#<- let's see if I get far enough into this to justify a tag

[arkaiveofurown]

Almost Enough

Pairing: Sabo x Strawhat Reader

tags: angst, breakup, jealousy, during 2 year timeskip after sabaody arc

In the two years you spent with the Revolutionary Army, you found unexpected companionship and love—with Sabo. Now months into a secret relationship, cracks begin to form when you realize there’s a part of him you can’t seem to reach. Koala, his childhood friend, has known him far longer and deeper than you have. You can’t hate her—she’s kind, loyal, everything you wish you were for him. But when your insecurity turns into distance and Sabo turns a blind eye, the question becomes: how much of yourself can you give before you start to disappear?

Word Count: ~4,000 words

my masterlist here ♡

The sun beat down on Baltigo’s training grounds, and sweat rolled down your temple as you lunged forward, blade meeting a staff. You were stronger now—smarter, sharper—but today wasn’t about technique. Today, your sparring partner was Sabo.

“You’re overthinking your footwork again,” he said with a crooked smile, twisting out of your strike with maddening ease.

“And you’re underestimating me again,” you snapped back, trying not to stare too long at the glint in his eyes.

He laughed, the sound warm and disarming. “Fair enough. But I like watching you think.”

You faltered, and in that pause, he caught your wrist and spun you into a harmless lock. His voice dropped a little as he leaned close. “Don’t worry. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

Your breath caught, heart thudding faster than your body could justify. “You promise?”

“I swear on my hat,” he murmured, tugging the brim of it playfully over your eyes.

It was stupid how fast you fell. But it was Sabo—loyal, brave, brilliant Sabo. How could you not?

⸻

Months later, you were still with the Revolutionary Army, your days filled with covert missions and letters sent back to the Sunny. But your nights… your nights were his.

You sat on the roof of HQ, legs tangled with his, head resting against his shoulder. Sabo’s gloved hand traced idle circles on your knee while the stars blinked overhead.

“Do you ever miss anything from your past?” you asked quietly, half-afraid of the answer.

He paused. “Sometimes. But it’s hard to miss something when what I want is right here.”

Your heart stuttered.

“Sabo…”

“I mean it,” he said, looking at you. “I never thought I’d feel… safe with someone again. But I do—with you.”

You smiled, but a soft ache pulsed in your chest. There were still things he wouldn’t say. Parts of himself he tucked away like classified files. But you told yourself it was enough.

It had to be.

⸻

Koala entered the training room with her usual energy, towel slung over her shoulder. “Sabo! You promised you’d go over the new intel drops with me.”

Sabo looked up from where he was seated beside you. “Right. I forgot.”

You gave him a smile, already pulling back. “Go ahead. I’ll see you later.”

Koala glanced at you with a small smile. “You’re getting really good. Your form’s almost as clean as mine now.”

You forced a chuckle. “Almost?”

She grinned, oblivious. “I’ve been at this longer. It’s nothing personal.”

But that was just it—everything about her wasn’t personal. It was natural. Easy. Koala knew his favorite meals, the way he fidgeted when nervous, how to calm him after nightmares. She’d been there through it all—before you.

And lately… you couldn’t shake the feeling you were trying too hard to catch up.

⸻

The skies over Baltigo had turned a dull gray, the wind restless with oncoming rain. You sat on the rooftop ledge outside your dorm quarters, overlooking the cliffside where ocean waves churned in quiet rage. Below, the base pulsed with activity—soldiers training, officers reporting in, laughter echoing from the mess hall. It was the same as always.

But not for you.

You hugged your knees, the usual warmth you felt in this place now replaced with something colder. Lonelier.

Sabo hadn’t noticed that you’d been skipping meals. You doubted he noticed the way your conversations had shortened, the way your laugh didn’t reach your eyes anymore.

He hadn’t said anything about how you trained alone now, or how you stopped waiting for him after meetings. And if he had noticed… maybe he’d just assumed it was nothing. Maybe, to him, it really was.

You rested your chin on your knee, blinking hard as the wind tousled your hair.

The thing was—you liked Koala.

She wasn’t mean or smug or spiteful. She was kind. She smiled at you during meetings, gave you water during long missions, even complimented your form after training. She was smart, sharp, a born leader. Everything the Revolution stood for.

She just also happened to know Sabo’s soul like the back of her hand.

You’d caught moments—little ones. The way she’d nudge him when he was brooding too long, and he’d instantly soften. The way he touched her shoulder gently when she looked exhausted, with a familiarity that required no words.

They’d been through so much together. You knew that. You’d heard the stories. You’d even seen the scars.

But that didn’t make the ache in your chest any less real.

⸻

Two days later, you were walking past the war room when you heard them.

Sabo and Koala.

“I still remember that night at Minerva,” she was saying, laughing softly. “You were so high on painkillers, you thought I was a marine.”

“And you hit me with a clipboard,” Sabo said with mock offense.

“Because you groped me, you idiot!”

“That was an accident!”

You stood there for a second too long, frozen in the hallway. The kind of laugh Sabo let out… it was deep. Free. Like something from a time before he ever knew you.

You turned away before they noticed, footsteps retreating down the corridor.

That night, you didn’t go to your shared room. You slept in the empty archive library, curled up between dusty ledgers, where your name wasn’t next to his on a clipboard or etched into a memory of war.

⸻

You told yourself you weren’t pulling away—you were just giving him space. You were just keeping busy.

That’s why you trained past sundown, sparring dummies until your knuckles bled. That’s why you volunteered for every boring logistics run, every solo recon mission. That’s why you smiled when you passed him in the hallway, even if it felt like a knife each time he said, “You okay?” without really looking.

You were afraid to ask for more—afraid he’d say no.

Afraid he’d look at you like you were just being needy.

Pathetic, a voice in your head whispered. He chose you, didn’t he? Isn’t that enough?

But late at night, when the base was quiet, and you were alone under the stars again… it didn’t feel like enough.

It felt like you were slowly being erased from your own relationship.

⸻

It was nearly midnight when he finally found you.

You were sitting alone at the edge of the cliff near HQ, the same one where you and Sabo used to sneak away to talk, to kiss, to just be. Now it felt too big, too quiet—like the wind itself could swallow you whole.

You didn’t turn when you heard his footsteps behind you.

“I’ve been looking for you,” Sabo said, voice carefully neutral.

“I’ve been here,” you replied softly, your gaze fixed on the crashing waves below. “I always am.”

He paused behind you. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

You gave a bitter little laugh. “You noticed.”

That made him frown. “Of course I did. I’m not—what’s going on with you?”

You finally looked at him. He looked tired. Concerned. But distant—like he didn’t quite get it. Like you were speaking in a language he never learned.

You swallowed. “This… this isn’t working.”

Sabo blinked. “What?”

“I feel like I’m drowning, Sabo,” you whispered, the words trembling out of you. “And you don’t even see it.”

He stepped closer, eyes narrowing in confusion. “Where is this coming from?”

“From everything!” you snapped, standing up suddenly. “From the way you never talk to me unless I ask first. From the way you light up when Koala enters a room, and I—”

You caught yourself, but it was too late. The word had left your lips.

Sabo’s expression changed instantly. “This is about Koala?”

Your fists clenched. “No. Yes. I don’t know. It’s not about her—it’s about what she means to you.”

“She’s my friend.”

“I know,” you said, stepping back. “And I like her, Sabo. That’s the worst part. She’s everything I want to be for you. She’s strong. Loyal. She’s seen every version of you—your past, your pain, your scars. She knows you in a way I never will.”

Sabo looked stricken, as if you’d struck him. “Y/N… that’s not fair.”

You shook your head. “Isn’t it?”

“She’s like a sister to me—”

“And I’m not asking you to stop loving her like family!” you cried. “But you treat her like she’s part of your core. And me? I feel like a shadow sometimes. I’m just… something soft you hold when the world’s too loud. But never someone you really let in.”

He ran a hand through his hair, agitated. “You’re making this into something it’s not.”

You flinched.

“I’m not making up how I feel, Sabo.”

He sighed harshly. “Then what do you want from me? To erase Koala from my life? To give you every memory I’ve ever had?”

“No,” you whispered, throat tightening. “I just wanted to feel chosen.”

Silence fell. Sabo stared at you, eyes unreadable.

“I gave you everything I had,” you went on, voice cracking. “I gave you my loyalty, my heart, my time. And I get scraps. Half-answers. Smiles meant for someone else. I waited for you to meet me halfway. You never did.”

His jaw clenched. “You’re being unfair.”

You looked at him, really looked at him—and that was the moment you knew.

He didn’t understand.

He loved you, yes. But not in the way you needed to be loved. He loved you like a flame loves air—quietly, conditionally, consuming you only when it wanted to.

And you were done setting yourself on fire to keep the illusion of warmth alive.

You stepped back. “You don’t get it. And maybe you never will.”

Sabo opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

You turned away before he could see your tears fall.

Behind you, the cliff wind howled.

⸻

The world was burning.

Smoke coiled through the air as the Revolutionary Army clashed with marines at a remote outpost. You moved through the chaos with practiced precision, dodging bullets, parrying blades, your haki flickering with every movement.

Sabo was beside you, his pipe smashing down on an opponent with crushing force. You locked eyes, wordless but perfectly in sync���until a sudden tremor split the ground.

“Split up!” Sabo shouted.

You nodded and dashed toward the northern flank, fighting through the smoke. But the explosion came too fast.

A wall of debris erupted behind you, sending you crashing into the wreckage. Dust filled your lungs. You tried to stand—tried to call out—but your vision was swimming, blood trickling from your scalp.

“Sabo…” you croaked, searching the smoke.

You saw him, just ahead.

He was scanning the battlefield—then his gaze locked onto something.

Koala.

She was crumpled near the east wall, unconscious and bleeding.

He ran.

You raised a hand weakly, voice barely above a whisper. “Sabo—”

He didn’t look back.

You watched, chest tightening, as he knelt beside her, cupping her face, panic clear in his voice as he called for medics.

Your hand dropped to your side.

He didn’t even see you.

⸻

The med bay was quiet, save for the beeping machines and the soft shuffle of nurses. You stood by the doorway, arms crossed tightly, your body still aching from the battle.

Sabo was at Koala’s bedside, his hand resting on hers. She was stable, her breathing even, the color slowly returning to her cheeks.

You didn’t speak.

Not until he finally turned—and froze when he saw you.

“Y/N,” he said, standing quickly. “You’re here. I was going to come find you—I didn’t know you were hurt—”

“No,” you said flatly. “You didn’t.”

He stepped closer, hesitating. “I… Koala was down. I thought she might be—”

“And I wasn’t?”

He flinched.

“I called for you,” you said, voice cracking. “I was bleeding, buried under debris. I called your name. And you ran right past me.”

Sabo’s expression contorted with guilt. “I didn’t see you. I didn’t know. If I had—”

“But you did see her,” you cut in. “That’s the difference.”

He reached for you, desperate now. “She’s like my sister, Y/N—”

“I know,” you whispered. “And I don’t blame you for caring. But it wasn’t just about the battle, Sabo. It’s everything. Every time I try to reach you, you shut me out. Every time I needed you to choose me, you looked somewhere else.”

“That’s not true,” he said, stepping forward. “Y/N, please—you’re the one I come back to at night. You’re the one I think about when I’m out there risking my life. Don’t do this.”

“I don’t want to do this,” you said, tears blurring your vision. “But I can’t keep pretending I’m okay with being second to someone you’ll always love more deeply.”

His voice cracked. “That’s not what this is.”

“Isn’t it?” You took a step back. “When I’m hurting, you don’t see it. When I’m afraid, you tell me I’m being dramatic. I can’t be the only one fighting to hold us together.”

Sabo’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I love you.”

You let out a trembling breath. “Then why didn’t you choose me?”

Silence.

He looked at you, devastated.

“I would’ve,” he said finally. “If I’d known—if I could take it back—”

“But you didn’t,” you whispered. “And I can’t keep bleeding for someone who only notices after I’m already broken.”

Sabo closed the distance, his voice cracking. “Please. Don’t go. We can fix this. I’ll do better—I promise—”

You touched his hand gently, then pulled away. “I believe you mean that. But it’s too late.”

He stared at you, eyes wide, breath shaky. “Please… don’t leave like this.”

You looked into his eyes—those eyes you’d once trusted with your whole heart—and felt it splinter.

“I love you,” you said. “But I need to love myself more.”

You turned, walking out the door as the sound of his breath hitched behind you. He didn’t chase you.

This time, he knew better.

And this time… you weren’t coming back.

[swinging-stars-from-satellites]

decided to try watching Criminal Minds and right out the gate I get hit with one of THEE defining songs of my middle school years

[unproduciblesmackdown]

omgg lol [guy who won't stop going "more like scapeGOATED" voice] now hold! on!! lmao [same guy just saw encanto voice] Hold on!!!

[violentlydefending]

genuinely always so shocked to see mirei hate. like literally god forbid women do anything.

[dollfacefantasy]

Some Extra Lessons

pairing: professor!leon kennedy x fem!reader

summary: professor kennedy’s got it bad for one of his students. little does he know, you feel the same way for him.

cw: nsfw (18+), smut, p in v, thigh riding, fingering, edging, age gap (36/college aged), teacher/student, daddy kink, sir kink, praise/degradation

word count: 7k

a/n: hey everybody. hope everyone had nice holidays if you celebrate them. and happy new year! i'm not sure how i feel about this one but eh. i got things cooking so stay tuned 🫵. as always, thank you for your comments and reblogs. smooches <3

tags: @sleepyluxe @kaitkatme @tosuckmyweenis @pupthepokemonenthusiast @bizzarethirst @death-paint @petitecolibri @iron-toxinz @wildest-dreams-at-midnight @nexysworld @explorevenus

Mondays and Wednesdays. Those are fast becoming Leon’s two favorite days of the week. For most people, they’re probably the worst days. The first day back to work, and the other right in the middle of the week; when they’ve already had enough but it feels like the weekend is still years away. But not for Leon. Not anymore. Those days are now sacred to him because they are the days he gets to see you.

You’re his favorite student this semester by far, no one else even comes close. He noticed you early on in the beginning weeks, quiet but attentive. You would sit off to the side by yourself, always taking notes or scanning what was on the board.

It made him feel like such a perv when he first noticed his own lingering gazes and heart palpitations when you walked in the room. He tried to justify it. It wasn’t everyday he had someone like you sitting a few rows away from him, hanging on every word he said.

He’s only human, he tried reasoning. He couldn’t help but always notice the cute little outfits you wore to class, teasing just enough of your body to keep him ogling you for more. You did your hair in pretty styles and coated your pouty lips in shimmery gloss. He had to force his eyes to move around the room to other students when he spoke. His natural instinct was to keep them locked on you while his head filled with images of his hands squeezing those cute tits or his cock sliding between your shiny lips.

Despite those fantasies, he left you alone. It was wrong, inappropriate, he told himself. He shouldn’t be lusting after his student, let alone pursuing her. You were just a sweet girl trying to get an education. He couldn’t let his perversions interfere with that.

But as the weeks passed and more classes went by, he got to know you. You seemed pretty shy but not insecure. In class, you’d do your work alone, but if there was ever a lull in his lecture, you’d raise your hand to offer an answer, help him out a little. That was how he had bridged the gap between you two even though he hadn’t meant it as anything more than what it was.

He had just dismissed everyone, making a corny joke about the poor grades he’d given so far on an essay that had been due. A small smile graced your lips. Sure, the joke wasn’t that funny, but you had a fat crush on Mr. Kennedy so everything he said was a little funny.

You were scrawling down a few remaining notes before you would leave for the day when you heard his voice call your name. Immediately, your head tilted up to look at him. He beckoned you over with a wave of his hand. You were still wondering what this could be about as your hands slid your notebook into your backpack and your feet carried you towards him.

“Yes, Mr. Kennedy?” you say softly when you approach his desk. You rest your palms on the edge of the table as you await the reason behind this encounter.

“Hey, I just wanted to thank you for your participation. You know, I appreciate that, and I know it’s not fair to you to have that expected of you when you didn’t sign up for it,” he begins.

“Oh, it’s no problem, sir. I really don’t mind,” you say, smiling at him.

“Sir? So polite,” he jokes with a smile of his own. The remark had come out before he could stop himself with a mental scolding about being normal with you.

Your cheeks burn, and you glance down at your shoes timidly. Your heartbeat was already faster than normal just from having his eyes focused on you alone. With him teasing you, it felt like your chest was going to explode.

This was the closest you’d ever been to him, the most you’d ever spoken to one another. Up close it was even more apparent how handsome he was. He didn’t look like any other professors you had. His blonde hair fell into his face and partially obscured one of his eyes. His shirt was undone a button lower than was probably professional.

“And I wanted to tell you that I got your email about your late assignment,” he says. He could see your embarrassment. He would have felt more guilt about causing it if you didn’t look so precious like that. He pushes those thoughts away though as you look up again, anxiety in your eyes. 

“Oh yeah, I’m really sorry about that. I promise you that it’s a one time thing. I don’t normally have that problem, and I just wanted you to know that. Didn’t want you to get the wrong impression,” you say.

He cuts off your apology with a chuckle and places his hand over yours, covering your manicured nails with the rough skin of his palm. 

“It’s alright, honey,” he says, “I can tell you’re a good girl. I don’t mind giving you a break.”

Good girl. You shift in place upon hearing those two words. It’s like a small match ignites in your belly, inching closer to the larger fuse.

So naive. So well-intentioned. That’s what he saw looking at you in that moment. He could almost see into you, see your mind trying to figure out a response, to discern if he was purposely flirting or clueless like you.

Your eyes cast down, and a shy smile breaks out on your face. After wrapping up the conversation and finishing with a soft murmur of “Thank you Mr. Kennedy,” you practically skip out of the room. A swirl of almost every good emotion you’ve ever felt blooms in your chest because of his attention.

He smirks, watching that sweet ass sway back and forth as you bound up the steps to the door. How you seem to walk with your shoulders back and chest out after the small praise he gave you. God, he was practically drooling. He imagined himself looking like a cartoon character, silhouettes of hearts in his eyes and his tongue rolled out of his mouth.

But no, this was wrong. Point blank, it’s that simple. Or at least it should be.

After that day, he relented a little. He decided that some slight teasing was harmless. But he swore it would be just that, nothing further. That small voice in his head tried to defend it. It wasn’t like you didn’t enjoy the attention. You’d blush and fidget in your seat when he shot you an amorous look. Or you’d smile and flit your eyes away as he’d tuck some hair behind your ear when he’d come over to your desk after class to ask if you understood everything.

And as he weakened, your infatuation intensified. These classes became the highlights of your week. You’d fantasize about the pet name he’d call you on Monday or how his eyes would roam over your body on Wednesday. Walking to class, ringing through your head was simply Mr. Kennedy, Mr. Kennedy, Mr. Kennedy. While you traveled home, he danced through your mind to your thoughts about him that sounded like a love song.

Even with the huge torch you carried for him, you could never work up the nerve to make the big move. Every time you’d imagine sitting in his lap, your lips moving with his, all you could think about was what if it was all in your head? All those little looks and sweet words just blown out of proportion in your mind. Could you handle baring your soul to him if he reacted with anything other than reciprocation?

These questions bothered you as the semester went on, but nothing really changed. Leon was the same way, of course, all while you were unaware. He could only imagine how freaked out you would be if he made any attempt on you.

Lately, the two of you had been spending more time together. You were staying after class more to get “additional help.” Lingering around his desk, you’d timidly started approaching him, and he was happy to give you the aide.

Today, he dismisses everyone else before waving you over with a smug smile. You grab your things and scamper down to his desk with your own happy expression. You slide into the chair he pulled next to his seat. You open your laptop and start showing him the things you didn’t understand. In reality, you understood just fine, but for the sake of being around him, you’d bite your lip and look up at him through your lashes as if you’d missed entire classes worth of information.

“I just have trouble with memorization. I get confused between the words and their definitions,” you explain.

“Oh alright,” he responds softly, eyes scanning over the screen and then finding your face, “There’s a couple of things I think could help. Acronyms, stuff like that.”

He starts explaining the strategy to you, but like always, you have to fight a mental war to stay focused. You nod along, trying your best to act attentive. It was so hard though because… he’s him. 

You scoot your chair a little closer to his to get a better view of the laptop and notice his breath hitch. Your body freezes, but instead of feeling that familiar fear of rejection come over you, confidence begins simmering inside your chest. The change in his breathing meant something, he was reacting to this too. Maybe you could do this after all.

For now, you try to act natural, moving along the conversation with another question.

“Is there anything else though? Because I struggle to attach the definitions too, not just remember the words,” you say, leaning in a little more.

He turns his head to look at you completely, eyes locked on yours. You felt like you were losing your footing a little staring into them. “Mhm. I can show you how to link the two. Break down the word to get the meanings of the parts and…” he continues on as you zone out.

His voice was huskier now, and that simmer of confidence continues to build within you. You keep nodding with every pause in his speech, your doe eyes looking up at him.

“That makes sense,” you say when he finishes, still unable to look away. Your heart pounds as you make a decision. You place your hand on his thigh. You try to act natural, as if it’s just a casual gesture of affirmation. But you can see in his eyes that he knows better.

“Yeah? Do you need help with anything else then?” he asks slowly, watching your face for reactions.

“I think so,” you say as your voice grows a little breathier.

“What is it?” he asks. He leans in a little more and you can feel his hot breath fanning over you.

“I have some more questions…” you say.

“About?” he says, eyes dropping to your lips for a moment.

Head tilting down, your foot moves over to lightly brush up against his leg. You bite your lip, looking the most timid he’d ever seen you, which was saying a lot. But you force yourself to keep going while you have this burst of hope.

“Some special tutoring…” you offer.

“Special tutoring?” he repeats with a raise of his eyebrow, looking down at your foot rubbing at his ankle. He hesitates but decides to then take your hand and stand up. “If we’re discussing something like that, we should probably go to my personal office. Wouldn’t want us to get interrupted by the next class in here.”

“Oh yeah,” you immediately agree. You grab your stuff and your fingers link with his as he leads you out of the classroom, down the hall to his office. Passing bulletin boards of flyers and other students heading to their next class, you realize it probably looks a little odd to be holding his hand, letting him guide you around. But it just turned you on more, feeling dependent, controlled.

After a while, you reach the door with the stick-on placard reading “Leon Kennedy.” Your heart pounds as you shuffle through the entrance. The office was a decent size, having a desk, some book shelves, and a small loveseat in the back corner of the room.

He slides past you and walks behind his desk, taking a seat in his chair that was clearly much more comfortable than the generic one in the lecture room. It dawned on you though that that was the only other chair in the room. There was the couch, but that was too far away from the desk for your purposes.

You approach the desk, similar to how you did all those weeks ago when this first started. He looks up at you with hesitant desire in his eyes.

“Why don’t you c’mere?” he asks.

“Ok,” you respond shyly. You drop your stuff near his desk and pad around it to approach him. Standing between his muscular thighs, you almost can’t focus from the volume of your pulse in your ears. His eyes look you up and down, more overtly than they ever had in the past. It now felt like you were hurtling towards a collision without a possibility of stopping.

After a moment of silence, he rips you from your thoughts. “Go ahead and ask your questions,” he says.

“Oh yeah,” you say, perking up a little since you had nearly forgotten about your facade of innocent curiosity. “I was just wondering if I could maybe start getting some… extra help.”

He chuckles and leans back in his chair. The maneuver gives you a better view of his broad chest and sculpturesque arms. You feel even more flustered, and you know it’s about to get worse because he obviously picks up on it.

“I don’t really think you need extra help quite honestly. Your grade is fine, and you seem to understand a lot, even the tedious things you ask questions about,” he says, a subtle arrogance on his face as he drags this out.

“No, I really think I do,” you say softly, shifting back and forth in place.

His eyes look up at you with a knowing glint. He shakes his head with a smirk as his gaze falls down to your legs that couldn’t stand still.

“With what? Like I said, even those things you pretend to not know, you obviously do. You ace every test, and while I’d like to believe it, I don’t think my advice is that helpful.”

As the words left his mouth, Leon knew he was getting into dangerous territory, leading you to a place neither of you could just return from. The rational part of his mind was slamming on his mental brakes to no avail.

You were in a similar place, your mind racing and trying to decide whether to go for it or not. After a quick moment, it was as if a bright neon sign flashes in your mind. The words telling you to try. You decide on moving forward and ignoring the other part of you that’s telling you to turn around and walk out the door right now.

You sit on his lap, straddling him with each of your legs on either side of his thigh. You look down as your fingertips drag along the waistline of his pants. 

“I just think there are other things I could learn from you,” you say, your voice shaking from your nerves.

“Tell me what they are,” he breathes. His own heart slams against his ribcage at your gesture. His natural instincts scream at him to pull you close and take what he wants, making his fantasies reality.

“It’s easier for me to show you,” you say. You felt if you had to speak anymore you might lose your nerve, so you go all in. You lean forward and connect your lips. With feather light kisses, you move your mouth on his.

At first, he doesn’t kiss back, and fear zaps through you. After a moment of shock though, he reciprocates. Your hands slide up his chest while he grabs your hips to pull you closer. The two of you go at it a little longer with soft smooches. Then he feels your tongue swipe against his bottom lip.

He pulls back and looks at you. He couldn’t do this. But God, just look at you. Your chest heaving with your heavier breathing, those plush lips wet with saliva, pretty eyes looking at him like a pleading puppy. He groans and runs a hand over his face and through his hair. His head falls back against his chair.

“Sweetheart… we shouldn’t do this,” he says, not looking at you to try and keep his resolve.

You bite your lip as your eyes widen with anxiety. “Did I do something wrong?” you say, shaky voice returning.

You try to keep it together. He still wasn’t looking at you, but you silently vow to yourself that you wouldn’t cry from the rejection. There would truly be no coming back from that. It would be hard enough seeing him on Monday as it was. If you shed any tears, you’d have to drop the class regardless of how close the end of the semester was.

“No, honey. I did. I just… it’s wrong,” he offers weakly, not convinced of his own excuse, “I shouldn’t have let it get this far. I’m sorry.”

Despite your internal promise, you felt barbs scraping at your throat with each swallow. Hot, stinging tears pricking at your eyes. You try to push it all back down, spare yourself some dignity.

“But- But don’t you-” you start, cutting yourself off to maintain your composure. You take a deep breath before finishing. “Don’t you like me?”

Leon cracks his eyes open and looks down at you. A critical error. He felt like such a dick. There you were, still on his lap, lip quivering, eyes lined with tears and full of uncertainty. He managed to make this into what he wanted to avoid, a complete mess.

“No- I mean yes, I like you a lot. That isn’t the issue here. We- I… we just can’t do this. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have let it go on this long,” he sighs, hands falling to your hips to move you off his lap.

Now, tears were really threatening to fall. You grab his shoulders to stabilize yourself and stop him from lifting you up. Your mind scrambles for an argument that could work.

“Why?” is all you can manage. As if you didn’t know.

“Baby, I’m your teacher. It wouldn’t be right,” he says, forcing himself to remain unaffected by the kicked puppy look you had going on, “I have to stay objective, and that’s hard enough with a cute little thing like yourself.” He smirks at the end of his statement and rubs your cheek, trying to lighten the mood.

It doesn’t work, your eyes are fixated on his belt buckle as a part of the strategy to keep your tears from leaking out. You subconsciously lean into his hand on your face though, a gesture that makes his heart melt. You just nod faintly. Think, think, think, think, you tell yourself. 

“But it won’t be like you’re cheating for me. I get good grades. It’s not like I’m fucking you to pass…” you reason.

“I know that, sweetheart, and you know that. But you have to understand. Think about it. What if people found out? I’d be risking my job, and I can’t imagine it would go well for you either,” he says softly, stroking some of your hair behind your ear.

“No one will find out,” you say. Your head tilts up so you can look into his eyes.

He immediately looks away, afraid he would cave if he stared into those sweet spheres of desire. You catch this, realizing it may be your way ahead.

“You’re a sweet girl, honey. Pretty and smart. The kind any man would be lucky to have. If this was a different situation, I wouldn’t hesitate. Not for a second. But it’s not,” he says, looking pained.

You push your lip out a little more and let one tear fall from each eye before quickly wiping them away,  smearing the warm liquid across your cheek. Leaning forward, you wrap your arms around him and press yourself to his chest. You look up at him, forcing him to make eye contact.

“I don’t want any man though,” you say quietly. You keep your stare locked on him, your eyes big and vulnerable to accentuate your point. “Please, sir.”

His cock jumps at the title leaving your lips. He sucks in a breath and tilts his head back. “Christ, you’re gonna be the death of me,” he says with a hushed groan.

You scoot forward a little bit, your hips grinding down on his lap with the motion. Your nose drags against his throat as you nuzzle his neck. You lay a kiss to his pulse point before murmuring, “Just a few more kisses? Then I won’t bring any of it up again. Pretty please.”

“Kisses…” he trails off, pondering the idea. Just a few more kisses. An obvious lie. But one he would at least pretend to believe just so he could have those sweet lips on his again. “Fine, but that’s it. You understand?”

“Mhm,” you respond without thinking. You lean up and kiss him. It’s not soft or gentle like the first time. This go is passionate from the beginning. Lips move together, and again, your tongue works to gain entry to his mouth.

The two of you make out for definitely more than a few kisses. Your hand slides up from his shoulder to the base of his neck, lightly tugging on his hair. He groans and squeezes your waist. You gasp between kisses at the sensation and grind your hips down again in response.

He grunts as he feels it, his cock getting a little stiff at the feeling. You do it again with a whimper. This time his fingers dig into your flesh, holding you with more authority.

“Be good, only a few more kisses, remember?” he grunts against your lips.

Continuing to kiss, you take a break from moving your hips and push your body against his again. Your soft tits push up against his chest. He tries to draw back, feeling cracks in his resolve as the warm globes meld with him. The backing of his chair stops him from getting too far away though. He grunts and his grip gets more firm, trying to keep you in a suitable position.

“Stay still. Think I’m giving you more than you asked for anyway. Don’t make me cut it off here,” he mumbles before going back in.

It was risky, but you felt like you had him. You felt him half hard between your legs and could feel his breath coming out in longer puffs. You do it again, rolling your hips on him, dragging your cunt over his bulge through the layers of clothing that separated you.

He growls and nips at your lip before harshly lifting your hips off his lap. You’re hovering above the growing tent in his jeans. You lightly rock them a few times with a pout, testing to see if you can get any kind of friction.

“What did I say?” he asks.

“It’s not fair, sir,” you whimper, ignoring his question.

“Oh, it’s not?” he says, maintaining his stern demeanor, “What’s so unfair?”

“Leading me on,” you huff.

Mix a bit of truth in with your seductive game, and you have him now. Real guilt and frustration swirls with the lust in the pit of his belly. He was all in now. There was no way you were leaving this office without his cum leaking from you.

“I told you what you were getting. You thought you could get away with being greedy,” he chides. He lifts you even more and puts you on your feet in front of him, between his thighs again. “Take your pants off.”

Your eyes widen. This was going to happen. Your fingers make quick work of your jeans, snapping the button and dropping them to pool around your ankles. You step out of them and nudge them to the side. He smirks up at you, standing there in your tight t-shirt and frilly pink panties. Of course, everything about you was cute.

His hands return to your hips and pull you on top of him. This time you aren’t on his lap though. You land on his thigh. You look down at the limb beneath you and then back at his face.

“Don’t play dumb now. You wanna rub that needy pussy on something, go ahead,” he says.

“But-“ you start before he cuts you off with a sharp smack on the ass.

“I don’t want to hear any complaining. You should count yourself lucky I’m letting you even do this,” he says as his hand rubs and kneads the cheek he just slapped, “Normally, I wouldn’t accept my little girl just doing whatever she wants like that. But because it’s your first time, I’m giving you a break. Gonna help fix this problem you’re having, thinking from between your legs instead of with that pretty little head.”

Your entire face heats up as he lays into you like that. You start rocking your hips, dragging yourself on his clothes thigh. You watch his face for approval as you go, but his eyes are transfixed on your lower body at the moment.

“There you go, baby. That’s right,” he says encouragingly before cracking you on the ass again, “Little faster. Wanna see how bad you’ve been wanting this.”

You do as he says, rolling your hips with more speed and force. The fabric of your panties begins to dampen with your arousal as you press onto it. Whimpers fall from your lips as you grind your swollen pussy on his muscle. He gives you some help, guiding your movements by holding your hips. You softly gasp a few times, biting your lip as you continue to rut against him.

“Look at you,” he coos. Your tits bounce beneath your t-shirt as you ride his thigh. “Been thinking about this a lot, sweetheart? Dream about this while you’re sitting in class, hm? Humping my leg like a dumb little puppy.”

“Yes,” you choke out and toss your head back. A guttural moan leaves you, and he chuckles, giving your hip a tighter squeeze.

“Quiet, babydoll. Don’t want anyone outside this room hearing. I don’t think they’d believe this is just some ‘special tutoring,’” he says.

You keep up your grinding, your pussy sensitive to the rough fabric of his pants even through your panties. He tries to help you quiet down by pulling you closer and cradling your head against his shoulder, muffling your sounds against his shirt. The cloth becomes wet with your spit as your hushed moans spill out.

After going for a little while longer, he can tell you’re getting close. It’s obvious in the way your hips sputter every couple of thrusts, how your voice is getting whinier, how your body contracts every few moments. Your hands curl into fists, clutching the fabric of his shirt.

“Such a good girl,” he whispers, “Getting close, baby? Think you’re gonna cum soon?”

“Yes, sir,” you whimper.

“Aw, so polite,” he teases just like he had those weeks ago, “Well, tell me when you’re right there. Gonna make it extra special.”

You nod obediently and continue working yourself to the high point. Your breaths become sharper and movements get more erratic. You feel the band of pleasure stretching inside you, ready to snap.

“Gonna cum, gonna cum, gonna cum, “ you ramble out.

“Not yet, you aren’t,” he says. 

With a menacing grin, he yanks your hips up and flips you around. Mind spinning from the sudden loss of pleasure, you whine and squirm on his lap. A pointless struggle seeing how your soaked panties were faced out away from any potential source of friction. Your back’s flush against the warmth of his chest. You can feel his heartbeat thudding behind you as his hands curl around the back of your legs and bring them up so that your feet are planted on his thighs. Your head slumps back against his shoulder, turning to look up at him, pleading frustration projecting from your eyes.

One of his arms snakes around your waist while the other comes up to stroke your chin with his thumb. He looks down at you, eyes full of amusement as he toys with you.

“Now that was really unfair, wasn’t it pretty girl?” he taunts.

You arch your back off his chest with another whine before collapsing against his broad form again. You nod, feeling the sparks of ecstasy dwindle within you.

“You’re a tease,” you huff.

“I am?” he mocks. 

He begins trailing his hand down your front, stopping level with your breasts. He squeezes them gently with some firm caresses from his fingers. Then he lowers his hand further and slips it beneath your shirt. Your breath hitches as he begins stroking the soft skin of your belly up to the valley between your breasts. His palm slides beneath the cups of your bra, feeling the bare skin of your chest. He alternates between each. The rough pads of his fingertips drag over the sensitive flesh of your nipples, giving them tender pinches that draw hushed mewls from you.

“So soft, baby,” he whispers with a kiss to your temple.

It felt nice, made your breasts feel heavy and achy, begging to be touched. Had your head hot and airy, unable to control the way you melted against him or the sweet noises that escaped you. But you couldn’t really enjoy that because your pussy was still throbbing, still desperately searching for the orgasm that was stolen from you. You squirm again, pushing your ass back against the bulge you felt growing in his pants.

“Please, sir. Please,” you whimper, “Wanna cum.”

You feel his lips curl into a smile against the side of your head, but his tone remains rough and commanding. “I think the next thing I gotta teach you is patience.”

Retracting his hand from your bra, he smooths it back down your stomach to the hem of your panties. His fingers fidget with one of the strips of lace on the garment while he stares into your eyes.

“You know, baby, I think you’re the tease here,” he breathes. He rubs the skin just above your panties and then moves under the fabric. His digits glide through your slick folds, the touch meandering, just at the border of giving you pleasure. “I mean, I think you know what you’ve been doing.”

“What?” you say, struggling to take in his words when you were fixated on his touches to your center.

“You act like a dumb little doll, sweetheart, but I know you’re not. I know you know how to play. Parading around in those pretty outfits, something always on your lips, always saying ‘yes sir,’” he whispers. His digits circle your clit at a painfully slow pace. He brushes over it slightly, giving you hope before flattening his hand over your cunt. You get ready to whine about the teasing before he pushes two fingers inside you.

“Mr. Kennedy,” you gasp, head pressing back further against his shoulder.

“Oh, and how could I forget my favorite, ‘Mr. Kennedy.’ But I think it’s about time you start calling me Leon, babydoll. No need to be so formal anymore,” he says as he pumps his fingers in and out of you, curling them just right.

You shake your head and whimper. His palm rubs down on your puffy clit with every thrust of his hand.

“Oh no?” he teases, “You like Mr. Kennedy taking care of you, making you feel good?”

Your eyes roll back as you nod. “Mhm. Yes… s-sir,” you say.

You stumble over the word ‘sir.’ Leon catches it immediately, and he’s certain he knows why. He knows what you really wanted to call him.

“Mmm, good girl,” he purrs in your ear, seeing the way the praise pulls extra gasps from you, makes your eyes all glossy, “You’re so sweet, baby. So precious.”

He lays it on thick, trying to get you to crack and say the word on the tip of your tongue. His fingers massage your sensitive spots as they consistently slide into your dripping cunt. You bite your lip, more whimpers coming from you. You look up at him again through your lashes.

“Thank you, sir,” you say, voice all soft and dreamy as you start climbing to that high.

“Of course, babydoll. You deserve it,” he says into your hair, “But you know, I still think ‘sir’ is too professional. Makes me feel like I’m at work. Plus, I get the feeling you have another name in mind too.”

“I- I do?” you ask, looking up at him curiously. He smiles at your naivety and the way you try to get your words out around your whimpers.

“Oh yeah. I can already hear it, sweetheart. You like being taken care of, being doted on. I can see it. All you want is to be a good girl for…”

“Daddy,” you whine, your eyes squeezing shut.

“That’s right,” he chuckles. He speeds up his fingers, delving as deep as possible. A quiet squeal erupts from you, and he hushes you while kissing your cheek a few times. You try to keep your noises down even as your hips buck and your heels dig into the meat of his thighs.

“Daddy I- Daddy, Daddy, I’m gonna cum,” you moan.

“Aw, but I don’t want my baby to cum yet,” he mocks. Just as quick as the release had built in you, it was gone. He pulls his fingers out of your hole, and your eyes widen. You whimper in disbelief, hips squirming as if they could find that sensation again if they were positioned just right.

“Daddy!” you practically cry.

“Thought I told you to be quiet,” he says, taking his fingers, still wet with your slick, and shoving them into your mouth. You hum around them in surprise at first, but in no time, your tongue presses against the skin, tasting yourself on him. He pumps them in and out a little, a smaller version of what he had been doing moments earlier down below.

“There you go, baby. Like I said, no complaints. Just shut that silly mind off and focus on Daddy’s fingers,” he murmurs. He watches with approval as you do exactly that, your eyes fluttering a bit as you clear your thoughts out. “Such a fast learner.”

Your pussy still aches with a need for him, but it’s more tolerable when he’s cooing in your ear while your lips are around his fingers.

“Bet my pretty girl wants to cum so bad right about now,” he murmurs against the shell of your ear.

“Mhm,” you hum as you take his fingers further into your mouth.

“Well, you know why Daddy didn’t let you cum yet? It wasn’t just to be mean to you,” he says.

He hears garbled “I don’t know” come from you. He strokes your hair with his other hand.

“It’s because,” he starts. He removes his fingers from between your lips and scoops you up. Next thing you know, your back is against the hardwood of his desk. You’re looking up at him with hazy eyes, slowly blinking as you take in his words. “I want you to cum all over Daddy’s cock.”

In mere seconds, his belt clanks against the floor, your panties are gone, his fly is undone, and his dick is out, rock hard. It’s flushed and leaking precum as he moves it to your entrance. He pushes the tip in first, teasing you by holding himself there.

You whine at the slight intrusion, wiggling your hips for more. Jutting your lip out a bit, you look up at him with a pout. “Daddy…” you plead weakly.

He shakes his head with an amused smile, but it works. He pushes the rest of his length in, filling you up completely. As he slides in, a long groan leaves him and his head tilts towards the ceiling. He grumbles something along the lines of “so fucking tight.” Your fingers reach downward to grip the edge of his desk. It felt like you were already there again, right on the brink of release.

After a moment of just taking in the feeling, he begins thrusting. He pulls his hips back and pushes them forward again. His cock slides between your walls with no resistance, the perfect fit. You were already pulsing around him, sucking him in deeper. A deep laugh rumbles from his chest.

“You're gonna cum already, baby. I’m that good?” he mocks. He thumbs your clit, sending a burst of pleasure through you that makes you clamp down on him. He grunts and starts thrusting a little harder.

You’re whining quietly, but you can’t hold back the yelp when he pinches your clit. You cum on the spot, gushing around him. You babble incoherently and buck your hips. The high was higher than any euphoria you’d ever felt. You’re panting when it’s done, but he’s still going.

He’s smirking down at you, rocking his hips all the while. “Did I say you could do that?” he asks with a light spank to your clit.

You gasp and arch your back off the desk. “No!” you whine, “I’m sorry, Daddy.”

“I’m sure you are.” Another spank. “You’re lucky it’s your first time, and I’m giving you a break today.”

You nod quickly. “Thank you Daddy,” you mumble.

He keeps thrusting, seamlessly going between hard and fast and slow and deep. The motions shake the desk back and forth, sliding inches on the floor each time. You feel like there’s gonna be scrape marks when you’re done.

You also feel like you’re gonna have marks from the way he’s gripping your hips, battering your sensitive pussy. You were so worked up from all the teasing that the overstimulation didn’t even faze you. Your head just droops back, hanging off the edge of the desk. 

It’s harder to keep track of how loud you’re being when you’re this out of it. He smiles at your needy whines and pulls your thighs forward so your head is back on the desk. He leans forward, covering his body with yours and grinding his hips deeper than before. His hand comes up and covers your mouth.

“You better hope no one hears, pretty girl. We didn’t lock the door,” he pants.

You moan against the flesh of his hand and your walls tighten their grip on him. He growls in your ear at the sensation before a low chuckle comes from him.

“Oh, you’d like that? I should’ve known,” he teases, “You’d love for someone to come in and see how good you’re being. What a sweet girl you are, being used by your teacher. Love for them to see all the things Daddy’s teaching you.”

A strained cry bubbles beneath his fingers, and you nod, feeling shameless about your fantasy. He nuzzles the side of your head and keeps thrusting as deep as he can. He knows you’re getting close again, and this time, he’s right there with you.

“Come on, sweet baby. Give Daddy another one. I know my precious girl can do it. You were wanting it for so long,” he grunts.

Your whole body seizes as another orgasm rips through you. Your whines and cries are fortunately muffled by his palm, but he feels your drool leaking against his skin. His own eyes squeeze shut as he gasps and moans. His hips jerk, pounding into you a few more times before he cums. He bites his lip to silence his own noises as he spills into, filling you to the brim.

Both of your chests are heaving in the end as you take in gulps of air. He slowly pulls out and pushes some of his hair out of his face. You're both half dressed, his pants down to his knees, shirt unbuttoned. You, nude from the waist down and bra shifted out of place beneath your shirt. 

The two of you stand up, you on shaky legs, and pull yourselves back into shape. You pull your panties up and follow them with your jeans while he does the same with his pants. He then falls back into his chair and takes you with him.

He just holds you to his chest for a little bit, rubbing your back and kissing the top of your head. You don’t say anything either. You curl up into the affection and stroke his forearm gently.

“Sweet girl,” he murmurs before squeezing you a little tighter.

You’re both so into it, not caring about anything beyond this office at this moment. That is until you catch a glimpse of the clock on the wall.

“Oh… Mr. Kennedy,” you start as you slowly untangle yourself from him and stand up, “I probably should get going. I have to meet my friend to study soon.”

He’s not happy about losing your body on his, but he smiles at your words.

“Alright, honey, but seriously. It’s Leon from now on,” he says.

“Ok,” you laugh with a nod, “Leon.”

You grab your things and give him one more sweet look before turning to walk to the door. He pats you on the ass and kisses your cheek.

“See you Monday, baby,” he says.

[please-read-the-manga]

'Sasuke deserves to die in a ditch.' Actually, though?

Decided to make this its own post because truthfully I don't know the etiquette here, but someone posted something pretty laughably egregious in the 'Sasuke' tag (as far as character interpretations go) and I felt compelled to gather up some manga panels to try and figure out where they were coming from and if you could feasibly justify their take.

The initial assertion, from what I gather, is that Sasuke's supposed inaction towards Orochimaru's other prisoners/experiments is heinous and as a result has warped him into such an evil that even Itachi cannot/should not forgive him. I am summarizing, perhaps crudely, but the original post is not the most thought out concept lol. I did consider it, though... were we ever shown Sasuke participating or condoning Orochimaru's actions? Was Sasuke complicit and, if so, to what degree?

Now, I'll briefly caveat that I think it seems like the original post might have been more of a story request? Which, in that case, who am I really to judge what someone wants to write for their own fun/enjoyment? But taking it in good faith that that's all it is and the post wasn't actually bait (which I acknowledge I'm falling hook, line, and sinker for if it is lol), then that's still a pretty tall order for a story as it (imo) requires such a dramatic departure from the canon portrayals of multiple characters to make it work.

I mean, even the cognitive dissonance Itachi would have to employ in an act of ultimate hypocrisy to judge Sasuke's alleged inaction as any worse/less agreeable than his own active violence would be incredibly fascinating given he is the murderer of countless innocents, operated as a reliable agent in a terrorist organization for multiple years and faithfully did whatever it took to uphold the appearance of loyalty, and encouraged Sasuke to go to any length for enough power to defeat him/later be able to fend for himself post-assisted suicide.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let's just check out some panels and reflect on what Sasuke was doing while he was under Orochimaru's control and see what we can extrapolate from there.

1.) We can start out easy with Sasuke's alleged interest/participation in Orochimaru's experiments to which we are blatantly shown that he actually has complete and utter disgust for Orochimaru's methods.

He is revolted by what Orochimaru does for his experiments, even (in the panels above) likening Orochimaru's cruelty to that of Itachi's, someone who (at this point in the story) Sasuke views as the ultimate evil.

The rest will be hosted under the cut because adding panels (and I apparently hit the limit of that) drags out the length of these posts to an absurd degree.

2.) Kishimoto makes a point of showing us that Sasuke has deliberately chosen not to kill or even give in to Orochimaru's cruelty during their time together, something Orochimaru even mocks him for.

Sasuke's sole goal at this point in the story is exclusively to kill Itachi so he can achieve justice for his family and bloodline. He even continues to reiterate this point post-Orochimaru's death (but pre-Itachi death/reveal of Konoha's atrocious betrayal of the Uchiha) to Team Hebi.

3.) Sasuke outright states that he was only able to kill Orochimaru while he was weakened. He is also well aware that Orochimaru wishes to possess his body (ie. genetics) and, given that he is prepared to face Orochimaru at this exact, pivotal moment when he is most weakened/Sasuke is most guaranteed victory (ie. Sasuke is not taken off guard at all), I think you can make the argument that he was keenly preparing to attack/kill Orochimaru as soon as he was able. If he didn't do so earlier, then perhaps it stands to reason he didn't believe he was capable of succeeding at any other point.

4.) Sasuke certainly has some degree of freedom and maneuverability that other captives of Orochimaru do not, but he is definitely not an equal to Orochimaru and that power dynamic between them is reiterated frequently. While he is sometimes referred to with respect, he is also referred to as a pet/experiment. A gilded cage is still a cage. The power dynamic of Orochimaru as the master and Sasuke as his captive/future vessel/object of desire is notably and routinely emphasized.

*Note Suigetsu's use of 'we' and 'us'. To me, this implies that Sasuke is viewed by other captives as 'one of them' and not someone operating alongside Orochimaru like, say, Kabuto and Karin. Also, I'm out of images, but there's a panel I had to delete for space which has Orochimaru referring to Team Taka + Sasuke as his 'superior lab rats' again emphasizing Sasuke's shared status.

5.) Speaking of Suigetsu (who we know was experimented upon), he appears to be quite familiar with Sasuke when Sasuke comes to free him. While we unfortunately don't get to see it, its obvious that a relationship of some degree has been formed between the two. Their familiarity with one another highlights that this is not the first time Suigetsu and Sasuke are meeting and from this we can (perhaps) infer that he and Sasuke bonded at an earlier point and, due to the lack of antagonism from Suigetsu towards Sasuke compared to his immediate dislike of Karin who he does state experimented on him, that Sasuke did not participate in his torture.

Keep in mind that, at this stage in the story, this is a hardened Sasuke who has fully embraced his role as the sole arbiter of justice that can do right by his family, but it's still Sasuke. This is still the same Sasuke who fed Naruto, violating Kakashi's rules, and risked never becoming a ninja. This is the same Sasuke who sacrificed his life for Naruto, who called Naruto and Sakura his precious people he wanted to protect, etc. This is the same Sasuke who a few chapters later goes out of his way to show great respect to the ninja cats and Nekobaa, thanking her for everything! Even if he may have been hardened, I'd argue we are almost always encouraged (as readers) to remember that Sasuke is fundamentally a good, kind child (like Naruto) that was horrifically tortured and manipulated by bad actors and the corrupt ninja system into embracing those more violent tendencies out of his deep love for others and a need for survival. Naruto, importantly, never lets this image of Sasuke fall from memory (even calling Sasuke out when Sasuke tries to fancy himself a villain) and, in my opinion, the reader would do well to remember who Sasuke really is as well.

And, in this vein, who is to say he never fed Suigetsu when Kabuto wasn't looking, igniting their bond? That he and Suigetsu didn't talk about their brothers? It's pure conjecture, but thoughts to consider that aren't the most braindead 'Sasuke is pure evil' nonsense you see out there lol.

*Also, 'I knew you'd show up' can imply so much. Did Suigetsu know of Sasuke's plans to overtake Orochimaru? Why was he so sure Sasuke would come rescue him? Much to consider there.

6.) Outside of Suigetsu, let's take a moment to look at how other prisoners/captives view Sasuke. We are directly shown that they, in some form or another, view him as one of them. Again, I interpret this to have emerged from an understood kinship that informs Sasuke's status as 'Orochimaru's next vessel' as not inherently divorced from the idea of him being just as much a captive/victim as them.

Sure, he is afforded some privileges as we've already mentioned (being at Orochimaru's side and not in a cell, for example) but this does not negate the fact Orochimaru always intended to use him, just as he used every other prisoner/captive under his watch. Also, as far as these privileges go, I find it interesting that it's also implied Sasuke was constantly (or at least a majority of the time) accompanied/monitored by Orochimaru and Kabuto given that his mere presence without Orochimaru/Kabuto breathing down his neck is notable enough that multiple people comment on it.

*Note the use of 'chaperone' here, it's an interesting word choice.

7.) Now, let's discuss the curse mark which is the sole reason why Sasuke is with Orochimaru to begin with.

Orochimaru deliberately coveted, targeted, and groomed Sasuke as far back as the Chunin Exam arc so that he could harvest his genetics. He forcibly placed a curse mark (again, read: CURSE, this was not some fun little power-up, it retains extremely negative drawbacks) on the body of a 12-year-old genin who was taking a state-sponsored meat grinder-style exam and found himself up against one of the Legendary Sannin, someone he couldn't possibly hope to defeat.

And we know that the curse mark Sasuke never asked for includes the following:

It debilitates him/constantly erodes his body.

It could have immediately killed him (multiple characters familiar with the curse marks are shocked he survived and continues to survive).

It amplifies and inflames his hatred (we see Orochimaru taunting him and inflaming his survivor's guilt while he is knocked out, ie. utilizing his horrific trauma against him).

And, ultimately, it is implied it would have eventually always required Sasuke to seek Orochimaru out to survive it.

Additionally Orochimaru is frequently shown targeting vulnerable children just like Sasuke and manipulating them for his own gain. This is standard practice for him and as far as extremely vulnerable children go, there are hardly any better examples than Sasuke. There was always an inherent power imbalance shown in the relationships between him and the children he is manipulating. He handles them in a way that is expressly individualized to exert ultimate control over the relationship and exploit their vulnerabilities/trauma tenfold.

8.) And, on top of the curse mark, Sasuke must contend with Itachi's conditioning of his psyche. At the ripe age of seven, Sasuke was actively encouraged by Itachi to give in to killing to try and strengthen his sharingan (ie. the infamous 'kill your best friend' directive). Importantly, Sasuke resisted this! Even though he had no reason not to follow the bloody path his brother laid for him, he refused to give into such cruelty. This is on top of the intense psychological torture and enormous weight that Sasuke had to bear in his quest for justice. Knowing you are the only survivor and no one else cares half as much as you do about avenging your annihilated family and culture is no small pressure to bear. To then actively choose to do it your way and stay true to yourself/values, is also commendable.

9.) I saved this one for later on as it's pretty well known among fans already and so directly refutes OP's concept of Sasuke holding no care for the other captives around him. But Sasuke goes on to free Orochimaru's prisoners as soon as he can. He straight up does not leave them hanging lol.

Side note: I love these panels, I wish a lot more had been done with them. It was around this time in the manga I really wish it had been renamed Sasuke, because everything going on here was x10 more interesting than anything happening with the Konoha crowd lol.

10.) Finally, as far as Sasuke goes, we have to acknowledge that Sasuke's ultimate goals always revolve around avenging the grave injustices done against those he loves/loved. Sasuke continually represents selfless love, he will sacrifice everything so his loved ones (his mother, father, brother, and clan) who have had all these wrongs done against them are given proper rest and justice.

He is deeply traumatized, he doesn't always fully know the entire story (as it's in the best interest of the bad actors around him -Itachi, Orochimaru, Obito- for him not to know everything/the entire truth), and he often struggles to express his thoughts/feelings in an adequate way that will afford him the help/answers he needs from others. So, Sasuke is not without his flaws/difficulties. But you'd have to be purposefully misinterpreting the text/his characterization to not see the good in him that Naruto, the main character, is loudly, constantly, directly shouting about at every chance he gets.

And let's end on the quick, again, laughable idea Itachi would ever 'put down' Sasuke. We have a couple of Itachi's to consider:

We have Itachi 0.0, a traumatized child who had far too much responsibility foisted upon him and who took Danzo's shit genocide deal that guaranteed ONLY Sasuke would be spared. At this stage (and again, we're talking a young, traumatized child soldier) Itachi would rather have his name besmirched for eternity and be the mass murderer to his own flesh and blood than ever put his baby brother in danger. The dilemma he was presented should also be coupled with the fact that Danzo is an incredibly manipulative, evil genocider who simply couldn't wait to mutilate some bodies/rob some graves for his own power/ambition while ruining countless lives (Itachi's included, and especially Sasuke's) as he knowingly shoved Itachi into a corner.

We have Itachi 1.0 that hoped traumatizing his brother and encouraging him to become as strong as possible (by any means possible) and avenge the clan/kill him so he could become this 'ultimate hero' to the village would lead his baby brother to theoretically (lifelong trauma notwithstanding) living a long, safe, productive life after he was gone.

We have Itachi 2.0 that wondered if Naruto might be able to help his (understandably) spiraling brother and was heartened when Naruto insisted he would never kill Sasuke and would always find another way - ie. reiterating the unconditional love Itachi has and always had for his baby brother. This, interestingly, resulted in Naruto being given Shisui's eye that would have forcibly brainwashed Sasuke into serving the state that sanctioned their clan's genocide, but let's ignore the horrible implications of that for a minute...........

And finally we have Itachi 3.0 who admits he was wrong to go about the early plans for Sasuke's life in the way that he did. He states, ultimately, he will love Sasuke no matter what. It's unconditional. He stops trying to forcibly alter his brother's lifepath and he states outright and blatantly that he will always love Sasuke, nothing will change that. His actions have always been influenced by his interpretation of love for Sasuke and that cannot be divorced (in good faith) from his character.

I'm being a bit facetious in some of these summarized points, but generally Itachi's stance on Sasuke's well-being never changes, he always loves Sasuke, only the way in which he offers guidance/expresses his love/thinks about what Sasuke's well-being looks like evolves throughout the story.

*Apologies, I have no idea why the font is so atrocious on these panels lol, but it says "And not matter what you do from here on out, know this... I will love you always."

Idk man, whoever is writing this story OP is asking for, is going to have a crazy uphill battle trying to convince readers that Itachi would ever give up on his brother (that he... directly encouraged this type of behavior in...) when Itachi exists to support and love his brother, when Itachi has always done everything for Sasuke. The debate about whether those actions were in any way good or healthy is wholly separate, but the text outright emphasizes that Sasuke has Itachi's entire, unconditional support and love no matter what. I know some people are allergic to the concept of unconditional love for some reason, but this is a crucial, critical, overwhelmingly highlighted point in the manga and these two specific characters' respective arcs that are known and cherished by many, many people lol, so, I don't know how you renege on that...

But I'd love to see a writer try, I guess. Why not? If you can keep both Sasuke and Itachi in-character and manga accurate, I'd be very interested in seeing a Itachi that not only abandons his beloved brother he has done everything for but also tries to kill him. I definitely wouldn't know how to go about making that convincing given all the direct evidence to the contrary presented in the manga.

Now, the stuff we don't know about Suigetsu and Sasuke's time together or spin-offs that maybe explore a Sasuke that continues on his trajectory to support and lead the people the shinobi world has abandoned? Like the kekkei genkai users (much like himself) who were abused by many in the shinobi world and further victimized by Orochimaru's vile ambitions? I'd, personally, be really interested in reading a faithful exploration of that. There is a lot to explore with Sasuke's time with Orochimaru, but I'd recommend reviewing the actual manga if you're after a realistic/authentic portrayal of these characters in your work.

[spicy30]

Modernness of 1400s 012

Pairing: HOTD x Fem!Modern!Reader

Extra: The reader is noted to be bilingual (Spanish speaking) and is familiar with the majority of Latin-based languages, No use of Y/N

Rating: 18+

Tags: @fan-goddess @meowmeowmothermeower @bunxia @your-favorite-god @coolalienstatesmansports @georgiatesulitsyeykite @qwerrtsworld @wegottastayfocus @dakota-rain666 @talilosha @the-deep-dark-abyss @101crows @agustdeeyaa @ggglich-exe @illjhhlisa @deepeststarlightmoon @cluelessteam @a-fruity-snack @i-zenin @justablondeeee @feyresqueen @yduimobsessed @pinkluv29 @xmenteria @itwaszzmoon @btzams @jellyforbrains @thebl00dwrym @smiley-roos @splaterparty0-0

Notes: Not fully proof read.

WC: 17.5K

23rd Day of the 9th Moon, 129 AC

It had been nearly two weeks since Daeron had become his brother’s secret messenger—or rather, his delivery boy. Every other day, Aemond would arrive, and Daeron, ever dutiful, would escort you to the meeting place, leaving you to wait alone until his brother came.

At first, he had thought it odd that you insisted on being left alone. Something about it unsettled him, so the second time he brought you, he lingered just beyond the tree line, watching. Just to be sure.

He never did it again after that.

For when Aemond arrived, it did not take long for him to find out exactly why you wished for him to leave you. His brother was very effective in the arts of bedding and he was very direct, just as Daeron remembered. (Though he never did see that you stopped him before anything went any further.) That day, Daeron walked through the woods with his face burning trying to get as far away as possible till it was finally safe to fly away on Tessarion.

Today was no different. Tessarion soared above the clouds, her wings cutting through the crisp autumn air, while your arms circled his waist, your head resting lightly against his back. The first time had been awkward—he had never flown with another person before, let alone a woman. It felt... intimate. Or maybe that was just his mind playing tricks on him. (He liked to think it was all in his mind.)

His inexperience with women—that was how he justified the unease. Yet, he couldn’t shake the feeling that you had somehow ruined dragon riding for him. If he ever took another woman to the skies, it wouldn’t feel the same.

Had he known this was how it would feel, he would have preferred the first woman he flew with to be his wife.

But now, well it was no different than flying alone.

Finally coming to the arranged clearing Tessarion descended, Daeron felt the slight shift in your grip, the way your fingers tensed for just a moment before relaxing again. He had come to recognize your tells—small things, but enough. You were never afraid of flying, not like some, but the landing always made you just a bit uneasy.

Daeron never said anything to comfort you.

Tessarion touched down with a graceful thud, the force of her landing stirring up dust and bending the tall grass. Daeron remained still, waiting as you slid from the saddle, your movements practiced now, as if this had always been routine. He met your gaze, offering a short nod, which you returned without hesitation.

Without another word, he turned his attention back to Tessarion. With a firm command, the dragon lifted off once more, her powerful wings beating against the earth as she ascended. The rush of wind sent your cloak fluttering, but you did not flinch, did not waver.

Daeron did not linger—he never did. He had long since abandoned any expectation of explanation. He was a messenger, a deliverer, nothing more. But as Tessarion carried him higher, putting distance between himself and the clearing below, he couldn't help but glance back.

You remained where he left you, unmoving, waiting. Always waiting.

Something about it unsettled him.

Yet, as always, he turned his gaze forward, leaving you behind once more.

Now to find something to occupy himself for the next few hours. Ever since that first night he had taken you to his brother, he found he could not be around his mother unless you were present or she had some understanding of your whereabouts. Daeron knew that if she questioned him sharply enough, he would crack and betray his brother.

“So, what’s the excuse?” you asked as Daeron bid Tessarion farewell. 

“Excuse for what?” he replied, pausing mid-step ignoring the gift you had gotten from his brother. How you were going to hide it, he didn’t know. Not like it was his problem. In anycase what did he need an excuse for? He hadn’t done anything—it was his brother. It was loyalty. He held no real fault. It wasn’t as if he spent hours with you. He simply dropped you off, lingered just long enough to awkwardly witness how much Aemond had changed in your presence before being dismissed like some common knight. Unbelievable. You? Chosen over him? Despicable, even. Is this what women did to men?

Not him. Not Daeron. He wouldn’t be led around like that.

“Well,” you said plainly as you walked side by side through the streets of Oldtown toward the Hightower, “I was kidnapped under the watch of one of the King’s Guard and missing for five hours. I need an excuse that keeps me out of trouble and doesn’t involve telling the truth.”

Daeron exhaled sharply, rubbing the back of his neck as he considered your words. “Five hours,” he repeated, almost to himself. That did seem like a rather glaring absence.

You hummed. “Yes. Long enough for suspicions to rise, but not long enough for a full-fledged search party.”

Daeron scoffed. “Not long enough? I assure you, my mother has likely already heard of your disappearance.”

You sighed. “Great. Then it has to be good.”

Daeron mulled it over, stepping aside as a group of market-goers passed. “You could say you fainted in the streets, and I, being the gallant prince that I am, took you to recover in a sept.”

You arched a brow. “And no one thought to send a message back?”

He frowned. “Fine. A merchant was attacked on the road outside the city, and I, being the gallant prince that I am, escorted you to safety.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re really stuck on that ‘gallant prince’ bit, aren’t you?”

He smirked. “It has a nice ring to it.”

“More like a shrill clang.”

Daeron sighed, tilting his head as he studied you. “Why not tell the truth? And what are you going to do with that?”

You smiled down at your gift. “Don’t worry about it.” Then You gave him a flat look. “I think we both know why.”

He did. You weren’t stupid—far from it. Telling the truth would only invite scrutiny, questions you didn’t want to answer, people you didn’t want involved. His mother, Ser Criston, worst of all, his uncle. He didn’t want to disappoint his Uncle Gwayne. No that simply will not do. 

And Aemond wouldn’t want that either.

Daeron sighed again. “Fine. Then say I requested your presence for a…political discussion.”

You gave him a skeptical look. “With you?”

He placed a hand over his heart in mock offense. “I’ll have you know I’m quite politically astute.”

You snorted. “Right. Well, if anyone asks, I’ll say we discussed the future of the realm over tea and cakes.”

Daeron smirked. “And that I, being the gallant prince that I am, escorted you back safely.”

You groaned. “Seven help me.” 

He gave a laugh. Though Daeron does not understand your appeal, he must admit you are very easy to talk to you. You lack the formality that often stands in the way of truly speaking to another person.

Daeron chuckled, though he still couldn’t quite grasp your appeal. Regardless, he had to admit—you were easy to talk to. There was a refreshing lack of formality with you, a directness that made conversation effortless.

“This isn’t going to work,” you muttered under your breath as you both reached the secret boat that he prepared ahead of time.

He glanced at you before untying the boat and helping you in.“Perhaps my mother won’t ask.”

Silence. Then he felt your stare and looked to meet it as he got in the boat himself. The incredulous expression on your face was almost amusing.

“I’m going to give you grace,” you said slowly, “because… well, you don’t know her—”

“And you do?” he interjected.

“Yes,” you said flatly. “I’ve been with her for months now.”

Daeron frowned, considering your words. Months? His mother had never mentioned you before. Not once. And yet, here you were, speaking as if you knew her better than he did. He found that hard to believe.

“And in all those months,” Daeron said, weaving through the crowd with you at his side, “have you ever known her to let something go?”

Your silence was answer enough.

He sighed. “So, what excuse do you want? A robbery? You were lost? Some dramatic tale of a horse throwing you off, and you hit your head?”

You gave him a dry look. “I don’t want something that makes me sound pathetic. Just… something believable.”

“Then say you were with me.”

You stopped playing with your gift before looking up at him with a less than thrilled expression.

“With you?” You sounded skeptical.

He shrugged. “It’s not a lie.”

“It is a lie. Because you weren’t the one I was with.”

“Yes, but I did take you.” He tilted his head. “You make it sound as if I’ve kidnapped you.”

You exhaled sharply, folding your arms. “Because you did.”

Daeron rolled his eyes. “Aemond requested you. And you went willingly, in the end.”

You scoffed, resuming your play with that gift he still has no idea how you’re going to hide. “Right. And how long do you think I can keep this up before she figures it out?”

“She won’t hear it from me,” he finally said.

“Oh, I know she won’t hear it from you,” you muttered. “She’ll just look at your face and know.”

Daeron scowled. “I am not so easily read.”

Though the way you looked at him left him unconvinced of his own words.

Finally reaching Hightower, the guards swiftly let him in. He never did see how you ended up hiding your gift for the next time he looked at you, your hands were empty. Moments later his mother, his uncle, and Ser Criston entered. His mother quickly grabbed his face inspecting him. Her grip was harsh, nothing like earlier that day. His eyes shifted towards his Uncle whose face lacked expression. Daeron swallowed hard and Ser Criston had his eyes on you.

“Where were you?” His mother sharply questioned him and he looked down at the floor before quickly returning his gaze to his mother. Though perhaps you were right, he was easily read, for his mother’s face twisted into an expression Daeron does not know how to describe, though he knows it well. That same look she used to look at Aegon with. Daeron felt his heart drop and suddenly there was a weight on his chest. 

No, there was no perhaps, you were right. Daeron…Daeron did not know his mother as he used to. Not in the way she looked at him now, and certainly not in the way she looks at you. A look so full of fear and hate. It’s almost hard to believe that this is his mother. His mother that used comfort Aemond for his lack of dragon, his mother that would try and fail to braid Helaena’s hair, his mother who would always have Daeron attached to her hip. (Though Daeron’s mind ignores the sound of Helaena’s cries as her mother pulls her hair too hard while attempting to braid, and his mind also ignores the slaps she gave to Aegon when he would stumble in drunk. His mind ignores the blatant favoritism she had towards Aemond because when Daeron would have Tessarion on his shoulder, his mother would never give him the time of day.)

“And where were you? Ser Criston said you ran off”

Daeron shifted his gaze to you, but you weren’t looking at his mother—you were looking past her, your eyes glazed over, distant. Detached.

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” you said, voice steady, yet strangely devoid of warmth. “It was not my intention to leave Ser Criston.”

Alicent studied you, her lips pressing into a thin line, suspicion evident in the way her fingers twitched at her sides. She did not believe you. Daeron could see it in the tautness of her posture, in the wary glance she threw toward Ser Criston, as if expecting him to confirm or refute your words.

Ser Criston, however, said nothing. His jaw was locked tight, unreadable.

Daeron swallowed. Why did it feel like the air in the room had thickened? Like something unseen, something unspoken, was unfurling between the four of you?

His uncle Gwayne remained silent as well, though Daeron could feel the weight of his eyes on him. On you.

His mother’s voice, sharp as a blade, cut through the silence.

"Then tell me," Alicent said, tone deceptively soft. "What was your intention?"

"I was taken forcefully."

Shit.

Daeron knew he had told you to say that, but he hadn’t expected it to land like this. Hadn’t expected his mother’s face to shift—her eyes darkening, her lips parting ever so slightly as if she might gasp but thought better of it.

Gods, can he stomach another look like that from her?

A look like the one she wore when she first learned of Aegon’s indiscretions. When the truth of what her eldest son had done sank in, heavy and inescapable.

(Though Daeron cannot remember if it was the first time Aegon had forced himself on a maid, or if it was simply the first time his mother had believed he had—if only for a moment, before convincing herself otherwise.)

Daeron’s eyes flickered toward Ser Criston. He was unreadable at first, but then—there. The slight widening of his gaze. A tightening of his jaw.

"By a man who claimed he was in love with me,” you continued, voice steady. “Said he had heard of my works from King’s Landing to the Riverlands."

Daeron clenched his jaw.

He could feel the weight of his uncle’s gaze—heavy, dissecting. On you. On him.

Gods, he had mentioned you once. And it had been weeks ago. He hadn’t even known it was you.

A passing remark—that was all it had been. Some idle conversation about a woman the High Septon in King’s Landing had supposedly called a godsend. Daeron had barely thought anything of it. Just something he’d overheard, something he’d mentioned in passing to his uncle, who had promptly laughed and teased that he had a crush on you.

Who the fuck would’ve thought it would come back to bite him?

From now on, Daeron swore he would never mention another woman again.

“Daeron?” His mother’s voice cut through his thoughts, sharp with exasperation—the same tone she always used with Aegon.

But he wasn’t Aegon.

So why was she looking at him like this? Like he was something disappointing, something shameful?

“I—” He hesitated. What could he even say? That he wasn’t actually in love with you? That Aemond had come looking for you?

Aemond had told him to say nothing.

But was his brother’s secrecy worth his mother’s scorn? His uncle’s disappointment?

“I have nothing to say—”

The slap came swift and hard. A sharp sting across his right cheek, his face jerking to the side. His breath caught, eyes widening as the heat of his mother’s palm bloomed across his skin.

He barely registered the words she spat at you before all three of them turned and left.

Daeron could not bear to look at his uncle.

Daeron stood rigid, his breath uneven, his cheek still pulsing with the sting of his mother’s hand. Shame curled in his stomach like a viper, coiling tighter with each passing second. His hands clenched into fists at his sides as he turned to face you, his temper threatening to spill over. The dim candlelight flickered against the cold stone walls, casting jagged shadows over your face—but there was no fear in your expression. Only indifference. Or worse, amusement.

"Did you have to say that last part!?" he bit out, his voice low, sharp as a blade.

You barely spared him a glance before tilting your head, a slow, deliberate motion. Your eyes, still slightly swollen from earlier, caught the light in an almost feline way. “You told me to say you kidnapped me. I phrased it as best I could.”

Daeron let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. It was devoid of humor, more breath than sound, filled with sheer disbelief. His hands twitched at his sides, aching to do something—to rake through his hair, to shove against the wall, to find some kind of release for the frustration bubbling in his chest.

“Did you have to say I loved you!?” His voice rose, filled with something between outrage and humiliation. “My mother has scorned me!”

That was when you smiled. Not a smirk, not a taunt—just a smile, sweet as sin.

"Better you than me."

Yes, a damned woman you were, and Daeron had paid the price for you.

Sighing, he leaned back against Tessarion’s saddle as she soared through the clouds. The cool mist turned to sharp pinpricks against his skin, like a thousand tiny needles biting into him. He winced but didn’t pull away. The discomfort was nothing compared to the humiliation he had suffered.

It had been a hell of a task trying to meet you alone after you’d so willingly sacrificed him to his mother’s wrath. That damned Dornish knight clung to your side now more than ever, his shadow stretching long wherever you walked. Why? Daeron didn’t know, nor did he particularly care. All he knew was that the only place he could reach you without prying eyes was the Citadel—when you locked yourself away under the guise of working on whatever it was you worked on.

The first time you tried to sneak out of your window to meet him, he had dropped you.

(Perhaps it had been on purpose. Best you never know that.)

To be fair, you had jumped too soon, too far—practically throwing yourself into open air before he was even ready. He had managed to catch you at the last moment, though not before letting you fall a few feet just enough to teach you a lesson.

Now, to keep suspicions at bay, he had to fly near the Citadel constantly, circling like a hawk pretending to train Tessarion. It was tedious, but if you thought he would let your betrayal go unanswered, you were sorely mistaken.

Last week, he had mentioned it to Aemond, expecting some sort of outrage, maybe even a warning. Instead, his brother had only laughed.

Aemond had told him it wasn’t uncommon for you to use others to your advantage—especially Targaryen princes.

Daeron had been left dumbfounded. Why, then, would Aemond ever take you in, knowing full well that you were only (probably) manipulating him? But after seeing you both together for the first time, Daeron doubted that there weren’t lingering feelings.

After all, you had started crying the moment you saw Aemond.

Daeron still remembered his own face twisting in distaste, watching his brother pet your hair as you clung to him, your body wracked with quiet sobs. It had been such a strange sight—Aemond, who had never been one for softness, letting you press yourself against him, his gloved fingers moving gently through your hair.

The memory alone made Daeron shake his head.

Even in his youth, Aemond was never one to comfort anyone, it was him who needed the comfort from mother for a lack of Dragon. To see the roles reversed left him feeling…well he does not know, but it doesn’t feel right. 

…

9th Day of the 9th Moon, 129 AC

Aemond was left alone with you after giving Daeron a look. His little brother, ever the obedient one. He had grown much since he last saw him. He was a boy no longer, but a man. And Tessarion, she had grown well. It made him smile, even if it was just a little. Tessarion had been the first dragon Aemond was able to touch. Daeron, his little brother ever trusting never suspecting that deep down Aemond did hope Tessarion would one day leave his little brother for him. But fate had other plans. Daeron had kept his dragon, as was only right, and Aemond had claimed the Queen of Dragons instead.

His gaze remained fixed on the fading silhouette of Tessarion as he absentmindedly stroked your hair. He felt the tremble in your shoulders, the way you buried your face into his coat, and the wet warmth of tears against the fabric. He had expected to have to lure you back with jewelry, with promises wrapped in gold and silver. But here you were. You came back to him all by yourself. You nodded against his chest, confirming what he had told you before—that things were better with a name.

“What has happened?” Aemond mumbled out looking away from the empty skies as Tessarion faded from view. 

“That you were right,” you whispered against him.

He tilted his head, brushing a few strands of your hair from your face. “Why do you say that?”

“I was humiliated,” you replied, voice tight with restrained fury.

“By whom?” His tone sharpened, the soft affection in his hand at odds with the steel in his voice.

“The Maesters,” you hissed. “Who else?”

Aemond’s brow furrowed. “Why?”

You leaned back just enough to meet his gaze, eyes brimming. “They accused me of sleeping with the whole damn small council.”

He supposed it was to be expected. The gods must favor him indeed—to grant such perfect circumstances, as if fate itself bent to his will, delivering you back into his arms. Again. He felt the soft press of your face as you burrowed into the crook of his neck, breath warming his skin.

“all fucking savages,” you muttered, voice muffled. Whether you’d said they’re all or you’re all was unclear—and perhaps telling.

Aemond gave a faint hum, unsure if you noticed. You continued, your voice like a simmering curse barely held back.

“Insufferable. Idiotic. Unevolved Neanderthals.”

He leaned back slightly, just enough to glance down at you. You were still murmuring, lips forming sharp, unfamiliar words he didn’t quite catch. Your eyes were red-rimmed, your nose red and irritated, breaths broken and shallow. The wind had tousled your hair into a wild mess, strands clinging to your damp cheeks. You looked like something raw and storm-born, all edges and ache, and gods help him—he was glad for it. Glad it brought you back.

Slowly his hands traveled up to your face wiping away the tears. You looked up to him, your eyes were wide and your lashes clumped together. There was that doll eyed look he liked so much.

“I brought you something.” He murmured as he let go of your face reaching for the ropes on Vhagar and lowering a bag. He unhitched the bag from the ropes and turned to you pulling out a series of jewelry. 

“What is that?” He watched as touched the metal before pulling it all out of the bag. You furrowed your brows looking at it.

“It’s jewelry.” He spoke as you moved it around before placing it on the ground. You knelt beside it seemingly trying to take it apart.

“For me?” You looked up to him and Aemond knelt beside you shaking his head.

“No.” His hand went to cup your face, but as if remembering the wrong doings he committed against you, you moved away. “They’re from something else.”

“Like?” He heard you murmur. You looked…funny. Your face was pouting and slightly puffy from your crying. The whites of your eyes still slightly red from your crying and he could still hear the small sniffles from you and your uneasy breathing. The kind people have after crying for too long. (The kind he used to have when he’d go crying to his mother after being tormented by the bastards and his brother.)

“Like a horse.” Your head snapped to him and he nodded. Your eyes were wide which made you all the more doll-like. Mouth slightly parted before a reluctant smile came onto you.

“Really?” you asked, voice high and soft — the kind of tone women use when they want something, whether they know it or not. 

Aemond tried his luck again reaching for your face. He watched as your eyes locked onto his hand, before you blinked looking at him. He feels your face again. It’s sticky — from tears. Cold, too, from the wind.

“The horse is in King’s Landing waiting for you. It’s spotted. Along with this.” Aemond’s always had a good memory. Never let a slight go. Never. But, he’s pretty good at remembering other things too.

“I can’t even watch animals get killed, I start crying.”

You were a spiteful person too. Aemond knows it. You attacked his uncle without any thoughts of your survival. After all, back then you were nobody. You still are nobody no matter how many people talk about you. 

But Aemond digresses.

He doubts you’d forget a slight against you. ‘The greatest scholar there ever was and ever will be.’

Hence these gifts.

Aemond stood up climbing the ropes and within ten minutes he grabbed the second bag which he kept close and softly held it against him as he made his way back down, much faster this time.

You were still fumbling with the bridle — a mosaic of colored gems, gold and silver woven in.The bag moved around in his hand as he set it down and you moved over to it, opening it. A loud gasp left you as you began to laugh and smile.

“You’re lying.” You pulled out the spotted pup hugging it against your chest as you cooed at it like one would to a newborn babe. The said pup wagged its tail and it smelled you.

“It’s a new breed. Only fifty or so years old. They’re called…” The name escaped him.

“Dalmatian.” You murmured and Aemond nodded. Were you one for dogs? “I’m well versed. We have them where I’m from. They’re fire dogs, but originally bred to be carriage dogs.” Aemond continued to watch as you smiled, placing the pup on the ground. It kept running back to you before turning to Aemond smelling him as well. He made no effort to play with it. “What’s its name?”

“It’s yours. You name it.” Aemond murmured as the pup ran back over to you. You looked like you were about to cry. Surely his slight would be pushed to the back of your mind. He can only imagine your reaction to the horse. It was a hard horse to find.

“Alright. Are you a boy or a girl?” Aemond looked away from your going to look further into the bag he brought the pup in. “Oh you’re a girl! Predita or Cruella? Should I make a coat out of you?” His brows furrowed listening to you. “I’d need 101 dalmatians more. What do you think?”

“If you want a coat out of fur, I can have one made for you. No need to skin the dog.” He finally brought out the collar for the dog. A pearl necklace and a matching one for you. That one he pulled from his coat pocket.

“What do you think then? Perdita or Cruella?" You took the pearl collar and tied it around the dog’s neck before lifting the dog making her stand on two legs before letting her go.

“What kind of name is Cruella?” Aemond stood wrapping the necklace around your neck. It’s a pretty neck. Delicate. Bruises easily.

“Cruella De Ville.” You turned around looking at him with a smile as your dog went around sniffing. He furrowed his brows. It took him a moment to make the connection. De Ville, Devil. Clever.

“Predita.” He said petting your hair before sitting down next to you. You never turned to look at him, keeping your eyes forward.

“Boring.” He laid down in the grass, closing his eyes. Stubborn girl.

“Then Cruella. Name her whatever you want. She’s your dog.” He spoke again leaning on his side touching the jewels of the loose belt around your waist. 

“Perdita then.” He looked up to find you smiling before looking back to Perdita. Perdita, his saving grace. You whistled and the dog ran back to you. You left him in the grass as you hiked up your dress and ran around with your latest gift. You looked like something out of a painting. Running around, your face flushed, a girl running around in a forest clearing, the sun beaming down on you as you played with your puppy.

All of it matched save for his dragon in the background, her large size dwarfing everything else save for the tall trees.

Finally Aemond stood up walking over to you as you heaved running to and fro. Again he cupped your face and again your eyes shifted away from him. His muscles tensed before he gave  sight pressing his forehead against yours.

“I did not mean it.” He whispered and he felt you still. He felt shame and embarrassment creeping onto him. “In truth,” tightened his grip subconsciously, keeping his eye closed. “It has plagued me.” 

And it has. What if those Maesters hadn’t forced you back to him? What would he do then?

“Aemond.” You pulled away from him. Your smile from before long gone, though you went to hold his hands. 

He felt the apology in the back of his throat but to say it. He almost felt sick. Aemond has never had to apologize, much less to someone like you. “I would ask that you…for…get my sins against you.” He couldn’t do it. Did he really do something wrong? It was you who withheld your past from him. But nonetheless he cannot risk it anymore. “It will not happen again.” If you come clean.

“No, it will not,” you replied, your voice a sharpened blade, final and cold. But even so, your fingers trailed gently down his forearm, like a contradiction made flesh — tender where your words were cruel.

“I know you are not one to forget such things,” he said, watching the way your touch lingered, his tone softer now, almost reverent.

“No, I am not,” you echoed, your gauze moving to his arm and then your soft touch became firm. Your thumbs applying slight pressure throughout his forearm. He would be damned if he made a face of pain, but it hurt. It hurt nearest the bone.

“I swear it on my honor.” He tried to keep his tone even, though the tightness in his muscles hurt. Finally your eyes looked at him before trailing down and back up. You hit a nerve and inhaled sharply, ripping his arms away from you, anger simmering just below the surface. He could still feel the phantom feeling your thumb against his muscle.

You only gave him a hum.

Once again he grabbed your face kissing you. Hard. His teeth clashed against yours. He heard your sound of surprise. He pulled away and your lips were red and irritated. Your eyes wide before narrowing looking at him, then you turned your face again and he turned it back towards him. Aemond never looked away from you.

“I’ll make it worth your while.” He told you and you only gave him scoff in return. Again he kissed you, though this time on your cheek, tracing down and landing on your neck and despite your lack of response you moved your head to the side allowing him better access. On his his hand let go of your jaw trailing down, however just before landing on your breast you grabbed his hand. 

You pulled away from him shaking your head

…

19th Day of the 9th Moon, 129 AC

‘The aqueducts.’ As eyes passed the words his mind ran blank. 

An Aqueduct? He had never seen one before. The best memories his mind could show were small ducklings. He supposes it sounded similar. Then his eyes scanned ‘Water conducts.’ Only then was his mind able to show him memories and merge them together to try and perceive what an ‘Aqueduct’ was. 

‘Premise

Take a water supply, natural springs or even part of a river and put them into an artificially constructed channel and lead that channel of water into the city of King’s Landing via gradient flow.’ Flashing memories came to Vaegon. Memories of creeks and rapids. Memories of the springs near Old Town, just southwest of here. 

A tapping sound caused more memories to flash through his head. His younger sister. Saera Targaryen. Her nails tapping rhythmically on wood. Her deep purple eyes meshed with the rapids that flashed though his mind. More and more memories flashed before his eyes before it was too much for him too bare.

“Stop.”

Your constant movement was distracting. If you truly wanted him to review your proposal, you’d have to stop rocking back and forth like that. The creaking of the old bench beneath you only added to the irritation.

“Sorry,” you said quickly, folding your hands in your lap—but the motion didn’t still. “Sometimes I have a hard time staying still. I need to always be moving some part of me.”

Of course. Even seated, Vaegon had noticed the persistent bouncing of your leg, the twitch of your fingers, the way your eyes flicked to every sound, every flicker of movement in the room. A restless energy clung to you like static.

He supposed, in some ways, he could understand. He wasn’t fond of touch either—he preferred stillness, silence, a controlled space where nothing unexpected could burst in. You’d told him once that some sounds were unbearable to you, sharp or shrill enough to make you clamp your hands over your ears. He remembered that.

When Vaegon heard an unpleasant sound of his own making, he often tried to recreate it—softly, precisely—until it became tolerable, even comforting. He didn’t know why. It just calmed the storm in his mind.

So, yes. He supposed he understood a part of you.

“It’s certainly an idea,” he said, his voice measured as he handed you your proposal and stood up to rinse his hands in a bowl he always had readily available in any of his spaces. “Though my strengths lie in mathematics and economics, not structural design. What exactly do you expect of me?”

“Well, you see,” He heard you say as he dried his hands on a towel set aside then went back to sit down. “Recently, I introduced the patent system.”

Ah yes. The infamous patent system—radical, unorthodox, and met with ridicule despite its approval by the small council. They had mocked you openly. Laughed, even, behind closed doors. But you had held your ground, and your persistence had forced them to reckon with something they didn’t understand.

Vaegon hadn’t been back to King’s Landing since his early twenties. But even from afar, he had heard the rumors. The whispers of the girl who dared to change things. And now here you sat, your ideas clutched in ink-stained hands, restless, brilliant, and maddening.

“And?”

Vaegon’s eyes lingered on you, cool and unreadable, as though trying to determine if you truly saw the world the way he did. If beneath your restless energy and strange habits, there was a mind shaped like his—rigid, restless, always turning.

“I’d like to appoint you to the seat in King’s Landing,” you said, your voice firm despite the fluttering of your hands. “I bring this proposal as proof that I can come up with many other things. I know things. I know many things. I can figure out how to make it happen. There are variables, yes, and I’ll need support from others, but I can’t do that if I don’t have a strong name behind me.”

Your eyes didn’t waver from his, lit with something that shimmered between desperation and determination. The sunlight spilling in through the tall window turned the parchment on the table golden, casting sharp shadows across your ink-splattered notes.

“You want to patent your design?” he asked, voice flat but not dismissive.

“Eventually, yes. Once it’s fully realized. I have mathematical formulas for you—if you’re interested.”

He tilted his head slightly, a glimmer of intrigue flickering across his otherwise impassive features. The sunlight caught in his silver hair, giving him the appearance of a marble statue—cold, still, and observing. “What formulas?”

“Many,” you replied, the corners of your mouth curling into a small, proud grin. “The ones needed for this water system alone would entertain you for days.”

Vaegon’s eyes narrowed, just barely, but enough to betray his interest. “What exactly are you referring to?”

“Well,” you began, your fingers dancing lightly along the edge of your parchment as if your excitement needed somewhere to go, “as you said yourself—mathematics clearly fascinates you. So allow me to introduce you to a whole new world…”

He watched as your smile bloomed fully now, bright and sudden as a struck match. “Trigonometry,” you declared, almost reverently. “It will be essential to this project. I’m quite well-versed. Triangles—you’ll find—are remarkably interesting. Surprisingly stable when incorporated into structural design. Oh! And arches. You mustn’t forget arches. So strong, so elegant.”

“Triangles and arches,” he repeated, half in amusement, half in consideration.

“If you’d like, I can give you statistics,” you said, shrugging a shoulder, “and calculus, though I’m better at algebra. Trigonometry overlaps with calculus, of course. I’d speak on differential equations, but… I never quite made it that far in my formal education.”

His eyebrow rose, not mockingly, but with a shade of challenge. “Give me calculus, then.”

“Well,” you said with a breathless little laugh, “I can offer what I remember. Complex numbers, inequalities, logarithmic and exponential functions, the six trigonometric functions—oh, and graphing them too. Radian measures. Laws of triangles. Just the very basics, of course.”

He didn’t respond immediately, but the silence wasn’t empty. His eyes lingered on you, and for a brief moment, it was as if the great weight of the Citadel’s stone walls vanished. It was just two minds in a quiet room, orbiting one another like stars pulled by invisible threads of gravity.

Slowly, Vaegon pulled a sheet of parchment from a nearby stack and handed you a quill. “Show me,” he said simply, his voice low and unreadable.

Without hesitation, you took the quill with eager hands, eyes lighting up with purpose. You sketched a perfect circle in the center of the page, then drew two lines through it—one horizontally, the other diagonally. The ink flowed smoothly, your movements confident, almost practiced.

“If you want to start somewhere,” you said, voice steady with excitement, “the unit circle is the best foundation. You can figure out almost everything trigonometric from it.”

More lines followed, radiating outward with precise care, until the circle was evenly divided. “These,” you explained, tapping each section, “are quadrants—one, two, three, and four.”

Vaegon leaned forward slightly, watching you work with the kind of quiet intensity usually reserved for ancient tomes. You tapped the center of the circle with the tip of the quill.

“First things first: the unit circle always begins here, at the origin.” You marked the center with a small ‘0’. “Now, to the right”—you drew a clean dot—“you have the point (1, 0). Then up here, (0, 1), then (-1, 0), and finally down here, (0, -1). These are your cardinal points on the graph.”

As you spoke, your hand moved quickly, yet with clarity, labeling each point and marking them with tiny, carefully drawn numbers in circles. “This one,” you said, tapping the top point, “is 0°, and also 360°, since it loops back around. Then here—” another tap, another mark—“30°, 45°, 60°, and then 90°.”

Vaegon’s eyes followed every stroke of your hand, every number inked onto the parchment like a kind of sacred language. When he raised a brow at the circled numerals, you responded with a soft smile. “To indicate degrees.”

He gave a small nod of understanding but said nothing, content instead to watch you transform blank parchment into structure and meaning, theory and application. In the gentle rustle of robes, the scratch of quill on paper, and the subtle cadence of your voice, Vaegon found himself—strangely—drawn in.

“Now, this is all really about patterns,” you said, voice calm but alight with enthusiasm. “The human mind is excellent at recognizing them—and that’s all the unit circle is: one large, beautifully repeating pattern.”

Vaegon watched as you looked up, your eyes flicking to his face as you set the quill down for a moment. A small splash of ink smudged across your fingers, but you didn’t seem to notice. “Thirty, fifteen, fifteen, fifteen, thirty,” you continued, holding the rhythm in your voice like a song. “That’s how you get all your angles.”

You picked the quill up again and returned to the circle, numbers flowing from your hand in a neat, rapid succession. “Start at 90°, add 15 and you get 120°, then 135°, then 150°. Add 30 more and you’re at 180°. Then—” the tip of the quill danced, leaving small marks like stars across the parchment “—210°, 225°, 240°, then 270°. Keep going—300°, 315°, 330°, and finally, 360°.”

You glanced back at him with a knowing smile. “See? It all comes full circle.”

A perfect 360°. Vaegon leaned closer, inspecting the wheel of logic you’d sketched out. The symmetry, the precision—it was strangely satisfying. His mind, always quick to map meaning and structure, absorbed it instantly.

“Now,” you said, straightening, “you want to label your coordinate points—the ones between the zeros and ones.” You moved to the 45° mark. “Let’s skip 30° for now and start here. Coordinates are labeled (x, y)—x goes first, that’s your horizontal axis, and y is your vertical.”

You drew two faint arrows extending from the circle, indicating direction. “This here”—you pointed to the diagonal slice of the circle—“is 45°. Since it sits perfectly between the x and y axes, its coordinates are symmetrical: (√2/2, √2/2). Equal distance on both sides.”

Vaegon gave a small nod, the logic clear, elegant.

“Now look at 60°,” you continued, tapping the mark. “Here, the point lies closer to the y-axis, so y is √3/2. The x value, further away, is ½. And at 30°, it’s reversed—x is √3/2 and y is ½.”

The parchment was filled with numbers and curves now, a beautiful lattice of precision and shape.

“And here’s another pattern—this one’s about signs,” you said, circling the quadrants with the tip of the quill. “In the first quadrant, everything’s positive. In the second, x is negative, y is positive. In the third, both x and y are negative. And in the fourth, x is positive again, y is negative.”

You looked up at him again, your ink-stained fingers resting lightly on the page.

“It’s all connected,” you said softly. “Once you see the pattern… it never really leaves you.”

“It’s the opposite,” Vaegon murmured, his gaze fixed on the paper, nodding slightly as the realization clicked into place.

“Exactly,” you said with a spark of pride, tapping the parchment with your ink-stained finger. “Now we move on to radians.”

“Radians?” he repeated, brow arching.

“The conversion factor,” you explained, “is π over 180° to get from degrees to radians—and 180° over π to go the other way.”

“Pie?” he asked, the word landing awkwardly in the air.

You chuckled softly. “Not the kind you eat. This is pi, spelled P-I. A mathematical constant—approximately 3.14159, but it actually goes on forever. It never repeats, never ends. That makes it an irrational number.”

Vaegon’s expression didn’t change, but he leaned in a fraction closer.

“There’s infinity between whole numbers,” you continued, drawing a long horizontal line on the parchment and marking the intervals. “From one to two isn’t just one, then two—it’s 1.1, 1.2, 1.3... and between those? 1.11, 1.12... smaller and smaller still. It goes on forever. Infinity tucked between every pair of numbers, no matter how close.”

You reached for the quill again, swiftly scrawling a set of neat symbols: 3 < π < 4

“See?” you said, gesturing to the line. “Pi lives between three and four. Not quite either, but always somewhere in between.”

Vaegon stared at the symbols. They had an elegant simplicity to them—greater than and less than, logic wrapped in symmetry.

“There are also symbols for ‘greater than or equal to,’ but that’s a conversation for another time. Right now—” you sat straighter, gathering momentum again, “let’s convert degrees to radians.”

You scribbled out the beginning of a conversion: 30° × (π / 180°)

“Multiply 30 by pi over 180. You’ll get 30π over 180... which simplifies to 3π over 18 then to just π over 6…”

You paused to let it sink in, the numbers dark and sharp on the paper beneath the candlelight.

“Your turn,” you said, handing him the quill. “Try 45° next.”

…

26th day of the 9th moon, 129 AC

You seemed to move around more than usual. Constantly arching your back ever so slightly, pushing your thighs to get you more often. 

Though it all comes to ahead when you push yourself against him. What On purpose or not Aemond keeps you against him. 

Nothing was said between the both of you, but you never stopped squirming. Finally annoyed with your constant grinding against him yet pushing him away, Aemond paused before grabbing your ankles attempting to have you straddle him.

“Stop!” It was firm and for a moment it did make him freeze. You had never really told him to stop in such a way before. Never. Slowly, Aemond released your leg watching you as you sat up. You kept moving though this time you seemed more worried of his reaction rate than whatever seemed to be bothering you. Had he not made up for his ‘outburst’ with the necklace you now wore, or the extra spending money he gave you? (Along with the pretty purple marks in between your thighs he was sure needed to be given color once more.) 

Sighing, he stood up, reaching his hand out to you. Clearly his attempts to have you forgive him hadn’t worked completely. He watched you shake your head and his annoyance flared but that would do him no good. 

“What is it?” He asked as he watched you sit on the floor. Through the outline of your dress he could see the slightly tightening of your thighs every so often. 

“I am uncomfortable.” Your voice was quiet. That was unusual. You had started speaking somewhat normally to him after the first week of Darron bringing you to meet him. 

Mayhaps Aemond had been doing a poor job of fulfilling your needs. If that were the case, then that would not do at all. Slowly once more he knelt down in front of you and began reaching for your legs. He supposes pleasing you instead of himself would earn him something. 

“No Aemon, stop.” Once more you crossed your legs even tighter. “You can’t.”

”Why?” He reached a hand to your face in which you turned your face away ever so slowly, though it did not stop him from cupping your cheek.

He saw and felt the heat on your face. He breathed out a smile looking down towards your legs then back towards you. (For now he would ignore the small prickle of annoyance on his shoulder. Why he had it? He could not say. He knew, but would not say.) 

“You’re blood moon then?” He murmured and he felt your face move to the side trying to avoid him.

“Can I go back?” you asked quietly, your arms crossing over your chest. “I’d rather not be out today… or for the rest of this week.”

Aemond tilted his head slightly. “You’d rather back?” he repeated, watching the subtle stiffness in your posture.

“This would’ve been fine if it was any other day,” you muttered, shifting your weight with visible discomfort. “The first day, third, fourth, or even fifth. But the second day?” You exhaled sharply and looked away. “Today is a horrid day. I asked Daeron not to bring me—he dragged me from my room.”

He supposes he should try to be more appealing to you, but he had nothing to do back in King’s Landing and he’d already gone through your things for the umpteenth time making sure to miss nothing. Though the more he looks at your portraits the more his will to appeased you lessens. 

“No.” He watched your eyes narrow ever so slightly looking up towards him.

“What am I going to do here? Sit all day!?” As you began to shout he looked at you simply hearing you. Clearly you had gotten more comfortable seeing as you are now yelling at him when only two weeks ago you’d simply stay quiet.

Aemond looked away briefly, his gaze drifting toward the trees in the distance as he considered his next words. “There’s a river more inland,” he said, voice quieter now. “It’s old, hidden in the woods. The water stays cold even in summer.”

He heard the shift in your tone as she looked up. “And?”

“And,” he said, stepping closer and extending his hand, “no one goes there.”

Your expression changed, but he didn’t dwell on it. “You’re saying you’ll take me there?”

“If you’ll stay,” he replied, eye steady on you, “then yes. I’ll take you on Vhagar.”

You questioned the logistics of it, something about not being clean. He didn’t flinch.

“How did you ride Tessarion?” he asked.

You answered about a cloth, and he nodded once. “Then use what you wear underneath your dress. Blood can be cleaned simply enough.”

A pause.

“Alright,” You said finally. “Help me get this dress off.”

“You must stand first,” he answered calmly.

You let out a breath of frustration but gave in. “Okay, wait, let me take off my socks and shoes.”

He watched you bend forward, fingers working at the laces. His eye dropped to your legs. Sunlight slanted across your skin, catching the faint sheen of it. He said nothing, only watched in silence as she peeled your socks off and stretched your toes.

“A shame there’s no nail polish,” you muttered. “I need to get my nails done again.”

Aemond arched a brow, his tone dry. “Is that truly what you’re concerned with?”

“Yes,” she said, lifting your chin.

He didn’t press the matter. His lips twitched slightly, but he said nothing more. Helping you stand he watched your face as you looked up, he went to turn you around though you stayed put. Once again annoyance pricked at him, instead he moved himself to unlace the back of your dress. It promptly fell and you were left with the underneath of the dress, which was black. He kept his eyes towards you as you stepped out of the dress pooled on the ground. He went to pick it up but stopped when he saw red staining the grass then looking at your legs as there were two red streaks that coated your legs. 

Looking back towards you. How miserable you looked. It nearly made him feel bad. What a shame you had to go through this embarrassment. A cruel punishment for you indeed. Finally picking up your dress you sent to strip yourself completely. Should Aemond look away from you, in what seems to be your most vulnerable state? 

Yes, but he won’t.

He had expected your undergarments to be soaked in red, though as far as he could tell they were still the same color without a dark red or anything of the sort. Your nipples were hard from the sudden temperature change. He reached his hand towards you. He wonders if this is how you would’ve stood if he were the one to take your maiden head. Would you look this small? Would you flinch the way you do now as he takes one of your breasts in his hand giving it a small squeeze. Your skin was soft. Your breasts were as malleable as ever. 

Slowly his thumb swiped over your nipple and there was that reaction, as if it was your first time. How pretty they sat, how pretty they looked, how pretty they looked when he gave another squeeze and the fat of them seemed to overflow and escape his hand. 

You were already as blessed as is, but if they were heavy with milk? How much more would spill from his hand when he squeezed them in the dead of night when you slept beside him? Small droplets of white trailing down his hand as you gave a small moan eager for some relief, and he? Well who would he be to deny you when he is the reason for your predicament. 

Your hand wrapped around his, snapping him from his fantasy. “They’re sensitive.” He heard you murmur once more. 

“I know.” He leaned down pulling you against him, his hand on the small of your back as he kissed you, forcing his tongue into your mouth. You tasted like an apple cake, the ones Daeron told him you like to have so much before you meet him.

The cinnamon taste suited you quite well. Slowly he backs away from you watching you regain your breath, your chest moving up and down slightly before he undid the belt that held his coat around him. 

“Aemond.” You called his name and he nodded. He simply handed it to you. Slowly you put it on as he turned away from you walking to Vhagar and he began his climb to set your spot. He reached the top of Vhagar with speed. After years of practice it only took him minutes to climb her, when at first it had taken him an hour. 

He looked towards you as you began to climb the side of Vhagar. It was a nice view. His coat did nothing to shield you as a dress would from the top. Finally you reached him after about twenty minutes. Better than him, though he would rationalize that he was only ten when he first mounted Vhagar. 

With a firm pull, Aemond secured you against his chest as Vhagar’s wings unfurled, each beat of the leathery sails stirring the dust and grass below. The air thinned and cooled as the great beast launched into the sky, her mighty body surging upward with the force of a rising storm.

“Where is the river?” You murmured against him, your voice nearly lost in the rush of wind. He felt the shiver that coursed through you and instinctively tightened his hold, one arm braced around her waist, the other offering what warmth he could against the cold bite of altitude.

“Bordering Dorne,” he replied, his lips close to your ear, “in the mountains.”

“Dorne?” You repeated, lifting her head slightly.

“The southern part of Westeros,” Aemond explained, watching the clouds peel away beneath them. “Deserts, salt flats… sunburnt lands.”

“Is it a part of the Seven Kingdoms?” You asked, your tone curious, carried off by the wind.

“Yes and no,” Aemond answered, eye fixed on the horizon. “My family has failed countless times to conquer them. Vhagar burned thousands of Dornishmen after they shot Meraxes from the sky.”

“Meraxes?” You echoed, then added with a touch of amusement, “The dinosaur?”

He blinked. “Dinosaur?”

“Yes,” You said lightly, “Meraxes gigas—it’s a carcharodontosaurid. But I’m assuming that’s not what you mean.”

“No,” he said, brow furrowed. “She was one of the three original dragons, from the days of Aegon the Conqueror.”

“The man with his sister wives?” she asked, glancing back at him.

“Yes,” he confirmed, and watched the smile bloom across your face.

“I remember,” You said. “You told me.”

“I did,” he said softly, his eye lingering on the way stands of your hair danced in the wind.

“So… Dornishmen killed Meraxes? How?”

“A scorpion bolt,” Aemond said, voice darker now. “Iron. Pierced her eye midflight. Killed both dragon and rider.”

He paused, then added, “In retaliation, both Aegon and Visenya burned thousands. For their sister’s death.”

“And wife,” You murmured.

“And wife,” he agreed quietly.

“What do Dornishmen look like?” she asked after a moment.

Aemond tilted his head, considering. “Like Ser Criston Cole, I would assume. I’ve never seen one myself. We aren’t allowed in Dorne.”

“So… people of color?” You said, your tone curious again.

He raised a brow. “A strange way to phrase it.”

“Right,” You said. “There was no slavery here. Does racism exist here?”

“Racism?” he echoed, unfamiliar with the term.

“No,” You said, shaking your head slightly. “I think y’all are just prejudiced against the poor. Classist.”

Aemond hummed, thoughtful. “Does your home practice slavery?”

“Not anymore,” You answered, tucking your arms closer to her body as the wind whipped around them. “Or at least, we’re not supposed to. But there are always loopholes. Even then, some are still judged for their skin color. It’s terrible.”

“We’ve never had slavery,” he said with calm certainty. “It’s illegal here. Only those in Essos still practice it. Though… Cole is often chastised for his Dornish heritage. They say the Dornish are overly promiscuous.”

Aemond glanced down at you from where he sat in the saddle, Vhagar's wingbeats steady and thunderous beneath them. The sun was beginning to dip lower, spilling golden light over your face as you tilted it toward him, the wind tugging strands of your hair free. Your laughter still lingered faintly in the air.

“Really?” you said, a teasing edge in your voice. “How interesting. I wonder how promiscuous they really are. Your standards here are more uptight.”

Aemond kept his gaze forward at first, then turned his head, eye narrowing slightly. “Are your people more promiscuous, then?”

“My people?” you echoed, eyebrows lifting.

“Yes,” he replied, tone measured. “Your people.”

You gave a short exhale through your nose, the beginnings of a smirk curling at your lips. “I don’t have ‘my people.’”

Aemond’s brow furrowed. “What does that mean?”

“I mean, my people are spread all over the world. We don’t belong to just one place, or one culture. Our dress depends on where we live, what we believe, and how hot or cold it is,” you said, glancing down at your hands resting on your lap. “You saw what I wore when I first came here.”

Aemond's eye flicked briefly over your form, recalling the strange cut of cloth, the smoothness of your limbs, the exposed shoulders. “I did,” he said quietly.

“That attire where I’m from isn’t all that revealing. It’s quite normal, I would say.”

Vhagar’s wings shifted slightly in the wind, catching a gust and leveling out. Aemond didn’t reply immediately. Instead, he looked ahead toward the line of trees cresting over the horizon—where the lake slept hidden.

He tugged on Vhagar’s reigns ever so slightly and her speed decreased. Her wing’s stopped falling and instead she glided through the skies. He looked down towards you once more. How calm you looked. Nothing like before. Where your face was flushed, your eyes full of shame and full of something else he’d rather not look into too much. 

(Mayhaps it was rage, or mayhaps not.)

Did you find what you wore now revealing? Nothing but your undergarments and his coat. You didn’t seem to mind. Aemond wonders, if you had been born here, would you be as you are now? Would you even be in this predicament? Would he have ever met you? Spared a glance your way? Maybe once, but nothing more. You’d be nothing but a pretty face. 

Though there is a part of him that wishes you were nothing but a pretty face. That you had not had a past before him. For what else is there but he? (Nothing but he is the answer. All else is wrong.) His hands let go of the reins and instead wrapped around your waist, finding the knot that kept his coat wrapped around you, nicely snug around you covering you from his sight. 

You turned your head towards him and one of his hands trailed up your body purposely tracing your hard nipples before cupping your chin pulling you towards himself. Once more he kissed you. He felt you straining your neck to meet him and so he leaned down even more. 

Finally his hand slipped down one more and undid the knot and his coat flung open from the wind. He felt you suck in a breath shivering from the cold. His hands quickly went to cup your breast keeping them warm. 

The calluses of his hands rubbing against your sensitive tits. He kept them warm for you and leaned down once more to claim your drool slicked lips, the way they always got when he kissed you. 

He could feel the faint pulse in his cock as you kept moving yourself attempting to reach more. Slowly his hands stopped groping your tits and instead went to pinch the hard buds. A leering expression overcame him hearing you yelp as he kept the pressure. You began to breathe heavily and he began to nip at your neck. Letting go of your nipples, his arm wrapped an arm around you covering both of your breast with his forearm and hand as his other began trailing lower and lower. 

He felt you grasp at his arm before turning to him with such an expression. That expression that mirrored the one you had before. A look of embarrassment, your face flushed, though this time your eyes only held shame and nothing more. A shame for wanting more, he was sure. 

You felt hot against him despite the cool air and small grumble of Vhagar as she continued to glide through the skies, seemingly unbothered by his rider’s doing.

“You can’t” Your murmur was just loud enough to pierce through the wind. 

In response he simply lifted his hand to cup your face once more, rubbing your lips with his thumbs. “Shh, no one is here to see.” No one from land would ever know. Hundreds of feet in the air. All that there was you, he and the gods (Vhagar) to watch the both of you. 

Suddenly then Vhagar flew upwards and you leaned more into him, more into his clothed cock. He felt it twitch against you. As Vhagar rose higher, above the clouds until all there was the sun and warm rays hitting against you. Your skin seemed to sparkle. Almost as if your skin held glimmers of a diamond. Skin that now had others too worshiping as he did to you. Skin that is close to being deemed holy. Skin that is blessed by the gods and he was, touching you, his hands being coated in the glimmer that so many would kill for, all this for the taking. For only he is basking in the skin of the gods, for only he would be forever basking in their light. 

“but-“ Before you could speak again his fingers gave another pinch to your buds and once more you gave the yelp. 

“We’re almost there.” He murmured into your neck before claiming your lips once more in a messy kiss. His free hand trailing down once more before stopping playing with the band of your undergarments. These weren’t as pretty as the ones he was so used to seeing. Though he’d hate to see those ruined with blood. So he supposed they’re acceptable. 

He pulls the band before letting it slap against you. He needs you to ask for it. Needs to hear you say that you don’t regret coming here. Needs to know you’re glad he didn’t let you leave back to your boring room in Old Town. (The extra friction against him wouldn’t hurt either.)

His hands slid underneath you as you elevate yourself ever so slightly to gain a better angle to his neck which you happily suckle on occasionally nipping at him then quickly licking it in attempts to soothe it. His lone eye focused on the heat your core emits, even with the slightly stickiness of the blood he feels that has seeped through your panties.

“Aemond..” That sweet voice begging for him. He can feel the tightness in his chest travel down to his cock. 

Your arms wrap tighter around him as he grabs your panties with both hands before ripping them apart. His hands find your hips lifting you up letting not only your ripped undergarments fly off but the gown you wore underneath your dress fly off as well.

“Aemond!” You whined against him. “What if someone finds that!? And now what do I sit on?” 

Wrapping a hand around your waist keeping you snug against him he grabbed the reins of Vhagar pulling them to turn her around. Once turned around, he saw the falling fabrics. 

“Dracarys Vhagar.” Bright yellow flames came from his dragon incinerating the clothing before he turned her around once more commanding her to return to her glide.

”There.” Aemond breathed out his hand going to cup your cunt. 

He let out a breath as his middle finger trailed along your soaked sex. This was so different to you being just wet. 

The pulse in his cock was starting to hurt. You were making him hurt and gods did he want more. His mouth occupied yours as he sank his finger within you. Your mouth hung open as he began pumping in and out of you, eventually adding another finger. It was unbelievably easy to slip in and out of you. He can only imagine how his cock would feel inside your red stained walls. 

The most he pumped the more you moved, grinding against him. He bucked upwards trying to get anything. 

“Get me out.” He murmured into your neck watching as his fingers disappeared inside your cunt coating them in red. How badly he needed to be inside you. Needed you to coat his dick red too. Your hands reached behind you undoing his briefs and after what seemed like an eternity his cock sprang out slapping against your backside.

”Aemond.” You whined out his name again. 

“Louder. It’s just us up here.” Just you and him, the sun shining on the both of you.

You called his name louder before he slipped out fingers from you and you let out a whine of protest. His hand coated in your blood grabbed your waist lifting you just high enough for his cock slip through the lips of your cunt, you blood mixed with your liquids did nicely to lubricate him 

 “You’re so wet,” he mumbled against the bone of your shoulder, teasing his teeth against your skin, “I don’t know if I’ll be able to get in…” he chuckles to himself, lightheaded when he taps the head of his cock against your clit, “Might slip right out, no?”

”Aemond please.” He grinned, squeezing your hips, smearing your blood on your skin as he pushed you down on him.

How easy he slipped in. His jaw slacked as he heard the small splash of your liquids coat his base. His white hair now being dyed red by you. 

Gods. Gods. Gods! 

He slid out of you then slammed into you once more, the sounds of skin against skin muted by the winds. You were good, you were too good. Faster he went, fast and hard that it nearly knocked you off balance and you held on tighter to him arching your back giving him a better angle. 

You clamped around him so well, his cock slicing against your tight entrance. Aemond bent you forward forcing his cock deeper into you jabing a spot underneath your belly that nearly makes you cry. The circumstances, nor the blood splattering on his shirt matter when you give him such delicious pleasure. 

There is little thought in his head, he watches as he has you bent over grabbing reins of Vhagar, your knuckles lighting in color as you grip her reins tight making Vhagar slow and jerk unsure of the commands being given.

She’d be pissed off soon enough, but that mattered little to him now. He hears your attempts to cry out his name, though he imagines you can barely form a breath in the thin air up here. He relishes in the feelings of simply thrusting and sinking in, watching as your cunt seems eager to milk him, turning the red into a pink color instead. That would suit the color of your skin quite nicely. 

He pulled you back into his chest releasing Vhagar’s reins.  

Tucking his face into your neck inhaling that sweet scent of your murmuring sweet degeneracy into your ear.

“You’re so tight. So fucking tight. Oh, you’re gonna milk me dry,” he mutters under his breath. “A good girl with a good pussy. One said to be blessed by the gods. Just mine. Just here.”

He can feel your sweet bloody cunt squeeze him tighter as he whispers into your ear. It sends a jolt straight to his abdomen. His hand makes it’s way down once more to your puffy pussy finding in your clit and rubbing in small circles until he feels his cock being milked by you.

His bent you over once more thrusts even faster; eager to milk himself while you’re still wound up and tight from your orgasm. The pleasure starts to feel rawer, searing like an electric shock. A gradient from pleasure to pain.

“Gods please, Gods!” You feel euphoric. “I need more, just more. Please, just a little more.” He can’t do it outside of you. He needs to cancel the red with white, it’ll only be a little. He can, he can. He will. 

“Aemond!” He hears you yell out. Your plea falls on deaf ears. 

His jaw clenches and you feel a burst of warmth right inside of you. His hips stutter helplessly by the strength of his orgasm. And then it finally stops. He holds still. His hard grunts melt into soft moans and heavy breathing. Together, you hang onto that boneless, satisfied trance; his mind slipping into reverie. His cock stays buried inside of you for moments. You always told him to not cum inside you, now what? He’s a part of you. You won’t be mad, will you? If anything it’s a favor no?

As Aemond looks around he realizes he passed the river. He turned around seeing it wasn’t far. Taking the reins he turned Vhagar, ordering her to land. He’s still buried inside you and the smallest movement hurt, if only slightly.

He held you tightly against him as. Vhagar finally landed. You were silent. He buried his face into your neck giving it small pecks before finally grabbing your waist lifting you up. Though the sight of his cum, now pink leaking out of you nearly made him hard again. 

He stood up tucking himself inside again, straining his breaches with more blood, now mixed with his cum. He called your name. You turned around with a less than pleased expression. 

…

28th Day of the 9th Moon, 129 AC

Green.

That is what you wore today.

A deep, rich green dress that clung to your form like ivy, paired with a Breton hood and a dark veil that shrouded the back of your head. Only the front of your hair was visible—smoothed, parted, perfectly in place. Just like hers.

The same veil his mother wore. The same shade of green. Her favorite dress. And you were wearing it.

Gwayne’s jaw tensed as he watched you step down from the carriage, your gloved hand resting lightly on the footman’s arm. The fabric of your gown shimmered in the sun, embroidered trim catching glints of gold—his mother’s gold. Her stitching. Her veil.

And then there it was. That face.

That impossible face of perfection—the one his sister had warned him about. The kind of face that made every flaw in the world vanish by proximity. A nose sculpted as if by divine hands, cheeks touched with a bloom no natural season could grant, no trace of hardship nor fatigue beneath eyes that ought to betray something human. Lashes darker, longer than he remembered—doll-like, near unnatural.

And then you smiled. Lips glistening like you’d crushed diamonds to dust and painted them on.

It’s soft. Sweet. Smug.

You dipped into a curtsy, the very image of courtly grace. And when you lifted your eyes to meet his, it was with a look that twisted something in his gut.

“Ser Gwayne,” you said, voice sugar-slicked.

A greeting dressed in silk. And yet it felt like a slap.

“My lady.” He returned the greeting before watching his sister exit the same carriage. She bore a grim expression. That same frown their father always wears. 

You. 

You. 

You. 

You rode with the Queen. You came first. You exited before the Queen. You have the Queen frowning. You have his sister looking for his mother only to find your face. You who wears his mother’s dress.

“A wondrous dress you wear today.” Gwayne can only stare as you grin. Your face lifted, catching the sun’s rays that it almost looks like gold dancing on the apple of your cheeks. You seem genuinely flattered. 

“Why thank you. The material sits very nice on my skin. I can be sensitive on occasions to certain materials.” You? Your skin? Weren’t you used to crawling with the rats? Material bothers you so? “I also paired it with a french hood, or…” He watched you tap your chin looking up wistfully thinking while Gwayne could only stare towards you. “Um, Brenton hoods as they’re called here, right?” 

“Yes. Brenton hoods.” From behind you he could see his sister waiting for Daeron, through her eyes never really left you. 

“Apologies, where I come from, they’re commonly known as french hoods.” His eyes refocused on you. Your smile nearly seemed sincere. As if he could care about your origins. Wherever it is your kind came from. 

“Yes I’ve heard of your humble beginnings.” You blinked, looked towards Gwayne and he gave a simple smile watching your own smile fade. A simple look of confusion crossed your features. In no other situation should you think it proper to wear his mother’s dresses. Any dresses that belonged to nobility for that matter.��  

Though as quick as your smile faded and confusion crossed your face, he saw you smile looking down as if suddenly realizing he was never benign sincere with you. Once more you looked up at him, this time with a look of what almost looked like disgust. “Yes, humble, paired with such fine fabrics and embroidery. I just think they're just darling together.” 

You? A common born, to sneer at him like so? An honorable knight. A name with thousands of years of nobility behind it. Brother of the Queen. If anything it should be him who should be disgusted. (And he is watching you in his mother’s dress, erasing her presence.) 

“A perfect example of dichotomy. Wouldn’t you agree, Ser Gwayne?” Though you are a damned woman. 

Dichotomy? 

What the fuck was that? In anycase, there were many eyes, it would be rude to insult a lady. After all, to disagree with a lady, is to disrespect one. Swallowing his pride, if only for a moment he nodded. “Very much so, my lady.”

"How delightful—we are in accord. It is said, after all, that opposing forces oft find themselves irresistibly entwined." Once again you gave your sweet smile walking off. He watched you walk off, the shape of his mother now morphing into yours. 

You gave her mother’s dress?” he whispered, as Alicent came to stand beside him.

From the corner of his eye, he caught her brows twitch into a frown—not the sharp kind, but the one she wore by habit. Perhaps it was simply her resting face now, etched deeper each day in your presence.

“No. Ormund.”  she murmured. “He’s heard of her standing with the Seven. He seeks to endear himself. He does not know of the... discord between us.” Alicent murmured and Gwayne followed her eyes to you. You who happily chatted away Ser Arryk and Erryk keeping your hands hidden away under the false sleeves of the dress. “Tales of supposed charity in the Riverlands have made their way throughout the seven kingdoms, as well as the King’s fondness of her and her…” A scoff followed and Gwayne turned to his sister’s eyes. She’s always had big eyes. Eyes that made her charming to many men, including the king. Though now her eyes are just a little wider and her brows furrowed.

That look of a doe who's been separated from their mother and is cornered by hunters. 

“Her miracles.” Gwayne clenched his jaw as you leaned over the railing watching the commons trail into the Starry Sept for today’s service. The seven days of the week.  

You ought to be looking up — at him, at his family, at the Queen — and yet your gaze is fixed downward, on the very place you ought to occupy.

A carriage pulled behind them and out stepped out his cousin. The current Lord of House Hightower. 

Ormund Hightower.

Then followed his wife. Samantha Tarly. His second one after his first died in childbirth. Then his four children he had with his first wife. Lyonel, Martyn, Garmund, and Bethany. If his eyes did not deceive him, Lyonel and Samantha’s eyes followed one another for a little longer than what is acceptable. 

In anycase, Gwayne found it right after his cousin had given you the dress of his mother.

“My Queen.” Alicent offered a courteous smile, extending her hand. Ormund bowed to press a chaste kiss to the royal ring. The proper exchanges followed — his wife, his children, all lining up in sequence like chess pieces.

“Gwayne.” It was a simple greeting. Despite living in the same tower for years, they never really did see one another. Nonetheless both inclined their heads as a show of acknowledgment.

Though no sooner was his cousin done greeting his nephew, a grand smile fell on his face looking at you. A smile you reciprocated. “My lady.” 

“Lord Hightower.” As you began to speak his sister quickly began to walk away, Ser Criston near nipping at her heels as she walked to the entrance of the sept whilst Gwayne was left to watch you and his cousin.

“The dress is wondrous on you my lady.” Gwayne watched as once more you beamed. Did all it took was a compliment? Were you truly so easily swayed? Or did you simply collect affection like trinkets — polished, meaningless, and quickly forgotten?

“Thank you Lord Hightower. Your hospitality is greatly appreciated. You have treated me most kindly with the dresses you lend me.” Your shoulders move emphasizing your collar bones and the necklaces you wear. One of silver with a shape he does not recognize, and three other gold ones again with engravings on the pendants he cannot quite see without looking too long. Some even have emeralds and diamonds. Though strangely, you do not wear a pendant of the seven. Your ears are covered by the hood and veil, thus he can only assume you do not wear any on there either.

“Of course, if you are ever in need of anything, anything at all, do not hesitate to ask me.” A final smile was given as you nodded your head before walking off to the sept, the twin King’s Guard following near you and strangely (annoyingly enough really) Daeron.  

“I did not know they would give her that dress.” He heard his cousin murmur beside him as he walked in front of his wife to walk beside Gwayne. Gwayne kept a neutral face as they both passed other nobles of smaller houses and countless Maesters.  

“No, though you seemed happy enough to flatter her in it.” He spoke once more after giving a polite smile to some noble he couldn’t recall the name of.

“She may only be a girl now, but they grow and she will grow more than any other woman here if what they say about her is true.” Gwayne continued to watch you as many came to greet you. Though never standing too close, all in thanks to the guards you have around you.

“You would throw out our Queen’s favor for a mere woman who might become something?” Gwayne sneered as you grabbed the hand of the nobleman he had just nodded to. You were saying something, though what? He didn’t know, but a grand smile spread across the face of the noble who nodded eagerly to you. 

“The Queen is a Hightower, with Hightower responsibilities. Your father understood that, Alicent understood that, it is why she is Queen now.” Gwayne fully turned his head towards Ormund who never bothered to face him, simply keeping his face forward as he walked at a steady pace. “Her house comes first and she knows it, so does your father. My responsibility as head of the house is to not only ensure survival, but to make this house prosper.” 

Ormund stopped in front of Gwayne looking at him with a blank face. “Surviving is not enough. We must thrive, and if it means giving her some measly dress that has been collecting dust for over twenty years, then I will give her all the dresses in Old Town regardless of who they belonged to. In the end, it all belongs to House Hightower, which I now command.” 

Gwayne was left standing still watching as his cousin—no, the Lord of House Hightower— joined his family as they walked forward. 

Up ahead he watched as the Septon ignored others to reach you.

Gwyane walked forward just catching the eyes of Ormund who gave him a knowing look as they both watched as the Septon praised your styling choices, the modesty of you. “I have set a special section for you and of course House Hightower who is hosting you in your stay here in Old Town.” 

“That is very considerate. Though unneeded. Of course I would request that House Hightower take their seats there, they have been the most gracious host, but I will take my place among the masses for I am no different from them. I like them, and long for a connection with the Seven.” A disbelieving smile came upon him hearing your words. 

“I hear today’s preach will be about false idols.”Gwayne stopped just before the stair that led up to where all the nobles sat away from the commons.

“You are Ser Gwayne. About false idols and the greatness of the gods.” The Septon nodded towards him.

“Wonderfull, I long to hear it.”Gwayne hummed a sound of contentment, never bothering to look for your reaction. 

Though eventually Gwayne turned back to see you walking down the stairs, Ser Arryk and Erryk behind you. Finally reaching the top, nobles parted for him and his family as he went to his sister, though as he looked towards you, the ocean of people parted for you as you walked through them before standing in the center, only then did the mass begin to take shape once more, though still, a circle remained around you where it was simply you and the King’s Guard. 

A bell sounded and the song of the Seven began. Gwayne sang the words, the same words he has sung since he was a boy. His eyes drifted to you once more and you too were singing the words, then without warning you met his eyes.

“O gentle Mother, teach us peace, Let bitter hearts and vengeance cease. No soul too lost, no wound too deep, For love shall wake what hate would keep. Forgive, as sky forgives the rain— And mercy wash away the stain” 

He sung the same words to you as you sung to him before smiling looking forward to the Septon.

Throughout the entire preaching of the Septon his eyes were set on you. Never again did you look towards him. 

“And the Crone lifted her lamp unto the darkened road and spake: 'Turn thy gaze from the golden calf, From the jeweled hand that points not to the heavens but to itself. For false idols walk in the skin of saints,” 

A grin took over his face as he looked towards you searching for a reaction. Your face was down, though quickly again you caught his gauze. 

“And many shall follow them into the chasm. But the faithful shall know the truth, For the light of the Seven is not veiled in vanity nor pride, And no crown worn in deceit shall endure.'"— The Book of Light and Wisdom, Crone 4:17

 His grin faded as yours was brightly on display. Never did you stop smiling. 

Gwayne looked away from you as the Septon knelt and everyone else knelt as well. When they rose again Gwayne looked towards you once more and yet you were still smiling.

What exactly did you have to smile about? 

Ignoring you Gwayne instead looked to the Septon. It was nearly over.

"And the Father looked upon the weeping child and said: 'Though thy path be strewn with sorrow, Know that no thread is woven without purpose. The Mother weeps not without cause, The Warrior strikes not without aim, The Stranger comes only when bidden.”

Finally, the curtains lifted from the windows, and light flooded the sept. It poured in like judgment—sharp, sudden, blinding.

A ripple of gasps spread through the commons. Then a sharp intake of breath from his sister. And somewhere behind him, a low, stunned “Gods…” from Lord Hightower.

Gwayne followed their gaze.

There you were. The sunlight struck you head-on, and in an instant, the Seven danced across your skin. Their colors bled over you—red, gold, blue, green—alive and shifting as though the gods themselves were reaching out to touch you.

You stood completely still.

Ser Arryk and Ser Erryk at your back, a circle of space around you that no one dared to cross.

“For all things are set in the loom of the Seven, And what is wrought by their hands Shall not be called mistake, but fate divine.'" — The Book of Judgement, Father 2:9 

The Septon finished with an elated voice as you stilled, your face unmoving, your smile long gone. Instead, you bore no reaction—only that practiced stillness, as if carved from marble, as if you knew the role and wore it like a second skin.

(Or mayhaps the gods truly did move through you. But no—Gwayne will not accept that. He will not accept they have scorned his sister, who has always been faithful, who has bled in prayer and breathed in incense.)

The masses were then escorted out by the guards, though many lingered. They shouted your name, pleaded for you, prayed for you, as if your silence was a benediction.

But you never once looked up—

Not to Gwayne.

Not to the Queen.

Not to the altar.

As if you had seen something above it all—and no longer needed to look back down.  

…

2nd day of the 10th moon, 129 AC

“My lady, Queen Alicent has requested you not leave Hightower today.” He stepped in front of you. You have been around Daeron for too long. Alicent fears that you will bewitch her son. (Even if you already have. The way he flies his dragon around and around the Sept and the Citadel.) 

“I have things to do, Ser Criston. A day here would be a day wasted. I have stayed here for long enough. I have respected her wishes to stay for the past four days.” You had stayed in Hightower. Ever since that day in the Starry Sept. You have paced and paced around your room. Then when you grew tired of that, you paced and paced around the Hightower. Around and around you went, eyes wide, eyes scared.

“It is her wish to see you here.” You’ve just cemented yourself with proper standing in Old Town. What could you have to fear? What could possibly scare you? You who have made it this far without your head being lopped off despite the many enemies you have made. Though even now you look scared. Your eyes are a little wider, the ends of your mouth downturned, if only a little, you look a little bit more desperate these days.  

“Why!?” you snapped. “I have not seen Prince Daeron since my first day here. As Queen Alicent has suggested, do I not even greet him. Why cannot I leave?’ I promise my intentions are true. The King has asked something of me. I intend to deliver.” And your voice sounds like nothing he’s ever heard. Not when you prayed to the god(s) to spare you when you went to speak to Alicent and Otto, not when you looked to him for help, not when you pushed his help away. You’ve never sounded desperate. Only scared, only angry, only driven. 

But desperation?

It does not suit you. Your eyes are not made to look this wide. It does not suit your face.“I do doubt you, my lady, but my sworn hand has commanded you to stay here.”

“If Queen Alicent doubts you can keep me from disappearing again, have Ser Arrayk and Erryk accompany me. With you of course if only for your peace of mind.” Desperation he knows well.

Desperation he heard when men pleaded for mercy before he swung his morning star splitting their heads open.

 Desperation he’s heard as men spit their final insults to him. (“Your mother was a Dornish whore.” “Half-breed.” “Mutt!” “You have the Dornish lechery within you.”) 

Desperation when he wanted to live an honest life. (“You could marry me. A marriage for love, not for the crown.”)

“I am the crown.”

And desperation is what he hears now when you ask for Ser Arryk and Erryk. “My Queen does not doubt me, it is the very reason I am here and no other King’s guard is.”

There’s almost a surprised look when you look at him. Your mouth is parted slightly and your eyes seem to flicker over him. Watching him, trying to find something, anything, to bend to your will. There's a small crease in between your brows. You’re confused. 

Why?

Have you never been denied before?

Surely not when you have Prince Aemond. Surely not you insulted Prince Daemon without consequence. (In fact, you were rewarded with a visit to the King’s room.) Surely not when Prince Aegon allows you to play with his children so often. 

Surely not when your life was spared by the gods.

“Alright then Ser Criston. Can I ask something of you?” Spoiled brat. 

Always getting everything you’ve wanted. Never being told no. Not even by him. “I can.” 

“Can you send word for Archmaester Vaegon? He and I have much to discuss.” Ser Criston felt his eyebrows furrow, if only slightly before he stood straighter.

“My lady—”

“My lady,” came a smooth interruption before he could finish.

Ser Criston turned. Lord Ormund Hightower stood behind him, hands clasped before him with effortless poise, his gaze not sparing Criston more than a fleeting glance. Criston dipped into a shallow bow. 

It was not returned.

“I’ve heard my cousin has kept you here in Hightower,” Ormund said, voice even. “I do hope it hasn’t soured your experience.”

Ser Criston kept his head forward. A guard should be seen, not heard. Something he’s always noticed. Nobles scheme in front of him, whispering about being quiet and secretive, never paying attention to the guards around them. As if they didn’t exist. As if they were just objects on the wall incapable of thought.

Ser Criston’s eyes went to you. 

“Not at all,” you replied, lips curving politely. “I enjoy being here. However, I was sent by the King to perform a task he has so graciously trusted me with. I would hope to never disappoint His Grace.”

Ormund inclined his head slightly, though his smile never reached his eyes. “Of course. However, I am inclined to agree with Her Grace, Queen Alicent. The commons are still…”—he paused, choosing his words—“excited about the incident in the Starry Sept.”

You smiled faintly. “Oh yes. I recall.”

“A vanguard would be necessary even now, and even then, I cannot guarantee your safety. The Queen and I have agreed: it would be best for you to remain within the Hightower for the duration of your stay.”

“I see,” you murmured, your voice unreadable.

“Fret not,” he said, as if offering comfort. “I have ordered gowns to be made for you. You may amuse yourself choosing those you believe suit you best. House Hightower welcomes you completely.”

“Thank you,” you said, and this time your tone seemed almost sincere. “I am in need of gowns. I have none that are truly my own.”

“Then let this be a gift,” Ormund said, stepping closer, voice smooth as oiled parchment. “From House Hightower—and our goodwill toward you.”

With a clenched jaw he watched as you gave a deep bow. Your cleavage was well on display. Decorated by your golden necklaces, each pendant having something engraved on it.

Once Ormund left you looked over to him. That sweet smile, long gone. “Ser Criston. Can you do what I asked of you?”

Spoiled, spoiled, spoiled. 

“I will send word,” Ser Criston said tightly, stepping aside just as the tailors swept in, arms heavy with silks and velvets in every shade. Dresses of every color, cut, and style fit for a queen—or for someone who pretends to be one.

He glanced at Ser Arryk and Erryk. The twins nodded wordlessly. Then he left.

Outside the Hightower, a skiff waited to ferry him across the waters to the mainland. As they approached, he could already hear it—your name, echoing through the air like a chant. A crowd had gathered at the pier. They strained their necks for a glimpse, hopeful eyes searching the boat.

But when he disembarked alone, their voices faltered. A wave of disappointment rippled through them like a sigh carried by the sea breeze. The skiff returned to the tower, empty of what they had come to see.

He walked through Oldtown with his jaw set. Apple cakes lined the stalls in ridiculous abundance—your favorite, they said. Portraits of you were sold beside the sweets, too many to count, some lovingly rendered, others crude copies. Trinkets glinted in the sun: pendants of the Seven etched with your likeness, your image nestled among the divine.

Even the fabric sellers were in on it—bolts of green dyed to match the gown you had worn that day in the Sept, spilling out of doorways and onto the cobbled streets. The city pulsed with your presence, like you had bled into the very stone.

At last, the gates of the Citadel loomed ahead. He passed beneath them and made his request for an audience.

Soon enough an old man passed through the doors, papers stacked in his hand. “Has she sent you?”

“She asks for your presence.” Criston hopes he says no. But looking at old Targeyen, he doesn’t know what he’ll do. He looks…wrinkly. Upset too. Did you make him upset? Though despite that, he still has that look all Targyens have. The sense of other worldness. The sense that either entrances one or drives them away in fear.

“Well then, best not keep her waiting.” Criston gave a sigh before waiting for him to exit the Citadel. 

The walk through Oldtown’s cobbled streets was cloaked in silence. The Citadel gave way to buzzing roads, lined with spice-sellers and fabric vendors, but neither man spoke. Ser Criston found himself trailing just a step behind, watching only the back of the old man's silver head and stooped frame weaving through the crowd.

When they finally reached the pier, he noticed it — a quiet change. Guards were stationed at the edge of the dock, more than usual, eyes sweeping over the gathering crowd. Had they always been there? Or had he simply never paid them enough attention?

The ferry bobbed gently in wait, but it was the people who truly struck him. So many of them — pressed close, murmuring, watching. He looked away, eyes fixed forward, trying not to feel suffocated.

That was when a child broke through the bodies. A little boy, perhaps no older than seven, darted forward and tugged at the hem of the Archmaester’s cloak with a wide-eyed, breathless reverence.

“Are you going to see her? The lady?” The boy asked and Ser Criston moved quickly to grab the boy, however the hand of Vaegon stopped him. 

“Yes.” It was curt.

“Can you give her this?” Criston watched as the boy extended his hand towards Vaegon. He had a bread loaf. Ser Criston furrowed his brows looking at the boy. He was dressed in rags. That bread most likely was not meant for the commons. Cheap and poorly made. (The kind he used to eat when was a soldier.)

“Why?” And though the bread was poorly made, and came from dirty hands, Vaegon signaled for Ser Criston to take it, which he did. 

“My mother said it would be kind. I would ask that she prays for my family. My father is sick.” Well no wonder. Looking at the state of the boy, it was a miracle he wasn’t sick either. It would be a miracle if you even touched the bread. You refused to even eat meat meant for royals or drink water that wasn’t up to your standards. You hated being dirty. He’s heard as you once yelled at a maid for being on your bed after being outside. Your tedious morning routine. 

He doubts you’d even look at the bread. 

The thought of that made Ser Criston feel hot. Like a prick of annoyance down his spine.

“I shall tell her.” Vaegon responded and walked forward, and with that both he and the Archmaester boarded the boat to go back to Hightower, and the dirty loaf of bread in Ser Criston’s hand. It was cold and somewhat hard. How long has it been since he was made to eat one of these? Ser Criston was never a peasant, but nor did he live in luxury. He was common born after all. 

All his father ever amounted to was being Lord Dondarrion's steward. (And now look at him. A King’s Guard. Not only that. The head of the White Cloaks. Head of the King’s Guard. Though his white cloak is no longer white.)

Bread like this was common for him before he became who he is today. Opening the door, there you were smiling with silks splayed all around you and an obnoxious amount of jewelry around your neck and your mutt that you said you found on the street running around as the maids tired to keep the grimy little thing away from the silks. His grip tightened around the stale bread.

“Oh! You’re all dismissed. I will call upon you should I need anything.” You stood up as the maids came to take off all the jewelry you had on. Though your hand held three as all the rest came off. As your jewels came off, silks were packed into chests before being carried off.

“Archmaester Vaegon,” you said, offering a polite smile. “Thank you for coming.” The smile faltered as your eyes cut toward a maid lingering near your shoulder. Your tone shifted, sharp and curt. “Not those. They stay on. They’re mine.”

He saw the slight glance at the bread before you looked away. Only a glance. That is all you gave the bread. That is all you gave the boy.

“You called.” Vaegon responded and the last maid took off the final necklace until you were only left with three. Two gold, one silver. 

(Perhaps if Ser Criston has not been so consumed by his damning thoughts about you. He’d know these are the necklaces you always carried. Necklaces from home.)

“Yes well I hope you gave my proposition much thought?” You sat down again offering Vaegon a seat while you clapped your hands twice and your pup came running to you. You picked it up placing it on your lap petting it. 

“I have.” He could not see the man’s face as Ser Criston stayed standing. And once again, he found himself reduced to furniture — a fixture in the room, unseen and unacknowledged by the nobles who plotted behind polished voices and half-lidded smiles.

Clearly, you were no different.

“Wonderful.” Just as you were going to speak again your eyes suddenly shifted to his. It almost startled him. No one ever looked at him unless it was to ask for an input. Though a sharp movement from you instead signaled him out. His mouth formed a slight frown. Then a second pair of eyes were on him.

Purple eyes looking down towards his hands.

With a deep breath, Ser Criston nodded, going to step back. “Before you leave, perhaps you should give the lady what is meant for her.” As Vaegon spoke, Criston’s hands tightened around the bread. Why would he give it to you? Not like you’d eat it. It’d just go to waste. The poor boy’s efforts have gone to waste because you consider yourself better. 

“Oh that’s for me?” You laughed and Criston’s eyes moved to you and your grin. “I was wondering why you were holding bread. I thank you for your noble gift Ser Criston. I would not have expected from you. Though it is appreciated nonetheless.”

“It’s not from him. It’s from a boy.” Vaegon’s voice interrupted as Ser Criston went to speak.

“Oh? Who?” Your head turned away from him and to Vaegon who had no expression on his face. 

“He did not give his name, but asked for you to pray for his family. His father is sick.” The doors opened behind Ser Criston as servants brought cakes and tea. 

“Oh. How unfortunate. I wished you had gotten his name. Maybe I could do something.” You had a slight frown on your face. Ser Criston could only stay in one place as you smiled towards the servants saying quiet thank yous. (Something the Queen never did. Something no royal ever did, much less nobles. He ignored it.)

“Ser Criston.” Criston blinked and looked towards Archmaester Vaegon who had an expectant look on his. Criston cleared his throat handing you the bread. The slight twitch in your hand before you took the bread did not escape his sight. 

“Thank you. This is…kind.” You gave a smile before setting the bread down, rubbing your hands of the dirt. (More so crumbs, but Ser Criston will think otherwise.)

Finally he took his leave but not before hearing: “Can you send these letters for me?”

…

“Please! Just one more time?” You begged and Daeron rolled his eyes. How did you even find where he was? “Look if we get caught, I swear I won’t throw you under the bus this time.” 

Bus? What was a bus? Regardless, Daeron wouldn’t be helping you in this little quest of yours. He had already gotten reprimanded by Aemond for not being able to bring you, his mother slapped him because of you, and now his uncle was telling him to stay away from you. 

“No.” Daeron turned away from you walking down the stairs.

“Please Daeron!” He felt your hand wrap around his bicep. He jerked his head towards you furrowing his brows. The nerve of you! Just grabbing him! “Please! I need you.” 

Daeron ripped his arm away from you with a raised brow.”For what? Aemond isn’t coming anymore.”

“I…” You hesitated, lips pursed before giving him a sheepish, awkward laugh. “Can’t tell you that. But! Just know it’s very important. For the greater good.” You gave him your best grin, clearly trying to sell something half-baked. He wasn’t buying it.

“Listen I don’t know what happened in that sept, and I don’t want to know. I can’t help you. Furthermore, why would I help you?” Daeron once again lifted an eyebrow as again you purse your lips in thought.

“Because… you’re a good person?” you tried, voice a little too hopeful. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes at you. 

“I’m not helping you,” Daeron said flatly.

“Ugh! Please! Daeron!” you whined, grabbing at his sleeve. “I swear I will never ask you for anything for, like, ever!” Again he ripped his arm away wiping off whatever you may have left on him.

“Even if you did ask me for something in the future,” he said dryly, making his way down the stairs again. “I’d still tell you no.”

“Please, I’ll do anything!” you cried and Daeron stopped and turned to you. What could you possibly want for you to be this desperate. 

“Anything?” he asked, skeptical now, arms crossed.

“Yes! Anything!” you nodded quickly, desperate.

“I want to be free of you,” Daeron said without hesitation. He had to push down a smile looking as you grinned at him. 

“Done. I’m leaving tomorrow anyway. You won’t see me until the… who knows,” you waved a hand vaguely, then locked eyes with him. “Which is why it has to be tonight.”

“I want to be free of you now,” he repeated, starting to walk away again with a smile. Pleased with himself you fell for his trap. 

“Daeron!” you gasped, chasing after him. “I’ll kill myself right now if you don’t help me,” you blurted, stepping toward the window. “This is very important.”

“What!?” Daeron snapped, spinning toward you. You began to climb the window and Daeron’s eyes widened. Were you mad!? Kill yourself!? Over a denied request? Madness!

“Choice is up to you,” you said, voice eerily calm. “You let me die, and you’re not gonna be seeing any pearly white gates. I mean, you let the ‘vessel’ of the gods die because you didn’t want to help!” You sat on the window’s edge starting to lean out and immediately Daeron’s hands reached out to you trying to calm you down. Gods! Woman you were mad! 

“What is wrong with you? Get away from the window,” he said, alarm clear in his tone as he stepped toward you slowly, his hands still out. Maybe he can talk sense into you.

“No.” You stood your ground. “Either you help me or I die. That’s how serious this is. I won’t get another chance like this. Please!” He watched as you leaned out further and his heart raced watching at the ends of your fingers turn white from the pressure of holding on to the window’s edges.

“I-” You leaned out freely letting go of the window and Daeron lungled grabbing your torso. “Okay! Okay! I’ll help you!” He shouted pulling you back from the window and you were breathing heavily with a grin.

A mad fucking woman.

“I knew you’d help me!” You brushed your dress off as you pulled him up the stairs while he was still in shock. “I have our outfits ready.” 

“Our?” Daeron seethed out as he followed you to your room.

“Yes. I can’t do this without you.”

Note: Fun fact, they're were supposed to be two smut scenes in here but I got lazy and added the dog instead. I love Dalmatians. I had one as my first dog and 101 Dalmatians is my comfort movie. I had it playing as I wrote this. Also I know this is late, and not 25k (Sorry) but I wanted to get something out. But now we are back. Missed y'all. Flood me my inbox! I beg!

Previous I Next I Masterlist

To be added to Tag list: !(•̀ᴗ•́)و ̑̑/Gen Masterlist

[flusteredmoonn]

i can see you; james potter

summary: "and we keep everything professional, but something changed," in which they meet at a meeting for the order.

tags: (SFW), drabble??, fast paced, implied gryffindor!reader, ordermember!reader, lily and james aren't together, she/her pronouns, third person y/n.

words: 1.0k+

speak now tracklist. request.

the popping sound which followed an apparation echoed through twelve grimmauld place. a group hogwarts graduates stumbled through the corridor, the murmuring of animated portraits was muffled by laughter as they made their return from a mission ordered by dumbledore.

their boots thumped as they entered the dining space, observing the long wooden table already set with cutlery.

"oi what's for dinner mckinnon?" james shouted across the room, causing her and someone else he didn't quite recognise to turn sharply toward the boy.

"pumpkin pasta," y/n, who stood next to marlene, answered for her, the bespectacled boy to move his focus to her. he paused for a moment, marlene chuckling to herself as she turned around to continue stirring the simmering pot.

eventually the boy turned around and followed his friends as they moved to one of the sitting rooms, joining in with their loudness which followed behind them. the sounds of their chaos echoed through the house, still being heard from where both girls were.

the faint call of james harassing lily could faintly be heard through the walls. sure that the boys were far enough away from the pair, marlene turned to y/n and laughed amusedly.

"what," she reciprocated in the same tone.

"james, i've never seen him like that before," the blonde waved her wand and summoned bowls to serve the pasta in.

"what do you mean?"

"he was like a deer in headlights when he saw you," a smirk ever present on her face, as she continued her preparation for supper, stepping behind her peer and summoned one of the black family's house elves and asked them to fetch some wizarding wine from the cellar.

the house elf agreed, and disappeared promptly with a pop.

"i'm sure that's not true, he's just gotten back from a mission so i'm sure that he's just disoriented," y/n justified to the blonde.

"mhm.."

soon enough, everyone who had been at headquarters had been called for dinner and the kitchen-dining room was filled with loud chatter from every corner of the room.

y/n had been seated next to dorcas and marlene, and coincidentally, by the time the boys who had made an entrance before had sat themselves opposite her. james flashed the girl a smile as they sat down, before reaching for a goblet and taking a swig and grabbing his cutlery.

she smiled back at him, before resuming her conversation with her friends.

"...prongs?" remus asked, a curious smirk on his face as he followed his friends line of sight.

james' head quipped around faster than light, "yeah remus?"

"pads wanted to know your thoughts on putting a new spell on the map," the werewolf clarified whilst sirius stiffled a snort.

"i mean we could definitely look into it, sounds good moons," he had already turned back around, trying to figure out where he knew y/n from.

he mulled over it from the ending of dinner, to when a meeting was called the next day. grimmauld place had never been so full, or at least not that james had seen it. even dumbledore had been present, which was a talking point for most as they entered the drawing room.

the black family tapestry almost seemed full of scowling portraits as the head master of hogwarts began to boom, "hello–"

"right, we've not got time for nothing profound, lets get straight to it," alastor moody cut off his superior, ignoring the look of shock on the old man's face as he hobbled to the centre of the room. james immediately locked eyes with y/n, sharing a smile with her as she tried to surpress her laughter.

"we've had some new comers, here at headquarters. i assume most of you know one another from hogwarts; lets give them a warm welcome," moody began a round of applause.

"alright, alright moody, let's get to business," kingsley shacklebolt cleared his throat before he spoke, clasping his hands together assertively and looking to dumbledore to lead the meeting.

throughout the meeting james and y/n kept making fleeting eye contact. which eventually led to james weaving his way through the room inconspicuously until he ended up standing next to the mysterious girl.

"hey,"

"hi," she swivelled slightly to look at james, before returning her attention, at least in part, to dumbledore's extravagance.

"i dunno why they can't just send us an owl with our objectives on it," he tried to jest, only to see her expression pinch, "well what if they get intercepted, i wouldn't put it past the opposition,"

"right, well– that makes sense actually," he laughed through his nose.

"what'd you want, james," the eyeroll which followed was evident from her tone alone.

"no, nothing, uh... i just haven't seen you at headquarters before, or any of the safe houses for that matter..." james gasped dramatically, are you a spy?" surprisingly, no one had noticed his movement yet, at least not outwardly.

"no, unfortunately– sorry to disappoint," she chucked silently. the pair continued to talk through the rest of the meeting, ignoring the responsibility that came with the encroaching war. remus would surely fill them in on anything important anyways.

after what could've been a lifetime, they parted ways, y/n immediately rushing off to marlene who couldn't hide her amusement.

meanwhile, remus was lurking around the corner knowingly.

"merlin, moons, goodness, what 'as that for," james laughed in reponse to almost jumping out of his skin.

"what're you playing at, james," he cut straight to the chase, "you know you shouldn't be pursuing anyone from the order, unless its a pre-existing relationship.. we're going into a war james,"

"'m not, i was just curious," he put his hands up defensively, "i know the rules, i haven't seen her since we graduated s'all," he faked a look of innocence before walking away.

"keep it professional!" remus shouted after james, rolling his eyes at the brushed off response his friend gave.

[youthereader]

Andy bends you over his desk.

pairing: andy barber (defending jacob) x assistant fem!reader

summary: 1.9k words. andy reprimands you for wearing an inappropriate skirt at work.

rating: e; smut, barebacking, semi-public sex, some praise kink, boss-employee relationship, spanking

a/n: not the usual here but this idea got the best of me.

You consider your working relationship with Andy to be a friendly one. You talk about the weather, some sports, a restaurant opening in town. It’s light and fun and it’s probably the best job you’ve ever had, being his assistant.

Because of this, you care a lot about him on a deeper level, too, and it probably crosses into unprofessionalism, but it doesn’t hurt anyone since nobody knows you’re harboring a huge crush on him. And it makes sense! He’s so handsome, and so smart without being condescending, something you’re not used to. Your Hinge dates are downright depressing at times because you keep comparing everyone of them to your boss. You think to yourself, why can’t they be more like Andy?

It's only natural to daydream about him taking you out instead of those disappointing guys, and it’s harmless fun. There was the one time he caught you looking at him when you sat by his side in a meeting, your pen poised to take notes, and he winked at you. It made you feel all warm and giggly, your cheeks flushing as you pressed your lips together to smother your mirth.

You start buying new clothes, justifying them as work purchases, knowing you’re picking things you hope Andy will appreciate. The most daring is a short leather skirt with a slit that comes up mid-thigh, and you specifically choose to wear it on a day you know Andy plans to dedicate to being in the office, his paperwork having got away from him. You’ll have plenty of opportunities to grab his attention, and then you’ll open your app at the end of the day to find someone more realistic, more tangible, and then ride the high of confidence into the weekend. It’s a win-win situation.

You rise from your desk as he walks in, greeting him with coffee, and his eyes drop immediately to your legs when he picks up his Styrofoam cup. He blinks twice, his response delayed.

“Good morning.”

He glances at his watch, muttering a curse word before he departs. It’s not what you hoped for, but it’s not nothing, either. You get back to your computer and answer the phone. Andy doesn’t leave for a couple hours and when he reappears, he’s on his cell phone, distracted, barely looking at you.

Maybe he’s not a leg guy? Maybe he just doesn’t think you’re cute?

You try not to feel let down by this, plodding along, until he comes back a bit before noon, your eyes meeting as he passes through.

“Any messages?”

“Yes,” you reply, retrieving your notepad. “I told them you’d call them back. Also, your dentist keeps playing phone tag-”

He lets out a huff of a laugh, shaking his head. “Uh, yeah. Please call Dr. Fisher back and apologize to her. I’m sure she’ll have a lot to say when I finally see her.”

“Plaque not top of your priorities?” you tease, sinking back into your chair, swivelling in it to face your monitor once more.

You catch his eyes following your movements, and you’re suddenly far more aware of your skin. You pick up the phone receiver.

“Just call her back, please,” he says, not matching your tone.

He sounds almost impatient with you, which has never happened before. You nod, going quiet. You do as you’re told, and the receptionist sighs on the other end of the line, rescheduling for you yet again.

“There’s a cancellation fee.”

“Yes, he is aware,” you reply. “And he sends his apologies.”

“Tell him it’s not good enough.”

You won’t do any such thing; he’d fire you for sticking your nose in his business like that. Frankly, it’s not up to anyone to pass judgement on Andy, knowing what he’d been through in the past few years. If his working life took over everything for him to cope with all the rest, that makes a lot of sense to you.

“Uh-huh.”

When you hang up, you sigh, glancing at the calendar. He doesn’t have many spaces for anything other than meetings. You hope he has some time for himself, even if it’s just a couple hours a day. You remind yourself it’s outside of your control, and more importantly, not relevant to you.

The phone rings and you glance at the digital display, seeing it’s Andy. You pick up.

“Yes?”

“I need to speak to you before you go to lunch.”

“Sure,” you reply, and you hang up, stomach suddenly full of knots.

With how he snapped at you earlier, you mind goes straight to the worst possible outcome – dismissal. It seems a little extreme, but he’s never been so… mean to you. But maybe you’re being paranoid, or maybe… maybe you’re being sensitive, and he didn’t snap at all. Still, he wasn’t warm as he usually was when he saw you. You thought he liked having you as his assistant.

You walk over to his door, wiping your sweaty hands on your skirt before opening it and slipping inside. Your head turned to shut it, you hear him say:

“Please lock that.”

You oblige, and then glance over to his desk, seeing him resting on the edge of it, arms crossed. His jaw tenses, his eyes falling to your skirt.

“What did you need, sir?” you ask, placing your hands behind your back.

“We’ve got an issue,” he says.

You swallow. “Oh? What’s happened?”

Sometimes a client is pricklier than others. Or something high profile comes through the firm and you have to be aware of press sniffing around. You don’t expect what comes out of Andy’s mouth next.

“It’s your skirt.”

“Oh, God,” you say, and you flush. “Yeah… it’s a little much. I’m sorry—”

He puts up a hand, but you keep going.

“I can go home and change, now, on my break. I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head. “No, that won’t do.”

Your heart sinks. He’s going to fire you over your outfit? That has to be discrimination. You gape.

“Andy…”

He pushes off his desk and you freeze. Andy strides right up to you and takes hold of your chin between his thumb and forefinger, eyes boring into yours.

“You think you can wear something like that and there not be any consequences? I can practically see up your skirt.”

You can’t speak. Your heart hammers, her whole face and neck burning with shame.

He moves forward, hips on yours and you stumble backwards, his other hand grabbing your hip to steady you. Underneath the fear and humiliation, you know he’s getting you wet by touching you like this, as if he’s entitled to do so.

His thigh fits between your knees and he searches your face, eyes narrowing.

“Well? What have you got to say for yourself? You got my attention. Is that what you wanted?”

“I…” You gape some more, useless. “I-I did want that. I wanted you to look at me. But it’s not appropriate, I’m sorry…”

“No, it’s really not.”

He kisses you, hard, open-mouthed and hungry. You gasp, his tongue pressing into your mouth to tangle with yours. Your hands grip his shirt sleeves and you close your eyes, kissing him back, riding the wave. He still holds your face, but by your jaw, his lips moving down to kiss your neck, his short beard grazing your skin.

“Andy…”

You moan his name and he chuckles, pressing his hard-on against your thigh. He’s huge. You’d bet your life on that. His hands rove your body, squeezing your tits, your hips, your ass… you whimper as he sucks at your skin, grinding against you.

“Come here.”

You obey, tugged along to the desk. He pushes you in front of him, bending you at the waist.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispers, and you look over your shoulder at him, watching as he stares at your ass in the leather skirt.

He pushes it up, hand coming down with a sharp slap to your right ass cheek. Of course, you couldn’t just wear any underwear with this skirt – your thong is all that covers you there, and he grabs it, tugging it tight.

“Fuck…”

“Andy,” you say, and he looks at you, chest giving a heave.

“Can’t wander around in that tiny black skirt and then act surprised when I want to fuck you-”

You bite your lip, canting your hips at his words, your ass lifting. He spanks you again, and you hope no-one hears that, the two slaps, or your bitten off moans.

He glances down. “Spread your legs. Fuck… you’re so wet.”

He undoes his belt, then his fly, taking out his cock. He tugs on himself as you anticipate the stretch of him. You nod, and he chuckles, shaking his head.

“You’re so cute when you’re needy.”

He takes hold of you by the neck, angling you for a filthy kiss, his other hand petting your behind, before slipping down between your cheeks to glide through your wetness. You moan into his mouth, his fingers spreading your arousal around, teasing your clit for a steady minute, and you’re whimpering for him.

“Did you wear this just for me?” he whispers, and you nod. He rocks his cock up against you. “Does that mean this is all mine now?”

He means your cunt. He plays with your clit, dips his fingers into you, riling you up. These are the consequences he was talking about.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “It’s all yours.”

He fills you and you both gasp. He holds your shoulder, letting you fall forward onto his desk, rocking back and forth in shallow thrusts. The stretch makes you tremble, slick with want. Your nails scratch at the heavy wood when he picks up speed, hips hitting your ass, your thong stretched to the side.

You don’t know how much you can take, your feet lifting out of your shoes so you stand on tiptoes as he drives into you. All you can feel is how he stretches you to perfection, your mouth drooling from pleasure.

“Oh, fuck…”

Your thong snaps as his hands take hold of your hips, and he utterly wrecks you, skin slapping together as the world slips away. How are you meant to walk after this? Hang on – how are you meant to look Andy in the eye after this?

“Andy, Andy, Andy…”

You’re so close, you just need that little something, and you tense up, trying to muffle your moans in your arms… then you feel him find your clit again and rub, and you think you might burst into tears.

Your orgasm slams into you and your vision whitens, clenching around him as he fucks you through it.

“Good girl, that’s what I wanted,” he pants. “That’s what I wanted to feel.”

You feel something wet down your thighs and you realize you’ve squirted a little at the same time Andy does, and he huffs, close to the edge.

“Jesus, where have you been hiding?”

“Nowhere, I was at my desk,” you slur, and he laughs, breathless.

“You’re like a dream,” he praises, and then goes still, emptying into you. “So… fucking… cute.”

He sighs, hands coming up to pull you back, your next kisses more tender but still messy, the room reeking of sex now. You think of the carpets, the possible stains.

He keeps kissing you, stroking your cheek with his sweaty hand.

“After we clean up, do you wanna get some lunch together?” he whispers, and you nod, smiling lazily.

“I think we’re way past that, sir.”

His eyes sparkle with an unexpected fondness, before he kisses you again.

Thank you for reading! Let me know if you liked it. ❤️

[ktdragonborn]

Another Spencer. (Chapter 2)

Carlton Lassiter X Female Reader (Shawn's Sister)

Summary: You finally moved back to California after almost 15 years away. When your mom and dad separated, your dad got Shawn and your mom took you. (Don't ask me why it's just what they agreed on). But now you're back! And you never expected to meet such a dashing Detective that would sweep you off your feet.

Characters: You, Carlton, Shawn and Gus, Juilet, Henry Spencer (dad), Madeleine Spencer (mom), Chief Karan Vick, mention of many other characters.

Warnings: Some bar tension, some dude tries to hit on you for approximately three seconds, so nothing bad. There will be smut and other graphic scenes as the story progresses.

~This story follows the show Psych. Plots from episodes are mentioned and some chapters will have you added to them. I do not own any characters from the TV Psych, just a big fan of the show and a bigger fan of our boy Lassie. I couldn't ever find something that hit my craving for Lassiter so here I am. This will also be a very long story. Very long. I'm starting it towards the end of Season 2 and plan on writing it throughout the whole show, skipping some episodes but in the end, it'll be very long.~

I forgot to add this to the first chapter, but let me know in the comments if you wanna be added to the tag list! Thank you everyone for the support so far on this story!

Chapter 1.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You walked into your office bright and early in the morning. It was only your second week in California, let alone in this office, and you were still getting used to traffic and the city's layout. So much had changed since you last visited Santa Barbara, and it was a tad overwhelming at times. 

You turned on the overhead lights and started to prep your office for the day. Small lamps where you conducted your sessions and plenty of green plants around your office. It wasn't a huge area. There was a small lobby entrance for a waiting room-type thing. You had filled the room with a couch and a couple of chairs with a coffee table. Magazines and books for people to read as well as a water cooler. A small desk sat next to the door that led to the larger part of your office. There was a computer and phone set up. No one used it except for you, you weren't busy enough to justify hiring a receptionist- although you have thought about reaching out to Shawn since you know he's bored when he doesn't have a case to work. 

You set your bag down and grabbed everything you needed for the day from your desk. Thankfully, you had two new clients today. Your full schedule included four patients, two new ones, and two “regulars”. They were the first two to join your clinic and have been coming to you ever since. You were thankful for their “business”, and they had been spreading the word about you to their friends, promising every time they see you that they’ve got friends trying to find time to come see you. You set up in the larger room, sitting in your “therapist chair” as Shawn so lovingly described it. You read over the file of the first patient today. They wanted a check-up/check-in with their mental health. In the file they described what they had been feeling, they had been anxious in the workplace and began to realize that their friends were quite toxic. You began to formulate some reasonings and diagnoses for their ailment, just preparing yourself for the appointment but you knew you would keep an open mind throughout the appointment. You looked at the time and realized your patient would be here soon. You got yourself and your patient some water and sat down in your chair awaiting their arrival. 

~I know, You know~

You breathed deeply, leaning back in your desk chair. You moved your hands up to your eyes, giving them a good rub before sitting back up and packing up all your belongings. Today had been a long day. Simple enough, however, one of your returning patients came in with some new drama as she loved to describe it. You probably knew more about this girl's life than her parents at this point and you were happy about it. You were glad you could be the safety net that she needed. However, you knew now that you needed a drink. You shut off the lights and locked the door behind you, heading to your car and going to the closest bar you knew of. 

~They just don’t have any proof~

The problem about being a girl in California in a bar all by yourself is being a girl in a bar all by yourself. Unfortunately, the state you're in doesn't change much of anything. You sat alone at the bar, you took an end seat, and the only seat open next to you would cram someone up against the wall. You thought that might keep people away but unfortunately, it didn't. Fortunately, however, today was Friday, which meant you could relax and decompress from the week you just had. 

Another man tried to move into the seat next to you. You had been observing him across the bar and knew he'd try something. About 4-5 drinks in and his buddies kept pointing at you too. You looked at him and gave him a small smile. “Sorry pal, seats taken,” that's been your excuse most of the night, playing up that you're waiting for a friend or a date to stop by. 

“We've been here the whole time you have, and no one's shown up yet,” the man slurred through his words and started to get close to you. You reached for your drink and covered the top of it, not risking anything. 

“I might've gotten stood up but I'm willing to wait. Again, seats taken sir, please go back to your friends.” 

“Ah come on, I bet I can show you a better time than the chump you were meeting,” his hand started to caress the back of your arm. You frowned and looked at his hand. 

“If you don't stop touching me right now you will regret it.” Your tone was strict and your glare was firm. He took a step closer to you and his breath reeked of alcohol. 

“Oh yeah? How am I gonna regret it?”

“I suggest you leave her alone right now pal,” a very authoritarian voice echoed in your ears and you looked behind the man to see a taller man, with salt and pepper short hair and piercing blue eyes. He took your breath away but you stayed focused on the interaction. The man turned around and his whole body language changed when he had to look up to see your savior (hopefully). 

“What's it to you, buddy?" The drunk man tried to sound tough, but it didn't work out. 

“The fact that she's so uncomfortable with you around that she has to cover her drink. Leave her alone before I get the cops involved. I have ties to the SBPD.” The drunk man nodded and walked away quickly, seemingly spooked by something the man showed him. 

“Thank you for that, it's been happening all night but he's definitely been the most persistent one.”

“It's not a problem,” the man said, his blue eyes sparked when he saw you fully for the first time and he smiled at you. You smiled back and offered him the seat next to you. 

“I've been saving this for someone, at least that's what I've been telling everyone else. It's yours since you saved me.”

“Well thank you,” the man started and you signaled for him to stop for a second.

“I'll fit better over there since it's so close to the wall. Plus I think I'll be leaving soon so might as well give you the good seat,” you got up and switched and he sat down next to you. 

“Well thank you for the seat,” he smiled and waved the bartender down for a drink. You nodded and smiled and continued to sip on your drink. You spun around in your chair to face the crowd around you, watching everyone as they interacted. “Do you just come here to people-watch?” Your savior asked as he turned to watch you. 

“I'm a sense,” you laughed a little and turned more toward him. “My dad actually is a retired detective for the SBPD, and he was crazy about making sure my brother and I were super observant. Like crazy observant. My brother is definitely better at it than I am though.”

“Interesting,” the man hummed and looked out to the crowd with you. 

“I am also a licensed psychiatrist, so noticing things about people is kind of my job,” you laughed and the man chuckled next to you. 

“It's kind of my job too,” he said quietly and you turned to him, taking in his appearance. Suit pants, suit jacket, long sleeve button-up shirt. You noticed his shirt was unbuttoned a little bit, showing off some of his chest hair. You could tell he was wearing a tie all day, there was slight redness to his neck from the pressure of it. 

“You're a cop, aren't you?” You said quietly and he looked at you, kind of surprised. “No offense officer, but you're still dressed like a cop, and you have a certain tension to you that cops carry. I saw it all the time with my dad.” He looked down at himself and smirked at you. 

“I can tell you're pretty good at what you do,” he smiled and reached his hand out to you. “Carlton Lassiter, I'm the head detective with SBPD,” you took his hand and shook it. 

“Ooo a head detective, now that's impressive. I'm (Y/n) (L/n),” you took your mom's maiden name after the separation, although she remained a Spencer. Not sure why, but you two never really talked about it. A part of you knew too, that you'd come back to Santa Barbara, and you wanted to make sure to make a name for yourself without Spencer being attached to it.

“A lovely name,” you noticed Carlton swallowed hard, his eyes shifting as if gauging the situation and conversation.

“You're too kind, detective,” you winked and he smiled a little. “Listen, Carlton, I've gotta be honest with you,” you paused and his eyes changed, showing uncertainty, “I just feel like I need to tell you that I'm not a one night stand kind of gal, so I really don't wanna get your hopes up.” Carlton seemed to sign, or let out a breath he was holding.

“I'm fine with that, more than fine with that actually,” he almost said too excitedly.

“That’s a relief,” you laughed and relaxed a little with Carlton. “So, had any good cases lately?”

“I have,” he smiled and adjusted himself slightly, “We just had a case where the victim was murdered with the smallest dose of snake venom from Brazil, some crazy doctor was stealing money from the charity organization they were a part of.”

“Oh, you know what, I think my dad told me about that! Was it at that weird secret society lodge?”

“Yeah! Wait how’d your dad know?”

“He may be retired from the SBPD but that does not stop him from following cases very closely,” you laughed and Carlton nodded with a smile.

“Yeah, I’ll probably be that way too someday.”

“It’s not a bad thing by any means, at least you can still be in on the action without the risk of serious injury, which is good in old age.” 

“I suppose it is. I’m not sure if I’ll ever retire peacefully” Carlton confessed and you laughed. 

“Sounds an awful lot like my dad. There’s certainly a time and place for it, depends on what position you’re in too. Like if you were the Chief you could work for God knows how long, not a whole lot of field work with that position.”

“The field work is the best part though,” Carlton countered and you shrugged and nodded.

“I don’t disagree, but you gotta choose the lesser of the two evils. Fieldwork that can result in not-so-pleasant outcomes may get injured and have to retire early, or, the position of Chief where you can hide away from the outside evil.”

“You make a good point, I’m not sure if I can ever get Chief. Chief Vick is by far one of the most outstanding Chiefs the SBPD has had in recent years.”

“I’m glad to hear it, a good boss means good work.”

“What about you? How’s your job situation?”

“It's great. But that’s because I’m my own boss,” you added with a smile and Carlton gave you a small smile with an eyebrow raise. “I have my own office where I take clients almost every day. I’m working on getting my clientele back up to where it was back home- I just recently moved back to California from Colorado.”

“What brought you to Colorado?” Carlton inquired.

“My mom primarily. She divorced my dad when I was 13. My older brother was 17 and was being impacted the most by their failing relationship, as my mom so nicely explained to me one day. For some reason they just agreed to split us kids, so my brother stayed here with my dad and I went with my mom,” you sighed and Carlton looked at you with soft eyes. 

“I’m sorry. That doesn’t sound easy.”

“It wasn’t, but looking back on it, it was unfortunately the best option for everyone. My brother was basically an adult so my mom thought he would handle the divorce well. He blamed our dad for the divorce. It was my mom's idea though, she never told my brother that so he just assumed it was my dad.”

“Why haven’t you told your brother?”

“It's a conversation I know him and my mom need to have ya know? If I was the one to tell him, he could lash out and not believe me. I know one day he’ll express to our mom how he resents our dad for it, but that’s for the future,” you sipped your drink and took in Carlton fully. The way he carried himself was attractive. He was very confident and calm throughout your conversation with him and there was slight tension building up between the two of you. You thought back to the conversation and realized the trauma dump you just performed. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry.”

“For what?” Carlton asked, surprised at your sudden change of tone. 

“For the trauma dump, I just gave you. You didn’t deserve that.”

“I appreciate it,” Carlton said with a small smile. “It shows you’re comfortable around me already.”

“I guess you’re right. You’re easy to relax around.”

“I guess I should repay the favor?”

“Of trauma dumping?” You laughed and he smiled and shook his head. 

“Not so much of dumping as just sharing more about myself with you.”

“Only if you’re comfortable, Carlton,” you smiled. His eyes lit up and he had a big smile on his face. 

“Surprisingly…I am comfortable. There’s not too much to tell. I became Head Detective of the SBPD in 1996, I’m very good at what I do. I was married, but we’ve been separated for about two years now.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Carlton,” you said with a small frown. You reached your arm out and gently squeezed his arm.

“There are times when it sucks more than others. Right now, however, I’m not too upset about it,” Carlton smirked at you and you felt your cheeks heat up at the blatant flirting. You giggled slightly and let go of his arm, turning back to your drink. Carlton was really having an effect on you. You couldn’t remember the last time a grown man made you giggle because he was flirting with you. Carlton watched your cheeks turn bright red and continued to stare as the redness traveled up to the tops of your ears. He was mesmerized by you. A cute, amazingly single woman who was honest and attracted to him. You were young, he could tell. It made him a little nervous, himself being 40. He was nervous because of his age but he couldn’t bring himself to tell you, in case it scared you off. It wasn’t fair to you, he realized that, but he couldn’t help it. Your phone ringing pulled Carlton out of his trance and he watched as you quickly answered the call, muttering an apology to him. 

“Hey, what’s up?” You asked quickly. Carlton attempted to distract himself with patrons around the bar so he didn’t listen in to your conversation. “Really? Oh gosh okay. Yeah of course. I’ll be on my way,” you said with panic in your voice. Carlton immediately felt disappointed when you said you would be on your way. He turned back to you, and you were looking in his eyes immediately. He stopped breathing for a second, taking in your eyes and how vibrantly your emotions showed through them. 

“Everything ok?” “I’m so sorry Carlton, I have to leave. My brother just called and said something happened to his best friend, who in turn is also like a brother to me.”

“It's not a problem, this is obviously very important.”

“Here,” you said rifling your bag and digging out a piece of paper. You scribbled down your phone number and gave it to Carlton, making sure he had a good grip on the paper. “Call me tomorrow. Or- well, whenever you’re free, call me. I know a detective's schedule can be hard to work with. I’d love to see you again,” you smiled and tipped the bartender, grabbing your belongings and standing up. You looked at Carlton and could see the sadness on his face. You hopped a little in your place before quickly pressing a kiss to Carlton’s cheek. His face flushed red and you smiled. “Please, call me,” you said and started to head for the door. 

“I will,” Carlton called out to you as you turned around and gave him a big smile, before waving and walking out the door. Carlton wasted no time in adding your number to his contacts on his phone. He was absolutely going to call you. 

Chapter 3.

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Taglist:

@capitanostella

[agirlandherquill]

alpha-write

returning to writeblr after a short break has been so enjoyable I thought I'd kick things off by creating a tag game of my own! (since the first one I made people really did seem to enjoy, and it warms my heart) and it's an easy way to ease myself back into the creative flow, so here goes!

rules: for every letter of the alphabet, compose a sentence/short paragraph beginning with that letter

A - "Anything you have to say for yourself? Or is nothing perhaps the better choice for you? How else could you justify the blood on your sleeves?"

B - "Broken. Not bruised, not damaged - You made me broken. That hardly seems fair."

C - "Can we do this?" "Can? We will. We have to. It must be done. Right or wrong, balance must be restored."

D - Dragging a corpse is difficult enough, but when you resemble a corpse yourself? There's some irony in there that even the Gods aren't smart enough to conjure.

E - Everything hurt, everything ached beyond relief, beyond the threshold of pain, until she felt nothing and everything, all at the same time.

F - Forget him? That was a plea she could never answer, could never give light to or thought or hope, to forget was to forgo herself, her feelings, her very being - He was as much a part of her as the air in her lungs - to lose him would be death.

G - "Go." Not a scream, not a growl, but a whisper - a calm command that sent the hairs raising along her skin. For once, she obeyed.

H - How did this happen? How did she forget herself so badly, so stupidly and allow her vulnerabilities to be exposed? Even worse, how could she let him be the one to do it? He knows, and knowing is death. This was the end, for her, she knew it.

I - "If you must be such a pain in the neck could you go about it quietly? One more squeak from the sole of your boot and I will rip those laces out and around your neck. I mean it." "Then give me a reason to stop pacing."

J - Just a kiss. Just. As though the fleeting encounter was nothing more than that, as though it hadn't taken every strength he had within him. To her, it was just a kiss. To him, it was ruin.

K - "Keep running. To stop now is death, is that what you want? Because I will not stop to carry your corpse, I will not stop to remember you. If you falter, you are gone. Do you hear me?"

L - Loathing burned her insides, it sent her skin crawling with heat and her muscles tensing with a carefully restrained scream. She loathed him. That was it. After all this time, she understood it. It was not love, it was loathing.

M - "Marry me." "The last time we tried that... Someone died." "Marry me." He said again, more firmly. "Marry me, or we both die."

N - "Never again." "Why? What was so wrong the first time?" "The dozens of times after that. It cannot happen." "A kiss never got anyone killed." "Then you do not know this Court, and you do not know me."

O - "Opinionated, are we?" "Is this because I told you to your face what a horrifically mannered man you are?" "No, this is because you tried to stab me with a fork." "I missed, didn't I?" "That's hardly the point."

P - Pressing her cheek to his shoulder, she let herself break, let the tears fall and the emotions flow. He said nothing, and neither did she, it was only them and the silence of the lake, and that was enough.

Q - "Question me again and we will see what happens when you try my patience." "Try? I've been getting under your skin for the better part of the day, why haven't you done anything about it?"

R - Rest was a foreign luxury, it had abandoned her body long ago, instead she lay suffocating in boredom and misery until she could bear it no longer, and found herself outside his door.

S - "Step away, out of this room and far from earshot - Do it now, before I see fit to carry you."

T - "Trust me." "Why-" She had no chance to complete her question, he threw her out of the window.

U - Under the stars, all seemed calm, a false calm, but a calm she had long since been craving nonetheless, until his voice, as gentle as the wind, startled her wishful reverie. "Leave if you must, but not without knowing that I love you."

V - Verily, she was done. Her soul was in ruins, her body in tatters, and her heart beat it's last drum.

W - "When you decide to have some compassion, let me know, until then I want nothing to do with you."

X - (if this one's impossible to do, no biggie, skip if necessary) - "Xanthetia is a flower full of poison that could damn well kill you, what are you doing lying in a bed of it?" "The scent is the only thing that helps me sleep."

Y - "You know what you did. As do I. And it's unforgivable." "I do not seek your forgiveness, but I will beg, every day if I must, for the honour of your company." "...We shall see."

Z - "Zealous, insufferable bastard - that's what you are!" "You've said worse, you can say better than that." His smug look riled her up even more. "You are incapable of being loved, you're not worthy of that, only loathing, you despicable, monstrous being!" "Loathe away by all means, I rather enjoy the flush it brings to your face."

i'll make this an open tag as well as include my tag list! (this one's a doozy, so bear with me)

@the-ellia-west @willtheweaver @tildeathiwillwrite @drchenquill @tiredpapergirl

@365runesofthesystem @coffin-hopping @godsmostfuckedupgoblin @a-mimsy-borogove @frostedlemonwriter

@i-do-anything-but-write @r-u-living @thatuselesshuman @lead-to-code @sunflowerrosy

@theaistired @phoenixradiant @autism-purgatory @corinneglass @patheticexcuseforawriter

@missmisanthrope @littlestchildofthemoon @morganxduinn @thebrownleathernotebook @rmhashauthor

@lamuradex @fantasy-things-and-such @glasshouses-and-stones @hattonthehatman @humbly-a-doppelganger

@hopewriteszstuff @ramwritblr @s-pendragon7 @thelastneuron @heartreactor

@ihauntmyhouse @shiningstars-world @scaewolf @just-emis-blog @joeys-piano

@ramitola @yrndrgn @riveriafalll @lawrencespen1777 @theverumproject

@zackprincebooks @justjariel @orion-lacroix @jupiter---daydreams @vinniehorrible

@stars-forever @thewritingautisticat @anaisbebe @whatwewrotepodcast @appleandsnow

@urnumber1star @chaotictravelerrants @andagii-projects @dragmewithyoutonirvana @a-bi-cat-with-books

@fearofahumanplanet @just-a-domesticated-cryptid @attemptingwriter @kitkins13 @ray-writes-n-shit

@theonewholivesinthemovies @rheas-chaos-motivation

[russellsppttemplates]

I'm here for you (Lance Stroll)

When you finally let Lance help you, you quickly find out that doing things with his support makes them just that little bit better

Note: english is not my first language. I'm not a doctor, so there are probably some inaccurate informations here, but this is what I know both from reading and from experience. Everyone has different experiences and I wanted to be able to depict that in some way.

Thank you so much to everyone who likes and reblogs, your feedback is appreciated 🤍 and I'm taking requests so if you have any ideas or concepts you want to share, feel free to do so as I'll try to get to them the best I can!

my masterlist

Tw: mentions periods, blood, medical appointments, endometriosis, (in)fertility

Tag list: @myloverjk-blog

"How bad is it?", Lance asked you as you both laid down on the bed, "like a 7, but hopefully the meds will kick in soon", you mumbled, finding a comfortable position in your boyfriend's embrace. "Wake me up if you need anything, okay? I don't want you to be uncomfortable when I can help with something", he said, kissing the top of your head and cuddling you in.

Your period had been acting up again, and while you usually knew what to do and when, this time around all of the tricks you knew seemed lack the hability to soothe you, so to say you were feeling less than fine was an understatement.

Sleeping usually helped, but soon enough you ended up being woken up by a particular sharp pain on your lower belly and lower back, and despite his insistence, you tried your best to get up from the bed to grab something to relieve the pain without making too much noise, not wanting to wake Lance up. Your efforts seemed small, though, because as soon as you got up, It didn't take your boyfriend long before his hand palmed the area where you had been asleep on, "Y/N?", he called, "I just wanted to get something to ease the pain, go back to sleep, love", you whispered, seeing him get up instead.

"I'll get the machine, you just rest, okay?", he said in a both stern and soft way, making you lie back on the bed as he looked for the TENS machine. In one of your appointments, your doctor mentioned that if you had the possibility and the means, you could try the machine as it would help you deal with the pain, and so far it had helped you a great deal.

"Here, sweetheart", Lance helped you with your top and shorts, placing the small circles on either side of your tummy, "is that good?", he said as he regulated the level on the machine, "it's not doing much, if I'm honest", you whimpered, feeling bad because of how much effort your boyfriend was putting in hopes of making you feel better and how little it was working.

"Come here", he nudged you, cuddling you closer to him as his hands traced shapes on yout tummy, "does this hurt?", he asked, "no, you're okay", you mumbled, trying to distract yourself from the intense cramps, "thank you for being here", you kissed the skin near his clavicle, "I'll be here for you, always".

You were in and out of sleep for the whole night, seeing the light seep through the windows slowly as the cramps kept getting stronger again, keeping you up for most of the time.

"Hey you", Lance mumbled, "how are you feeling?", he asked, "I think they're a little bit softer now, or maybe I've become numb to them", you huffed, trying to find a better position when you felt the need to use the toilet, "I'll be back", you said, walking slowly to the bathroom.

The uncomfortable feeling in your underwear was justified by the amount of period blood that had been way heavier than usual this time around, taking you a while to clean up before going back to the bedroom and change your bottoms.

"Did any of it get in the bedding?", you asked Lance, seeing he was already up and looking for something, too, "no, I noticed when you got up and looked for any spots, but the bed is fine", he smiled sadly, "I was thinking we should call your doctor and tell her about this? I've seen really rough cycles you've had and none of them compare to this", Lance reasoned. You had been together for nearly four years and he never saw you in this much pain and discomfort, and adding the fact that you had a good pain threshold, it was concerning him even more.

"I'll send her a text to see if she thinks I need to go somewhere, or at least give me something, and maybe this will help the diagnosis", you mumbled, grabbing your phone and writing a small description of how you had been feeling.

The last set of exams you had got done were already because of some suspicions your doctor had because of how intense your cycles usually were and this may very well be another situation to help you get closer to understanding how your body was working.

"While we wait, I'm going to get us breakfast, okay? I know food is the last thing on your mind, but you'll need to eat", he nodded, kissing your forehead before going downstairs to prepare the food.

You were reading the text your doctor sent you back when Lance entered the room, a tray with tea and toast on it, "she texted me back", you began, "she says that these are all common symptoms and that there isn't much I can do, but that she can get me an appointment for tomorrow because this helps put things into perspective", you shrugged, setting your phone on your bedside table, "I'll go with you", Lance said, helping you sit up so you could eat, "I would usually say that I don't need it, that I can go on my own, but it's not like you would let me anyway, am I right?", you smiled, "but I will actually say that I'm thankful for that and that I love you very much. I'm very lucky to have you with me", you smiled honestly for the first time in a while, "I love you, too, sweetheart".

.

When the next morning rolled around, Lance drove you both to the appointment, his hand resting where your leg met your hip and rubbing circles. After checking in and grabbing your card so you could go to the lab and let them collect the samples they needed, you went back to the waiting area, Lance sitting in one of the sofas. "Was it okay?", he asked, "yes, the nurse just had to get a blood sample so the doctor can check if everything is fine with that, the scan os inside her office from what she told me", you replied. Just on time like the appointment was scheduled, your name was called and you both got up, Lance lacing his fingers in yours and squeezing it as you entered the office. Greeting you both, your doctor asked you to sit down, "Hello Y/N, Hi Lance, please take a seat", she said, "it seems your pain hasn't been getting any better", she added, letting you carry on.

"I've been managing it just fine like I told you in the last appointment, but this month it was unbearable, I don't think it ever got this bad. Especially around my lower back and lower tummy, definitely never felt like this", you explained.

"I'm just opening your lab results here on the computer", she said, "you remember the possibilities we talked about in our last appointment, and I think we have enough results here that would suggest one of them, which is endometriosis, so I'd like to do another scan to see if there is support to that hypothesis", she nodded to the table.

You set your bag on the chair you were sitting in, moving to lay on your back and lift your shirt up so she could place the gel on your skin, "it's cold, I'm sorry", she smiled apologetically as she grabbed the wand, looking at the screen and frowning. You had been her patient long enough to know her enough to gather that it wasn't good news. Question was: was it bad news because it supported the diagnosis or was it bad because you were back to square one with no idea about what symptoms to look for?

"Do you see these parts here? This is all endometrial tissue that's grown outside of your uterus, which is here", she pointed to the screen, "because you're about on the last day of your period, so your flow is smaller now", she checked and you nodded, "so this, like we spoke about, can be the cause of your symptoms, why you feel so much pain, why your cycles tend to be on the heavier side, also the tiredness, the nausea", the doctor added, now turning to Lance so he could also be involved in her explanation.

After cleaning you up, you sat back in the chair next to Lance, feeling his hand land on your thigh as your doctor typed the results on the computer, "having said this, I'm recommending you a few specialists in this area, so you'll have specific, specialised and personalised care", she offered, "I know this can be a scary moment, but I also want you to see the side where you're finally aware of what is happening in your body and now look for the answers that target it".

"Was there anything that could've prevented this? Are we doing something wrong?", Lance asked, "no, this isn't something you can prevent. Usually, endometriosis is hereditary, and since Y/N mentioned her aunt had some issues getting pregnant and her mother also showed these symptoms, it is most likely that is is genetics", she enlightened, seeing you nod as you squeezed Lance's hand back.

After she went over a few more tricks for your pain management, you and Lance thanked her and walked out to the car, getting inside and fastening your seat belts. "Are you okay, darling?", Lance wondered, not being able to read your expression, which wasn't usual.

"It may sound weird, but I think I've been expecting this. Like, I knew what I had wasn't normal, and after talking to my mother and my aunt, it started to make sense. And then I read things on Google, which I know it's not the best thing, but I did it carefully", you began, "so I was expecting it, I guess. Me and Dr. Marlin have been discussing the possibility, so it wasn't a shock. She was very direct because that's how it has always been and I appreciate her for it", you noted.

"I have to admit she was a bit forward", Lance chuckled lightly, his hand grabbing yours, "but it makes sense now. I want you to know, though, that I'll be here for everything that I can, I want to support you as much as possible", he added.

"It's still something to process, and it's only for sure whenever I go to the next appointments, so I'll just take it in", you answered honestly, smiling at Lance before kissing him, "thank you for always being here".

When you arrived home, you felt your body get even more tired as you changed into comfortable clothes, sensing that as soon as your head hit anything resembling a pillow or a mattress you would fall asleep.

While you slept on the big sofa, Lance was on his phone looking up the best specialists in the area, typing the phone number and email as well as their name in his notes app so you could both discuss it later once you woke up. Even though Dr. Marlin explained a few things about what her suspicions were and you had also told him about them from previous appointments, Lance had to admit he wasn't well-versed in the topic beyond what you had told him, so he did what he thought was best and looked it up on the Internet. Mindful of the websites he was reading, he came across a few ones that seemed legit and that had a simple language and didn't sound too alarming and rather only just wanting to spread knowledge about the topic. They all mentioned your symptoms, gave a brief explanation of what it was and the implications did catch his eye, smoothing his finger over the screen as he locked his phone, hearing you stir in the middle of your sleep.

"Hey, bub", you said, approaching him and craddling his arm, "are you feeling better?", he asked, pressing his lips on the top of your head, seeing you nod.

"I was looking up specialists, and I have a few contacts here, I made a little list", he began, "and I know we should've done this together, but I couldn't help myself, and I was looking up a bit more information because I didn't know about it", he scrambled out, "I was not taught this, I don't think anyone is, but I looked it up, and- yeah, there are doctors for these kinds of things and they seem to know what helps and what to do".

He looked so nervous that you felt you were the one to calm him down and reassure him, "hey, one thing at a time, yes?", you urged, grabbing his hand in yours in an attempt of calming him, "thank you for looking them up, I'll see the list and the ones that fit the situation best", you said.

"Fortunately, we have the means to do this and seek help to make you feel better, for all the options we have", your boyfriend continued, "I sort of fell in the spiral of what it would mean and I want to be with you every step of the way".

"As much as I think this is too much, I can't help but be grateful that we can do it, so I'll let you have this one", you smirked, "and like you said, we'll take it one step at a time".

[animeyanderelover]

Anon:

Hello, I'd like to ask for haikyuu HCs with a S/O who has an older brother kinda like Gyutaro from kny. A brother who is considered to be ugly by society, but is really strong and tall (talking about 6'8 kind of tall). They are really overprotective of their little sibling. How would they react?? To have someone clearly much stronger and not so easily swayed?? They can't fight them and they can't try to manipulate them. Not to mention that they are always together and is always listening to her brother.

For this request can I have Hinata, Kenma, Akaashi, Goshiki, Yaku, Kageyama, and Hoshiumi or Ushijima for the last one.

Tw: Yandere themes, unhealthy relationship, obsession, possessive behavior, stalking, delusional behavior, stalking, manipulation, threats

Brother knows best

Shōyō Hinata

☀️Shōyō is already someone who is of a smaller height in comparison to some of his fellow volleyball members but your brother just freaks him out, terrifies him. In all honestly, he doesn't even believe it when he first finds out that you two are siblings because you two are so vastly different in looks and personality. Needless to say though, he stays the fuck away from your older brother because one look is enough to let Hinata know that he isn't wanted. He doesn't want to stay away from you though so he often tries to sneak in on you when your brother isn't around you but unfortunately your older brother is never far away and all Hinata can do is trip over his own words, trying to justify why he is talking to you. He's pushed away from you, is most of the time left staring at you from a safe distance with a hurt look in his obsessed eyes. His delusional tendencies additionally make it very difficult for him to realize why your brother dislikes him so much, never questioning the fact that he spams you with messages begging to meet you without your brother tagging along. He's failed to make a good impression on your brother and Hinata prays that your parents will have more favour upon him.

Tobio Kageyama

🌧️​He isn't shaking in his boots like Hinata is when he has your brother towering over him but the colour still leaves his face as he's in visible disbelief to hear that you're the younger sibling of this guy. He's even more hurt when he finds out that you've asked your bigger brother for help because you got a bit scared of the way Tobio was pinning after you in his own obsessed ways. He wants to explain himself, the thought of you fearing and disliking him unbearable but your brother doesn't let you anywhere near you, protective of you. There are a couple of confrontations Tobio has had with your brother because even if he's still frightened, his paranoia and desperation outweights that at one point. It never escalated further because you stopped your brother from starting a fight. Kageyama starts getting visible agitated at one point as his own frustration and inability to talk to you leads to aggressive manners around others as his temper is essentially always ready to go off. The anger melts off though whenever he manages to see you as he daringly follows you even with your brother around and at one point his emotions are so shot that he starts crying, crying, right in front of you.

Morisuke Yaku

🍀​Yaku tends to have some delusional moments but he quickly sober up when he has his first encounter with your very scary older brother and is forced to stray away from you. He'd be lying if he says he isn't terrified but he still tries to talk to your brother and interact normal with him. Only that your sibling never lets that happen. Now, after the first time Yaku has been forced to retreat, he starts calming down from his lovesick height and starts considering how he can solve this issue without any huge conflict. He tries, he really tries, to talk it through with your brother. He attempts to reason with him that he sincerely loves you and even gets a bit confronting with some of his arguments as he points out that you should have the chance to also get to know other people. He isn't dumb, he notices that you two are unhealthily attached to each other. Needless to say, your brother can't be reasoned with and Yaku realizes that quickly. Nor do you consider Yaku's suggestions to make your own decision as you listen to your brother. At this rate Yaku is also concerned and tries to get in contact with your parents in hopes that they'll do something as he's unable to act due to your brother.

Kenma Kozume

🐱​Kenma isn't even risking it when he sees who your brother is and how he behaves around you. That doesn't mean that he stops obsessing as his eyes always linger on you but he's way too skittish to talk to you with your overprotective sibling always hovering around you. For now Kenma just decides to observe from the distance as he always trails behind you two within a safe distance, unusually cautious to not get caught because of the overprotective antics of your older brother. He attempts to make contact with you via mails and messages only to discover that you don't seem to be willing to meet with him without your brother around as Kenma asks you to do as he knows that your brother probably wouldn't let him close to you. It's by now very clear for him that you listen to your brother as you have a strong bond with him, an unhealthy but very strong bond. Kuroo can't help him much either as your brother reacts hostile when hearing that his friend tries to put in a good word for him. All failed attempts let Kenma's mood down as he's slightly depressed with the situation. He spends hours online, searching for solutions to this problem. He might act passive but he sure as hell won't give up.

Keiji Akaashi

🍁​Akaashi's case causes a bit of an uproar and that isn't even his fault. Bokuto didn't intend to do it either but fact is that he's very vocally sad for his friend when Akaashi tells him that your brother is against him getting closer to you and since Akaashi is more well-known in school, it quickly spikes up a lot of discussions. You as well as your older brother are all of a sudden on fire as the rumors quickly escalate. Akaashi has always been a bit wary around your older brother due to your sibling's overprotective behavior but has hesitated due to his own obsession. When he tried to get to know you better and his brother strongly rejected and you listened to him despite the fact that you liked Akaashi, he saw himself forced to act though. Only that your brother was uncooperative and refused to listen at all, only got mad when Akaashi pointed out how his own behavior around you isn't healthy and keeps you from freely developing. This was the situation that started everything and it doesn't help the fact that many don't like your brother in the first place, their words hurting you. Akaashi didn't want any of this, promises to help as good as he can. He might ask for something in return though.

Wakatoshi Ushijima

🦅​For maybe the first time he experiences what it feels like to be the one on the weaker side and the fact that it stops him from actively making you his own truly threatens to have his anger tip over. He refuses to back down though nor does he show any signs of fear or intimidation when he walks up to you and your brother, fully intending to talk with you only to be stopped every time by your brother. It's always very tense when both of them just stare at each other with scary expressions on their faces as bystanders fear that both of them might try to kill each other within the very next moment. Perhaps the only thing stopping those two from really getting violent is the fact that you're always around. Ushijima never learns either as he always comes back and always agitates your brother by doing so because the intimidation doesn't seem to work on the man obsessed with you. Because Ushijima is so immensely popular even outside his school does this become a topic quickly and this is something Wakatoshi is ready to abuse to his own advantage. He's very firm in his belief that once you two actually get the chance to get to know each other, you'll fall in love with him too.

Tsutomu Goshiki

🌟​His body betrays him when your brother towers over him even if Goshiki tries to not appear scared as he wants to make a good impression on your family, including your older sibling. The sweat still runs down his face and even if he initially refuses to leave when your brother tells him so, he hurriedly scrambles away as soon as your brother starts yelling. He's incredibly disappointed and soon devastated when he soon after this first encounter realizes that your brother doesn't allow him to go anywhere near you. He really tries to stay positive as he attempts to better his image even if he doesn't know what he did wrong in the first place. He tries to impress your brother in any ways he can, wants to show him that he merely desires to become your good, loving and loyal boyfriend yet nothing seems to work on him. Tsutomu gifts you also lots of cute gifts which you seem to like and he hopes that this might make your brother less hostile only for him to forbid Goshiki to send you more presents in an attempt to gain his and/or your favor. After this Goshiki is truly falling low as he even cries in private. Similar to Hinata, he'll probably try his luck with your parents.

Hoshiumi Korai

🌊​Hoshiumi is also on a smaller side which should make him more intimidated of your brother but he's a very courageous and maybe just too stubborn for his own good kind of person. Stubborn and delusional make for one exhausting person as he's sure to even give your own brother several headaches as this guy just straightup refuses to back down. Frankly spoken, he doesn't comprehend why your brother doesn't want him anywhere near you. He's very clingy and pestering, obsessed and someone who tends to get easily jealous but Hoshiumi himself remains oblivious to those things after all. Additionally he always insists on his delusional belief that if your brother would just allow him to spend time with you, you'd fall over time in love with him too. So why is your older brother so opposed and tries to stop your lovestory from happening? He's bold with his words as he speaks what he thinks which almost got him several troubles before with your brother if it wouldn't have been for you. I see the very huge risk that he'll get a lot of people involved mainly because he's openly complaining to everyone because he is unhappy and feels unfairly treated, even if he has no intentions to do so.

[gamerbearmira]

Crypted madrigals au -

I find the thought of Casita being an anti-social house hilarious. Casita gives "PISS OFF" energy so strongly that it just urges villagers to stay away from it, hence why some houses are so far away from the house.

Also, Casi functions as a labyrinth to intruders, the house thinks it’s funny too. On a regular basis, people don’t even STEP near the house, let alone come in uninvited. So, if you do find yourself inside you're in for a ride! 

If you’re just a curious kid, the house will play with you for a few minutes and let you go. Casita is more friendly with youngins. 

But if you’re an adult with obvious bad intentions Casita is going to have a fun time “playing” with you. And the house lets you in just because you have bad intentions, so it knows whatever it does to you, it’s justified.

The halls get longer, doors, even the none glowing ones, can’t be opened. Not to mention Casita plays tricks on your mind and makes scary obstacles for you (like in poppy playtime chapter 3 and monster house.If you didn’t know; The player that somehow didn’t cover themselves in time to not breathe in poppy gas starts to have hallucinations from the gas.)

But let’s say the gas is light orange or yellow in this au (the color of the candle A.K.A Pedro). After about 30 or 40 minutes of straight up torturing the intruder the house will shove them out. Everything they went through was basically a warning. 

Just to be clear, Pedro gets a kick out of the whole thing too. He takes part in scaring people by becoming a monstrous form of himself. The gas helps the intruders see him better, which he loves. Also, you know the funny gag where the eyes in a painting follow you? Yeah he does that before he comes out the painting to chase you.

You come back in? It’s your life. 

A few adults in the triplets' young adult years made the decision to intrude and they were the last. Some of those men caught glimpses of what the madrigals actually looked like and were convinced they were creatures that needed to be killed.

Something along the lines of “they’re probably just playing nice until they get close enough to hurt us”

After Casita was done playing with them they ran to the village to basically be tattle tales. 

When they told the villagers what happened a small part of them did believe them. That house has always been creepy and so are the people who inhabit it. 

…but there was the question of WHY they were in their house in the first place. They weren't invited by what the triplets and Alma told them. And it was a little suspicious that they wouldn’t answer why they were in their house…at 3 o’clock in the morning. 

So to be fair, the house acted in defense of the people that lived there. It was a very sick and weird kind of defense but it was still defense nonetheless. 

Also, the gas helps the other family members see him too so he’s more involved in their life. He does that little painting trick to chase the grandkids. No matter what age they are, they love playing tag and just having fun.

After that, those men do not receive help from any madrigal. Their spouses and children? Yes, they get help, they have nothing to do with their fathers’ stupidity. And Alma surely gave those men a good talking to to make sure they never step in their house again.

I forgot to add, the gas helps the other family members see Pedro so he’s more involved in their life. He does that little painting trick to chase the grandkids. No matter what age they are, they love playing tag and just having fun.

The kids that Camilo babysits don’t find him creepy. Is he odd? Yes, creepy? no. He’s still silly, funny, and kind. And the way he can distort his face makes them laugh.

However, he can’t laugh like a normal person. It sounds like several people are laughing at once and it’s kind of just all over the place when it comes to sound. It can go hilariously high or demonically low, no in-between. 

When he tries to control it it's less weird, but it's still weird. I also like to imagine when he's not trying to hide his voice, he sounds like he has a voice box sometimes. Like everything he says is pre-recorded even when he gives instant responses.

Also, the old au with Dolores, Mirabel, and Antonio is called “Encanto cryptic duo au”

Now for ceremonies, Casita is much more jovial and overall, a happy house. But there's still a threatening feeling in there, it's as if the air is saying "Try something and you'll never be seen again"

Mirabel does have a room but no gift, not like she really needed one. She did feel bad but was told by abuela that he didn't have a gift, her abuela doesn't have a gift, and neither does her papa and Tio yet they are still special.

Seeing as she's a moth, her room is very soft and comfy. Pillows and cushions and such. Just real soft and relaxing place.

Lastly, my inspiration for Cryptid alma was slender man. Like him, she's capable of causing something called "slender sickness," with symptoms that include nausea and vomiting blood. she can induce madness and an affliction known as "scribbling in," which causes people to draw and write nonstop.

Both parents, who were so far into insanity at that point, actually confessed that they were abuser and caused their children to run away.

They confessed because they kept having hallucinations of the twins. Their "corpses" just staring at them any time of the day. She can do this to anyone by just touching them, and at the time, she "accidentally" bumped into the mother and later the father.

ANTI SOCIAL CASITA YEAHHHHH

No but it is pretty funny when you think about it. Casita isn't even anti-social to other houses, it's with people too which is INSANE 👩‍🦲 the fact that it doesn't mind kids though is cute, like it'll just play with them, whereas with adults suddenly it's a whole menace.

Like kids are talking about how fun the house is. At worst its like a haunted house, but they aren't necessarily scared. Meanwhile the adults are like??? That thing is more than just haunted.

Pedro doing the painting trick is so funny 💀 I think that, at least in the day and when Casita is up for actual visitors, Pedro's painting is covered. Sometimes, if Alma doesn't do it, the kids will go up to take off the covering at night and Pedro will scare the crap out of them and start chasing them. It's all in good fun though.

Even the triplets do it sometime, who cares if they're 50?? They can still have fun 🦀🦀 Shoot, even the husbands fall for it sometimes. The only person who has yet to fall for being scared by Pedro is Alma. Is just doesn't work on her.

At least the kids aren't scared of Camilo. Anyone with two eyeballs and some brain cells could see tgere's something wrong with him but the kids? As far as they know, is strange and off appearance is just him using his gift in a funny way. Which good for him, because I'm sure he means well when it comes to younger ones, especially ones similar to Antonio in age.

And his laugh makes so much sense, including his voice in general. What if his mouth rarely ever opens?? Like his voice sort of just projects, and he doesn't actually make the effort to sound out words; he can, he just doesn't.

W Pedro for being present in the family's lives even in death. Bro was not about to give that up 🙏🙏 good on him, even if he has to use what is probably similar to the fear gas that the Scarecrow uses 🌚 at least, that's what I imagined. It just doesn't affect the Madrigals negatively. Glad Mirabel got a room, who needs a miracle when you got cryptid powers 🪕🪕

Also you already know that some people steer clear of Alma even in her human form. They learned the hard way of what the aftermath is to sneaking into Casita unprompted 🥸🥸

And like she had every right, why WERE they sneaking in at that time?? Like sorry she defended herself and her family???

AND THE NAME!!! THANK YOU!! I had genuinely forgotten it 💀💀

[thecomfywriter]

Why do you think Hilbert has so many simps?

okay! welcome to hilbert day! starting it off with a fun one. hi sol! thanks for the ask! let's get straight into it!

day five of tcw's 12 days of askmas--hilbert's peculiar fanbase [no spoilers]:

this is goofy because i think i actually know the reason why (unlike morreial). there are a couple of reasons i've picked up on for why hilbert has "simps".

(1) he's an interesting character:

i feel like this is the biggest factor, but i might be wrong. hilbert as a person might suck ass, but as a character, functionally for the narrative, he's FASCINATING. bro is mysterious. he's a villain, sure, but he's conflicting because in his pov, he's almost persuasive. not only towards alan, but (as i have experienced it) towards the reader as well. i feel like while reading hilbert's chapters, i found myself liking him more and justifying his existence in the story. he might be rotten to the core, but the guy exudes presence and a certain level of charisma that keeps him intriguing and entertaining.

plus, there's the entire desire to figure out what he's actually like. what is his true face? how does he look when he's not manipulating someone? who was he before the plot started? a big part of hilbert's character is the uncertainty behind his lore, which kinsa incites people to figuring him out. you almost want to make a definitive opinion about him, but each pov represents him in such conflicting ways, its hard to set your mind on if he's actually a good person or not. alan is deadset on believing hilbert has changed and wants to redeem himself. caramel refuses to even entertain the idea. morreial is just pissy at him, and cara has an odd sense of neutrality and fondness. soilaila hates him enough to try and mob him on the first day, but no one is actually arresting him for some reason. even without his limious status, he seems to hold the most power in this situation, and it begs the question why and how.

(2) bro was a dilf:

I KNOW THIS ANSWER IS WAY MORE UNSERIOUS THAN THE LAST ONE. LMAO. HEAR ME OUT.

hilbert in his prime is the entire reason why i personally started to feel conflicted about him. apart from being gorgeous (bruh... the luscious silver hair, the battle scars over his muscular body, the striking baby blue eyes, the slightly blushed cheeks and his maleficent smile? bye-- i had no business making him that majestic 😭😭), he also had this glory to him. there was a slight arrogance, but it almost felt like he deserved it. bro held the limious title for SIXTY YEARS. he went from being a nobody earth-elemental to one of the most powerful people in soilaila. he rose the ranks, got knighted by von doro herself, and became markum's biggest rival. he has this esteem to him that is simultaneously commanding and hot as balls.

THERE. I SAID IT. ARE YOU HAPPY?

all of hilbert's young chapters in sai just had me simping in the comments of the annotated draft LOL. i was so far gone it was embarrassing.

(3) the narrative:

the narrative purposefully tricks the audience a lot of the time, mainly because alan has the most chapters, and he sees hilbert in this truly respectable light. paired with how much magic hilbert knows, there's a certain degree of fascination to him that is naturally developed over the course of the book.

--

again, i could be totally wrong about all of these. for all we know, it was that one hilbert edit and the fact that bro has a v-line of the gods that caused him to develop his fanbase. you'd have to ask them. but these are personally my reasons for being on the fence with this guy. as i said previously, he's rotten to the core, but my god is he fascinating.

thanks for the ask, sol!

-- the holiday limited-edition tag list --

@wyked-ao3 @an-indecisive-nerd @drchenquill

@paeliae-occasionally @theink-stainedfolk @inseasofgreen

@thelovelymachinery @the-letterbox-archives @illarian-rambling

@bunnymermaidwrites @the-golden-comet @sm-writes-chaos

@leahnardo-da-veggie @corinneglass

[please tell me if you don't wanna be tagged i promise i will stop 🥺]

[yggdraseed]

An Incomplete Analysis of the Sukunadome

I stress the point that this is an inherently incomplete analysis. It's getting late, I'm tired and unhappy, and… well, the fight isn't over yet, so there's no way this analysis could be complete even if I felt like it. However, it's on my mind, and I feel the need to start exerting myself more on these things. Sometimes sweat is the better medicine. I know this is a long one and doesn’t have any pictures, but if we all support each other, we’ll get through it together.

Full disclosure, I wish more people had gotten filtered by this fight and just stopped talking about Jujutsu Kaisen by now. Like yeah, I think it's great different people see things in different ways, but let's all be honest with ourselves here, most of the people criticizing this fight are not doing so with any sort of literary or artistic perspective or good faith. Most of it is Gojo fans who are still crying, seething, vomiting, pissing, and shitting over the fact that the character they attached their ego to didn't win Jujutsu Kaisen like they wanted. If this describes you, well, this post will probably do you some good, but I'm confident nobody who takes the stance that Gojo should have won would have the space in their mind for what I'm about to say about Sukunadome.

Because that's what I'm calling it. "The Sukuna Cycle" was maybe a little funny for a week or two, but like most memes about this series, it wasn't really based on the story so much as it was on an agenda. Kusakabe was part of the fight since Yuji and Higuruma entered, and up until Miguel, we knew all the combatants who would be tagging in were there. We knew Yuta was off dealing with Kenjaku and would return, we knew Maki was in play, and there really weren't a lot of switches. Just Choso leaving and coming back, Ui Ui retrieving Higuruma's and Gojo's corpses, and… you know, actually, I think that's it. Sure isn't as much as the "Sukuna Cycle" memes made it out to be, huh?

Okay, if you haven't noticed yet, I'm a big JJK fan and a big JJK fandom hater. I think JJK has the worst Western internet fanbase I've seen in a long time, with only a few oases scattered across the internet where you can find intelligent life. Like it's insane what kind of bullshit a person can convince themselves of.

However, I'm not analyzing JJK's fanbase, I'm analyzing JJK. Someday we'll litigate whether or not Lobotomy Kaisen was really funny enough to justify how badly it ruined this fanbase's ability to objectively, productively engage with with one of the most competently written and culturally impactful manga to come out this century. Today is not that day.

So Sukuna's got four arms and knows how to use them. He's got four eyes and so much sass one mouth wasn't enough for the amount of trash he's got to talk to the youths of today. Just on a basic level, having four arms would be such an insignificant power in any other Shonen as to almost be a joke. Yet with how jujutsu sorcery functions as a power system and how adept Sukuna is at using every possible advantage at his disposal - even going so far as to take what probably should be disadvantages and twist them to work for him - having the ability to make hand seals while fighting hand-to-hand, and being able to chant without interrupting his breathing, are inseparable from Sukuna's godlike fighting ability. I love how something seemingly so mundane is such a huge x factor for Sukuna.

We continually see how Sukuna is a complex, but fundamentally vile antagonist. He has a very rich, detailed view of the world, but one that fundamentally reduces every other human being to be his playthings and food. It's just that Sukuna says, "Don't like it? Then get stronger." It's a very Social Darwinist, late stage capitalist view to be coming from the Heian Era, and I think that maybe it's intentional. Shitty people are shitty in mostly the same ways, it's just they find new things to be shitty about or to use to be shitty with.

Like if that were all it is, it'd make Sukuna so effective as a villain to hate and would slot so nicely into Jujutsu Kaisen's overarching social and political commentary. Cruelty within suffering, selfishness as a strength and a weakness, the unfairness of how the strength to pursue one's agency is unevenly distributed and how the haves don’t realize how easily they could have instead been have-nots, it's all there.

But there’s this inherent charisma to Sukuna that I think is intentional. He has this noblesse oblige where he’s so inherently aware of his greatness that he doesn’t have a problem with giving credit where credit is due. Like he talks all the trash when he’s fighting Jogo, but where Gojo’s insults come across as puerile and blunt, Sukuna’s always displaying this wit to him. And when the battle’s over, he acknowledges that even though Jogo wasn’t as strong as him, he was stronger than most and could have gone even further if he hadn’t held himself back. He starts off belittling Gojo in their fight, but by the end, he expresses a profound respect and gratitude towards Gojo. Like it’s a very warped form of those sentiments, but I think it’s sincere. Even with Ishigori, when Sukuna fails to cut him the first time, he just acknowledges it was disrespectful to hold back and that he’ll give it full force the next strike.

Something to keep in mind is that everything Megumi warned Yuji about when it comes to ancient sorcerers applies to Sukuna as well. They’re not treated as uniformly, unambiguously evil anymore than anyone else in JJK is, and are acknowledged as having fundamentally different world views about violence and the value of human life. Kashimo, for instance, seems to value his life only because he’s able to risk his life and lay it on the line. They’re people from an era where children died so young that parents often gave them numbered names so as to not get too attached until they’d see if their kids actually were going to make it or not. If you didn’t give your whole life over to a goal, you probably wouldn’t achieve it. Whereas modern sorcerers, modern people, have all these complex and sometimes contradictory views and needs, ancient sorcerers show a tendency to shave everything away except their one singular conviction because that was what you had to do in an era of much shorter life expectancies and peril on all sides. You’d be very lucky to accomplish one life goal, let alone as many as people of today set out to achieve: graduating high school, graduating college, getting a job, starting a family, and hopefully having one or two passions on the side. Fundamentally different worldviews from fundamentally different periods of history.

And Sukuna is no different. His goal is simple: partake in the many colors and flavors of humanity through mortal combat in the arena of sorcery. Sukuna’s love for sorcery runs deep. He’s always curious about different cursed techniques, even ones that are pedestrian to a sorcerer of his level, like Nanako’s smartphone-based technique. He reminds me of a quote from Baki: “Someone who works hard can never beat someone who enjoys himself.” Sukuna has clearly put forth great effort to master sorcery, but clearly doesn’t see it as work. He sees it as just doing what he enjoys and is good at.

Unfortunately for everyone else, he enjoys killing and is extremely good at it. Sukuna is the ultimate ethical heat death of the “live for yourself, cherish your own agency, don’t let yourself be controlled” mindset that is the ideological starting point of JJK. It’s a very dark, extreme interpretation of Buddhist non-attachment, where even compassion is an attachment to ultimately shed. Sukuna lives perfectly freely, including being free from guilt or compassion.

Naturally, there’s an exception. All things seem to have exceptions. In Sukuna’s case, that would be Uraume. I’ve been fascinated by their dynamic since we first learned of Uraume’s allegiance to Sukuna during Shibuya and I still can’t wait to know more. Suffice to say, Sukuna dotes on Uraume, forgiving their mistakes and seeming to enjoy their company not just because of their service to him, but because their existence makes him happy. I’m reminded of Power in Chainsaw Man, how she was seemingly incapable of empathy or mercy until she met Meowy.

Honestly, Sukuna reminds me a lot of a lot of characters in Chainsaw Man. People who are trying to climb from this state of misery, of struggling just to meet basic desires, and learning to be human. Yet Sukuna is so strong he never needed to learn to be human. He never needed to cooperate with others to survive — or at least, doesn’t seem to believe he did — and so he never saw the value in it. And so he’s basically brute forced his way around having to undergo an arc like Denji’s, and has instead ended up a hedonistic black hole devising all these complicated philosophical arguments to justify what is, really, a very simplistic, predatory desire to only satisfy his basic material wants and creative interests and nothing else for anyone else.

But like, it’s not that simple. If you give to others, you get something immaterial in return. I can’t quantity it or define it, but I’m sure most of you know what I mean. The happiness that comes from taking care of others’ needs, and the deeper levels beyond that happiness. Like I do believe that’s the subtext behind Binding Vows as metaphor: that you almost never give without getting in return. You might not get the same thing back, in the same form, but being changed by the act of putting the needs and wants of others before your own even temporarily still is part of the exchange. It’s part of becoming complete as a human being.

Sukuna has defied that exchange and broken the cycle, and I don’t think it’s inherently for his own benefit. There are some thing about being human that you don’t just get to opt out of, no matter how much you claim you’re more than or less than human. Even if Sukuna doesn’t think he’s lost something of value, he has. And that something of value is inherent to the whole point of this final battle.

Jujutsu Kaisen is basically working on two big problems. There are lots of ideas at play in the series, but there are two fundamental problems for which every fiight, every character arc, every turn of the gears consitutes part of the calculus to solve one or both of those problems.

The first problem, a thematic and philosophical one: “How do you love and fight for something when you know you’re going to die?”

The second problem, a metatextual one: “Is there any artistic and social value left in the Shonen formula as it stands in the modern day?”

And this fight is, ultimately, where GeGe is showing their work. It’s where Yuji has to defeat Sukuna, if not in terms of out-boxing him, then in terms of prevailing over his beliefs about humanity and the world as a whole.

GeGe has stripped Yuji of everything that is supposed to determine the worth of a Shonen protagonist’s victory. He’s not fighting alone, he didn’t go off and train all by himself, he trained with a lot of powerful, smart people who helped him. And Yuji is arguably not even the most important participant in the fight. So why should we care if Yuji wins?

The answer is so simple it’s easy to lose track of it. Yuji is risking his life to rescue someone, his friend, from being exploited, and to save the people of Japan from being exploited. Even after everything that’s happened, Yuji plants his fucking feet and takes a stance that no, shithead, there is such a thing as the right thing. Maybe it isn’t obvious all the time, and it sure as hell isn’t always easy to know what it is, but he knows now with certainty what it isn’t: to exploit others or to destroy yourself. We can find our answers somewhere in-between.

Sometimes we can’t resolve our problems with a tidy solution that makes everyone happy and sometimes we have to carve a piece of ourselves out and give to something we won’t be sure to see the fruition of, but that’s just life. It doesn’t mean we have to throw away all hope for things to get better. Even if the world won’t become utopian, it can still become better, no matter how many nihilists hide their own inequities behind assertions that there is no point.

Nihilism is not a solution to the problems of life, it is the choice to run away and hide. To give into nihilism is to give up the fight even while other people are still fighting all around you.

So that’s the fucking point of the Sukunadome. Nobara already said it better than anyone else has before she made Mahito look like the bitch he was and always will be: “Sometimes you need to fight even when you know you can’t win.” Because you won’t always win and you won’t escape death, nor will you know what lies beyond death. However, you can still live according to your principles and fight for the things you see as meaningful even if other people don’t.

That is why so many characters have come and gone from the fight. All gave some, some gave all. Nobody is truly useless — even if Miwa self-deprecatingly jokes about being useless, she still was the one thing standing between Maki and Malevolent Shrine’s eviscerating hellscape. Even Amai’s sweets-conjuring joke technique saved Hana from a would-be fatal fall and helped to supply sugar to the brains of people using reverse cursed technique in Shoko’s triage. Larue couldn’t do much, but they caught Sukuna’s eye at the perfect time for Yuji to land a Black Flash, and that means something. It all means something.

Given how deeply GeGe clearly respects Hunter X Hunter, I want to end off by citing one of the quotes in Hunter X Hunter that has been the most impactful for me and I suspect has been about as impactful on GeGe: “It seems small things… infinitesimally small things… are needed to build the entire universe. The size of a thing has nothing to do with its power.” We always seem to direct our senses to the superlatives. The largest, the oldest, the loudest, the things that hit the hardest. But while it would be wrong to throw those out, we often lose sight of how many little, important things there are in the midst of those huge, important things.

Seeing someone’s smile when you remembered something they said that showed you were listening to them. The feeling of a warm breeze on a summer morning. The smell of honeysuckle on your walk home. Waking up to rain on a Sunday. The taste of watermelon. Getting married. Having your heart broken. Songs that make you smile, songs that make you cry — songs that do both, and songs that make you feel things you can’t describe. When you’re always looking to those immense, monolithic things, always comparing your seemingly small, seemingley meaningless life to them, you lose sight of just how meaningful all of it is.

Just because it doesn’t have cosmic, absolute meaning doesn’t make it meaningless. Every little thing that means something to you is worthy of being cherished. The people around you, the things that bring you happiness, even if that happiness is going to ebb and flow. It’s all worth fighting for and living for. It just takes bravery and conviction to keep fighting and keep living with authenticity and love. And if there’s an artistic value, a greater meaning to Shonen, now and always, it’s the unerring, unabashed belief that there’s a reason to aim high and not give up.

Because sometimes, life hurts. But if it’s just pain, Yuji Itadori will never stop. We’ll see what I have to amend, reconsider, or elaborate on when the fight is finished. I hope this gave some of you a new way to look at it.