this tradition that his homeland calls “Mummering” where it was basically Guess Who and Trick or Treat combined.

Needless to say, every neighbour you visited guessed who he was correctly.

He was reluctant to complete the family secret Santa. Originally, you sucked your teeth, thinking he was just being arrogant. However, from that event, you got an insight on the nature of a lot of his relatives- opportunistic.

“Could you lend me a few thousand dollars? What’s a guy like you to lose?", "Could you be the best nephew in the world and pay for the wedding of my best friend’s daughter?", "Could you help me pay off my mortgage?"

No wonder why your husband was barely enjoying himself at the dinner table! These people didn’t see him as a human; they saw him as a big shot wallet.

“Tell me, Chris... Is this how every Christmas goes for you?” you asked when it was just you and him, sitting next to him on the guest bed.

He was as sombre as ever. Sombre!,“Yeah. Told you the rest of the family weren’t important. I only bother to put up with them for my mom. I wish they all drop dead soon though.”

Not on Christmas Day... You couldn’t end the evening like this,“Okay... Is there anything you want to do together to cheer you up before we go to bed?”

“Hm...” the exhaustion shifts in his eyes as he smugly commands,“Tell me how good I look.”

You sigh in annoyance. That, you could do any day,“Really, Chris?”

“Fiiiiiine.” his moping tone of voice settled back,“I suppose raiding the leftover desserts wouldn’t hurt.”

“That...” is an oddly simple request coming from him,“Yet you’re implying you never did it?”

His attention is caught by the room’s door,“I didn’t have anyone I wanted to do it with.”

And unlike the fall of snow, his festive misery had vanished all at once.

“ᴬˡˡ ᴵ ʷᵃⁿᵗ ᶠᵒʳ ᶜʰʳⁱˢᵗᵐᵃˢ ⁱˢ ʸᵒᵘ!”

DUNCAN

Duncan’s dad was very pushy about Church this time around.

And he always found in his best interest to not go anyway.

This time though, you were there with him. So he decided, he’ll go this year.

He was also forced to join the local youth choir that would sing on the streets to raise money for those in need.

As long as he got to wear a mask...

“Not happening.” his dad sneered.

Okay, it wasn’t actually as bad as he thought it’d go.

Though he didn’t want to give his dad that satisfaction so he played sour about coming home. His main motivation was to steal some plates worth of food, give his mother her Christmas present and stuff the stockings of his cousins with bars of coal.

If anyone asks, you didn’t see anything.

His mom knitted him a Christmas sweater in return so obviously he wore it.

He visited his friends back in juvie with you.

It was quite heartwarming, seeing these teens who had done wrong in the past still have tenderness to friends and family, making you wish them a good future post leaving prison.

Besides, if they were Duncan’s friends, they had to have some morals.

Walking back, it was clear that he had room left for mischief and wanted to fill that space by stalling so you would be in front of him and turn around in confusion to not be met with Duncan, but his snowball.

“Hahaha! Nice makeup!”

You brush the snow off your face and feel your own devil inspire.

Let’s give him a taste of his own medicine.

You bent down and rolled up a snowball. Let the fight begin!

“ ᴼ ᶜᵒᵐᵉ, ᵃˡˡ ʸᵉ ᶠᵃⁱᵗʰᶠᵘˡ, ʲᵒʸᶠᵘˡ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵗʳⁱᵘᵐᵖʰᵃⁿᵗ!”

HEATHER

She scrunches her nose at the arrival of Christmas, that season that’s “nothing but noise and shallow junk.”

"I got you a present." you held it out for her.

“Buying my favour when it’s not my birthday, huh?” she looked inside the bag with no anticipation until she saw designer clothes neatly folded. She raised a smile and an eyebrow as she glanced back at you,“Okay, I guess it’s not that bad.”

Seeing her house made you wonder why she auditioned to come on the show.

To her displeasure, you were having fun cutting snowflakes, painting ornaments and decorating gingerbread men with her younger brothers and sisters.

Even more so when you helped her parents prepare the meal.

“We could never dream of Heather helping us out in the kitchen!” her mother claimed, wearing gloves over her manicured hands and a long apron over her expensive attire,“This is a nice change!”

“For sure! (Y/N) should come every year! Maybe our Heather Feather could learn a thing or two from you!” her father would then add on, with a hopeful smile.

With that, she dragged you out of the kitchen by the ear lobe.

“Let’s get out of here. I want something to drink.” she demanded, all ready in her outside winter gear.

Why come home if you’re not going to enjoy yourself?

You’re about to pay for the cozy drinks, but Heather interrupts you.

“I’ll do it.”

After an opening sip and staring at all this pure white showering from the sky, you smirk at Total Drama’s first villain,“So she does have a giving heart!”

Her answer was as cold, but her face was soft,“Don’t make me spill this on you.” the steam from her cup should be the only thing your eyes made contact with,“I just felt nice today. Don’t get used to it.”

“I won’t, I won’t.”

Something about that clarification made her tighten her grip on her cup for a small moment.

Seems like she wanted to give home a chance to fix her a reason for being...this. Generous.

A reason to like Christmas.

However, being with you, peacefully drinking with her, not disgusted or intimidated, was a reason on its own.

“ᵀʰⁱˢ ʸᵉᵃʳ, ᵗᵒ ˢᵃᵛᵉ ᵐᵉ ᶠʳᵒᵐ ᵗᵉᵃʳˢ, ᴵ’ˡˡ ᵍⁱᵛᵉ ⁱᵗ ᵗᵒ ˢᵒᵐᵉᵒⁿᵉ ˢᵖᵉᶜⁱᵃˡ,”

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Seeing all these asks about Geneyen giving bitches backshots/breaking backs then taking off with panties and debit/credit cards makes me want a fic about Geneyen giving backshots taking panties and stealing debit/credit cards lol

Ask and you shall receive.

Fool Me Once - Chapter One

Warnings: Theft, smut. Word count: ~1200

Author's note: No gods, no masters, no tag lists. Only scabs community label fics. If you find yourself tempted to slap a label on this, please block me instead.

Main series masterlist

Genyen awakens, sticky with sweat, an acrid taste in his mouth and a hangover lingering behind his eyes. He silently curses himself for not splurging the extra cash for a place with air conditioning, not that’d be sticking around long enough to appreciate it, but the humidity here is unbearable.

He fled to Thailand after clearing out the donations from the Buddhist centre, along with Jinba’s bank account. He has kept moving since arriving, never staying in one place for more than a week, it’s too risky to settle anywhere when he makes a living from robbing pretty, gullible tourists.

His grifting has taken him to Krabi, Pattaya City and Ko Pha Ngan. This week he finds himself in Pa Tong. No matter the city or district, the situation always plays out the same way; he dons his Buddhist monk robes, heads to the nearest beach and spins a pretty girl a line about how he’s left the monastery because he wants to experience a day in the life of a tourist. By nightfall he’s spilling himself into a condom inside of her, then rifling through her purse once she’s asleep.

He has no idea what possessed him to start tearing the ID pages from their passports. The first time it happened he’d found it as he’d rummaged through her handbag. He’d flipped to the back, curiosity leading him to want to look at her photo. Before he had time to think fully about what he was doing, he’d ripped it out, pocketing it along with her knickers and all the cash she had.

He has quite the collection now. He rolls over in the bed, draping a long, lean arm down the side to rifle through his duffel bag. Underwear of all colours, cuts and sizes is stuffed inside. He thumbs through the stack of ID pages; Sweden, Australia, South Africa, Canada.

Would be cool to have one for every country, he thinks to himself.

He pushes the passport pages and panties to the side, plucking out the wad of banknotes rolled up beside them and counts through it. Shit. Less than two thousand baht left. He’s only been in Pa Tong a few days, but partying all night, every night burns through money fast. He’s going to need to find another target today, or he’ll run out of cash.

After dragging himself out of bed, chasing painkillers with the dregs of the previous evening’s final beer, and showering, Genyen finds himself strolling the perimeter of Pa Tong beach. He is glad that his robes are relatively lightweight, the heat of the sun feels oppressive. He shields his eyes from the blinding rays, surveying the hordes of people soaking up the Thai heat.

That’s when he spots her. His eyes are immediately drawn to the curve of her arse, peeking out from a tiny pair of bikini bottoms as she lays face down. She’s immersed in a copy of The Secret. Oh, this is fucking perfect. 

He saunters over to her and she immediately looks up as his shadow is cast over her. He smiles as her eyes widen in surprise.

“I’m sorry, I don’t have any cash on me if you’re looking for donations.” She smiles sweetly at him.

“Oh, I’m not here on behalf of Wat Suwan Khiri Wong. I’m actually trying to get away from that.”

“Really? And why is that?” She asks curiously, closing her book.

He settles cross legged on the sand in front of her. “I’ve dedicated my whole life to the monastery and practicing the teachings of Buddha. I’d like to know what life has to offer outside of that. I’m Genyen, by the way.”

“Genyen.” She repeats, eyeing him curiously. “Makes you sound important.”

He laughs softly. “It’s nice to be important, but it’s more important to be nice. You can call me Shawn, if you’d prefer.”

He spins her his entire lie and she falls for it. He tells her his mum passed away when he was ten, that his dad married a woman called Mary and when his dad then passed away just before Shawn was due to go to university, Mary had contested the will. She’d gotten everything, the house included. He went away to university, but had nowhere to go once he graduated, so he went travelling and ended up here, in Thailand. He was taken in by the Buddhist monks and renamed Genyen, which means ‘approaching virtue’.

She pays rapt attention, her face softening in sympathy for him, and by the evening they sit in a beach bar together, their knees brushing as she sips a strawberry daiquiri.

“So if you want to experience life outside of the monastery, why aren’t you drinking?” She says, playing with her staw.

“Better to take these things slowly, just talking to you today was a big enough step.” He lies. He knows better than to get buzzed. Drunkenness leads to sloppy mistakes.

He barely has to make an effort. Two more cocktails and her eyes are glazed as she leans in to kiss him. Her lips taste like rum and he kisses her back hungrily.

He follows eagerly when she leads him back to her hotel room. They make quick work of undressing each other. His eyes dart around the room, making a note of where she discards her bag.

It’s not long before she’s on all fours, his hands kneading the fleshy globes of her backside that he’d spent most of the afternoon admiring, as he snaps his hips against her. She clenches around him, warm and oh so tight. He can feel how soaked she is even while wearing a johnny and the sensation causes him to groan as he speeds up his movements.

She moans, arching her back, pushing against him and he slides a hand up the smooth skin of her back, grabbing a fistful of her hair, biting his lip at how this makes her squeeze him harder. She may be a dupable airhead who stupidly believes in the power of manifestation, but she is undoubtedly one of the best lays he’s ever had.

He isn’t sure if she comes, he doesn’t care. His grip on her hips is vicelike as gives one final thrust, shuddering as he pulsates and spends himself into the latex.

It doesn’t take long for her to fall asleep. He lays there, waiting for the sound of her breathing to deepen and even out. Once she starts to snore softly, he creeps out of the bed. He dresses before looking through the handbag he’d seen her drop to the floor earlier. He pulls all of the banknotes from her purse, pocketing them. No cash on you? Bloody liar.

Her passport sits on the vanity table and he grabs it, flipping to the back page. He smiles as he looks at her photo, illuminated by the moonlight that streams through the window. She looks so dorky, it’s actually kind of cute. He almost feels bad for robbing her.

He tears the page out, wrapping it in her discarding bikini bottoms, then pockets those as well.

Slipping out of her room, he lets the door click softly closed behind him, walking out into the balmy night air of Pa Tong. He was going to miss her. Well, he’d miss her air conditioning, that’s for sure.

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

AITA for cutting my dad out of my life?

My (30F) dad (58M) has been an alcoholic for pretty much my whole life. When I was a baby, my parents frequently couldn’t pay the rent or other bills because he was the sole earner and spent the majority of his money on alcohol. They fortunately were never evicted because of it, but they never really had any money and always had to borrow from relatives to get by.

My mum (56F) eventually divorced my dad when I was three, but she still tried to help him and for the most part, he has always been in my life. She has loaned him money over the years and has supported him when he has tried to access support for addiction (rehab, therapy, etc.) or all the times he has been hospitalised due to his drinking. He has attended rehab several times but it never seems to stick. Most times he has been back drinking within days of leaving. My mum has pretty severe depression already and has been suicidal in the past and stressing about him made her (and my) mental health much worse.

Fast-forward to about four years ago. My dad would come to mine and my mum’s house most days to offer to run errands and such. I was often in work and so, against her better judgement, she would give him her bank card to go and do shopping for her. He would always get a receipt but she never really checked her bank account to confirm what he was spending.

She eventually noticed that he was withdrawing cash most times she sent him shopping. When she added it up, it came to hundreds of pounds. This is in addition to money she had actually loaned him. One day she gave him my card to use instead, thinking that he wouldn’t steal from his own child. I checked my account whilst he was gone and saw that he had taken £5. It was only a small amount but it felt like such a betrayal for both my mum and me. We had tried to help him so much over the years, often at the cost of our own mental health, and now he had stolen from both of us. When he got back to our house, we confronted him and he admitted it. He was very apologetic and ashamed but I think my mum and I had both reached our limit. We asked him to leave and not come back.

Since then, I have messaged him on his birthday and Father’s Day. My mum and I have also occasionally contacted him to check he is okay. Beside this, we haven’t really had any other contact with him. However, it is clear that his health is very poor. He has another child (36M) who has told my mum and me that Dad is frequently in and out of hospital due to his drinking. However, neither of us can bring ourselves to get involved again, as every time we have tried to help, he doesn’t seem to be able to help himself and it has a major effect on our own well-being.

I do believe addiction is an illness that people should be supported through more than punished for, but I do feel we reached a point where we could do no more and he had to do some of the work himself. But I feel like one day, we’re going to hear that he’s passed away or is dying and feel like we should have more, or that I essentially abandoned a sick parent over £5. But I’m not sure what more we could have done.

AITA?

What are these acronyms?

[blueteller]

The Beautiful Subtlety of TCF World-Building

I could write an essay about how magnificent it is. In fact, I probably already did. However, it always hits me again, every time I re-read it.

Just look at this moment.

-Human, do you want to loot these magic devices?

“Aigoo.”

Cale was flabbergasted. […] Rather than trying out these gambling magic devices that resembled slot machines of his previous world, the Dragon instead wanted to steal the device and break it apart in order to see how it worked.

Cale did feel a sense of satisfaction, but feigned ignorance as he asked.

“Why?”

[…]

-What do you mean why?! We need to figure out how they work! […] And then I will be able to take all of the money from here! I will use 1 silver coin from my piggy bank in order to rake it all in!

Cale’s expression turned stiff.

A dragon really was amazing. Raon was thinking even more practically than Cale.

Cale seriously considered Raon’s suggestion before seeing someone put in 1 copper coin, which was 1 cound in the Caro Kingdom’s currency, into a machine and then turning away.

Resignation, anticipation, desperation, obsession, and despair. Cale didn’t want to take the money that was gathered through the collection of all of these emotions.

Wouldn’t it be better to steal from wealthier people if he was going to steal?

-Chapter 187

It's such a small moment, I didn't catch it at first. But did you see it?

Did you see how Cale considered Raon's offer, because it's in-character for him to like the idea of free money... then immediately turn away from it? Why would he? What is it about gambling that disgusts him so much?

Cale dislikes gambling because of his abusive uncle. And we don't learn about that until much, much later:

“Wow, really?”

It was at that moment.

Choi Han overheard a voice that made him stop on his way inside the mart.

Two women were standing by the discounted items located outside. They were frowning while chatting with each other.

“No, Mr. Kim really fell deep into gambling?”

Mr. Kim.

Choi Han couldn't help but stop whenever he heard that family name.

"Exactly! He's asking anybody he knows if he could borrow some money from them! Apparently his eyes look hollow and he reeks of alcohol!”

“My goodness. Unnie, then is Mr. Kim Seung Jong not working?”

“How can he work when he’s like that?”

The older looking middle-aged woman snorted and shook her head before lowering her voice.

“But isn’t there a kid in his house?”

“Ah! I, I heard that he brought his distant relative!”

The woman who was chatting with her covered her mouth with her hands.

“My goodness… then-”

“Ah. That is a bit concerning.”

-Chapter 736

We don't learn until Choi Han's indignity test that Kim Rok Soo grew up with an abusive uncle. We only heard about him being orphaned and spending time at the orphanage before that point. I'm not sure if his uncle was ever mentioned at all.

Cale is someone who obviously cares about family a lot. Clearly, his uncle is a memory he tried his best to suppress.

Because he is someone who can never forget, but is able to pretend to forget everything he doesn't like.

That is some excellent world-building, right there. The most amazing part is how far ahead the author was planning. Think about it!! The subtle moment about gambling happened over FIVE HUNDRED CHAPTERS before it became relevant to the story!!!

This author is incredible. I admire them a lot.

...Also, poor Cale. No wonder he didn't want to rob casinos. The idea of gambling is at the very least a source of minor trauma for him 😢

[sugarywishes]

I'VE FINALLY FINISHED MY QUINN AND TIMM TIMELINE 😎 (it's not as cool as it sounds but it would be rad if you CHECKED IT OUT!!)

Childhood

So *ahem* (🤓) in my little silly headcanon world, Quinn comes from a very academic oriented family. You either study and become successful or you become a failure (just like her sister). And as the 'savior/golden child' of her family, she was very often pressured into becoming as successful and educated as possible, even if it meant she would be surrounded by books and essays all throughout her childhood. (And also she had no friends :( )

As for Timm, he's always had the 'competitive dancer' dream, even as a little kid! But growing up in a relatively less than financially stable environment, he soon realized that maybe his dream career could possibly end in failure (homelessness, broke etc) , and maybe it wasn't worth risking your future for a childish dream. So he tried his best to forget and studied as much as he could, he'd rather settle for a well-paying job that a dream that could totally fail, right? (Also he was totally a theater kid growing up I MEAN COME ON HIS HALLOWEEN COSTUME IN THE GAMES IS LITERALLY ERIK)

Law School Days (awe yeaaa)

(Can you tell I am indeed very consistent with my art, no random anatomy or facial structure changes here!)

Huzzah! We've made it to the time period where they find meet!!

So at this point, Quinn is jaded and studious and stuff, and dislikes talking to anybody (which includes professors/teachers LMAO, she needed to stay on that independent knowledge grind) and by a random coincidence, she happened to have classes with none other than Timm himself, she found him very annoying at first but by the end of her education, she was more than ready to marry him

And Timm is still a huge dork, albeit a very burnt out dork, he studied long and hard to be able to have a well-paying career, and now he's at law school! Surely he'll enjoy a life as a rich lawyer, right? Anyways, he accidentally got a crush on that mean and quiet chick in his classes, so what better way to get with her than to ask her out to any event the school had! For the first few years she'd reject him immediately, but eventually she caved in, and hey! They got married, what a wonderful couple! Hopefully they sta-

POST DIVORCE ERA 🔥🔥🔥

So...uh, what exactly happened?

Quinn woke up around 4 AM (yes really, that's when she always gets up for work), and she expected to find her husband of many years still sleep and she'd had to wake him up. She didn't find him, the left side of the bed was empty with the exception of his wedding ring, a hastily written note that doesn't explain shit, and divorce papers with his signature already on it.

So needless to say, she's still really pissed off about that, and petty too (she renamed Quinn, Timm and Associates to LITERALLY Just Quinn and Associates!!) And she refuses to acknowledge her marriage with Timm (Penny keeps pestering her about it but Quinn just dodges the questions everytime)

And oh boy, Timm, HE REALLY MESSED UP, like yeah, you were miserable with your life as a lawyer and you didn't feel like your true self at all, but you couldn't have waited to get a divorce until Quinn woke up?? And blah blah blah, the events of Papa's Bakeria happen, Cecilia canonically gets the dance studio, leaving Timm to STILL work at the Bakeria (at least until he can actually get money, he left all of his to Quinn as compensation for literally abandoning her 😭😭)

ALSO ALSO!! Super funny little detail I wanted to mention, but when Quinn and Timm were announced as divorced, both of their respective families CELEBRATED (Quinn's parents had what was essentially a birthday party styled divorce celebration, complete with pinatas and goodie bags) (And Timm's family partied like there was no tomorrow) Quinn's family thought Timm was an idiot who wanted to marry Quinn to steal her money, and Timm's family thought Quinn was some mean and cruel woman who was going to isolate Timm away from them (You can tell how upset the families will be when Quimm gets back together 👀)

*DON'T REPOST WITHOUT PERMISSION*

*NO RESUBIR SIN PERMISO*

*НЕ РЕПОСТИТЬ БЕЗ РАЗРЕШЕНИЯ*

[archiveikemen]

Ikemen Villains Prologue: Chapter 2

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???: Wait!!

(...!)

An angry man and a young lady suddenly sprang out before my eyes, they seemed to be having a conflict.

Young Lady: That hurts!

The necklace in the young lady’s hand was shaking and glimmering.

(A thief—?)

Man: I’ll make sure you can never use this hand again!

The man raised the fire poker in his hand.

(Her bones will break for sure if he hits her with that—!)

In the spur of the moment—

Kate: Wait.

— I reflexively called out to them.

Man: Hah!? Whaddya want?

(I shouldn't be interfering, but…!)

Kate: P-Please return the item you stole. I’ll listen to what you have to say afterwards.

Young Lady: Ggh!

Man: Ouch!

(Huh!?)

The young lady kicked the man’s arm and vanished into the crowd.

Man: Stop right there, you thief—! Damn it. Look what you’ve done!

Kate: I- I’m sorry…

(I didn’t expect her to kick him and escape.)

I regretted ever interfering with their business.

Man: That necklace she stole was expensive! Are you going to pay for it!?

Kate: Yes, I will!

I tearfully took my purse out.

…

Black Haired Man: … I see. A fine little robin, indeed.

…

Kate: Ahh… I really messed up this time.

(To that jeweler, the young lady is a bad person for stealing from him, but I didn't think it was fair to fully blame her for stealing. She might've had her own reasons for doing so and was desperate.)

Everyone knew that there were many people living in poverty here in the east side of London.

(I couldn't possibly watch and do nothing about her getting hurt, without finding out why she had to steal.)

(And yet, the jeweler was the one who suffered a loss and that young lady got away with it.)

Kate: … I don't know if what I did was considered good or evil.

Kate: But one thing's for sure is that now I don't have enough money to watch this month’s play.

It was a small hobby of mine to watch a play once every few months with my savings.

(I was supposed to have enough after making today’s deliveries… but I guess I won't be catching the play this month.)

Kate: Oh well, crying about it won't solve anything. I’ll just have to earn that money back.

…

Kate: I’m back.

Chief: Kate! Perfect timing… wait no, the streets can get dangerous at night…

Kate: Is something the matter?

Co-Worker: You see, we’re a little short staffed at the moment, so there's no one to do the night deliveries.

(Night deliveries… that’s it!)

Kate: Please let me handle them.

Chief: Oh? I appreciate your offer to help.

Chief: The delivery area is in a relatively safe neighborhood full of townhouses, just don’t wander around unnecessarily.

Kate: Okay!

(Thank goodness, this means that I can make up for the money I lost!)

(It’s my first time doing deliveries at night in this neighborhood… I guess it should be fine, as long as I’m careful.)

…

Black Haired Man: Well then— are you ready, gentlemen?

Cat-Like Man: Of course, Victor. It's been a long time since we last went on a mission together. How exciting.

Aloof Man: Calm down a little. Getting too carried away will only result in you being hurt.

Man Carrying A Shotgun: I mean, I can patch you up if it's not a serious injury. But if you die, that just means I have one less person to help me with my research.

Cat-Like Man: Thanks, Roger. As expected of a former doctor.

Blond Man with Blue Eyes: … Al. Do I really have to take part in this?

Gentlemanly Man: Yes, seeing how it's such a lovely evening. There might also be something you'll like at the target's mansion.

Blond Man with Blue Eyes: Really...? Fine.

Sinister-Looking Man: Then can we get going already? Unlike you nobles, I don't have a lot of free time on my hands.

Tall Young Man: But you don't have any business meetings scheduled for tonight.

Sinister-Looking Man: Tch... will it kill you to be less honest? Shut it.

Red Eyed Man: — Looks like 'Crown' is ready, Victor.

Black Haired Man: Ahaha! Good. You lot are so carefree and wonderful as always. Well then, shall we begin?

Black Haired Man: Tonight — we give in to the evil in our wicked hearts.