seen from United States
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seen from United States
seen from Brazil
seen from Japan
seen from United Kingdom
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from United States
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...so we all know now that some new characters are coming to ikemen vampire jp...and this was the thing I saw at first:
...his name is vlad (like: vlad III? or vlad tepes? or vlad the impaler?...🤔???) and this pure blood vampire loves strawberries🙈🙈🙈like this
...okay he can come visit my place anytime bc I'm ready😏...
The Dragon Who Bent | Chapter 3 | Aerion Targaryen x cousin (Valarr fem twin) reader
Chapter 2
After the rainy afternoon in the solar, things became unbearable for Aerion in a way no one but him seemed to appreciate.
It was all very well for everyone else.
Daeron laughed for days about finding him pinned helplessly in a chair beneath a sleeping Daenys. Aemon, more discreet but no less observant, had developed the irritating habit of looking at Aerion over the top of his books whenever Daenys entered a room, as though waiting for some private theory to prove itself. Valarr, for his part, only seemed increasingly resigned, which was somehow more insulting than open mockery.
Even Prince Baelor had gone dangerously mild in Aerion’s presence, too wise and too kind to tease, but far too aware.
Aerion hated awareness in others when it concerned him.
Worse still, Daenys remembered none of the significance of what had happened.
Not because she forgot the afternoon itself she had perfect memory for things that pleased her but because she did not understand what it had done to him. She only smiled whenever someone mentioned it and said, very simply, “I was tired.”
As if that explained why she had chosen his lap. As if it explained why he had not moved for nearly three hours. As if there had been no significance at all in the fact that, out of everyone in the room, she had wanted him.
The injustice of this rankled.
Of course, Aerion also continued to make it worse.
He sought her out just as often as before. More often, if anything.
And Daenys, now nine and all long lashes and skinned knees and brown hair with that single silver white streak glimmering at her temple, accepted his nearness with unthinking confidence. She sat with him, walked with him, brought him flowers she found in the gardens as if such offerings were natural between them. She still climbed into his space whenever it pleased her onto the arm of his chair, beside him at lessons, under his shadow in the yard if the sun was too bright.
To everyone else, it was a childish closeness. A cousin’s affection. A habit.
To Aerion, who was beginning to understand that his feelings had long since become something less manageable than ordinary fondness, it was torment of the highest order.
He was five and ten when jealousy first struck him hard enough to name.
It happened in the training yard.
The boys had been set to sparring in the pale spring sun, while some of the younger girls and ladies watched from the stone benches nearby under awnings stretched for shade. Aerion had no business paying attention to the spectators. He should have been focused on his stance, his opponent, his footwork.
Instead his eyes kept dragging toward Daenys.
She was there with her septa, seated in a pale green gown with her hands folded in her lap for perhaps all of thirty seconds before boredom made her restless. The breeze kept lifting little wisps of brown hair around her face, and every time it did, that silver streak flashed like polished steel in sunlight. She was ten now, not exactly little anymore, though still slight and soft-faced enough that people underestimated how stubborn she could be.
Aerion did not underestimate anything about her.
That morning she had smiled at him before he went into the yard. Not at anyone else. At him.
He had been surviving on that for the better part of an hour.
Then a boy from one of the lesser crownland houses too old for Daenys, too dull for words, and entirely too confident in the set of his doublet had approached her bench carrying a little garland of white flowers.
Aerion saw him from across the yard.
Saw the way the boy bowed. Saw Daenys look up in surprise. Saw him offer her the flowers with what was likely meant to be charm.
Everything inside Aerion went cold.
He took a hit to the shoulder at once because he stopped paying attention to his opponent entirely.
“Prince!” the master at arms barked.
Aerion corrected his stance too late and struck back hard enough to send the other boy stumbling into the dirt. That should have satisfied him. It did not.
His eyes were still on Daenys.
The idiot had sat beside her now. Beside her. As if he belonged there.
Daenys, either out of politeness or genuine distraction, was speaking to him.
Aerion’s grip tightened around the practice sword until his knuckles hurt.
The world narrowed.
By the time the bout ended, he was in such a savage mood that no one dared say much to him. He stripped off his glove and tossed the sword aside, already striding for the benches.
Daeron, seeing the direction of his attention, made a sound of immediate interest. “Oh, this should be good.”
Aerion ignored him.
He reached Daenys just as the boy was saying something that made her laugh lightly.
Not loudly. Not flirtatiously. Just enough to make Aerion feel a very unreasonable urge to commit murder.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
The boy nearly leapt off the bench.
Daenys looked up. “Aerion.”
Her face brightened, and a great deal in him softened instantly despite himself. But then he saw the flowers in her lap and all the softness burned right back off.
“He brought me these,” she said, lifting the little garland. “He says the blossoms only open in sunlight.”
Aerion looked at the boy. The boy, to his credit or stupidity, tried to stand his ground.
“How poetic,” Aerion said.
The words were mild. His tone was not.
The boy went pale.
Daenys frowned up at him. “Why are you speaking like that?”
“Like what?”
“As if you are going to bite someone.”
“I might.”
The boy wisely muttered something about needing to return to his father and fled almost before the sentence was done.
Daenys watched him go, then turned back to Aerion in confusion. “That was rude.”
Aerion stood before her, chest still warm from practice, temper running hot and ugly under his skin. “He was staring at you.”
“Yes,” Daenys said slowly. “He was speaking to me.”
“As if he had the right.”
That made her brows lift. “He was only being kind.”
“He was being presumptuous.”
Her expression changed at once. Not hurt yet. More like she had caught the shape of something strange in him and was trying to fit it to sense.
“Aerion,” she said carefully, “why do you care?”
He opened his mouth. Closed it again.
Because she was his. Because no one should be allowed to sit too close or make her laugh or hand her flowers as if she might take them and think of him later. Because Aerion would rather die than admit any of that aloud at nine year old girl in the middle of a training yard.
So instead he said the first thing that came.
“Because those flowers are ugly.”
Daenys stared. Then looked down at the garland in her lap. Then back up at him.
“They are not ugly.”
“They are.”
“They are white.”
“Yes. Weak.”
That made no sense at all, and Daenys knew it.
Suddenly she didnt like the sunlight anymore so, "Aerion, the sun is too bright. Stand there" she point to the left.
And there he would stand, narrow and sulky and deeply offended, holding himself just right so his shadow fell over her while she continued whatever she was doing to make him misserable.
Her eyes narrowed. “You are in a terrible mood.”
“A keen observation.”
“And jealous.”
Aerion went still.
Daenys, perhaps not fully understanding the force of what she had said, tilted her head. “Are you?”
“No.”
The answer came too quickly.
Daenys blinked once. Then, very slowly, a smile began to tug at her mouth.
It was not a broad smile. Not teasing exactly. Worse. Knowing.
“You are,” she said softly.
“I am not.”
“You are.”
“I am not.”
She smiled wider.
Aerion could have died on the spot.
Then, because the gods hated him and because Daenys had always possessed a talent for sweetness at the most devastating possible moments, she lifted the little garland of flowers, looked at it with great consideration, and set it on her lap.
“I like yours better anyway,” she said.
Aerion frowned. “Mine what?”
“The flowers you brought me last week.”
The ones from the garden wall, half open and still cool with morning dew, because she had said once she liked the smell of them and Aerion had remembered.
His entire body forgot how to function for one blessed, horrible second.
“Oh,” he said.
Daenys looked up at him from the bench, escaped sunlight over her face and that silver streak in her hair almost glowing. “You may stop glaring now.”
He should have. He meant to.
Instead he sat down beside her in one hard motion and took the flowers from her lap like they had personally insulted him.
Daenys laughed.
And because she was ten and merciless without realizing it, she leaned over and kissed his cheek.
It was quick. Nothing at all. Just a small, absent gesture of affection, thoughtless as breathing.
Aerion stopped existing.
The yard vanished. The bench vanished. The air itself vanished.
All he knew was the ghost of that kiss on his skin and the fact that Daenys had given it to him as naturally as if she kissed him every day.
She drew back and blinked. “Why are you red?”
“I am not red.”
“You are.”
“I was sparring.”
“You look strange.”
Aerion stood up so abruptly the bench rocked.
Daenys blinked. Daeron, across the yard, nearly choked from laughing. Valarr, from where he stood nearby, looked heavenward as if asking the Seven for patience.
“I have to go,” Aerion said.
“Where?”
“Away.”
And then he did the most cowardly thing he had ever done in his life: he walked off like a man fleeing battle.
Daenys called after him, bewildered, “Aerion!”
He did not stop. Could not stop. If he turned around, he thought perhaps his heart might simply fall out through his mouth.
For three full days after, Daeron refused to let him live.
The years gathered quickly after that.
Childhood stretched, then shifted.
Daenys grew lovelier in ways that made Aerion feel increasingly violent toward the entire world. Her face lost some of its childish roundness. Her hair darkened richer, the silver white streak no less striking for all the years around it. She moved with more grace now, though the stubbornness remained untouched. If anything, it sharpened.
Aerion grew too. Taller. Sharper. No less proud, no less difficult.
And still the shape of things between them stayed the same at heart.
She asked. He gave.
She frowned. He fixed.
She wanted. He moved heaven and earth if he had to.
By the time daenys was five and ten, everyone in the family had long since stopped pretending the match would be anything but inevitable.
It was officially announced in the Red Keep on a winter evening full of candlelight and polished marble and all the careful language noble families used when turning destiny into formality.
Their betrothal.
No one was shocked.
Not King Daeron, who looked deeply pleased. Not Baelor, who watched his daughter with the quiet thoughtfulness of a man measuring futures. Not Valarr, who looked merely resigned that his twin had somehow bent Aerion of all people into this shape.
Not even Aerion.
He had known for years.
The only thing that mattered to him was you.
Would you look pleased? Would you look uncertain? Would you hate it?
That final possibility had tormented him more than he would have admitted under torture.
So when the announcement was spoken and the room loosened into murmurs, Aerion looked only at Daenys.
She stood in dark blue velvet, hands folded before her, brown hair braided and pinned with silver. The white streak shone bright as moonlight.
She did not look distressed.
That alone eased some of the pressure in his chest.
But then she glanced across the hall and found him looking.
And she smiled.
Not for the court. Not for her parents. For him.
Aerion felt the world sharpen into unbearable clarity.
He crossed the room before anyone could stop him.
“Are you unhappy?” he asked.
Daenys blinked. “With the betrothal?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
The relief was enough to make him angry with himself.
“Then why do you look so serious?”
“Because everyone is staring.”
“Let them.”
Her mouth twitched. “That is easy for you to say.”
“It is easy because it is true.”
She shook her head, fond despite herself. “You sound very sure of everything.”
“I am sure of this.”
She looked at him then, properly looked, and something in her face softened.
“Oh,” she said quietly.
Aerion had not meant to say so much so plainly. But with her, plain truth often came where nothing else would do.
Before either of them could continue, Daeron appeared at Aerion’s shoulder with the expression of a man delighted to witness private discomfort.
“Well,” he drawled, “that was hardly a surprise.”
Aerion glared at him. Daeron grinned. Daenys smiled helplessly between them.
It was done. Made formal. Set before gods and family alike.
And Aerion, though he would have clawed the eyes from anyone who called him sentimental, could think only one thing:
At last.
The first impossible thing Daenys asked for after their betrothal came in spring.
She wanted snow.
Not a metaphor. Not a song. Not some jeweled nonsense named after it.
Actual snow.
The spring had turned unexpectedly hot. The air in King’s Landing pressed heavy and bright over the city, and Daenys had been languishing under it dramatically for three days, declaring the heat cruel, the sun aggressive, and the south a punishment she had not earned.
Aerion endured this with more patience than he granted anyone else.
Mostly because he found her complaints adorable.
“You should not smile when I suffer,” she informed him from her seat by the shaded window, where she had all but melted over the cushions.
“I am not smiling.”
“You are.”
“Perhaps the smallest amount.”
“I want snow,” she said.
Aerion looked up from the letter in his hand. “You want what. My Heart”
“Snow.”
“In King’s Landing.”
“Yes.”
“In spring.”
“Yes.”
He stared at her. Daenys stared calmly back, as if this were no more difficult than asking for a cup of water.
Then, because she was Daenys and knew exactly how to sharpen her own requests, she added, “Please.”
Aerion set down the letter.
“You cannot have snow.”
Her lower lip edged outward the smallest amount.
He felt the blow physically.
“I hate when you do that Kēlītsos”
“What?”
“That.”
“I only asked.”
“For snow.”
“Yes. Your Kēlītsos wants it”
His mind raced despite himself. Snow. Impossible. But perhaps cold. Ice. Something white and bright and delightful enough to satisfy the spirit of the request if not the letter of it.
Daenys watched him think.
Then, with infuriating sweetness “If anyone can do it, you can.”
That was the end of him.
Three days later, the courtyard behind Maegor’s Holdfast had been transformed into a pale little wonderland of imported ice hauled down from northern storehouses and preserved in deep-packed sawdust, then shaved and scattered until the stones glittered white beneath the morning sun.
Not true snowfall, no. But near enough for southern magic.
Daenys stepped out into it and stopped.
Around her, servants hovered anxiously. The ice would not last long in the heat. Aerion knew that. He had not slept properly in two nights arranging it all. He stood in the shade with his arms folded, trying to look as though this cost him nothing.
Daenys turned slowly, looking at the white scattered over the courtyard, the bowls of chilled cream and sugared fruit, the little mountain of shaved ice piled under a linen awning.
“Aerion,” she said.
He lifted one shoulder. “You wanted snow.”
Her face changed all at once.
Not laughter. Not teasing. Something softer.
She crossed the courtyard and threw her arms around him so hard he nearly stumbled.
For a prince who disliked being caught off guard, Aerion bore this extremely well.
“You did it,” she said into his chest.
“It is not actual snow.”
“I do not care.”
Her voice was warm with delight, and Aerion, who would have brought a glacier south on his back if she had looked half this happy, let one hand settle at the middle of her back.
“You asked,” he said.
That was explanation enough.
Daenys pulled back just enough to look up at him, her cheeks bright with heat and happiness. “You are mad.”
“For you,” he said before he could stop himself.
She stared.
Aerion, realizing too late that he had once again spoken the truth aloud like an idiot, braced for laughter.
Instead Daenys rose on her toes and kissed his cheek.
Not as she had years ago in thoughtless childish affection.
This time she knew exactly what she was doing.
Aerion went still.
Again. Entirely. Hopelessly.
Daenys smiled at the effect with scandalous satisfaction. “Thank you.”
He looked at her and thought with the exhausted reverence of a man already defeated: there is nothing I would not do if you asked.
Everyone else had known that for years.
Now, at last, he knew it too.
And if that made him weak if it made him ridiculous if it made him a prince who would say no to kings and brothers and half the realm, only to bend without protest for one brown-haired girl with a silver streak in her hair.
then so be it.
He had been hers from the first hour.
Now the whole court would simply have to learn what that meant.
...................................................................
Update: The Dragon Who Bent (Aerion x Daenys) moving to Wattpad
Hi everyone !!
Episodes 11 and onward of “The Dragon Who Bent” will be uploaded on Wattpad from now on.
If youd like to keep reading, you can find it here => Wattpad: https://www.wattpad.com/story/409583154-the-dragon-who-bent-aerion-targaryen
Thank you so much for reading and for all the love you’ve shown this series. It genuinely means a lot ❤️😘
Chapter four
❤️ Taglist
@mommyoftwoo @theoriginalwifeofhanjumin @tanzierina @someonenturs @renaissancewhxre @star-girl-05 @mledes1994 @windintheivy @gasstationwishes @wandabillywrites @heedeear @princesaaa13 @oh-miniso
🍤 anon if it isn't taken-
Can I get a tomboy afab! Yuu with Malleus in a booking for the monster room? (I.e, somewhere halfway between his human and dragon form-) and double booking for shibari if possible (magic has it’s..uses)
❤️🔥It sure does, dear anon, it sure does
❥ Wc: 2.1k
❥ Warnings: plants used as shibari (also a tail), suspended sex, LOTS of pet names, VERY poetic because Malleus does that to me, unprotected sex, piv sex, oral sex (AFAB receiving), monster fucking!!!!
❥ 𝐌𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐜 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐬
“Malleus?” You call out into the void, tall grass and low branches blocking much of your view forward through the woods.
You'd agreed to meet at the heart of the forest, where Malleus would often take you whenever you required some time away from his sweet, but overbearing posse, after agreeing a moment as special as him revealing his true form to you required a more intimate setting.
Now, you can't see him anywhere – or much of anything at all.
“Malleus, are you there? Beloved?” Your voice sounds small, ringing out in the vastness of the open space, aimless in its search for him.
After a few dizzying, almost frightening, moments, green flashes from between the low trees around the clearing – a poisonous sort of green, close to emerald but somehow more vibrant.
“Dearest Child of Man,” he calls, stepping into the silver moonlight with a pleased, gentle smile.
Stepping forward through the overgrown nature, you pat yourself on the back for bringing your best hiking shoes – you'd had no idea what Malleus wanted to do, but best to be prepared anyway, “Malleus, why did you call me here?”
The light is faint and pale, shifting with the canopies above, so his body is mostly in shadow, though you spy something shifting in the tall grass, your muscles seizing up in trepidation.
“I was hoping to share something with you, Child of Man, something none other has seen in centuries.”
“Now, that makes me a little nervous, Malleus.” You chuckle, squinting to try and see past the shadows – to no avail as they seem to curl unnaturally around him, like a pitch black blanket.
He smiles once again, gentle as he always is with you, before stepping fully into the light without another word, “I only wish for you to see me. All of me.”
The sight that greets you takes your breath away – pitch black wings surround his already imposing frame like the void itself has opened up behind him, while vibrant green eyes stand out on his pale face, scales creeping in along the edges.
On Tuesdays We Hang Out
I really like Peacemaker and I'm glad what they did with previously lesser known characters. Also James Gunn never misses with a soundtrack. This was so fun to write I hope I'm writing him correctly. Adrian is a bit of a bad friend here, he just doesn't want to reveal his 'secret' to you because it may put you in danger, in a way, he thinks he's protecting you, but his obsession and admiration of Chris surely has something to do with him neglecting your relationship. My poor reader thinks they are overwhelming to Adrian Chase. ADRIAN MOTHERFUCKING CHASE. No, honey, no... he's just very stupid.
Summary: From the very first moment you met Adrian Chase you felt an instant connection with him that grew deeper with time. And you thought he had felt the same. But when he starts pulling away from you, you start questioning yourself as old insecurities and fears from your past reemerge.
Tags: Not really platonic. As gn! reader as possible. Also as poc friendly as possible. No use of y/n. civilian!reader. Reader is implied to be on the spectrum. Adrian is def. on the spectrum. Angst. insecurity. Self depreciation. Not a very happy ending, I fear. They are dumbasses in love. Reader has anxiety. Reader has a bit of trauma. Set pre and during s1. English is not my first language so I deeply apologise.
divider by: @uzmacchiato
You had met Adrian two weeks after you moved to Evergreen for your new administrative work, at the library while trying to reach for a book about marine biology that was on the top shelf. You had originally wanted to find some peace and quiet with your book, hoping to not catch too much attention. He nearly gave you a heart attack when he suddenly appeared at your side dropping Manta Ray facts at the speed of Eminem's rapping, uncaring of the volume of his voice in the tiny library. The entire time he seemed completely oblivious that you were just trying to reach for the book.
You casually mentioned how you liked manta rays, and his eyes lighted up like the fourth of july. Between possibly made up random facts that he told with fervent conviction, you started amicably speaking as well and somehow you ended up talking about Pokemon and how the gradual move towards three dimensional games had ruined the pixelated charm the original games had.
He could talk for hours that was for sure, but he had to excuse himself early because and quote "His asshole of a bitchass boss would kill him and spread his remains throughout all the restaurant, which, like, wouldn't make any sense, because he's totally an old geezer, and he would kill him first before he tried anything, but that's impossible, because he is certainly not a killer, if he was, he wouldn't be here with you. He would be out there doing what serial killers do, which is murdering people. Anyways he'd love to hang out, and you should definitely come to eat to Fennel Fields, because the Cheesecake fucks like a professional whore."
He was a walking red flag, and normally you would have tried to stay as far as you can. Too much social energy for you. But there was something about him, that drew you in. You didn't dare to mention it, but whatever it was made you feel comfortable in your own skin, like you could truly be yourself with him.
Plus, he was cute. He had that nerdy charm with his big green eyes, his curls and his big geeky glasses that made him even more endearing.
So you took up on his word and met him at Fennel Fields, where he worked as a busyboy. Damn he was right, the cheesecake fucked. There, by some sort of miracle you managed to exchange numbers with Adrian to "hangout sometimes, and do what normal people do, hang out with everyone's blood and guts inside their bodies."
You were not a big fan of phone calls, but you invited him to text you and leave voice messages anytime he wanted.
And he did, boy he did message you. Non-stop. To talk about whatever little thing that crossed his enigmatic mind. However, as much as it would have suffocated you with any other person, you found yourself answering with funny quips or emojis.
And the memes. You had to say that your love language was sending the crustiest and moodiest memes you could ever find inside the cave that was the internet. He always answered you back with a merman emoji, which in Adrian's language it conveyed any emotion possible. Cool, you guessed. So when he sent you some memes of his own harvest, you started sending him the hamster emoji which led to a very jabbering conversation about why sending the hamster emoji implied repressed rage because their beady little eyes had known nothing more than violence and cruelty.
Adrian was a quirky man, he didn't like being touched, skin on skin touch felt weird (which, honestly, fair. You weren't a big fan either), wasn't able to read most social cues, his humor was so dark it was practically a black hole, and when he peed his pants couldn't touch his butt (you found it the hard way). Everything in him screamed completely deranged and unhinged.
And each time you caught sight of his goofy smile or him acting so randomly in front of people who just threw him weird looks, you felt a bubbly feeling in your chest that only grew stronger the more time you spent together. Overtime, each of your hands found themselves reaching closer to the other's, in a hesitant search of a touch that made you feel both uneasiness and eagerness at the same time. Your mutual presence had become a constant in each other's lives to the point of allowing yourselves to tear down some walls.
Adrian really liked the way you ran your fingers through his curls, because hair isn't skin, duh. You liked that he now allowed you to rest your head against his surprisingly muscular covered chest while both of you watched a movie or tv show. And you liked that you had slowly grown used to it, to the point it didn't feel that uncomfortable any more as long as it was with Adrian.
Each day brought you closer to each other, you gamed together, you shared personal jokes, you went to the cinema and did all kind of entertaining activities a place like Evergreen could offer to two dorks like you.
It was going good, you believed that you were doing good, finally finding the person who you truly connected with and felt understood. And you thought he had felt it too.
But one day his never ending flow of texts started to become scarce, like a river that dries up. You thought that maybe he was busy with work and that second job he had taken 'to support his very luxurious lifestyle' as he had put it. Your hangouts became fewer and fewer, to the point you barely saw each other in a week. His excuses were feeble and very obviou, he was terrible at lying and he couldn't even tell.
One day, feeling brave you decided to text him and ask him to hang out for a bit, if he wasn't busy of course. Maybe it was your own anxiousness speaking, but his reply delayed more than what you would have liked.
Sorry! Something came up at work and I have to stay with a bunch of assholes :p
🧜🏻♂️
You felt a tiny bit disappointed. But hey, if he had to work, then there was nothing you could do about it, right? You tried to soothe your anxious thoughts and the growing uneasiness in your chest.
No problem!😊Another time!
You went to bed, hoping that a good long night of sleep would make you feel better in the morning. But it's amazing just how a single notification can turn an otherwise quiet night into a disaster that nearly sent you spiraling.
There it was. In the instagram account he barely used only to send you memes and the occasional picture of a cool frog he just found during his nightly walks. A selfie of himself with a group of people, just casually chilling in a bar. Their shared happiness twisted deeper the metaphorical knife that had sunk in your chest, but what really tore you was the caption.
BESTIES 🍻🍻🧜🏻♂️
That familiar coldness started spreading throughout your chest, as your mind decided to shutdown every external signal but this feeling of numbness. Yes, it had been too good to be true. Maybe you were so 'special' nobody was able to put up with you, maybe you were too much, even for Adrian, maybe you weren't worthy of being loved.
All those years of friends suddenly starting to cut ties with you, of leaving you excluded from school work groups, holidays, parties, no matter how much you tried to fit in, how much you tried to become someone they would really accept or how much you tried to understand what you did wrong this time, so you could change it.
You thought you had finally done it right this time. That Adrian would never hurt you the same way those people from your past had. But reality smacked you hard on the face.
The problem had always been you.
You felt bad for thinking that way about Adrian. He was his own person, he had all the right in the world to hang out with his other friends. You shouldn't be mad at him just because he had been leaving you behind to go out with them. Even if it hurt you.
So you did what you always did, you swallowed up your pain, put on a brave smile, and wished he had a fun night. Like a good friend would.
The truth was, you had been through this so many times, you didn't want to be hurt again or worse, ending up driving Adrian away with your own insecurities. So, for once in your life, and for that feeling that Adrian awoke in you, you decided to take the reins of the situation.
You started to become more social at work, not that you isolated yourself before, no. You were always pleasant and helpful, a delight to be around, but always kept to the sidelines, like the wallpaper. Now you started to actively participate in your colleages activities. You had the pleasure to know them better, they always seemed like wonderful people to you, in a town that was notorious for it's high percentage of assholes. It was fun, they were fun, although that feeling of rejection always left you a bit disconnected from the others, a way of protecting yourself against any damage. You engaged, but you didn't put your entire heart into it. Not anymore.
It was fine. It was enough. Or so you told yourself. But as long as you believed it...
You found yourself barely checking your phone for Adrian's messages, it wasn't the flood that it had been before, but he still texted from time to time, although your responses were a bit more guarded, more reserved. Honestly, not being as worried as you were before, did wonders to your mental health. You felt yourself able to fully breathe for the first time in weeks. Although there was a part of you that loved, yes loved, Adrian and probably would always do, it was better to leave this relationship on his terms rather than not having him at all in your life.
That day it was a Tuesday night and you had been getting ready to have some drinks with some of your coworkers. You were not much of a party animal, never had been, but they were easy to talk to and fun to hangout with. You guessed you could make an exception for them.
A knock pulled you out from your thoughts. Who could be knocking at this hour? A sensible part of you told you to be wary given the amount of neo nazis and happy trigger murderers that were roaming freely around the town. Your eyebrows shot up when you found Adrian at your door.
"Adrian? What are you doing here?"
"It's Tuesday." He answered casually, as if he expected you to understand what went through his mind.
"What happens on Tuesday?" You didn't know where he was going with this, but he had to be fast, you didn't want to be late.
He let out and exaggerated laugh. "That's so funny! You are killing me! On Tuesdays we hang out, of course!"
Of course. Shit. You should have texted him, but you had been so busy that it had completely slipped your mind. And it's not like he would have actually checked, a bitter, meaner part of you whispered. You quickly shut down that voice.
"Yeaaah. About that. I've already made plans with coworkers, I'm so sorry I should have warned you." Guilt was always a bitch to deal with, even if he had been 'occupied' with other matters, you shouldn't have made him come here for nothing.
He blinked several times, his smile slightly faltering. His mind was struggling to comprehend the string of words you had spoken. All it could connect was Tuesday= time with you (although he had been skipping some Tuesdays here and there to be with Chris). For a second you worried you may have broken him.
"You didn't come to Fennel Fields today." you swear you heard him whisper.
"Adrian? Are you alright?
"Oh- yeah, sure. whatever. totally cool." He did some finger guns at you with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. His beautiful green eyes, that now seemed laced with a tiny bit of sorrow.
For a couple of seconds you just stood there, awkwardly staring at each other in utter silence. You knew a situation was bad when Adrian Chase shut his mouth. You decided to not dwell on that right now, you needed to go, or you would be late.
"I-I should go. Goodbye." You quickly rushed to your car and got in, throwing one last look at him before starting the engine.
He gave you a wave, his posture stiff, almost forced and generic. "Have fun and fuck a lot of bitches!!" His smile was borderline manic by that point.
You could still see him in your porch from your rearview mirror looking at your car speed away, that same look of confusion and hurt plastered accross his face.
Autorepair Flambae
The Mecha suit is beyond toast, and as much as Robert hates to admit it, he needs help fixing it. Blame his dad for dying too early and not teaching him the basics of repairing the damn thing, blame Elliot for actually shooting his dad before he could teach him anything, hell, blame his younger self for not taking much interest in how the suit that takes so much time away from father son days that he resented it to the point of ignoring its entire existence. The fact of the matter is, he's nineteen, he barely passed highschool on account that he works almost his entire night and afternoon as a hero, doesn't have time to go to college now that he's being a hero full time, and he is struggling to learn how the damn machine works. He's just impressed it didn't decide to die on him this past year alone, 5 years and only the most basic repairs.
He thought he could push through just a little more. Instead the damn thing finally decided to crash and burn in the middle of his flight back home. He had to get out of the cockpit, cursing the entire time, trying to see what the problem was so he can try to make a quick repair and be done with it. He was so spooked when a voice called him. He turned to see an older man staring at him, asking if he needed help.
Now, the easiest answer was, no, Mechaman doesn't need the civilian's help, he just needs to make sure this sack of junk works enough to get them home and then read manuals and watch YouTube videos to try and figure out what the Mecha baby suit wants now. No need to bother the civilian, just go about your normal day and pretend you didn't just see the new Mechaman fail at his job five years in.
But then he saw the sign where the guy was at. Autorepair shop. Meaning he knows how cars works. Meaning maybe, just maybe, he might just know what the Mecha suit needs. But he's a civilian, and civilians knowing how the suit works is dangerous. But he doesn't have much of a choice, and a civilian watching him struggle to deal with the suit might spread and sooner or later a smarter villain could take him down because they found out about the many many problems with the suit.
He hesitated for a bit, before sighing and admitting he might need some help with the Mech. The older man just nodded, before calling for someone in the shop. Great, more witnesses to his failure.
The guy that came out was definitely his son. He looked like him, but younger, with longer hair in a bun. If Robert wasn't so tired and embarassed, he'd also say he think that guy looked cute. He looked as surprised as Robert felt. He started talking to his dad in a language Robert wasn't familiar with, before he walked over to him, gave him a quick, "Mechaman," before turning to the suit, and.... holy shit the guy looked hotter the second he and and the older man managed to somehow lift and carry the mechasuit. Damn.
The older man quickly introduced himself as Ahmad, the owner of the autorepair shop, with his son (who quickly shouted his name was Chad when his dad was certainly about to say something else) and asked if he ate. It somehow led to Robert in the shop, absolutely devouring their leftover lunch, watching both father and son duo testing the machine. He could tell both were quite animated, touching the machine with reverence, moreso Ahmad, but Chad seemed to be intrigued as well. Robert also got to learn that both of them were metahumans, Chad being a pyrokineses and his Dad a ferrokineses ( "Lesser version," Ahmad sighed, "cogs, rods, yes, anything big like whole car? Bleeding everywhere.") An honestly good pair for autorepairmen to have.
When they did manage to figure out what caused his fall, fixed it, and after a few tests, Robert quickly thanked them and asked how much he was owed. To which the older man quickly told him it was on the house, he was glad that his curiosity about how the Mech worked was satisfied a little, but he also told him that the machine has other issues that might need fixing, with materials they currently do not have. Robert internally groaned, because if even they noticed with just a couple of hours looking at the Mech, what about the villains who he fought more than once? Would they notice? They'd definitely take advantage once they do.
So Robert, after a bit of deliberation (it was no brainer, honestly, he may or may not have pulled background checks on both Ahmad and Chad, just to check if they were affiliated with any villain, and they were clean as a whistle) asked if they were willing to work on the Mech (and maybe teach him so he could handle emergency repairs) and of course, he would pay in full for it.
Chad was quick to say yes, Ahmad smacked him across the head, and told him they would think about it, but it was clear, the sparks in his eyes told him he wouldn't need to wait long. He gave him his number to call once they made. up their mind, before taking the Mech back home.
It took a day before his business phone rang with an unknown number (he made sure it wasn't Trackstar, that man is relentless) and Chad's voice on the other end telling him they accept the job.
________
I hath risen once more! Will be around sporadically, stuff has happened and hopefully I can keep this up again.
Also, yes, there be plot holes. For my sake, I beg, step away from them😃
" Music To My Ears. "
《ProHero!BakugoxStalker!Reader》
Synopsis. What happens when a Pro hero gets ' too much ' media attention? When those who are lesser, idolize the big leagues so much it consumes them.
Content Warnings. Stalking, Self harm, Skin carving, Sexual themes, Suicide, Murder, Abuse, Depression, Power Dynamic, Age gap, Yandere.
A/N. This one took foreverrrrrrr to write btw. like genuinely no joke. I started this like last year, and just... forgot about it? Yeah.. gulp! Not to mention its trash anyways. But I guess I wanted a nuance ending so you can make up scenarios in ur head.
WC: 2090
Alrightie everyone, FINALLY I have finished editing and compiling my summaries (thank you once again for all the patience, I know it's been forever since I've truly posted these). However, let's speed run through the chapters, shall we? Starting with 1-6! (before proceeding be aware that these posts contain SPOILERS for all mentioned chapters)
day four: teratophilia (the attraction to monsters) | NSFW MDNI 18+
You were raised in an anti-mutant household, which meant you were constantly exposed to the kind of negative rhetoric that painted their kind as dangerous, lesser, or unnatural. Every family dinner or news segment seemed to include some passing comment about the threat they posed, how they didn’t belong, and how the world would simply be better off without them. It was almost inevitable that those opinions seeped into your mindset, shaping the way you viewed mutants, even before you had the chance to really understand who they were.
You're entire life, you were told that they were monsters, and you believed it.
But now, here you were, living next door to one, and it turned your entire world upside down. Logan was everything you had been warned about and yet somehow, despite your life-long terror, he drew you in like a moth to a flame.
