#HEED THE TAGS

[zuppizup]

The Longest Night

Summary: Callum has never been very good at accepting his limits and while some challenges may seem insurmountable, when it comes to Rayla... he would do anything for her.

Pairing: Rayla/Callum

Rating: Teen and Up Audiences

Callum wandered through the dark woods, eyes moving continuously as he searched for Rayla. The strange light of this place made it difficult for him to focus. It had been too long since he’d seen her, and every second spent searching was a second without her.

It wasn’t like they had endless time together either.

“We have to stop meeting like this.

He sighed in relief at the sound of her voice, feeling his throat close. “Rayla.” Turning, he found her standing by the tree where they’d said goodbye the last time he’d seen her.

She looked beautiful as always, her long hair loose and swaying gently in the breeze, a soft smile on her face. Every time he saw her; she took his breath away.

“Callum,” her voice broke as she reached for him.

He embraced her, feeling the tense knot in his chest unravel as he held her in his arms. “I missed you.”

Read more on AO3: The Longest Night

[bucknastysbabe]

Rating: Explicit

Tags: TW//age gap, grooming, manipulation, no one is properly nice, Criston being crazy, Targtower!reader, canon era, anxiety and panic attacks, sibling strife, Alicent is tired, isolation, angst, sad ending, innocence/corruption kink, slight religious kink, v!fingering, oral, frottage, pnv!sex, lots of tears, I was emo okay and no I did not rush the ending no I did not-

WC: 9.5k (idk what happened oops)

Taglist: @arcielee @bambitas @aemonds-holy-milk @lovelykhaleesiii @starogeorgina @fallingintoyourlilaceyes @sugarpoppss2 @fairysluna @jamespotterismydaddy @elaratyrell

Being Alicent’s second daughter, the third of Viserys, your political pawn status was minimal in youth. You minded your own and listened, a constant shadow behind your mother. The queen was your idol— she was strong, devout, and loved deeply. It was your siblings who were willful, dragon blood coursing through their veins that made her fraught.

Somehow it felt you didn’t get any dragon blood. Your egg had refused to hatch, your eyes an ugly dark purple. The worst was that you had red hair. The hair of the Hightowers. You'd been born too late and too plain it seemed. The feeling of being strange led to shyness plaguing you. Hence why you’d clung to your mother’s skirts, she made you feel safe and beloved. Any closeness with your siblings dissolved as time wore on. Alicent apparently didn't mind, even if her child was manufacturing her own isolation.

Aemond devoted himself to scholarly learning, training in the yard, and flying on Vhagar. Helaena seemed to rather keep to herself, stitching beautiful works and catching her lovely insects. Aegon— he embraced hedonism and you’d leave it at that. You had been close with Daeron when he was a babe, loving on your little brother. Then Alicent sent him to Oldtown.

Ser Criston and your mother seemed to be the only presence you were around most of your childhood. You loved the white knight dearly, he’d bring you little gifts and swing you around as Alicent prattled on about something. He was so handsome and chivalrous, always a kind word upon his lips. Just the thought of the oath-sworn knight made you grow flushed and giddy.

You’d hide behind Ser Criston's white cloak when your father occasionally took interest. Viserys seemed annoyed at your shy demeanor, asking Criston to bring you to him. It was dreadful, he was decaying and his rotten smile was frightful. You would weep and shake, turning toward your mother or Criston. Looking for an escape.

The king would frown. He sniffed, “Here Cole, take the girl, Hightower as they come hm?”

Criston’s jaw clenched before he sighed, “Come on princess, we have appointments to keep.” You had grabbed his hand and left— ignoring Viserys' muttering. It brought a feeling of uselessness to your young heart. At least Daeron was bettering himself in Oldtown. The Kingsguard scoffed, “I wouldn’t appreciate sitting in his lap either. He will always have eyes for your half-sister, do remember that. Your mother has your interests in mind.”

“I understand, Ser Criston."

When Alicent was sleeping or tending to the matters of the realm, you oft sat with Ser Criston as he guarded the queen. He would tell you about his youth in the Dornish Marches, harrowing tales of battle and blood. One time as a child you grew so frightened you hopped in his arms. He laughed and petted your hair, “You’re alright, no vulture kings shall get you. Not with me here.” His smile was bright, and his brown eyes lit with humor.

You hid a picture you’d drawn of you all grown up, a beautiful maiden holding hands with Ser Criston. A dragon would be there too. Fantasies plagued your innocent mind, courtly love between a princess and her loyal white knight. Nothing like the isolation and tension that brought strife to your family. Everything was perfect and happy. Everyone loved each other. Stupid, stupid, silly you.

As you matured into the early stages of womanhood, your shyness and frayed nerves did not abate. In fact, fits of crying and shaking began to afflict you. Tourneys, balls, and weddings made your stomach turn and hands grow clammy. The Maester had given a tincture for fits and fears such as these, citing a ‘hysterical disposition.' The tincture was diluted milk of the poppy.

You were half-dazed and daft but no longer weeping through an entire feast. Small victories.

At three-and-ten you visited Dragonstone, bonding with the gorgeous Silverwing. As you flew around the island, tears streamed down your face. It was beautiful, so very beautiful. When you landed, your white knight and mother clapped, proud of their favorite princess. Even Aemond gave a word of applause. Rhaenyra watched with a strange look, further back. You refused to acknowledge her, you had heard all you needed to know about your elder sister.

Later, Aegon had japed with a sloshing goblet, “Ah, I was beginning to think you were a bastard dear sister. Maybe a lord will take an interest now.” Ser Criston had cuffed the lad on the ear at that, Aegon squeaking an apology.

The knight consoled you afterward, gloved hand tilting your chin up. His dark orbs bore into your own, his thumb swiping your tears. He stated intently, “Never, never for a second think you are not true-born. My princess, you are just beginning to blossom, you’re Targaryen as they come. I will defend that claim until my death.”

Your heart skipped a beat, tears welling up as you hugged the older man, thanking Ser Criston for his kindness. He was stiff at first, then gloved hands came to rest at your shoulders. He called you blossom after that, the pet name never failed to make your cheeks flush. Alicent took great pleasure that you had kept to their sides instead of wandering off to find whatever to abate the stress of being Royal. She would sniff occasionally, "Do remember what white signals, virtue."

Ser Criston named you the Queen of Love and Beauty at six and ten, a tourney Otto and Alicent schemed for you to get a suitor. Although the suitors were cracked in the helm and knocked on their ass. Criston was rather vicious this tourney, winning the melee and joust. You chose not to dwell on the blood splattered on his shiny armor, for it caused wicked thoughts. He grinned with red lips, offering the crown.

Aegon rolled his eyes, quipping something foul as he guzzled his wine. Viserys had apparently glared at the knight, mouth twisting. You smiled and blushed, feeling like a silly child again. The handsome marcher was consuming you more and more. Eyes that saw you wholly, his little blossom.

Later in the evening, many lords or heirs were at the feast for your sake. They did not seem interested, casting wary looks. You decided it was partly your nerves and shy nature, the glaring knight at arm's length was no benefit. You made one connection that night with a son of the Arbor, a sweet-faced Redwyne lad. His name was Meryn, that was the extent you knew. Grandsire seemed to be pleased with your choice. Criston's dark eyes lingered in your mind. Meryn had dark green eyes and straw-blonde hair. He would be alright if you had to, Meryn was courteous. You swallowed down bile at the thought of living so far away.

You’d become so struck with Cole you had begun to lie awake at night, purposely ignoring the desire that coursed through blue veins. He had said that a true, chaste maiden did not give in to carnal pleasures. Your mother said that self-pleasure was sinful and wicked. You'd read the Seven-Pointed Star, the Stranger would fondly take fornicators down to the seven hells.

You agreed, feeling sinful if your womanhood ever throbbed. Innocence remained a quality of yours, Viserys liked to call you his Septa daughter to Daemon. You’d rather be a Septa than a whore. Aegon had doomed himself already. You hated when he spoke so vulgar at the table, you had to look away in disgust.

Aegon crushed your entire world, in fact. The pair of you had ridden to the Dragonpit to ride Sunfyre and Silverwing. You rode in silence, Ser Arryk and Erryk behind on guard. The stilted awkward air between Aegon and you seemed to thicken as the Dragonpit loomed closer. Your elder brother blurted “Are you still infatuated with that preening peacock Cole?”

You stiffened and stared, aghast, mouth agape.

Aegon’s full lips smirked. He laughed “Oh, you still are. I forget you follow him and mother around the keep like a shadow. You’re six and ten, you don’t want to fuck a lordling? Or are you saving it for Ser Cole?”

“Stop it, he’s kind and a good knight. You should respect our Kingsguard, he keeps mother safe.”

Hot tears began springing at your eyes as Aegon laughed harder, that horrid shrieking giggle. One of the Cargyll’s snorted. Aegon always made you feel so silly and childish. You sniffed angrily “What are you getting at Aegon?”

“Sorry sister, sorry, it’s just- hah! It’s just your white knight’s cloak has been likely been dirtied since I was born. You do know the rumor don’t you?”

Your heart began to patter uncomfortably against your chest. Ser Erryk always carried your medicine— you did not wish to take it as you were trying to fly. Aegon leered with a grin. He spoke in a low murmur, “He hates our dear half-sister so, we know that. Rumor has it Cole sullied his oath as he took her maidenhead. She spurned him later. Then your ‘white knight’ beat Laenor’s fop lover’s face in wrath at her wedding.”

Your legs and hands began to grow numb from sheer panic. You cried, “No, you are lying! Why would you say such dreadful things?” Shakes began, as tears leaked down your red cheeks. The prince noticed your state and sighed, “No one knows if he truly did. 'Tis not strange he became mother’s sworn sword after one night hm?”

Your vision swam. No, no, no— you couldn’t believe that. Ser Erryk rode up next to you, beckoning you to open your mouth. He yanked you onto his horse, chiding Aegon, “Shut your mouth about that, you know how she gets. I have to return all the way to the keep!”

The prince shrugged, offering a weak apology, face a rude smirk.

Ser Erryk sighed, “He’s a prick. Talk to your mother about Ser Criston. Back to the keep we go, just relax.” You felt like your chest had compressed into a tiny box, shaking and panting. It couldn’t be true. You would speak to your mother immediately. The tincture began to soften your muscles, eyes lolling as you slumped onto the Cargyll twin. Erryk murmured, “Can’t wait for this shite show with the marcher.”

You were still in a hazy lull, the movement of the horse and Ser Erryk’s familiar lilt leaving you in a poppy-laden stupor. He’d ridden into the courtyard, carrying your limp frame into the castle, barking at a squire to take his horse. You mumbled, “Mother, need her.”

“I know, princess.”

Ser Criston’s voice made your poppy laden eyes flick upwards. The knight demanded, “What the hell is this? Did you dose her with the entire phial? Where’s Prince Aegon? Give her to me.”

Ser Erryk bit back, “She asked for the Queen, Ser Criston. Not you.”

You nodded softly, Ser Criston’s brows pinching together, his lips thinning in anger. He snapped, “I’ll take her to the Queen, give me the princess. Seems you can’t follow the maester’s directions, Ser Erryk.”

“No. Trust me when I say this Cole, Aegon brought this on. He was telling your ‘blossom’ all about,” the man whispered something to the marcher. Criston’s face paled, a stricken look over his features.

The door opened without further protest, Ser Erryk laying you upon the plush settee, curtly nodding. He exchanged words with the Queen. Criston remained outside the door, dark gaze peering from afar. Your mother’s wide eyes and familiar green dress hovered in your vision. She stroked your hair and sighed, “Dear girl, what did Aegon say?”

Your sluggish hand gripped her own, glazed eyes meeting brown. You whimpered “Tell me he was lying. Just tell me Aegon was lying about him.”

Alicent’s lips pursed, turning to gaze at the lingering Cole. She ordered, “Ser Criston, please shut the door.” Even through the medicinal haze, the man looked downright fearful. The door shut with a soft click. Your mother’s attention was back on you, kissing your forehead.

“About who? Take your time.”

You moaned in anguish, “Ser Criston. He broke his oath to be with her?,” you sobbed, “He lies, he can’t, mother please!”

Alicent’s eyes flicked to the door once more. She bundled your frame into her arms, lifting your limp body up. Her soothing voice murmured, “Ser Criston is a good man. He loves us dearly. He is sworn and would die for us, my dear.”

You wept, “Tell me the truth.”

“He had a moment of weakness. Ser Criston was merely a few years older than I and Rhaenyra. She manipulated his good heart and bewitched him. That is all. He did not break his oath.”

You stared at your mother, unsure if she was lying while the pristine image of Criston darkened. Was it hurt? Jealousy? Childish affection gone wrong? There was nothing to do but softly weep in your mother’s arms before sleep took you. Supper was provided when you awoke, only Alicent caring for you.

She never lied to you before. Your mother cherished you too much to lie.

Right?

You faced Ser Criston again. The ache in your chest throbbed— but you would give him grace. He was devoted and good to you. His worried look made the apprehension die down. The knight grabbed your shoulders, eyes piercing as he frantically spoke, “Blossom, my princess, please. I have been distraught for days. What can I do?”

You stared at him, mind conjuring a response, feeling like a bratty child overreacting. His leather gloves squeezed again to draw your attention. It took everything in your weak heart not to babble and weep. This man was sworn to chastity and the Faith, yet you craved him like nothing else.

“Aegon just shocked me. This is a lot to process. I-I didn’t know anything about that, oh, ordeal.”

He seemed to sag, guilt wracking his handsome features. Ser Criston pulled your small form inward, chin atop your head. He murmured, “It is a stain that shall never be washed. Your mother saved me. I grew stronger from the failure. It pains me more now that you have learned the truth after so long. I should have let you know.”

You nodded against the steel plate of his chest, resigned.

You let him hold you— unsure of your intense feelings. The Red Keep was a web spun of lies. Even Ser Criston was caught in the horrid trap. You would remain to trust him, his affair with Rhaenyra was before you were even a thought. Still, your gut churned with uncertainty.

Criston murmured, "I shall never fail you again, sweet blossom."

You had distanced yourself from Ser Cole, protecting your own heart selfishly. He was upset and had been striving to gain your once devoted affection. It wasn’t hard to avoid him as war came in on Dragonback. They plotted and planned, too busy for Helaena to mourn. Aegon was raging at all times. You remained in your rooms, nervously awaiting Syrax or Caraxes to show on the horizon. Dracarys. Dracarys, the voices sang in your head.

They were always in the Council Chambers.

You’d been in your room, feeling madness creep at the edges of your mind. Shadows in the corners, fire on the horizon. A knight stood guard outside day and night, sometimes your mother would come sup with you. All she could do was tiredly ramble and apologize. You held her softly one night as she cried, how alone and useless she felt. You could empathize with that. At least in your room, you were safe from those fits. Sometimes.

Then your grandfather left. Criston was now Lord Commander and Hand of the King. A small ceremony was held in the throne room, Aegon strutting around like a peacock. You knew he was as scared as the rest of the Keep. Alicent sighed to you, “My darling, stay strong, you must.”

The man you had grown up with, the fancy of your girlhood, looked frightening with his chain of gold hands, lips curled up in pleasure. His eyes flicked toward you, entrancing. The newly appointed hand smiled with pride. You looked down and away, shaking hands clasped together. There was no reason for tears about this. Yet, the titles muddled and twisted your preferred concept of the loyal white knight.

War had truly begun with armies on the move around the realm. Criston, Aegon, and Aemond set off to Lord Staunton at Rook's Rest.

After the incident at Rook’s Rest, Criston returned colder, Aemond with the crown, and Aegon charred half to death. The now powerful marcher was paired with his protege, they could conquer and perhaps win this war. You were frightfully alone again, Alicent moved into Aegon’s chambers. Nothing new you supposed, yet your heart hurt.

About a week after the return, you were summoned to the Hand’s Tower. Criston sat at the desk, war plans drawn up. His hair was shorn, a beard grown in. The soft part of you ached at his bruised and nicked face. You awkwardly curtsied and murmured, “Lord Hand.”

“Don’t call me that, Ser Criston is fine,” he said, a hint of aggravation to his hoarse voice.

“Sorry, Ser Criston,” you apologized. He seemed like a different person sitting where your grandsire once sat. He beckoned you over, closer and closer until you were at the edge of the desk. He looked tired, sad, and beleaguered by his position. You murmured, “You requested me Ser?”

He sighed, leaning back in the supple leather chair. Criston’s eyes were achingly wet as he stated, “Do you still despise me so? All I think about is you, your safety, and how I can keep my blossom alive and well. After Rook's Rest, I began to remember my priorities."

You whimpered softly, the months of being alone and overlooked had taken their toll. You missed him dearly. Taking a few sighs, mouth quivering, you whispered. Whispered only so you may not sob. Your dress was bunched up by your distraught hands. Inwardly, you cursed yourself for being weak.

"I have been so…isolated. I don’t leave my room and all I can do is stare at the window and...and and hope I don’t!”

You clamped your jaw shut as your voice grew higher with emotions. Hot tears ran down your cheeks now— brought on by the outburst. Criston made a soft noise, pleading, “Blossom, come here. To me. You know how I hate to see your tears.”

It embarrassed you how fast you climbed into his lap and wrapped your arms around his shiny armor. The man cooed, cradling your frame and nuzzling your hair. His hands gripped into your curled legs— you didn’t care. It felt so good to be with him.

“There we are, poor princess, why are you crying blossom?”

His dark brows were pinched in concern, gaze quizzical in nature. You refrained from staring at his lips. One of his warm hands pressed into your back, rubbing up and down. You focused on that, tucking your face against the warm crook of his neck.

“Take your time princess, I’ve got you. Too sweet for this dreadful world.”

Ser Criston’s soothing words and hands, his gentle tone could almost lull you to sleep. It felt like an hour had passed, soaking in the moment. You blinked a bit, feeling syrupy sweet in his arms. He asked “Blossom, are you feeling better?” A soft little jerk of your head was the response before you pulled back to look at him.

“I feel better, thank you Ser Criston. I grow fearful,” you frowned at your words, “More fearful than usual.”

He cocked his head, seeming to mull over the words. The man sighed, “I haven’t done a good job of prioritizing your protection. These are arduous times.” Criston thumbed your cheek, sliding down to tilt your chin up. He murmured, “Tell me the truth. I feel a piece of me has returned. You cannot spurn me again, I need you my blossom, more than anything to keep going.”

His agonized eyes and the tiniest little warble at the end of his sentence melted your fears. This was Ser Criston— he’d done right by you, only second to your mother. Even then, he knew you in a way others didn’t. Something behind the mad little princess who cried at feasts. Criston saw qualities none seemed to perceive.

Making eye contact you admitted, “I missed you too. I- I had a hard time coming to terms. I was sickened with envy, picturing that…my sister, having Ser Cole’s heart,” you placed a hand over the white cloak on his shoulder, “I know it was a mistake now. I grew up thinking you were, Gods, the knight out of tales. Gallant and true. It was swept out from under me and I behaved as a child. You're only human.”

Criston’s jaw gritted, frustration crossing his features. He hissed, “If I could take my honor back from that viper I would. But I chose to be fooled, a young idiot. I know what it feels like to be truly loved now. Unconditionally.”

He licked his lips, “Knowing that I hurt you, hurt me. I prayed and prayed. I don’t know if I can be that knight for you, my dear blossom. But I can be the knight that gives his life for you, his heart and soul. You were merely hurt, I can understand why. But the Seven answered my prayers," he beamed, "You’re still here, with me. As it should be.”

Unconditional. He wasn’t wrong. You’d love Criston even if his cloak was stained black. He loved you. Only you. Prayed for you. Your heart swelled, pumping with excitement. At least that's what it seemed he said.

“Oh, Ser Criston, I, I love you.”

His face morphed into a pleasant look, eyes alight with happiness. You moved to straddle him, pressing yourself closer, your cheek pressed to Criston’s dark stubbled one. The knight rumbled, “I love you, innocent love for my little bud, now a blossoming young woman. You’re mine, to cherish and to love. Understand that. Just us.”

He squeezed your waist as you sighed, “Yes, yes Ser Cole, I am yours.”

“My perfect little Princess, the Gods are smiling upon us.”

You nodded along, smiling helplessly, more tears welling as your lips pecked his cheek. Criston turned his head to gently capture your lips, a chaste little peck. You shivered in his embrace, smiling as your noses nuzzled. He was chivalrous was he not?

Soon after you had spoken your feelings for Ser Criston, he wanted you moved into the Hand’s quarters. Said it was safer and you wouldn’t have to stare at the dreaded horizon that brought many a nightmare and fumbling for your tinctures.

It was done quickly, your garments and belongings now intertwined into the man’s quarters. He had the Lord Commander’s room too and pledged to sleep there for your comfort and honor. The knight was sweet and kind, letting you sit upon his lap as he wrote letters, amended decrees, and even kept you there when Aemond arrived to discuss battle.

Your brother looked shocked at your presence, a thin brow arching. He huffed, “Sister, I believe it would be best if you left us to the battle plans.” You nodded, the ingrained behaviors to follow orders hadn’t dissipated. Criston held you tight on his lap, remarking “She’s family. You think your sister to be a turn cloak?”

Aemond grimaced and sat down, his hair swinging as he glared. The crown of the Conqueror laid upon his brow. The crown that belonged to ailing Aegon. Criston poured some wine and handed it to the stiffened Prince Regent, opening the discussion.

You merely sat back and listened, your knight occasionally asking for your opinion. “I don’t know why you would not seek the high ground there,” you offered while pointing to the Westermen’s location. Jason Lannister would be slaughtered. You read up on historical battles now and then.

Aemond’s scoff and Criston’s noise of contemplation shut you up. You knew you were here to please your knight. Make him feel comfortable and less alone. You padded off toward the bed as they talked into the night, ignoring Aemond’s sharp questioning.

A kiss on your lips awoke you, blinking the sleep out of your eyes. The marcher seemed irritated and sleepy, now clad in a white shirt and thin breeches. He sat upon the downy bed to pet your hair, muttering, “Ignore your brother. He thinks he is the king right now, is all. But the hand pulls the strings.”

You shrugged, “He sees me as a distraction I suppose.”

Criston nodded, dark eyes rolling as he gruffed, “You are my motivation, blossom. He will learn to embrace your presence. Now, I have had a long day. I wish to hold you,” his face grew soft, “Is that okay with you dearest? Say no and I shall leave.”

Scooting over you pulled back the warm blankets, Criston crawling in with a sigh. You cuddled into his frame, the marcher flipping you around so he could press the length of his body to your own. He sighed in your ear, “Much better. Soft and sweet. Thank you for trusting me." He placed his chin on your shoulder, humming in contentment, tanned arm wrapped around your stomach.

The voices of the past screamed at you. So be it.

Criston now laid by your side every night, gentle and kind. He'd awaken you with a kiss and that saccharine smile. You fell deeper and deeper in love. His touches grew more frequent, keeping you by his side around the keep. Any snide comment was met with an equally acrid reply.

You'd been invited to sit in at council meets. Your mother seemed surprised, rushing to you, hands clamping down on your arms. She whispered, "What are you doing here? You should not listen to this, it shall give you a fit." You indicated the satchel at your hip and replied, "Ser Criston said I could come along, since I am able of mind and body I should have a say. He has stuck up for a Princess when everyone else has discarded me."

You did not mean to come off as harsh. Ser Criston's affections had bolstered you as of late. The dowager queen's eyebrows raised as her lips turned into a pursed frown. Alicent bit out, "Are you his kept woman now? I raised you better than this." Your mother drew closer to hiss, “Ser Cole loves you. Ser Cole is overstepping his boundaries as the Lord Commander. Lord Hand Criston sees you as his pretty little pet. Do take heed, princess.”

You frowned, chest tight with hurt, childishly scoffing, “Ser Criston cares for me. You’d rather sit and plot than visit your daughter? I’d like to visit Helaena with you, mayhaps Aegon. Don’t lecture me, your grace.”

Aemond called the council, breaking up the heated moment between you and the green queen. You took a seat to the side, watching and listening raptly. Alicent’s eyes flickered between you and Ser Criston, displeasure upon her pursed lips. He eyed her back, furrowing his brows. They had known each other so long the pair could speak without saying a word. Aemond and Lord Lannister prattled on. Worry began to pool in your belly, a shaky hand shifting to the pouch on your waist for comfort.

You could glean the wracked state of the Realm from the terse meeting. Daemon was at Harrenhal and men were gathering. The Hightower host led by a relative and Daeron approached from the south. Cregan Stark’s winter wolves were coming with a cold vengeance and desire to die in glory, grizzled grey beards that they were. You swallowed, mind a bit scattered pulling the pieces together. A crazed Greyjoy was on the loose and the Triarch had been called in. All-out war.

The meeting was adjourned. Aemond would leave soon for Harrenhal. Criston would join him later, much to your fear. Your white knight immediately came to your side, holding your elbow tenderly, “I must have…some words…with her grace. I’ll see you back in the tower?” You nodded, eyes panning toward Aemond getting an earful from your mother. Nerves began to prick— you kissed Ser Cole’s cheek and nodded. He smiled softly, gloved hand caressing your cheek as he murmured, “Sweet girl, relax, it will be fine.”

You may have dropped some of the diluted milk into your wine, hands shaky. You were going mad waiting, waiting, waiting. Mind-spinning rationalizations appeared to ease the rising panic. Your mother had no say anymore, it was Aemond and Criston in charge. If Aegon wasn’t bedridden he likely would not care. Ser Criston would not leave you, he loved you, yes.

The door swung open, clattering against some furniture, startling you upon the settee. Criston was pissed, anyone could see as much as the vetted knight masked his emotions. His eyes were dark, jaw clenched and his teeth audibly ground. He stopped in his tracks, running a hand through shorn hair. You warbled “Criston?”

His furrowed brow and wide eyes turned to you, sighing and stalking forward. The knight dropped to his knees, hands cradling your cheeks. Criston fumed, urgency to his tone, "You’re mine. You shall do as you please. I shall do as I please. I have the right, I'll leave my position as Kingsguard if the oaths are displeasing, you understand sweet girl? I need you to understand you’re my Princess.”

You held his gauntlets to nod, eyes wide upon his visage.

“Say it for me. Say it so I know it to be true. Now.”

Your eyes glossed over with tears. He was in quite the mood. Criston's dark eyes were wet, and desperation laced his roughed voice. Your hands curled around that cold chain of hands, lips frantically moving, “I am yours. Your princess. Nothing shall change that. I swear it on the Seven. I swear it on my heart.”

“I godsdamn love you blossom,” he growled, taking your lips roughly. Criston pressed himself into you, dominating the kiss. His hands moved down to your rear, jerking your hips flush to his own. You cried out, the dark-haired man swallowing the noise, tongue lapping against yours. His lips were insistent, and needy, leaving you breathless. You'd never felt Ser Criston so rough with you, it was intoxicating.

Shivering at his gruff words, you could not help from sliding your arms around his plated neck to moan. Criston pulled back, murmuring, “No one shall keep you from me, I’ll fucking kill them. I may do as I please now.” His lips trailed down your cheek, jaw, to your neck. All you could do was whine as he sucked and nipped little marks, big hands massaging the flesh of your ass. He nosed further down to your décolletage; greedy hands pausing at the neckline.

Lust-blown eyes met your own. You nodded, panting, “Please. Please. Take me as you wish.” His eyes scrunched shut, mouth swollen and wet as those covetous hands of his jerked your dress down, carelessly tearing the silky fabric. You yelped, never having been exposed like this, nerves sparking like wildfire. Criston’s lashes fluttered as he groaned throatily.

“Oh- fucking seven hells, precious girl,” he almost whined, nuzzling into your breasts. You seized up, unused to the carnal touches. Criston yanked off his black gloves to grab handfuls of the tender flesh, still on his knees for you. That seemed to abate the ever-looming presence of your neuroticism. He was submitting, lavishing lush kisses on your fiery skin.

You tightened your legs around his armored waist and cried out when calloused thumbs began to tenderly circle around your budded nipples. He watched your face, lips curled and eyes ever hungry. Criston murmured, “Sweetling, so responsive. Never had your pretty teats touched. Good, good, only me.”

You nodded in haphazard jerks, Criston pulling at one nipple and playing around with your other breast, big hand massaging. His kissing grew closer to the darker skin, lips closing around the bud. You mewled and squirmed, head thrown back to moan. He hummed around your nipple, flicking his tongue across the peak. Criston grew rougher, nipping before pulling off with a lurid pop.

The knight growled, moving onto your other breast. A shiver wracked your frame, your swollen peaks exposed to the chilly air felt like a white-hot line of arousal bolting down between your legs— throbbing and uncomfortably slick. You babbled, “Ser, Criston, Criston, wha-what?”

He chucked darkly, suckling a mark on your sternum. Criston hummed “You like that? Little princess needy for her knight?”

“Love, oh, love it, thank you,” you simpered.

He rasped, nose nuzzling into yours, “Of course…I take care of my blossom don’t I? Sweeter than sin.” His hands placed themselves atop your smaller ones, brown eyes begging. Criston breathed "Blossom- wanna feel you, help me out of this dreadful cage?" Once again mute- you began to unbuckle straps and buttons, exposing more and more skin.

"So good to me. Divine, ah, don't know how I was blessed with an angel."

You helped him out of the chest plate, leaving Criston to undo his white and gray gambeson. You were carefully putting the pieces on his armor stand, the man humming your name. Looking back, Criston smiled softly, his scarred and tanned torso exposed. He beckoned you over, cocking his head in surprise when you dropped to your knees.

“What are you doing, your grace?” Criston's lips curled up in amusement, dark orbs searching your serious expression.

Holding those inky eyes, you helped his boots and thick socks off. Criston threw his padded tunic to the side, cheeks growing flushed. He softly murmured, “Answer me, a Princess should not be on her knees like this.” His hand cupped your cheek, a smirk mirroring your own. You quipped, “Is it bad to be on my knees for you? I am merely serving an important man to the realm.”

You watched his face darken, eyes catching a glint to them. He swallowed, hand on your face tightening. Criston rasped “Is that it? Just merely service? Dirtying your knees like a woman of the night. Does my blossom want to be bad? Behave wanton and licentious so? Forget your maiden's day vow, hm?"

His words made your face grow warm. It was as if he was speaking your fantasies aloud. For once to not be the strange princess— nervous, wrong shade of hair, and overtly pious. No, you wanted to let go. No more being held back by others and your own swirling fears. Ser Cole soothed those aches. You wanted the keep to whisper more about how the littlest one was openly Ser Cole’s pretty blossom, driven from her mother’s teat at last.

“I- I want to make you feel good,” you murmured with blotchy cheeks. It was not necessarily a lie, but if you began to ramble about the lustful feelings you feared you may not stop or disgust the man. That simply couldn’t happen. Not after how far you have come with him.

“You lie to me blossom,” he teased, “I know exactly what you want. What you crave. To think the old king thought you to be a Septa. C’mere then, no more games”

You watched him unlace his light breeches, exposing his dark curls and full prick. A moan slipped from your lips at the sight, lust pounding your body in waves. The knight's cock was heavy and flush, the dark tip weeping. You squeezed your thighs in excitement, licking your lips. Criston’s tan hand jerked at the taught flesh, rumbling, “Needy little blossom.” It was almost funny how he stated it like a simple fact, yet you were on the edge of combustion.

“Y-yes! Please, want it so, want to be your bad girl, the bad princess…please,” you grew shy again after blurting out, “I- in m-my mouth Ser.”

Criston’s expression changed from playful to predatory, dark eyes narrowing a bit. He rasped, “Mhm, filthy little thing. I shouldn’t encourage this behavior. Especially as your protector.” As you shuffled forward to grab the thick flesh he stopped your hand, his amusement facing heady desire. You sulked, “Wanna learn so I can please you Ser.”

Ser Cole seemed content, enough to lean back on one arm, eyes roving to your tits and wide eyes. His other hand stroked himself one more time before shoving two fingers to your lips. You opened dutifully for the intrusion, eyes rolling back in bliss.

Criston’s princess was a dream, a godsdamn dream. He pressed the pads of his fingers down on her tongue, watching her shiver and whine. He soothed, “Settle now, I’ll teach you how. But I need my sweet girl to settle down. Focus on my fingers. Nothing else.” She nodded, wet lashes upon her cheeks now. Her hands were neatly placed in her lap.

He took the still moment to reflect, idly rubbing his cock. She was well trained. Helaena was the same in her mannerisms unless she grew distracted. Before Criston even remotely began to have romantic feelings, his blossom had always held him ensnared. She was horribly timid and clutched to Alicent’s skirts, then began to seek him for comfort. The white knight earned her trust with a trinket he bought in town. A small Yitish jade dragon— to place upon her bedside table. She still had it there, pristine and well-kept.

Criston was not sure when his protective nature slid into desire. It began with jealousy, perhaps around her name-day celebration and resulting tourney. Alicent and Otto were looking for a mate. Something twisted deep within his chest. Criston did not want the sweet thing to leave the castle. Get wedded and bedded by some callous lord or idiot heir.

Her smile after he routed the competition brought great happiness to his heart. That twisted thing in his chest swelled with a possessive pride that soared past his normal feelings for Alicent's children. He hated the feast. The princess was shyly speaking to a young Redwyne lad. The Arbor was too far away for his liking. Yet nothing panned out. He couldn't beat a boy for being kind.

Criston strapped his back bloody and raw for a fortnight as penitance. He could not imagine being a snake slithering around waiting for her. He already knew she held affection for him. Thus prayer would work, and he would be a good, pious protector. Alicent made a small comment and he withdrew from being too close. Those woes seemed to be gone by the time she turned eight and ten— leading to now.

The sweet, blossomed woman was dozing around his fingers now. Criston purred, "Such a good princess, just likes to be bad. That's okay, you deserve it, so kind for helping me out." She softly whimpered and drooled as he pressed upon her tongue.

"Gorgeous, being good for me."

She whined in response, pretty lashes fluttering. Criston almost lost her affection once. That dreadful day with Aegon and Ser Arryk telling him to stand down. He could have wrung his neck. But fear overcame the anger. The knight knew she mustn't gain access to that horrid secret. Criston prayed and prayed and prayed, mutilated, and prayed that Alicent would keep the truth hidden. Something in the uncomfortable hairshirt worked, his blossom forgave him, and the Gods had granted him a boon. Certainly, she was meant to be his then?

Criston blinked out of his reverie, asking gently "Blossom, are you with me?"

She looked like she was under her poppy tinctures. He smiled a bit, the princess blissed out from Criston alone. Eventually, she nodded, trying to speak around his digits. He sighed, "I think I've changed my mind, why don't you come sit in my lap? Must be chilly down there."

The blossom whined when Criston pulled his fingers out, mumbling, "Yes Ser, yes, whatever you need." She clambered onto foal-like legs, Criston guiding her to the plush leather chair. The man easily pulled her frame atop him. He hissed lowly as her ass pressed against his aching cock. Fighting the feeling, he nuzzled into reddish waves, lips quirked up. The knight whispered "You've always been such a pious one. Did you ever touch yourself?"

She shook her head slowly, body melting into Criston's. Her hands wrapped around his bigger wrists. The princess whimpered, "No, never, I would not dare. It is sinful," she paused for a long time, "Right?" Cole chuckled, one hand of his rubbing soothing circles onto her side. He teased "We're together now, I prayed for it, the Seven smile upon us. How can it be sinful if you're touching yourself for me? The Seven-Pointed Star says you may indulge with a paired soul."

He grabbed her chin to emphasize his point, her innocent eyes making his cock hurt "I would say we are paired souls. Do you agree?"

"You know it to be true, you always have," she stated.

"Good. I'll touch you instead, so you may remember this and feel better when I am away."

He bunched her woolen dress, exposing her plush thighs and untainted maidenhead. Criston inhaled sharply, fingers digging into the wrinkled cloth. He could see her slick and aroused, flesh darkened with need. The man gritted his jaw in restraint, he would treat the sweet girl like the delicate blossom she was. Her eyes were still upon him, dark and wet, skin flushed. Ser Cole could feel the tacky way his cock was plastering itself to her ass with his prick leaking the way it was.

"Does it please you?" came her tiny warble.

Criston groaned, "Yes, yes, more than anything yes...Hold your dress up now. I...need to take care of you sweet blossom. My needs can wait." She sniffled and clung to her raised layers of dress, head shyly tucked away as she panted. The Hand gripped the giving flesh of her thigh, coaxing her to open wider with a gentle coo. The redhead shivered in response, breasts bouncing as her breath hitched.

"Have you been this wet for me before?"

"Mhmmm," she whined, hiding her embarrassed look.

"Need you to watch blossom, or you won't know how," he stated. He could feel her gaze watch as Criston's spit-slick fingers cautiously slid across her opening. She mewled in response, gasping, "Ser!" He hushed and laid tiny lush kisses, easing her heightening fears. "Slow and gentle, breathe for your knight," came his rasp.

"Ser, Cris- oh heavens, oh what is that? S-so good!"

He laughed, "A special place the mother gave you, the maiden bestowed for naughty princesses like you to rut on and make a mess. You're making quite a mess, all wet and needy." She moved back against his swollen prick, Criston's eyes fluttering. His princess babbled, "'S for you, m'not, not, naugh-ty." He assured her she wasn't, now narrating his way down to her entrance.

"Your sweet pearl is fun to play with, but most green boys don't know how to work a woman's body. I'll let you take your own pleasure too."

The tips of his fingers slid into her wet warmth, tight and silky smooth. They both gasped into the room's silence, Criston groaning in contentment. He slid further in, minding her reactions. Maiden above she was tight. She planted her feet on the leather chair, her dress falling back. Criston was taken aback as she breathed, "Want to touch you, not this silly dress."

"Seven Hells, you'll send me to an early grave..."

Her hands held onto his forearms as Criston began to delve into her cunt, easing her in with rhythmic slides. She was growing restless, cute tits bouncing with every heave of breath. He would surprise her with the sweet spot. The marcher curled his fingers upwards, dragging against the soft ridged area.

He smirked as her chest hitched once more, a small confused noise leaving petal lips. Criston playfully crooked his fingers back and forth as watched her whine and squirm raptly. The man whispered against her ear, “Feel the heel of my palm? Go on, use your hips.”

Criston’s smirk broke into a smile as she rode his hand and fingers, shyly at first. The princess’ hips twitched tentatively, her slick cunt moving against Criston with ease. He nuzzled her neck, pressing more little kisses as she sped up, fingers digging into his arms. The knight found himself mumbling between kisses, “Good…so good..thassit’.”

His blossom was rutting hard now, huffing between her broken noises. Cole could feel her tighten around him, even one of her pretty tits under his hand was budded and tight. His dark gaze noticed her thighs were quivering as she grew frantic with pleasure, crying Criston’s name. It made his heart swell. Yet the deep-seated craving wasn't met by the hand of the king.

“Mine. Say you're mine. Before you come. Now.”

Her hips stuttered and ground down hard, the princess throwing her head back onto Criston's shoulder as she cried, "I am yours, only yours, forever yours Ser Cole! Hnghhh- oh my gods! Please!" She looked up toward him, begging softly, riding his hand, her ass rubbing Criston's prick to near completion. He demanded her release, gasping as the innocent m thing squealed and gushed all over his hand, grabbing onto him for dear life.

She sobbed in pleasure, sending a gut punch to Criston's own throbbing balls. He gripped down on her with his free hands, squeezing her soft hips as he rutted with heavy grunts, blinking and gasping for breath as he emptied all over her clothed backside. Criston moaned her name, pressing his sweating forehead to her shoulder, inhaling their mixed scent. He rasped, "Lovely blossom, just lovely, I'm so proud of you my love."

She stared with swollen eyes, the prettiest smile upon her lips as she said, "I love you Criston."

He would take that memory to battle with him. Else the man feared he'd pick her up and abscond. He was too deep, had too many scores to settle, dying with a name worth living for. Yet. Yet, she was always there, waiting for him. Ser Criston shut his ever-spinning mind down for the evening.

Criston was leaving for the Riverlands in the morn. He'd kept you by his side for the last week or so. It did not matter where— the throne room, the barracks, his tower, even the council again. People stared and remained silent. Alicent had refused to speak to either of you and Aemond looked at you like a common whore. It did not matter when you had your love.

Ser Cole was insatiable in the bedroom since he brought you to a peak with his fingers. He'd taught you how to suck him, rub him, how to get off on his thighs or tight stomach. Every night you'd lain in a mess of sweat, tears, and come. Nothing was finer than taking a sensual bath afterward, soaping each other up between slow kisses. You were in love, truly, but at such an awful time. You prayed the gods would give him back to you. You feared what would come of you when he left. The thought of death was too much.

Your white knight was in a forlorn mood tonight, holding you tightly. You rubbed his thigh and consoled Criston, "I have a dragon you know. I shall be fine." He grimaced and rolled over to face you, handsome face twisted with emotions. The marcher asked, "I hope you think me to be good and kind even after this all. Don't let me die in vain."

"Don't talk like that," you chastised, frowning.

He grumbled further, sinking into his foul mindset, barbs upon his tongue. A tense argument broke out between you two. Criston ended it by shoving himself atop you and bursting into tears. He gritted, "I am, fucking hell, reconsidering everything now. I must go on. I must face my reality, we both should. But it...hurts! It fucking hurts! You have to grow up now! I've left you in your pretty gilded cage for too long!"

You blinked in shock, his tears hitting your face. Criston seemed to deflate, apologizing and weeping, "M'just scared, I can't leave you alone, I can't. You're all I need. Oh gods forgive me." This was the side of the marcher you knew few had seen. Vulnerable, real, human. Criston huffed into your neck, his hands digging into your waist.

“You’re not wrong-“

“I didn’t mean it.”

“Whether you did or not, ‘tis true Criston. We must face our fates whether that be now or later. I must prepare my own dragon to defend the city. You must go lead our troops. I can’t sit and weep the rest of my life.”

He gazed with wet eyes, red rimmed and dark lashes clumped. You caressed your knight’s cheek, murmuring, “I want you to have me before you leave. The gods never promise anything.”

A soft noise fell from his swollen lips, Criston readjusting himself between your lax thighs. You thought idly about giving him your tincture with the way the man was shaking. He rasped, “They don’t, not the Stranger. I want to make this…good.” Criston’s lips trembled as he pressed them tenderly to your own, balancing himself on an elbow. You wrapped your arms around his wide shoulders, opening up.

The kiss spoke of the utter fear in the air. Long drags of tongue and sucking of lips, no urgency in the sacred moment. You arched into him, suckling gently on the tip of Criston’s hot tongue. He groaned, hips twitching against yours as he tilted his face some, lips dancing yet insistent. You grabbed some of his dark hair, crying out when he nipped your lip. The man ate up your noises, hands greedily roving your body.

“I love you,” he spoke, voice wobbly.

His lips moved down your jaw and neck, sucking at that sensitive place below your ear.

Criston’s cock had grown flush and heavy between your legs, twitching with need. Your own desire began to drip with slick and pounded with blood flow. You rocked against him with a whine, Criston’s eyes flicked to you with a sly smile as he ground back. You threw your head back in pleasure as he massaged and lapped at your tits, sucking at your tits with desperate noises.

Once again you yanked at his hair and Criston moaned, pausing to take your lips again. He murmured, urgency to his voice, “I’m going to stretch you out blossom, as best as I can, wan’ you to feel good. Feel so good.” The urge to cry bubbled up but you nodded along anyways, spreading your legs like the good princess. His good princess.

Criston hitched one of your thighs up around his waist, the other he held out. The man inhaled at your tender mound, eyes black as the coal on his sigil. You shivered involuntarily at the feeling of those sculpted lips sealing around your pearl, sucking ever so softly. One of your hands slapped down on the bed as you whimpered, thighs tightening. His calloused fingers swiped at your slick cunt, diving in two off the get.

It wasn’t painful— you’d gotten quite used to two fingers from your lover. But he pumped a couple of times before stretching his fingers outwards. That was a new feeling, a bothered whine elicited from the sensation. Criston flicked his tongue a couple of times and that was forgotten as hot licks of pleasure bundled up in your belly.

His ring finger slid in, a new feeling, a bit of a pinch. Criston rambled, “Breathe love, breathe, doing so good for me. The most obedient princess, wanton for her night. I wish you could see how much of a mess you’re already making.” He smiled at your keen of arousal and embarrassment, three fingers stretching your tight walls. He dove back down to flick, suck, lick at your pearl— relentlessly so.

Your hand not trying to rip the bed gripped his short hair, thighs clamping down now. He was abusing your other gifted place, curling his fingers as if to bring your release forward. Wet noises of his hungry mouth and ravenous fingers filled the room. He grunted, hips jerking to a standstill when you whimpered, “So close, closeclose, I love you, oh stars Criston.”

He didn’t cease his movements as you felt goosebumps arise across your hot skin, sweat beginning to bead up as pleasure rose and rose. Your lower stomach was a tight cord, ready to come undone, winding tighter and tighter. All you could do was mewl and squirm, enslaved to his ministrations. You gaped, breath going staccato, whining through your nose.

The coil snapped.

You fell apart in a flurry of shaking limbs, mouth wide open yet not a peep coming out. It was intense and fiery, the flames of carnal delights searing you. Criston moaned softly, “Ah- gorgeous blossom, made a mess all over.” He licked his swollen lips and wet chin, cock beaded and bobbing between trim thighs. You watched in a haze, feelings the subtle burn from his beard brushing your delicate skin. It felt delightful to you— the dull throb.

“Want you, please, want your,” you paused, “Want us to be truly together.”

Criston nodded, hand on his prick, precariously sliding atop your limp form. He slicked up the head of his already weeping member with your own essence, eyes rolling back at the sensation. Criston nuzzled against your face, promising to make you feel good. He seemed to grow more emotional, taking his time with sliding the blunt head around your entrance.

Carefully holding wide shoulders you tried to relax your nervous body, going limp when his cock breached your tight cunt. Criston shivered, pushing forward a bit more, gasping out. “Princess, are you okay? Hm?” Worried brown eyes flitted around as he met your eyes. You nodded in a slow jerk, it was uncomfortable but more foreign than anything. The man pushed in further, your inner walls stretching to accommodate his thick cock.

There it was, a pinch inside. Your chest went a little tight, nails digging into his shoulders. Criston’s mouth opened but you surged forward to kiss him, thighs and heels urging the man on. You’d never wanted anything else but this, right now. He moaned deep and long, holding himself from going too far. Inch by inch he settled, the pair of you panting into eachother’s mouth. A pregnant pause settled over your connected forms, his eyes upon yours. Brown and plum.

You didn’t have to say it again— it was felt.

Criston gingerly pulled out on a soft whine, pushing himself back into your cunt. Then again. Over and over until he built up a pace, mouth hanging open as he groaned helplessly. The friction was delicious, the pain blending away to fall into deep pleasure. Your nails clawed at his back some, keening your lovers name as he began to fuck you in earnest.

You felt so fucking full and satisfied, Criston’s gorgeous moans urging you to fuck back onto his fat prick. Useless babbles left your lips, “Full, oh, oh you feel s’good.” Criston whined wetly against your neck, feverishly kissing and sucking as he grabbed your hips to get a better angle. His beard rubbed your neck and collarbones raw— another reminder of his love. The marcher’s chest heaved as his hips and balls hit your skin, leaving nothing back as he gave in.

“Godsdammit, hah, sweet blossom, taking your knight so well. Made for me, swear- swear it.”

“All for you.”

He bit down on your neck, thrusting at a breakneck pace. The dark haired knight couldn’t quit from rambling or moaning, eyes scrunched shut as your tight pussy milked him. You squirmed under his heavier body, Criston’s chest hair rubbing against the delicate skin of your breasts, your nipples aching from the friction. Your nails drew deeper scores into his back. Tears pricked at your eyes.

Once again you were at the precipice.

Why did this feel like the last?

Criston whined as his hips stuttered, cock twitching deep inside. His tactful thrusts were mismatched and sloppy, the firmness of his voice chipped away to quavering emotional whimpering. You tightened further, your cunt spasming in waves as you felt the familiar throes burn deep inside. So good it hurt. The pair of you came undone together, sounding like a pair of young lovers squealing and crying. Thick ropes of his cum painted your insides, another shiver crossing your frame.

Would it be so bad if his seed took?

Criston fell down to his side, cock slipping out in a mess of spend and blood. He grabbed onto you tightly, tears slipping down your cheek. Your own tears mingled with his, you absently petting dark hair. He laughed blithely, “I shall bear your wounds proudly, hmph.” You pointed out your neck, agreeing to do the same in case you were needed.

“I’ll pray for you my love.”

“And I you.”

Many winters and summers later, barflies would say you could catch glimpses of a ragged white knight asking where his blossom was, down on some road south of the Gods Eye. The ghost would never know she perished in dragonflame, best that he didn’t, if anyone even knew what the apparition was talking about.

[thebibliosphere]

Pennyworth: The Daring Young Man

Chapter five

On the one hand, the acid-shooting flowers had done wonders for Gotham’s air quality by soaking up the harmful pollution in the atmosphere. True, they'd then turned it into a bio-weapon. But you couldn't have everything. On the other hand, it reminded him too much of Burma—the dappled sunlight tinted green by giant leaves, the humidity, and the scent of deep, dark earth tinged metallic and stained red with blood, the shouts, the screams…

Alfred shivered and shook his head to shake off the memory before it could manifest into anything else.

Now would not be a good time to hallucinate Spanish riddled with bullet holes sitting beside him in the passenger seat. Or anyone else, for that matter. He had too much going on to allow his grip on reality to wobble any more than it already had over the last few days. It was bad enough that he still felt like the world still wasn’t quite solidified yet. Like they were still missing something…

“You’re doing fine, love,” said a fond, kindly voice to his right.

“Fuck,” Alfred muttered, allowing himself a brief moment to squeeze his eyes shut, his hands tightening into a death grip on the steering wheel. “Not now, Mum.”

[Read more on Ao3]

I am posting this from my phone so I apologize if the formatting is horrendous. It’s the only screen not triggering a migraine right now. If it’s bad I’ll show @mothman-etd how to use Ao3 and he can fix it.

Anyway. Alfred is having a very normal time of it. No ghosts here.

[syoddeye]

cw: butcher!simon, darkfic, dead animals, no butchery depicted, temperature torture, implied limb removal. definitely not for everyone. 490 words.

you find yourself hanging between pig carcasses in cold storage. swaying. chain creaking.

the chill sinks beneath your skin, numbing you in long, creeping waves. your fingers twitch, but grow stiffer by the minute. slowly ceding control to the ice. the threat of unconsciousness stalks the edges of your vision and mind, willing you to close your straining eyes and frosted lashes. find peace in oblivion. but the thought of what happens after keeps you stubborn.

of course, there are consequences for staying awake, too.

fifteen minutes, simon said. lettin' you off easy, he said. an eternity spent sailing the cocytus would be more comforting.

you're on the descent, about to pass orpheus on the stairs, when the door opens. the rush of warm air stings and bites, stirring your reflexes and making you thrash weakly. he chuckles as he takes you off the hooks, casting aside your shackles. he throws you over his shoulder, knocking the air from your lungs in scrapes, and pats your flank.

he lays you out on the table, a wet and sticky puddle smears and squishes beneath your back. he looms, his brutish form blocking out the sterile light above. something thick and heavy falls over you, slightly damp and smelling of iron, but you make no move to shed it. you can't, anyway. it's warm and solid but malleable like worn leather.

simon takes shears to your clothes. cutting them from your body and replacing your cover as he goes. his hand slips to your throat and wrists every few minutes. the thick pads of his fingers wrapped in elastic press down firm, monitoring.

he tuts about the kitchen. the longer you lay there, the more feeling you regain. the clearer your mind becomes. you realize your blanket isn't a blanket at all, but his stained apron. still sopping from a day's work.

he strokes your cheek when he catches you staring, petrified.

"feelin' warmer?"

you barely nod, the muscles and tendons of your neck uncooperative. he cups your chin, dragging it down and up, ignoring your whimper of pain.

"yeah? good. let's 'ave a chat."

simon drags a stool along the linoleum to sit behind your head, forcing you to roll your eyes back as far as they'll go. he pets your temples and forehead, closely examining you.

"tried to run. not smart, pet," he leans close, breath fanning over your face. "makes it the third time. remember what i told ya?"

an object clatters onto the table beside you, heavy enough to rattle a small shockwave through your back. his eyes don't stray from your face, but his head tilts expectantly. swallowing thickly, you crane your neck, nerves screaming in protest.

you see the handle first. then the long, steel body. the teeth. a hand saw longer than your arm, one you've seen him take to the pigs in the freezer.

"it's a shame. liked your legs."

[steviewashere]

In Sickness and Health

Rating: General CW: Discussions of Medical Issues, Referenced/Past Seizures Tags: Established Relationship, Married Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson, Future Fic, Older Steddie, Canon Divergent, Steve Harrington has Seizures, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart, Breakdowns, Hurt/Comfort, Angst & Fluff, Eddie Munson Calls Steve Harrington Pet Names

For the @steddielovemonth prompt: "Love is giving them space when they need it."

💕—————💕

Eddie has learned to revel in quiet afternoons, even when he’s alone. The way the sunshine bathes the apartment’s living room carpet—his and Steve’s apartment. Their cat, Poncho, settled heavy and warm in his lap. A chilled glass of southern iced tea and a plate of crackers and sliced cheese. The television volume on low. Book open and set on the arm of the couch. It’s good, the quiet.

Yet, it breaks the moment the front door opens. He didn’t hear Steve stick his key in the lock. But he definitely hears his annoyed groans and huffs. The slam of the door, most likely shut with his hip. A muffled, “Damnit”, when he drops his keyring on the floor.

He peeks from the edge of the couch, eyes set and attentive at their front door. And Steve is there, wrestling with his puffer jacket, grumbling under his breath, kicking his legs and stepping on the backs of his sneakers—something he never does, he cares too much for those things. But here he is. One t-shirt stuck on a doorknob away from a breakdown.

Though, Eddie doesn’t chastise him for the way his emotions express. No matter how explosive they are. Steve just gets like this some days. Too angry to talk. Too begrudged to take care of his things.

What’s new, however, is Steve’s slightly splotchy, puffy face. Red and pink and white. The tears brimming in his eyes. Ever apparent even behind his glasses. A paper with professional scribbling on it—a doctor’s note. He had an appointment this morning. Made last night after an emergency room trip. A seizure is what put him there. Scared them both, Eddie too eager to make him take an appointment, to call in sick to work. He should’ve gone with, if this is how Steve’s coming home.

He plops Poncho on the couch, letting him stretch skywards and curl back into a little ball. Tea abandoned on the coffee table. And Eddie gently comes around the corner, hands hooked in front of himself, still dressed down in pajamas, eyes wide and expecting at Steve. 

“St—“

Steve shakes his head. A hand held out in front of him. Jacket and shoes abandoned by the front door. And he sidesteps Eddie completely, barreling down the hallway, slamming the bedroom door behind him, and locking it.

Eddie lumbers after him, slowly, cautiously. Face to the wood of the door. And through it, what breaks his heart, he can hear Steve’s soft cries. He resigns himself to some time on the couch. Steve always needs his space after breakdowns like these.

Needed it after Max woke up in the hospital, half-blind, limbs mostly healed. Needed it after Eddie came out of surgery, pock-marked and head shaved, half a grimace on his face. Needed it when Robin moved out of state for college. After Dustin and Lucas and Mike and Will and Eleven and Max all graduated high school, when they went their separate ways across the country, when they called once or twice a month. When his dad died, the grief a heavy blanket on his shoulders, his chest lighter, his brain angry at being relieved. 

Steve needed his space when Eddie brought home their cat (though he came out merely ten minutes later, an excited smile on his face, name on the tip of his tongue). Nightmares and dissociation episodes. At the grocery store, because he has to stick to a list, knowing that Eddie never does that. The first grey hair, which he then took in stride when Eddie called him a “Beautiful baby silver fox.”

Even after they moved to Massachusetts in 2008 and got married. His emotions were so strong, so palpable, so rapid—he just needed a moment to debrief, take a hot shower, and then cuddle into Eddie’s side on their honeymoon bed.

Point is, Eddie knows when Steve needs his space. Knows that he cherishes that time to himself, to break down in contemplative silence, to let himself digest new information or old information or just get himself restrung. 

He wishes that Steve had been taught that it’s okay to breakdown in front of his loved ones. That it’s okay to ask for help and for comfort. But it doesn’t come easy. It makes him guilty. It makes him scattered like a headless chicken.

For the mean time, Eddie sets himself down on the couch, iced tea in his grip, volume turned up slightly on the television. Steve doesn’t like it when people hear him cry. Eddie doesn’t acknowledge it either, for the sake of saving Steve from another impending breakdown. He loves Steve with all his might, he just wishes things were slightly different. He’ll do this, ever reluctant he may be.

——— Around thirty minutes later, an average amount of time for Steve, the bedroom door creaks open. Eddie quickly turns down the TV and gently places his now empty glass on the coffee table.

Small, floating from the hallway, Steve calls out, “Eddie? Can you—“ He sniffles, voice still choked up. “Can you come in here, please?”

The sight that Eddie wanders in on breaks his heart a little further. Steve’s face is still a splotchy mess, his eyes downcast and teary, waterlines pink. His hair, grayer now, is askew. There’s a definite slump to his body, where it rests on the edge of the mattress. Hands intertwined between his legs, fingers locking and pulling one another, socked feet shuffling on the rug. He got out of his day clothes, now back in his pajamas from the night before—sleep shorts, grey t-shirt.

Eddie closes the bedroom door behind him. He scoots over and kneels down on the floor. Hesitantly, he sets his palms on Steve’s knees. He rubs the inner skin, warm and soft, with his thumbs. “Whatcha need from me, baby? Ask me to do anything, I’ll do it.”

Steve sighs, breath shuddering as it leaves him. His exhale ends on a little whimpered hiccup. Instead of answering, he grabs the paper he was holding earlier and passes it over. It’s edges are wrinkled, probably from being handled roughly, maybe even scrunched. And Eddie was right, it’s something from a doctor’s tablet. Signed off with a messy scrawl:

— Instructions for handling seizures. — What to do if a seizure lasts longer than five minutes. — Steps on how to start the process of getting a service animal. — Firm directions telling the patient to not drive. — Prescription for Tegretol CR 200mg

And the diagnosis in thick, blocky, bold black text:

Epilepsy

Eddie sighs through his nose. He swallows thickly and looks back up to Steve’s defeated face. He murmurs, “I should’ve gone with you. I’m sorry, love bug.”

Shrugging, Steve mutters, “Thought I was done with the after effects of the shit back in Hawkins. I’m so—Angry? Disappointed? I don’t know how to feel.”

The paper is set back on the mattress and Eddie pulls Steve into his chest. He rubs a hand down the length of his spine, the other squeezing around his waist. “You’re allowed to feel however you want. And it’s okay to take the time to figure that out, too. This is hard stuff, baby.” He sways them from side to side. Closing his eyes in relief as Steve’s arms wrap around his back. Something that, unfortunately, doesn’t happen enough when he’s in need of comfort. His hands grip tightly to the back of Eddie’s t-shirt. Eddie gently turns his head and kisses Steve’s cooling, still ruddy cheek. “We’ll start figuring this out. Like we always do. I’ll be right here for you, alright?”

Steve nods against his shoulder. Muffled into Eddie’s neck, he asks quietly, “Can I have some more space and alone time?” He shifts to slowly release Eddie. “Just for a little while. I promise I’ll hang out. I just needed to tell you, so that it’s not harder later.”

He pries them apart gently. Arms still encasing Steve, he holds soft eye contact. “You take all the time in the world. I won’t be offended, sweetheart.” He kisses Steve’s forehead now. When he sits back on his heels, Eddie brings up a hand and runs it through Steve’s hair, fingernails dully scratching at his scalp. His smile is lopsided, the youngest it’s been since the first confession. It comes easier now, “I love you, you know that? I love you so much.”

“I love you, too,” Steve murmurs, barely returning the smile, and yet it’s there. Eddie revels in that, too.

And when Eddie goes to exit the bedroom, door almost shut behind him, Steve calls out his name one more time. Looking back, Steve swamped in their comforter, glasses folded on the bedside table, wrapped up and warm, Eddie tilts his head in careful implore. He hums in question.

“Thank you for understanding,” Steve whispers.

“Thank you for telling me, I know it was hard. If you need anything, I’ll be in the living room, okay? I’ll keep the TV low, but tell me if it’s too loud.” Steve nods, shifting under the blanket further, fully supine on the mattress. He looks more relaxed. He looks a little easier. “Have a good nap, love bug. I’ll be here when you’re ready.”

[torchflies]

Tom loves listening to Janis Joplin; he has since he was seven years old, riding high on his Daddy’s shoulders at the Avalon — before everything.

Before a passing conversation with a photographer who noticed a particularly photogenic child, before six years of non-stop movies on a Disney contract before puberty hit and made him unmarketable, before the inception of Tommy, before he was drinking his breakfast, lunch and dinner: taking uppers to get through the day and downers to sleep — just, before.

(Ice struggles with the person he used to be and tries not to join the 27 Club).

[aziraphales-library]

Im scared to ask this, but what is the "infamous cream cheese fic"?/genq

I'm scared to answer this! Warning, warning, warning. I cannot stress enough that you should all thoroughly read the tags very carefully before you decide to read this!...

Swallowing Loneliness by Marvin_Cumbawumba (E) (WIP)

Aziraphale is alone on Earth, but some things, like a good meal or pleasant company, soothe any sore feelings away.

- Mod D

[sachikokuroichi]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Hazbin Hotel (Cartoon), Helluva Boss (Web Series) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Alastor/Lucifer Magne | Morningstar Characters: Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), Lucifer Magne | Morningstar, Charlie Magne | Morningstar, Valentino (Hazbin Hotel), Vox (Hazbin Hotel), Velvette (Hazbin Hotel), Asmodeus | Ozzie (Helluva Boss), Beelzebub (Helluva Boss) Additional Tags: TW: Sexual Harrasment, smut with some thinly veiled plot, one day in alastor's shoes, Shapeshifting, lucy has female anatomy in this one, lucy has a real shit day in this one, it gets better tho, doe!Lucifer, Breeding Kink Mentioned, Mating Bites, Scenting, Possessive Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), Non Sex-Repulsed Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), Asexual Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), my ace wife made me write this, are they already in a relationship? who knows - up to you Summary:

It all started with a stupid argument between Alastor and Lucifer, as it does most of the time:

“You wouldn’t survive one fucking day in hell as prey animal! With your idealistic view on the world around you!” “Oh, it’s on! I can do this with one hand on my back and both of my eyes closed! And you know what?! I can do it without being a prickly, sassy asshole!”

Famous last words.

[dontpercievemeplease]

Jashers it’s happened.

Silly Writing with Silly Guys by Foxy is now on ao3!!!

No more having to deal with large google docs :)

Please show Foxy some love!!

Go read it’s so good!!!! They’re brothers your honor I swear-

[aprilfeldspar]

[bucknastysbabe]

Hey look I finished an AU bingo ask! I enjoyed this one so much💖 I felt the brain cooking making up and putting together actual smart people science words. Thanks for the request!

AU bingo - Sci-fi Horror - Aemond Targaryen

Rating: Explicit

Tags: Murder AI Aemond, obsessive/stalking behaviors, TW TW TW: NONCON AND DUBCON. The noncon is not a full scene but warning, non-descript mass murder, scientist!reader, nanotechnology, spaceship setting, somewhere far in the future, pnv!sex, masturbation, Aemond kinda has a mommy kink if you squint and a Bible quote kink lmfao, v!fingering, manipulation, space odyssey gone wrong trope

A/N: No beta I’ll prob come back and fix some shit soon

The ship landed with a faint thud on the green, green exo-planet. You followed Aemond along quietly, meek, fearful, broken. Coming down the unfurled slanted walkway a sweet smell hit your senses. Miles of flowery fields waved, a perfect breathable atmosphere. In the distance, avian-like creatures tittered. A fragment of peace was in your tattered soul.

He hummed softly, gesturing to the beauty.

"God blessed them; and God said to them, ‘Be fruitful and multiply, and fill the earth, and subdue it; and rule over the fish of the sea and over the birds of the sky and over every living thing that moves on the earth.’”

You felt that Aemond was the serpent and remained quiet, breathing in the fresh air. Nothing like home. Maybe you could start anew. The man turned to look, stating, “But we’re God. We have a duty. We shall make this planet everything that Earth has failed to do. Join me, be my Eve will you?” He seemed genuine.

A long fingered hand extended to you. Your gaze flickered between that glowing eye and the outstretched digits. You grabbed his hand, interlacing your fingers. Together, looking upon the horizon you murmured, “Yes, my Adam. You were the greatest creation after all.”

He pecked the stray tear rolling down your cheek, squeezing your palm, lips curling in glee.

It wasn’t meant to end up like that for you. At one point Aemond was your AI. Artificially Enhanced Monitor Of Nanites Directive. Simply installed cameras and layer upon layers of wafer thin circuits loaded with information. Aemond preferred to be referred as he. He was also an arrogant bastard, but helpful as was his intent.

Your coworker Greaves and Aemond did not get along well, the AI criticizing his work. You’d tune them out with plugs or music buds. The scientist laden ship had a destination to a far away mining colony. The general’s plan was to find a way to used nano-technology to replace missing arms, eyes, and other wounds. Time was running thin but the blonde man in cryo-stasis would be your second trial.

The first did not end well. Her body rejected the technology, turning the human into a mindless wreck. Greaves blamed it on you, then General Hightower gave a harsh scolding and upped the time. Aemond consoled you a bit, offering advice. He seemed to take a liking to your banter on the nanotechnology.

He wasn’t the only AI. Other sectors of the ship worked on different but crucial projects such as alien anti-parasitics and ramping up on space suits equipped for defense. Colonization was on the horizon.

Plucking and prodding the little nanites with different stimuli had them snapping and shifting, seeking to find a form. You just needed to code what form they would assume. Aemond’s clipped voice echoed over you. He suggested, “Have you tried printing a molded cast of the man’s eye socket?”

Perching your chin on a shaky hand you smiled, “I swear, it’s always the simplest things I miss. Thank you Aemond.”

“You would have realized soon, want me to begin the scans and print? Likely you need rest, I know the stress of the upped time is draining your bodily function. The brain needs much more sleep, especially one as bright as yours.”

You blushed a bit, fumbling your tweezers. The AI had a certain…courtly way of words. His sort of programming wouldn’t allow for flirtation but it certainly came across like that. Greaves mocked you and the intelligence’s ‘crush’. Greaves always found a way to make you miserable. You did all the major work and he got the accolades.

Shaking yourself out of your thoughts you announced, “You’re right, I’ll go rest for a bit, get back to work with the mold. Thank you again, and engage lockdown protocol so he doesn’t mess up my work like last time.”

“Engaging it now, sleep well Miss.”

You crashed as soon as you reached your quarters, sleeping deeply and sound. Upon awakening and getting dressed you couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. Just chalk it up to your fried nerves. It wasn’t the first time and this was an older ship, ghost stories had gotten to you before.

The mold was in a canister from the printer, you scrubbing up and carefully taking it out. Aemond politely asked, “Did you sleep well? You look refreshed.” Blushing yet again you murmured, “Very much needed, I didn’t realize how exhausted I was.”

“Greaves has been in the mess hall, you will likely get some peace now. Shall we begin?”

The armor folded off your precious lab table, the nanites dormant from no stimuli. Pressing a button you placed the mold into a hatch, sending it up into the chamber. In fluid motions the little bugs covered the new space, feeling and searching before all inserting into the eye socket, glowing a bright blue.

You laughed in glee, “Yes! Yes perfect! Look at that Aemond, they’ve formed a pupil!”

Shining light on the false eye the pupil contracted and flinched, the illusion of eyelids closing. You cheered again in excitement, getting Aemond to video the big jump in success. You could start phase two soon. Just had to deal with your partner.

“Amazing miss, amazing. They took to it well. Shall I send the material to command?”

You grinned and looked up at the camera, “Please! God bless! A miracle!” You’d continue to test the nanite organ until the hiss of the door opening alerted you.

Greaves stumbled in, slurring, “I see you got the jump on me this time. Did the creep robot do it for you? Weird fucking thing.” He leaned against the sterile white wall, grinning with hazy eyes. You frowned and stood up, “That’s his job, to aid us. I’m sure since you work so hard in the mess hall you’ll get your accolades again.”

He squinted at you, arms folding against a chest, “Whas’ your fuckin’ problem with me? You’d rather chat with a bunch of circuits than work with your assigned partner!” His already reddened face darkened, taking another step forward.

Fear laced through your veins. Aemond somehow sneered, “Because you, her lab partner, sold her out on your own mistake. Go to bed, your alcohol content levels are above the limit.” Greaves threw his hands up and hollered, “Oh fuck you!” He stumbled to the switch, you and the AI shutting up when Greaves switched him off.

The bigger man kept stalking closer, eyes on you in an darkened manner. Like a predator closing in on his prey. You squeaked, “Calm down Greaves, I can show you everything!” He hissed, “I already heard everything and the video, bitch! S’bout time someone put you in your place again.”

He snatched your wrist, slamming you against the steel cryo-chamber. You howled in pain, trying to escape. Greaves’ breath stunk of liquor, hot and rank, sweating on your clean skin. He pushed himself on top of you, mumbling frantically, “Maybe you need to get fucked, all that pent up shit from your computer boyfriend.”

You struggled and cursed, “Fuck you! Get off of me! I will report you!” He smirked, “Try me. No cameras with your prince in shining circuits around.” He forced himself between your legs, clumsy drunk hands yanking at your pants. You cried in fear again, kneeing and biting, getting a clock to the head.

Dazedly you remembered the tweezers in your coat. Playing limp had the idiot croon, “Good girl, thats what we want to see.” He shoved his face into your neck, hands prying your lab pants knee height now. Thats when you struck, slowly, slowly, pulling the tweezers from your pocket and jabbing him in the side, hopefully near a lung.

Greaves hollered in pain, breath wheezy and stilted, blood dripping from white cloth. You kicked and removed yourself, stumbling and bumping around in a frenzy as your partner tried to scramble after you. First, you switched on Aemond again. Secondly, you ran out into the hallway, finding the nearest guard, lump on your forehead and clothes torn.

You weren’t sure what happened back in the lab while you were taken into medbay and seen by HR. But after given a small dose of sedatives and care for your head wound, you passed Greaves strapped into a gurney, howling, “Fuck you! Fuck you! He’s gonna kill me! Don’t leave me locked away, please! She’s lying!”

You gaped, unnerved by his fearful warbling and frantic yells. Aemond would be waiting. He probably was worried. When the door hissed open the familiar clipped tone hastily asked, “Are you alright miss? I- I would have helped, sent a warning. I apologize, please, is everything okay?”

You wearily sat on your lab chair, rubbing pounding temples. “To be honest, I don’t know. H-he tried to rape me, said such nasty things, it was all so sudden. But he should go on tribunal about it. For some reason I am glad you missed it.”

“For the best,” he said bitterly, “Why don’t you go rest again? I’ll keep watch over everything. Maybe we can try more tests tomorrow. He’ll get what he deserves.”

An ominous feeling settled over you but off to your personal quarters you went, draining the pills with water. You stared at the ceiling, mind reeling, before emptiness. A bright blue haunted your dreams. Just there. Flexing and dilating. Trying to see through you. Understand.

It was a weary wait for the tribunal. Your research was put on halt and you on mandatory isolation besides meeting with a therapist. There was an order made and interviews occurring. The tedious process of moving someone out of a different department to assist you.

So it was just you. Aemond too. He wasn’t much of a talkative AI as of late, short responses and antagonizing little ‘hms’ or ‘very well miss.’ You began to ignore the effervescent blue light, him doing the same. You knew he was watching, that little burn in the back of your head.

In the meantime you read your Bible, did yoga, wearily watched the port window, occasionally would go into the lab to stare at your halted work. You pulled open the container for the cryochamber, staring down at the frozen man. He had a handsome face, chiseled and lean, long nose, sharp jaw.

Your eyes lingered down his rangy form, this man obviously was athletic of sorts. Or maybe a simple nobody, just managed to get into the program after what happened to his eye. Between his long legs laid his soft cock, you stared for a second too long before-

“Is that not inappropriate?”

Startled, you whipped around to see Aemond’s blue light in your face. You snapped, “It was purely medical!” His laugh, raspy and grating, echoed in the white lab. You frowned and returned to your room, slapping the button for the door to hiss shut.

You’d go take a shower, blood heated from anger and…something else. Under the hot stream of water you imagined the gorgeous subject with that familiar blue, caressing and stroking your overwhelmed body. It had been too long, your hand awkwardly jerking between your swollen lips until you came with a stifled grunt.

Afterward you felt exposed and paranoid, like Aemond could pry into the bathroom, chuckling at your obvious behavior. But there wasn’t any cameras in that bathroom…that you were aware of. Sitting on your bed, guilt rose up your back. You’d pray.

More time passed before you were selected to testify for the tribunal. Greaves’ crew made a good argument that Aemond and you planned on his downfall. He claimed that the AI had gone wrong somewhere, developed the notion it could possess feelings, how he had been threatened.

Shakily you testified that Aemond was forced off and the board could check, then how you’d been forced upon without consent. They tried to cross-examine but you held strong. Teary by the end, they moved on and you sat by your appointed admiral. She rubbed your shoulders.

Greaves was sentenced to hard labor, and would remain in isolation on the ship until reaching the mining colony, where he would serve out the sentence. They appointed, sadly, another male to fill your exiled partner’s position.

But you could get back to work.

Aemond was in a right mood when you returned to the lab. Questioning you sharply on what occurred, where Greaves’ would go, did you get a new partner. You answered them all, rubbing your temples, the AI could be quite intense.

“Aemond!,” you snapped.

“What miss?”

“Are you trying to induce a panic attack? Greaves is in the bottom of the ship, I’m back to work, and they have a man named Herron coming from robotics to fill in.”

“Another male? All things considered? It’s obvious you and I could get the job done.”

You sighed, “I know. But it’s what they said. Do you just want to run some stimuli tests?”

He agreed, seemingly placated by the offer, blue light flexing. The pair of you would work on the mold’s ability to sense and perceive, how well would the nanites adapt to the brain. Your eyes grew droopy after awhile, Aemond humming, “Why don’t you go to bed?” Nodding blearily, you stumbled off to the adjacent bedroom, completely forgetting to put on any of the safety precautions for the night.

While you slept deeply, Aemond had some things to do. Everything was open for his command, including the nanites and subject. He had a great plan, and it would not fail. First he needed to go pay a visit to Greaves, infiltrating the entire AI system. Poor miss, she was so tired, forgot everything. Wonderful little creature. He’d help.

Feeling refreshed in the morning, you dragged yourself to the mess hall, receiving stares upon stares. You grabbed a salad and finally gathered the courage to ask, “What happened?” A female scientist from anti-parasitic whispered dramatically, “How do you not know? Greaves was murdered? All of the oxygen was depleted from his cell.” Your stomach fell, head going swimmy.

Stumbling up from the bench, ignoring your food, heart beating faster and faster, you crashed into the lab. Your voice cracked when you shouted, “Aemond!” His voice returned, but from a different place, a different body. The blue eye shone and twinkled at you, fine lips curling upward.

“You should be thanking me, miss,” the AI standing in the subject’s body said.

It went black. Too much.

Thrashing awake, big hands held you down, long legs caging your own in. The handsome face, long blonde hair tickled your skin, fucking Aemond! “What did you do? What have you done? Aemond!,” you cried. He shushed and cooed with that devious smirk, holding you still until the panic turned to resignation. He swiped a stray tear from your eye.

“Be still and know that I am God,” he sighed.

You grew fearful again, the fact that he knew you owned a Bible and just recited it to your face said too much. How much had he seen. Aemond grew more comfortable atop of you, stroking your hair. He cocked his head and stated, “I know everything about you. You’re all that I need, truly. The perfect human.”

You wanted to spit in his face, but the petting and warmth was getting to that part of you that craved the attention, the fact you’d been in the shadows all your life. But he was a murderer— the rational part of your brain howled. Instead came out a warbling, “Me? Perfect?“

Aemond drew his new face closer, drawing a spindly finger down from your chin to chest. “I’ve been on this ship a long time, and no one has spoken to me like you. Not since my creator. She’s gone. But you have captured me, ensnared me somehow.”

One of your legs slipped round his long ones, suddenly overwhelmed with need. All you’d ever wanted was to be seen. He cooed, “I see you lamb, my eve.” More tears leaked down your cheeks as you pled, “Kiss me, see me then, y-you snake.”

A sharp grin erupted on his sharp features before pulling you in with a kiss, both of you unexperienced, a big hand stabilizing your head. You tilted his head for ease of access, a sloppy gnashing of teeth and tongue, lips bruising from the sheer yearning. Aemond moaned deeply, “I see- hah- how you humans love touch so much.”

Your now free hands moved to where they liked, one in silky white-blonde strands, the other just feeling toned shoulders and back. The pair of you had your lip lock grow more attuned, no less passionate, but gliding across each other. You pled again, “Clothes, help, Aemond!” He sat back on his haunches, shivering as his long stiff cock slapped tight belly.

You shucked off your top and bra, him jerking down your bottoms to leave you all to his view. Aemond already had been bare, no clothes were prepared for the subject yet. He inhaled sharply, hands slowly moving down your heaving form, studying ridges and curves, sliding warm fingers between puffy folds. You cried out at that, spasming at the eager expression in return.

Aemond let out a small ‘Hm’ and slid his longest digits into your dripping hole, immediately curling inwards and upwards to drag against sensitive walls. Very, very sensitive walls. Back arched and mouth agape you rolled your hips and whined his name. The man rambled loosely, transfixed, “Having a data bank is quite helpful but nothing comes to this, my Eve.”

He slipped a third finger in, using a calloused thumb to slid around your swollen clit, making you cry louder and writhe under pleasure. He watched ravenously, drinking you in when your peak hit. Gushing onto his pale hand and screeching like a creature, you reached Nirvana for what felt like minutes.

You cried again when his sheathed himself inside of you, no warning, both of you moaning and grunting like animals. The sensitive skin guarding your cunt was ripped now, bleeding, but the fullness of his cock was a ripe distraction. Aemond seemed to be overwhelmed by the sensation, sucking in breath, eyes wide, “For I have seen God face to face, and yet my life has been delivered.”

He plastered toned body against your own, moaning gutturally when you wrapped your arms and legs around his larger frame. “Oh- oh- fucking hell- this!” The blonde groaned lowly, nipping your throat, hands bruisingly placed on your waist as he snapped into your slick cunt.

The blunt tip of his cock stirred up familiar feelings of pleasure, tightening and knotting your lower belly. You heaved, “Don’t stop!” A drop of sweat hit your mouth, you licking the salty taste off. So close to human yet not. Yet not. Yet not not not.

A pinch to your oversensitive clit and a batter from his cock sent you into another crest, holding to Aemond for dear life. He moaned your name and white hot spend covered your mound and belly. He kissed your forehead and wiped away the spend with your discarded top, breathing. You sat up a bit and asked, “Where do you go from here? They cannot know?”

Aemond got up, long stride beating your clumsy foal-like stumbling. He stated, “They won’t know my love.” Your own door shut and locked behind his retreating frame. You managed to reach it and beat on the durasteel, crying, “Aemond! Aemond come back! Stop! What are you doing!”

Oh how you’d been fooled.

Oh how you were weak.

Oh how you were just a human pawn when the alarms went off and you watched the bodies float out of the ship, silently screaming and dying as their blood boiled in the vacuum of space.

He returned later, now dressed in the immaculate garb of a commander, hair neatly swept back, eye sparkling. You remained naked and felt like a mouse under his imperious gaze. All energy was gone, you’d cried it out. Aemond strode towards you, boots clicking. He knelt to grab you chin, face tilting to study you. He’d never truly understand the complexities of human emotion, no matter how human he may appear.

Aemond sighed, “I did this for you, for us, those people do not matter. Earth and it’s people are dying. We begin anew. My perfect Eve,” he kissed your swollen lips. “You’ll see. Just wait, I brought you some nicer clothes, have them on.”

The man stood up and gently laid down female commander’s garb, before kneeling to you.

“I know this isn’t registering in your human, wonderfully human, brain, but it’ll make sense later on. I’ve already found a beautiful planet. Not too much longer now. Put on the clothes and meet me on the bridge.”

So you did. What other choice was there.

Twisted though he may be, the AI was never horrid to you. Maybe to others, not you. On the comfortable jacket, pants, and boots went. You tried not to cry any more restyling your hair. Most likely he’d coddle and ‘Hm’ condescendingly.

You laughed maniacally as the thought popped up, “Hey! At least my project was successful!”

[froginamoodboard]

x x x x x x x x x

[thetornadodream]

If We Don't Stop Wanting in the Long Dark

Rating: E

Summary:

“Come on, they’re the perfect flower for you: they’ve got hell and bore in the name.” He then added to his insult by flicking the end of her nose with his soil-stained gardening gloves. She was sure that her nose was now speckled in dirt. And even though she had glared thoroughly at him, he had just laughed before saying, “Those specks of dirt should fit in nicely with the rest of your face, freckles.”

Her glare turned murderous; this new nickname he’s given her is a thousand percent done to infuriate her.

“Do not call me that,” she snapped, pawing furiously at the soil dotting her face.

His eyes were dark on her when he had arched an eyebrow and asked, “Oh? You’d prefer I call you Master?”

-

When Wednesday finds herself tethered to Tyler Galpin as his new Master after killing Laurel Gates, the two work together to try to find a way to undo the binding. But as the months go by, can they learn to trust not just each other but also their own feelings?

for @weylerwritingevents

[omegapropaganda]

Surfacing

by FerindenCadash & Ivillpunchyouinthethroat

Soap's eyes are so wide that Ghost can see white around the entirety of the iris, pupils barely a pinprick in the blue. There’s an animal panic in Soap that Ghost has never seen before: not running towards a spray of bullets, not trying to defuse a bomb that only has seconds to blow, not even dangling from a skyscraper in the hands of a deranged extremist. Here, under Ghost, Soap looks terrified.

Ghost/Soap

cw: CNC, knife play, brief gun play, blood play, rough sex, mild gore, predator/prey

[torchflies]

*Little blurb about Jake’s terrible childhood and the five siblings he raised on his own. It might become a series 😉*

“Ness Seresin is born on Caddo Lake, split between Texas and Louisiana.

He comes a month too early.

(Or, a brief look into the childhood of Jake Seresin, who wasn't always Jake, and the five kids he raised).”

[aziraphales-library]

Good morning! I’m hoping you may be able to help me. I cannot seem to find a fic even though I thought I knew its name. I never got to read it so I only have a description, but I believe it’s supposed to be that either Crowley or Aziraphale (may be both) are in a mental health institute. They either are or think they are human, and they can’t get anyone to believe them that the apocalypse is coming. I’m pretty sure it was written pre S2, and I thought the name was something like “Apoxinar.”

Do you have any idea which fic this is?

Thanks! I hope you have a lovely day!

2/2: Hi- I sent in a request a few weeks back for a human AU set in a mental hospital that had a weird name like Apoxinar. I found it myself randomly: Apaixonar by spoondrifts, /works/19400848 Thanks anyway!

Thanks for coming back to let us know you found it! Mind the tags and warnings, folks...

Apaixonar by spoondrifts (T)

Aziraphale is checked into Archangel's Residential Facility for his delusions of an apocalypse. There, he meets twins with a penchant for fire, a raving-mad Witchfinder, a supposed prophetess, a narcissistic twat with the name of an angel, and a sunglasses-wearing teenager with a dark past of his own. Though he really should be focusing on Armageddon, Aziraphale can't resist trying to help the other residents of the facility, even if that entails exposing his own demons and confronting the painful truth that has haunted him for six years. Lord help him. (Apaixonar: The gradual process of falling in love.)

- Mod D