#Him. The one who burned her. The one who's responsible for all that suffering. The one who deserves only the bad things that come to him

[demaparbat-hp]

This AU is already wonderful but... What if Zuko thought he was the one who burned Katara's hands?

He notices her scars for the first time during his search for the Avatar, a few weeks after she got them. But he doesn't pay any attention to Katara during the fight, not really. It isn't until the Siege of the North that he truly sees the scars on her hands, and realises that they weren't there before (her hands had been soft and unblemished during the pirates incident, not like this, rough and darker and achingly familiar).

When did this happen? Was it during one of their battles? Was one of his men responsible? Or did somebody else do it? There is no doubt in his mind that these are bending scars, after all.

Zuko wonders, after the North, if he gave them to her.

He has always been careful with his bending, regardless of the rage and desperation that fuel his battles with the Avatar. He knows what being burned and forced to carry a constant reminder of the flames is like—he's incapable of causing such pain to anyone, not even an enemy.

But what if he already has?

It's a sickening thought, and it chases him during his travels through the Earth Kingdom, adding weight to his guilt. He tries to hold on to the thought that maybe, just maybe, somebody else burned the waterbender, and he isn't to blame. But time passes and he witnesses and does many terrible, beautiful things...

So he decides to carry the responsibility for the burns on the waterbender's hands. It doesn't matter anymore if it wasn't him who burned her—he might as well have.

When they meet again under the Crystal Catacombs of Ba Sing Se, he listens. She blames him for everything that is wrong in her life, and he accepts her rage, because he knows he can't defend himself against her. He doesn't want to.

He can be the face of the enemy. He's already a monster, after all.

(Father would be proud.)

But then she offers to heal him.

Him.

Doesn't she know he could be the one who burned her? Doesn't she care for all the stupid, horrible things he has done to her and her kin? Doesn't she see the ruthlessness and hate coursing through his blood?

Doesn't she care?

But then she's touching his scar with her burned hands and she's reaching for the blessed water and he can't do this.

"Don't."

She stops.

"Why? Don't you want to be free of your scar?"

"I don't deserve it. Use the water to heal yourself. I can carry the weight of my sins, but you don't have to."

There's silence, and Zuko tries to tear himself apart from her touch, to get away from her and from the Catacombs and from the world. But her scarred, beautiful self reaches out for him again. Katara holds his face with her burned hands and gently forces him to look at her.

Flesh on flesh, scar on scar, they meet.

And somehow he knows what she's going to say next.

"Zuko, you didn't do this."

Then the Avatar arrives.

GOD i wish they kept katara's burn scars from aang's mistake

I agree.

[sena-seastar]

Burning Desire

Aemond x Older!sister Reader

Summary: You rush off to confront your brother Aemond after discovering he hurt your sister, only to find him crying. You are angry at him for what he has done, but you cannot stand to see your little brother suffer.

Warnings:  Angst, Smut, Sibling incest

A/N: This was supposed to be an angsty comfort fic, but it very quickly got out of hand. All dialogue in italics means that the characters are speaking in High Valyrian. I was just too lazy to attempt to translate it. No beta, so I apologize for any grammar and spelling mistakes. (Gif is not mine!)

You stormed through the castle halls, ignoring the maids and knights who quickly stepped out of your way. Usually, you would give them some sign of acknowledgment, but tonight, you couldn’t— not when your anger was boiling over. Your hands trembled with repressed rage, and your fingers curled into fists as you tried desperately to refrain from lashing out. There was only one person who was deserving of your wrath, and you were headed to find him now. 

When you arrived at his door, you entered the room, not bothering to knock. The loud sound of the wooden door slamming close behind you echoed in the air. The room was dark; only a few candles were lit, though they were burning dangerously low. You squint your eyes, searching until you find the silver-haired man hunched over in his chair. Your robe made a slight whooshing sound as you stormed over to his side. 

“How dare you!” Your voice cut through the air like a sharpened blade, every word dripping with venom and contempt.

Aemond says nothing. His head is lowered, and his long silver tresses conceal his face.

“You dare to lay a hand on our sister?! Has she not suffered enough?! And now you wish to send her into battle?!” Your chest is heaving wildly as you lose what little composure remains to you.

Once again, you are met with a deafening silence that angers you even more.

“Have you nothing to say?!” you yell, each word cracking like a whip. Your brows furrow and your lips curl into a snarl.

Yet once again, your words go unanswered. You open your lips, prepared to berate him even more until quiet sobs reach your ears. Your blood runs cold, and you freeze. Aemond’s body jerked with every gasp that escaped his throat. 

“I am alone,” he whispers . “As I always have been.”

His words move you to tears. 

“Aemond,” you whisper, stepping closer.

You reach out a hand to touch his shoulder but pull it away just before reaching him. Your mind is suddenly conflicted. Your rage is quickly converting into sadness with every second that passes. The two of you rarely saw eye to eye these past few weeks. His actions above Shipbreaker Bay had left you horrified. The abhorrent murder of your nephew, Jaehaerys, happened not long after. You blamed Aemond for that and did not bother trying to hide it from him.

Then, Aegon returned from Rook’s Rest, burned and broken beyond repair. Your mother came to you shortly after, sharing her thoughts about what had happened. She believed Aemond to be responsible, but you could not bring yourself to believe it at the time. But as the days passed, you found yourself becoming increasingly unsure. Especially after today, when the horrific details of his actions at Sharp Point reached you. Most days, you could hardly even recognize him—this strange man who shares the face of your sweet little brother.

You take a deep breath before reaching out. Your hand trembles as you place it on his shoulder, but he does not flinch from your touch. He leans into it. Aemond raises his head just enough to look you in the eyes. His face is stained with tears, and his eye is red and gleaming with tears, ready to fall. His silver hair is unusually messy and unkempt. The leather eyepatch is gone, exposing the beautiful sapphire embedded into his eyesocket. It is a sight he has entrusted very few to see.

“I am sorry,” he cried. “I didn’t mean to hurt her.”

“I know,” you whisper, pulling him close.

He buries his face into your stomach. His large hands gripped tightly at your sides, and you did your best not to wince. You lift a hand, brushing down his unkempt hair. You were angry at him. You had come here to yell at him, maybe even hit him, but you couldn’t. Not when it filled your heart with great sorrow to see your brother in so much pain. Your little brother. The boy you had always tried so hard to shield from the cruelty of this world. The boy who had always run to you for comfort after being humiliated by Aegon time and time again.

Aemond continued to sob. His tears made the thin fabric of your nightdress stick to your skin, and the cold wetness sent a chill down your spine. You gasp as you feel him pull you down, sitting you on his lap. He held you close, burying his face into the curve of your neck. Your hands rested against the warm, bare skin of his back as you held him. He must have been preparing for bed not long before you arrived as he was only dressed in a pair of black lambswool breeches.

“You are not alone,” you reassure him, gently kissing the scar that marred his brow. “I am here, as I always have been.”

There is a slight chill in the air, but the heat radiating from his skin keeps you warm. Aemond sniffles but says nothing. You can feel his tears sliding down your neck. You move a hand up to his head, toying with his hair. He nuzzles his nose into your neck, seemingly inhaling your scent. Aemond shifts in his seat, spreading his legs a little wider, making the position more comfortable for you. A quiet gasp escapes your throat as you feel the taut muscle of his thigh pressing into the most intimate part of your body.

The feeling sends a rush of heat through your veins. Your breath quickens as you try to push the sensation aside. Your face burns as shame begins to overwhelm you. He just wanted to be close to you, searching for comfort in your arms as he had done many times before. But your body is turning it into something perverse.

Aemond bounced his knee ever so slightly, almost like a tremble. You squirmed, trying to press your thighs closer together in hopes of stopping the heat growing in your stomach. One of Aemond’s large hands rests firmly against the small of your back. The other moves to grip the outside of your thigh.

“Aemond,” you gasp as you feel his lips grazing against our collarbones.

“What?” He asks, his voice so nonchalant.

“I think I should go,” you replied, trying to stand up.

But his hands hold onto you tight, refusing to let you go. 

“Please stay,” he begged, burying his face into the curve of your neck once more.

“Alright,” you whisper, trying to calm him.

His hair tickles your nose. You lift your head a bit, resting your chin on the top of his head. You trail the tips of your fingers against the muscles of his back. Aemond nuzzles his face against your neck. He bounces his knee a bit harder. You wonder if he is doing this on purpose.

“Aemond, stop it,” you mumble, trying to ignore the fire sparking in the pit of your stomach.

“Stop what?” He asked, ghosting his lips over your jaw. 

“You know what,” you whine.

He ignores you; his lips press soft kisses against your jaw. Aemond bunches the skirt of your dress into the hand that grips your thigh. He steadily inches it up higher. The cold air touching your now bare legs makes the hair on your body stand up. Suddenly coming to your senses, you gasp, slapping a hand over his as the skirt of your dress reaches just above your knees. He tries to continue, but you use all the strength you can muster to keep his hand still. 

“We must stop,” you command, trying to stop yourself from giving in to him completely.

This was wrong. You were both betrothed to other people—him to some Baratheon girl and you to the Lord of the Arbor. They were political matches, as most marriages are. You held no love for Lord Redwyne, but you would do your duty as was expected of you.

Aemond easily pushed past your hand, slipping his hand between your thighs. You gasped, trying to squeeze them together to keep him at bay. Your stomach flutters as his thumb rubs across the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. Your fingernails dig into his forearm. You pull back, and he lifts his head to look you in the eyes. 

He removes his hand from between your thighs, moving it up to your face. You find yourself melting into the warmth of his palm. The pad of his thumb ghosts over your lips, but his eye never leaves yours.

“You were supposed to be mine,”   he says in the gentlest tone.

“Aemond,” you whine, trying to push him away.

But he refuses to let you go. The hand on your back kept you from standing. His fingertips trail down the side of your neck down to the neckline of your nightdress. His touch on your skin leaves you feeling almost delirious. The fire in your stomach is fully ablaze now. You squirm in his lap as his fingers graze over the tops of your breasts. You cursed yourself for this, as the feeling of his tense muscles sends waves of heat straight to your cunt. The hairs on the back of your neck raise. Your eyes close, and you bite your lip to stop crying out. 

“Look at me.”  

It is a command that you are unable to ignore. Aemond is the prince regent. In this moment, he speaks with the king’s voice. His absolute authority leaves you fearful and painfully aroused. Once again, your eyes meet his. He says nothing, simply watching you like a predator stalking its prey as his hand moves over your nightdress, cupping your breast. You gasp, slapping a hand over his. You know you should push him away, but you don’t. 

A chill runs down your spine. Under his gaze, you feel completely exposed, almost powerless—a feeling you usually dislike greatly. You were a princess of the realm and a dragon rider. You were anything but helpless. Yet you find yourself wanting nothing more than to surrender yourself to him, to escape from your worries and sorrows, to be free from all the tiring expectations that have been placed upon you since your birth.

“Am I so hard to love?” 

His voice trembled, as he struggled to hold back tears. The authority is gone, replaced with something much more vulnerable. The sight broke your heart in two. You had always worried about Aemond, your sweet, sensitive little brother. Since he had come of age, he had changed. He was colder and more distant, not just from you but from everyone, even your mother, whom you know he cared for greatly. It was like he believed he had to be this... pillar of strength, or all would crumble.

You remove your hand from his, moving it up to cup the scarred side of his face. You lean down, pressing a gentle kiss on his brow. You have done this so many times over the years, yet it has never felt as intimate as it did now. Aemond closed his eye, leaning into your touch. A sharp pain stabs at your heart as you watch how desperate he is for your comfort.

The hand on your breast slid back down to your thigh. Aemond’s fingers toyed with the hem of your skirt. Your thumb traced down the deep scar that marked his cheek. You lean down, peppering kisses from his cheek to his jaw, where the scar stops. He turns his head slightly, so that your lips hover above his, almost touching. You rest your head against his. His violet eye stared into your own.

“What of Floris? She is to be your wife.” You say, hoping he may come to his senses, as yours have fled from you completely.

“You will be my wife... for tonight.” A single tear drops from his eye as the words leave his lips.

It is such a beautiful, harrowing sight. One that leads you to shedding tears of your own. Aemond’s hands grip you by the waist, hoisting you up just enough for you to straddle him. Your knees rest on both sides of his legs, trapping him between your thighs. A wave of heat runs through your veins as your bare cunt presses against his clothed bulge. He leans forward, capturing your gasp with his mouth. One of your hands cups his face while the other pushes his hair away from his face. 

The two of you shared passionate, frantic kisses. You had not been prepared from when Aemond’s tongue slid into your mouth. You whine, caught off guard, but do your best to follow along with him. You had no experience with such things. The only kisses you had ever experienced came from tall, handsome knights in your dreams. But even then, those kisses were nothing like this. They were short and sweet. A quick peck on the cheek or lips, but this was much different. Aemond kissed you with such urgency, such deep burning desire.

Aemond lifts his hips, pressing himself against you. The feeling of his hard cock pressing against your aching cunt makes you cry out, though your noises are muffled against his lips. The feeling is so foreign, yet exciting, that you can’t stop yourself from reaching down to palm him through his trousers. His hardened cock is thick and throbbing beneath your touch. A newfound confidence blooms in your chest.

A sound rumbled in his chest; his large hands gripped your ample hips. Your hands moved to grip his shoulders as you rocked yourself back and forth, your bare cunt grinding against his clothed bulge. He hissed, knitting his brows together. You watch as his face contorts into one of pleasure. Your own burning desire is growing too much. Your desperate, heavy breaths fill the air as you grind yourself against him even faster, desperate to reach your peak. He looked up at you; his mouth hung open slightly as he watched you use him for your own selfish gratification.

It’s exhilarating- him watching you- seeing you in a way no other ever has, touching you in a way no other ever has.

“You’re doing so good,” he praises.

His praise sends another wave of pleasure coursing through your veins. The room suddenly feels unbearably hot. You’re so close; you can feel it. The pressure building up in your stomach is eager to be released. You roll your hips even faster, harder. But it is not enough. The throbbing in your cunt is almost painful. You are nearly sobbing at this point.

“I want more,” you whine. “I need more. Please, brother.”

“I am at your mercy, sister,” he smirks. “Take what you want.”

You reach down, huffing as you struggle to untie the laces of his trousers. You can feel his chest vibrate against you as he chuckles.

“Don’t laugh at me,” you grumble.

“My apologizes-” he shudders as your hand wraps around his thick cock. Finally freeing him from the confines of his trousers.

A triumphant smile crosses your face. You give his cock a few strokes, admiring the way it stands so prettily for you, so thick and full. Suddenly, you begin to fear the thought of having to fit it inside of you. Aemond seems to sense your worry. His hand cups the back of your neck, making you look at him.

“Take it slow,” he warns.

You nod, lifting yourself on your knees a bit. Your wetness coats your fingers and his cock as you press the tip into your aching cunt. You whine as the head breaches your walls, and you clamp tightly around him. The stretch is a bit uncomfortable but not painful. You may be a maiden, but you still had desires. Many nights, you have had to satiate your hunger with your fingers.

You lower yourself on him slowly. Thankfully, your wetness makes it easier to take him. You take a deep breath as you take him to the hilt. It takes you a moment to adjust to his size. 

“Are you okay?” Aemond asked, his voice filled with genuine concern.

“Yes, I just ... need a moment,” you breathlessly laugh as he lifts a hand to trail his fingers against your jaw.

He nods, raising his chin to kiss gently against the corner of your mouth. You turn your head, pressing your lips to his. A soft tongue gently licks at the swell of your bottom lip, and you grant him entry. The gentleness comes to an end. He licks into you with a fervor that steals your breath away. Your thoughts fade, and you melt into his arms. 

Aemond kisses you like he wants to devour you, and you want nothing more. You lift your hips before lowering yourself. Aemond finally breaks the kiss, and his hands move to your waist.

“Ah-h,” he whines against the corner of your lips.

You begin to move slowly, easing yourself into up and down on his cock. Your eyes never leave him, watching as he presses his head to the back of the chair. His chest moves with his deep breaths, his eye is closed, and his mouth is partially open. He shudders, and a desperate, eager moan emits from his throat. It is a sight to behold.

He lifts his hips, pressing deeper into you, making you cry out.

“Aemond!” You whimper, fingernails digging into his shoulder blades.

His eye fluttered open as he watched you struggle to find the right pace. He gripped your waist tighter, his fingers digging into your fleshy sides. He guided you, raising you up and down on him. The newfound pace made you mewl pathetically, but you were too desperate to reach your peak to care. He called out your name. It sounded almost sinful coming from his lips. 

You drop your head, resting it against his. Your mouth hangs open as you gasp and moan. The faint scent of pine and smoke fills your nose. It’s him, his scent. The smell is almost intoxicating. Your mind is swimming, dizzy from the pleasure of him bucking up into you.

You feel one of his palms cup the back of your neck, pulling you closer. He lifts his chin, closing the small distance between you pressing his lips to yours. You try your best to follow the frantic rhythm he sets. He swallows every sound you make as he holds the back of your neck, refusing to let you pull away—not that you want to. 

Aemond plants his feet on the ground for leverage as he pumps into you. His thrusts are more erratic now as he approaches his end. The air in your lungs is incinerated, and a shameful, high-pitched moan escapes from your lips. You move your hips, rocking against him, dangerously close to finally reaching your peak. 

He doesn’t stop, bucking into you with a force that would be strong enough to toss you off of him if not for the hand holding onto your waist. Your hot cunt clenched around him, the muscles in your legs burned from remaining in this position for so long. 

It’s not fair- how good he is at this- how good he is making you feel. It’s all too much. Your poor wet cunt is overwhelmed with pleasure. The hand on your neck moves down, and the pad of his thumb rubs circles around that sensitive button between your legs. 

“That's it,” he coaxed, his hot breath fans on your mouth. “Let go, give it to me.”

You don’t stand a chance. Not when his cock makes you feel so full, reaching that one spot that makes you throw your head back. One of your hands tangles in his hair, tugging. Your chests’ are flushed against each other as you both rock against each other. You clench around his cock as you finally reach your release, hard and blinding. The world around you seems to disappear. It’s only you and him who matter.

“Ha-ah ... ah,” he sputtered, becoming more desperate.

You cry out as you fill his hot mouth, which latches into one of your breasts. He suckles at your breast like a starving babe. His tongue lashes back and forth around your hardened nipple. The sensation is strange but has you clenching around him even tighter. 

His teeth graze against your nipple. Every grunt and moan that leaves him vibrates against your breast. You can feel his thrusts becoming sloppy and uncoordinated. His cock pulses inside of you, it feels too good. Aemond releases your nipple, resting his forehead on your breast. Choked gasps and grunts slip past his lips as he reaches his peak, releasing inside of you, filling you with his seed.

The two of you stay pressed against each other as you come down for your highs. Aemond’s hips relax, his body melting into the chair. Your body sinks into him, boneless and spent. You lay your head on his shoulder, resting your chin on his collarbone. His fingertips trail over the curve of your back. Your eyes feel heavy as you struggle to keep them open.

“I am sorry for what I’ve done,” he apologized.

“I know,” you reply weakly.

You can feel his warm breath against your ear. His scent, mixed with his sweat, fills your nose, bringing you comfort.

“Our sister has too much of our mother in her. I see that now.”

You frown but say nothing, letting him continue. His lips press against your ear. He nudges your face with his shoulder, making you pull away. He grasps your chin between his thumb and index fingers. Your eyes flicker between the sapphire and his violet iris. You lift a hand to trail your fingers along his sharp jaw.

“But you and I,” he says, rubbing his thumb over your bottom lip. “We are two flames kindled from the same fire. We were always meant to burn as one.”

“Aemond,” you sigh.

“I am afraid,” he admits, rendering you speechless. “I cannot fight this war alone, sister.”

“You are not alone,” you argued. “You have Daeron.”

“Tsk,” he turns his head. “He is still young, as is his dragon.”

“Young or not, Tessarion is still a dragon.”

Aemond says nothing. His eye stared at the plain stone wall of his bedchamber. You watch him silently, trying to read him.

“Come with me,” he asked, turning his head back to you. 

“What?” You gasp.

“Mount your dragon and go with me to Harrenhal.”

“Mother would never allow it,” you shake your head.

“Our mother has made it clear that she does not hold our best interest at heart.”

“She means well,” you protested, trying to defend your mother, no matter how true his words seemed.

“If we do not fight, we will die. Rhaenyra may spare you and Helaena, but she will not be so merciful to the rest of us. She will have to take Aegon’s head, mine, and Daerons's as well. So long as our father has a living son, she will never be able to rule in peace.”

“You don’t know that-”

“I do,” he insisted. “Is that not what our mother has told us our entire lives?”

You blink, and memories of your childhood flood your mind. He was right. Over the years, your mother had repeatedly stressed the dangers that would follow should your sister ascend to the throne.

“Come with me,” he whispered.

Your eyes flickered from his trembling lips to his tear-filled eye. It was not an order but a plea. He was afraid and desperate for aid. You were afraid as well—you had been since Ser Criston placed that crown upon Aegon’s head. It has only been a few weeks, and already, your life has been turned completely upside down. 

You had no desire to fight this war. Many times, you have had to stop yourself from climbing on your dragon and leaving. But you could not abandon your family, just as you could not abandon Aemond now.

You nod your head. He smiled, a look of relief crossing his face. One of his hands finds yours, lacing your fingers together before bringing his lips to yours, giving you one last sweet and adoring kiss. Once he pulls away, you lay your head back down on his shoulder.

“Can I go to sleep now?” You mumble against his skin.

“Yes,” he lets out a breathy laugh. “You can sleep now.”

[rcmclachlan]

Return of the Mack

For @alchemistc. Hope you feel better soon!

At the fire academy, three things are beaten out of every trainee: fear, a normal sleep schedule, and the social influences that prevent one from intervening in the event of an emergency. Some have jokingly called the third one the Anti-Bystander Effect, because if someone needs assistance—whether it's to stop an assault, run into a burning building, or help a little old lady find a quarter she dropped—a firefighter will immediately rush in to save the day. It's a special brand of classical conditioning that instills an elevated sense of responsibility in every trainee, and it's paid in full by the state of California.

Which is why it's so odd for there to be three capable firefighters standing around doing nothing while there's an old man clearly in need of dire assistance. If the LAFD higher-ups knew they were actively choosing to watch the carnage unfold instead of lifting a finger to help, they'd all be shitcanned. 

Luckily, there's a fourth firefighter on the scene doing the absolute most. 

"I thought we made a pact to keep him from using his powers for evil," Eddie says, taking a dispassionate sip of his coffee. 

"Is it evil if he's actually using them in service of a greater good?" Hen's attention is half on what's going down and half on the Notes app on her phone, where she's typing out the week's grocery list. "You know, the enemy of my enemy is my friend?"

Draped over the railing like his bones have melted, Chimney gives a sage nod. "He's like a one-man Suicide Squad." 

In the apparatus bay, they watch as Vincent Gerrard uses the distraction of B Shift heading home to duck behind one of the engines, most likely to regroup after being thoroughly ambushed the second he stepped into the station five minutes ago. He slumps back and breathes. The moment of weakness costs him: a grinning demon rounds the corner and makes a bee-line for him as though he can taste blood in the air.

"So, which one of you said 'spreadsheet' three times in a mirror?" Ravi sidles up next to Chimney and unwraps a breakfast burrito from Delia's. 

Chimney gives him the stink-eye. "I hope you brought enough for the whole class."

"Nope," Ravi says, taking a cheerful bite.

"None of us summoned him," Eddie says. He leans down to try and catch the conversation being had, but he's too high up. For a second, he thinks he hears the words 'crack whore' but it's probably a trick of the bay's acoustics. "He's everywhere, always, just watching and waiting for you to slip up. Like God."

"Or the Devil," Hen says in agreement.

"Or Santa," Chimney adds.

Ravi chews thoughtfully. "I thought we threw out all the clipboards. Who gave him that one?"

"Tommy," Eddie, Hen, and Chimney say through a simultaneous, long-suffering sigh. 

It's not just any clipboard. It's the king of clipboards. It's the only clipboard that has ever fucked. The thing is a navy blue polycarbonate beast with "Buckley 118" embossed in fire engine red on the back, and the clip looks like it was forged in the fires of Staples HQ. 

At the bi-weekly Beer and Bitch Night last Friday at Golden Road Pub, Tommy had pulled it out of a bag and presented it on one knee like he was proposing, or bestowing a sword to a king. The entire brewery was then given front-row seats to an intense game of tonsil hockey that nearly went into overtime until Eddie threatened to call Athena because Bobby looked like he was seriously reconsidering sobriety.

"Does he know what he's unleashed?" Ravi sounds genuinely curious. 

As if on cue, Chimney's, Eddie's, and Hen's phones chime with three incoming messages. 

T.K. 07:26am: Has it started? T.K. 07:26am: Remember: you promised one of you would film it T.K. 07:27am: I'm offering 3 nights of free babysitting to the first person who delivers

That last one is followed by a gif of J. Jonah Jameson shouting "Bring me Spiderman!"

Hen frowns down at her phone. "Who the hell is that?"

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that," Chimney mutters.

H.W. 07:28am: Why are you so desperate for video?  E.D. 07:28am: What 40-something year old still pinky swears? H.H. 07:28am: Clipboard Buck better not be a weird sex thing for you, Kinard

Tommy's typing indicator appears, then disappears. Then appears and disappears again. Then appears—

"Yeah, no." Chimney hastily pockets his phone. "Those two were made in a lab for each other, I swear to god."

Down in the bay, Gerrard has moved to stand almost directly underneath them. While they can't hear what Gerrard says to Melanie Wu, an electrician so talented she could probably take down the entire grid with her eyes closed, that puts such a dour expression on her face, they can hear it when Buck, popping up behind Gerrard like an insane Jack-in-the-box, says, "Don't worry, Melanie! This is something to bring up during Thursday's workplace conflict seminar."

"What seminar?!"

Buck isn't cowed. He taps his clipboard and says, "The one I scheduled with Chief Alonso. You know, the mandatory one we all need to do in order to keep our certification—well, we'll keep it as long as nothing comes up during the seminar that might call into question our ability to do the job."

There's a charged moment where it almost looks like Gerrard might take a swing at Buck, but then he notices the audience hanging above him like a Greek chorus and shouts, "Someone'd better top off the fuel and DEF or—"

"Already done, Cap." Buck makes a show of turning to the second page on his clipboard and lists off, "All fuel, DEF, oil, and coolant are set. Tires have been aired up. Hoses have been drained and cleaned, and re-rolled. Engines were all waxed yesterday, all medical supplies have been inventoried and stocked, and I've made a list of the harnesses and cutting torches that need replacing. Just need you to sign off on everything. Sir."

The ingratiating smile on Buck's face would fool even the wiliest of senior officers, and Gerrard himself looks like even he's not sure if what just happened was disrespectful, but they know better. 

"Diabolical," Ravi whispers, awed. 

Hissing through his teeth, Gerrard spins on his heel and storms away in the direction of the little office in the administrative section of the firehouse where he's taken to holing up like a miserable groundhog until they get a call that forces him back out. If he sees his shadow on the firehouse wall, it's six more hours of bullshit.

As soon as he's gone, all the firefighters that had stopped to watch the show burst into laughter and applause, and Buck cracks up, taking sweeping bows and blowing kisses to his adoring fans. 

Chimney rolls his eyes and looks to see what Hen's expression is doing, because no one gives good face like she does, but she's holding her phone in a way that clearly means—

"You're filming this?" Chimney demands, betrayed.

She gives an unrepentant shrug. "Three nights of free babysitting? I'm not proud."

"You do know this means Buck's going to get laid and be absolutely insufferable about it, right?"

"Three nights," Hen bites out through very audible regret.

Buck looks up, flashes a grin, and the second he clocks the phone he salutes it with the clipboard. Then he struts after Gerrard, calling almost lazily, "Cap, wait up! I wanted to talk about setting up a mock exam for everyone who's planning on taking the TCFP D/O!"

They all watch him go. Silently, Hen sends off the video with the air of someone about to make a drug drop. 

"So, when does Taylor Kelly's exposé come out again?" Eddie makes a dubious face in the direction of the administrative offices. "Because I don't know that Gerrard won't off himself before it does."

"We win either way," Chimney points out. 

"It comes out next Monday," Hen says, slipping her phone into her pocket and elbowing Chimney in the arm on her way to the stairs. "Karen and I are hosting a watch party that night and you're all invited."

Ravi beams. "Thanks, Hen. I'll definitely be there."

"And you'll be bringing dinner from Taco Azteca—for everybody. Make sure you get enough carne," Chimney calls over his shoulder as he follows Hen. 

"I'm not a probie anymore," Ravi whines. "You can't haze me like this."

Snickering, Eddie pats him on the shoulder and says, "You do this and I'll make sure you're not sitting anywhere near Buck and Tommy when Taylor drops the bomb about Gerrard and Ortiz."

"Extra al pastor and buche it is!"

[clanborn]

star climax that i would personally enjoy: splashtail's got frostpaw pinned in their final confrontation, he's this close to finally killing her, and all of frostpaw's fears culminate and leave her frozen, unable to struggle free. curlfeather, through sheer willpower ignited by this immediate threat to her daughter's life, summons all the energy she can muster to project her image into the physical world, visible to both splash and frost. her sheer fury, her mangled corpse--here, present, clawing her way out of splashtail's dreams and into a waking nightmare, here to drag him down to hell with her--spooks splashtail to the core. this either frightens him so bad he suffers cardiac arrest, or he instantly bolts and abandons the clans forever (for the case where he could be brought back as a villain who is ideally no longer lame). once more, curlfeather saves frostpaw's life, this time from beyond the grave, so great is her love for her daughter. with the image of her bloodied mother burned in her mind, frostpaw's conflicted feelings bubble to the surface, feelings she's desperately forced underneath a layer of anger and resentment. frostpaw faces the truth: that her mother manipulated her for her own gain, but also that her mother loved her, and ultimately cared for frostpaw more than her own life. curlfeather was not entirely good or bad, she was simply just a cat, a flawed one, one capable of both good and bad things. hidden in all of her misdeeds was a cat that could be forgiven--and in turn, frostpaw too could be forgiven, and no longer needs to blame herself for every misfortune that had befallen her and her clan. frostpaw is also just a cat, a child under incredible duress, forced to make decisions that no child should have to make. she thinks of every cat that pushed that responsibility onto her--yes, her mother, but also splashtail, her older clanmates, every clan cat around the lake that turned a blind eye to her desperation. even starclan--her all knowing, benevolent ancestors--had stood by while she suffered, had caused her suffering, had used her not unlike the way curlfeather had. what made them different? why was curlfeather punished by cats who were no better? why was frostpaw punished for doing everything right? what distinction did starclan make between "good" and "bad" when all cats were capable of both, including starclan, in all its alleged, unerring kindness?

frostpaw once again does starclan's bidding, touches her nose to the moonpool and receives her nine lives. with each life, cats flash before her vision--harelight, riverstar, jayclaw--but they aren't the cats she sees. in her mind she sees curlfeather, blood on her paws and love in her eyes, and newly named froststar decides what sort of leader she will be. this is the last time she will follow starclan's path, no more will riverclan be subject to their will and their hypocrisies. relying on starclan is what destroyed them, their ancestors standing idle as riverclan tore itself apart for their favor. no more will riverclan force warriors and apprentices in certain roles, no more will it allow complacency, letting desperate voices go unheard. splashtail rejected starclan, but that is not what drove his bloodthirst and desire for power. under froststar's leadership, power would not solely lie in the paws of her and starclan, but shared among her clanmates, unable to be ripped away by a lone instigator, shattered by a single break in the chain.

maybe she'll be the kind of leader curlfeather wanted to be. maybe she'll be better. either way, froststar will lead riverclan into a golden dawn.

[short-yandere-stories]

:✧:･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ*:･ﾟ✧*:

:✧:･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ*:･ﾟ✧*:

CW: Yandere behavior, forced imprisonment, brief mentions of NSFW / Non/Con, threats of violence

This is a yandere work. Proceed with caution and please be mindful of your own triggers.

Happy birthday Aizen! I couldn't help but write a short little thing I love him. The Rock Musical is living rent free in my head and has done so since I watched it. The "Smile, Orihime" scene was in it too and I almost fainted seeing that in front of me on stage.

:✧:･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ*:･ﾟ✧*:

The warmth of the palms of his hands burned through the white silk of the gown you were wearing, placed possessively on your waist.

Aizen was lounging in his throne, you perched uncomfortably on his lap in just the way he liked to have you. There was just something about having your soft, warm body close that stroked his ego just right. It was as much of a display of his power and authority for both the Espada and you alike -- a show of ownership.

Any time Aizen summoned the Espada to a meeting, you would be dragged into his lap, spending the meeting trying not to squirm around as large hands held your waist or fingers traced patterns into your thigh. It was humiliating, but there was nothing you could do to stop it. 

Making a scene wasn’t an option anymore. You’d tried to protest the first few times the ruler of Las Noches had forced you to sit in his lap during meetings. He’d been amused, but not at all bothered. A few words whispered into your ear in his smooth, baritone voice had your body freezing as your heartbeat picked up in fear before you reluctantly fell quiet and stopped squirming.

You knew all too well that Aizen made good on his promises and threats. You didn’t want your remaining family to suffer at the hands of Hollows or any of the Espada, nor did you want to spend more nights than you absolutely had to folded into a mating press as fucked you until he was satisfied.

There was no escape from Las Noches, after all. You couldn’t open a portal, and even if you somehow managed to get one of the Espada to open one for you, there was nowhere in the world that you would be able to escape Aizen. All you could do was obey and try to minimise the damage done to yourself or the people you cared about. You were no fighter. You had no powers. There was nothing you could do but let him do as he pleased.

You could feel Aizen’s smile press against the sensitive skin of your neck, no doubt knowing exactly what was on your mind. There was no hiding anything from him. You’d long since stopped trying. 

“Feeling powerless, pet?” Aizen mused, ignoring Nnoitora making a jab at Harribel, trying to rile her up. 

You didn’t grace him with a response, rebelling in one of the only ways you could. He chuckled, chest rumbling in amusement pressed against your back.

“If anyone, you’re the person with the most power here.” You turned your neck, looking back at Aizen with confusion on your face. He merely smiled.

“You’re the only one who controls my heart.” 

:✧:･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ*:･ﾟ✧*:

[thehollowwriter]

Maybe I'm being silly, but despite all my ranting abt Rollo's mischaracterisation making me seem angry, I'm actually more sad than anything. Idk, it just kinda hurts to see a complex character I love so much being portrayed as a racist, religious bigot.

He's a traumatised teenager who literally watched his brother burn alive and couldn't do a thing about it. Like. Do you understand how horrific that is? And the cause of this horrific situation that left Rollo scarred is magic.

Rollo is, again, a traumatised teenager who watched his brother burn alive, and likely never got the help he needed to properly deal with his grief. Of course he's going to blame magic, it's likely how he copes, how he brings a sense of reason to a complete accident that could have happened to anybody with magic.

It's easier to view magic as a malevolent force that caused this tragic event. That way, Rollo won't have to confront the fact that there wasn't any "reason" at all. And now, he can eradicate the "cause" of his brother's death and make everything better. It's much more fulfilling than not being able to do anything to make it right because it was just an accident.

I would also like to take the time remind you that Idia literally tried to end the world and is still treated better than Rollo is.

"But he's based off Frollo!" You cry, except you seem to forget the fact that Jamil is based off Jafar, an old man who lusted after a teenager and wanted to marry her, and while Jamil is horribly misunderstood by many people, he's still not treated like a bigoted monster.

A lot of people came to the conclusion that he's racist against fae, even though nothing he does indicates that. He hates magic users specifically, and of course he'll hate Malleus, Malleus is notorious for using magic for every little thing and mainly being revered for his magic.

I also think Rollo being religious/Catholic doesn't make sense for his character. Think about it. He sees magic as dangerous, a vile influence that will bring nothing but harm, but people are complacent to adore and use.

Imagine trying to tell him there's an all-powerful, essentially magical being he must submit to and worship? One which, may I remind you, many say "allows" bad things (like the death of a brother in a blazing torrent of fire magic) to happen? He'd hate that shit. He'd probably gear up to fight god himself. He wasn't even afraid when he fought Malleus, after all.

Idk, this is just from a culmination of far too many posts, memes, "analysis'", and fics portraying this incredibly complex and tragic character who challenges the ideologies of our main chast as a creepy, obsessive copy-paste of Frollo, when characters who have done much worse are adored and treated like little meow meows.

I just don't understand why people do this? Is this because he went against the fan favorite, Malleus? Is this because he's "ugly" (he's not, and it's gross how many of you think ugly = bad person)? Is it because nobody can read?

I really don't know. But it really frustrates me that the common portrayal of him is so far from his actual character, especially since I relate to him in the sense of feeling a burning rage at something that has caused suffering for you, and not being healthy in your response to it/not being able to get help.

Idk man

[lovelykhaleesiii]

Daddy’s Princess

PAIRING: King!Aegon ii Targaryen x daughter!Princess!Reader

WORDS: 3,014.

SUMMARY: Based on this anonymous request…

WARNINGS: incest, mentions of death/war/suicide, mentions of depression, dark!Aegon ii, thigh riding, mentions of p in v sexual intercourse, cream pie, breeding kink, Daddy kink, praise kink, dom!Aegon ii, swearing, possessive!Aegon ii. mentions of pregnancy/birth.

A/N - posted this originally on my side kink blog [ @aegoniiwifey ], however since it’s not so explicitly kink-related and I’m also really proud of this fic, I thought I would post it here too ☺️ hope you all enjoy this naughty read!

credit to the original creators of the artworks/images.

The Targaryens were undoubtedly known for their “queer” customs, this had been widely yet sceptically recognised. Your own grandmother, the Dowager Queen, even uttered the words herself, despite having played a major role in marrying your late, beloved mother, Helaena to her elder brother, your father and the rightful King, Aegon the Second.

The Dance of the Dragons had begun to churn, when you were still nothing more than a child, however it progressed well into a few solid years throughout your adolescence, only for your father to come out victorious against his treacherous half-sister and her family of “bastards and traitors”, as he spat. The Gods had answered your endless prayers, regardless, rejoicing in success.

Once the Dance had reached its end, you had transformed into a young, modest woman, of the age two-and-twenty. Your handsome father, fifteen years your elder, conceived you during his own youth, robbing him of freedom and instilling responsibility instead, likewise with your dear mother. You had always been plagued with the pestering thought of feeling like a burden unto the young couple, as their firstborn, however your father reassured you otherwise, that you were nothing more than a blessing to him, otherwise.

Regardless, the fearsome battles determinedly fought throughout the decades, came at an inconceivable cost: the cost of the innocent, defenceless lives of your younger siblings who tragically perished in horrendous manners. Your late mother, Queen Heleana, wrought with mad grief and depression for the witness and loss of her babes, she could not bear the reality of life itself, taking her own life as a means to end her suffering.

Excluding yourself, you had no one else other than your grandmother, the Dowager Queen, who kept much to her seldom self these toiling days, isolated in her lonesome chambers, and your father...

Throughout the entirety of the ceaseless quarrels, your dear father had always ensured keeping a close eye and ear on you. Warmly reassuring your frightful self, that he would burn the world before any harm could be done unto you. He kept you close by him at all times, if he had not attended the battle himself on dragonback, Sunfyre close by your chambers, despite having a broken wing, with your own hatchling, Morghul, constantly beside you. It tore him to pieces when he made the harsh decision of having to entrust you to Larys and his unsavoury men, to sneak you off to Dragonstone where he would meet you eventually.

The most skilled guards posted ceaselessly hours on end, day and night, outside your chambers, not a single action went by without Aegon knowing, for all matters regarding your whereabouts went directly through him. During this time, you had solely instilled a perpetual trust in your father's decisions, that laid foundations in your bond with one another, which lingered even post succession of the war. It would be an understatement, that you had become heavily reliant on him, most of the time having been denied the autonomy to think and decide for yourself at such a young age, you grew to much prefer your father taking action, trusting him and only him with decisions regarding your own life. He was highly protective of you, in a way no lord nor knight of the realm could pledge and devote their lives to. You were his kin, his blood, his possession: you became his sole purpose and will to survive during the Dance.

There was, however, only one decision, you had ever made purely yourself, that would change the dynamic of the realm itself...

"Come, my sweet angel. Come to Daddy, and let me ease your mind..."

Despite the realm returning to some ounce of normalcy and peace, the nights you still endured adversity with. Troubling nightmares engulfed your slumber mind of the haunting memories of the Dance. Stirring you awake in a state of distress and panic, sweat beads drenched your forehead and mottled hair, your exposed, plump breasts accentuated in your silk, white nightgown, heaving with every haste and dense breath. Despite the adoring, relentless company of your dotting father by your side in bed, he immediately awoke in tune to your disruptive motions, persisting to remain awake, until he was assured you were comforted and sound of mind, lulling you himself back to sleep.

"Baby, sit on my lap. That's it- Another nightmare, my love?"

"Y-Yes, father."

"I know the feeling all to well, precious... Do you wish to speak about it?" Aegon huskily uttered, as his rough hands gently whisked away the odd strands of hair out of place, his other hand caressing soft circles at your lower back.

Since his heroic return from battle, despite the brutal injuries sustained, and since recovering, your father found himself constantly at your side, even in the late hours of the night. He dared not to trust many despite promisingly pledging fealty to their King, Aegon could only open up to you without the reason of duty, intimidation, or responsibility binding him to you. He wanted you. Since losing Helaena, despite never having been openly romantic with her, he had lost a companion, and had always considered you more of one than a daughter, as you grew wise with age.

Your strong-willed father had always been a man with brawn, unlike your late Uncles, Aemond and Daeron. Aegon was portly and having been raised by him, you grew familiar with his shameless, gluttonous habits. These habits exacerbated during his recuperation, as the maesters including yourself had taken to encouraging your father to eat copiously, often hand feeding him yourself with generous amounts of delicacies, rationalising that it was to regain pure sustenance.

You took pride in his recovery, aiding the maesters to heal your father back to good health, he openly stated that it was your devoted presence and love that made him whole once more. Deep in slumber with milk of the poppy to ease the pain, only he could hear your sweet, angelic voice in the blissful distance, yearning for him. Your gentle touch, as you religiously applied naturopathic ointments to his fresh, raw burns, that eventually healed his scars. He soaked in your warm presence thoroughly, mirroring your reliance on him, he too, became deeply infatuated with you.

Since becoming a mature woman, having grown into your Valyrian-esque features and physique, Aegon saw you in a fairly different light now. You noticed by the manner in which his violet, stern eyes lingered over your body for far longer than what was used to, even if it was for a few, fleeting seconds. You became a distraction in council meetings, as he vowed to have you attend, even if you were merely a cupbearer, standing aside though in proximity of him, a mere shadow: his unfazed attention oogled over you, his mind pondering over lustful, sinful thoughts, only to be beckon called back to reality by the repetitive call of his title, your Grace.

You had always admired your father, and believed there was no man that could exceed the expectations he set in stone… You were made for him, as he had sought to it himself. Blood of his blood, the Gods kept you both alive for a reason, you had discreetly believed.

"I do not wish to speak of it right now... I just need you to hold me, just for a little while," You weakly whispered with a shaky breath. Aegon, with a new found strength, a fuller and sturdy frame, lifting you effortlessly onto his lap, as he laid himself back to rest against the wooden bedframe.

"That's okay, my sweet girl. It will get easier, I promise..."

Adjusting yourself atop of Aegon's wide, meaty thigh, as you gripped and rested your head against his broad, fleshy shoulder, the friction stirring as your bare cunt grinds against his clothed thigh, slowly igniting a familiar, throbbing ache between your inner thighs.

"Hmm, how will it get easier, Daddy? Will you make it easier?" You utter, your lips lightly grazing over his plump cheek, gently guiding his head to turn in your direction: eyes inevitably meeting, your lips passionately crash against his. Aegon does not resist in the slightest, relishing in the kiss, as he shoves his tongue deep into your mouth, swallowing your taste, before his teeth teasingly bite and pull at your lower lip.

"I can distract my baby. Give her a pleasure no other man in the whole of the Seven Kingdoms can. I'll give my princess the finest treatment she deserves... But only if she listens and obeys her Daddy, like the good girl I know she is."

"Mhmm, yes, Daddy-" A helpless plea closely mistaken for a moan escaping your mouth, Aegon's pudgy hands, steer your legs to spread apart: you find that you can only spread wide enough to saddle one thick thigh at a time. Without needing to spell it out for you, you begin to sway your meek frame, rhythmically bucking your hips backwards and forwards, as Aegon harshly yanks your gown up, enough for your bare cunt to be completely exposed more thoughtfully, and in contact with his thigh.

"Deeper baby, you know you need to push yourself deeper or else I can barely feel you on top."

With haste obedience, you try to plunge your weight deeper against him, your arms embracing Aegon’s stocky frame tighter. His swollen, bloated gut pressing flatly against your own chest, earning a sensual growl from your father.

“Good girl… My good, little princess. Going to listen to every word Daddy says, so I can make her feel so much better.”

Your whimpering moans, and slow nods in agreement, as your head instinctively rocked back, eyes closing with pure pleasure, you could feel Aegon’s rough hands exploring your waistline, before one snaked behind your spine, keeping you steady by a careful grip on your neck. The other began to tug and pull at the silk strands of your nightgown, loosening the knot, to expose more of your obvious, ample cleavage.

“Look at how beautiful you have become. My little princess is not so little anymore, such a divine grace, a woman. No other beauty roams the Earth, as you do.”

The outstanding appraisal oozing breathlessly from Aegon's plump, blush lips, echo in your thoughtless mind with intense gratification. Treasuring each word, he worshipped you dearly, often placing you on a pedestal as great as the Iron Throne itself.

"Yes Daddy, t-tell me more."

Your helpless moans begin to sob from your mouth, filling the void of the vast room, other than the faint crackling of the dying fireplace. Your eager pace quickening, feeling the burning sensation erupt from the friction against your tender skin. Your body leaned forwards with Aegon's generous shove, as he in turn plunged his handsome face between your sensitive breasts. Feeling his lips trailing across your soft skin, hungrily suckling and lapping down to your nipple, as his other hand playfully massaged and kneaded at your other tit.

"Does princess want Daddy to fuck her stupid? Make her so full of me, she'll be dripping, begging for more, for nothing to be spared? All the princess needs to do is ask Daddy, like the polite girl she is."

"A-Aeg-"

"Words, princess. My cock isn't even inside you yet, and you're already hopeless. Didn't I teach you to use your words?"

"Hmm, Daddy, I-I need your cock, I-I need you inside of me, p-please."

Incoherent, you knew how weak and feeble you felt against your father, a formidable man, both inside and outside the confines of the bedroom.

"My beautiful baby, using her manners, makes her Daddy so, so proud. How did I get so lucky, being blessed by you?"

"D-Daddy blessed me."

Your hands clawed their way across his muscular shoulder blades, nails sharply dug into Aegon's bareback, as he often enjoyed sleeping shirtless, his natural body warmth radiating from his scarred body. Now one hand snaked its way into his short, unkempt hair, avidly tugging at his silver strands, begging for more.

"Easy baby, so needy for her Daddy, huh? Never change baby, Daddy's always going to take care of you okay? No one can take care of you, like I have..."

"N-No one. Daddy protects me from cruel monsters, a-and evil men. I-I could never leave, D-Daddy."

Groans and growls pooled from Aegon's lush mouth, as his tongue teasingly lapped and pulled at your perky nipple.

"My perfect princess. That's right, baby... Now, you ready to take Daddy's cock? I'm feeling pretty big, princess. You've been getting me as hard as Valyrian steel."

His hand found yours, firmly guiding it down to where his stiff, rigid cock throbbed densely with enthusiasm, beneath his pants, desperately aching to be taken.

"Y-Yes... Only I deserve Daddy's cock."

Rightfully earning a low, jovial chuckle from Aegon, scoring his mutual amusement and agreement, nodding to your proud notion.

"That's right baby... Only you."

Heaving himself and you atop with such vigour, you aided Aegon in pulling his pants down, as his cock sprung into full action. The sight made you shiver and whimper instantly, how its reddened tip flashed in the dim light, with pre cum already oozing generously from the raw tip. His length modest, its width had always been a wondrous vision. Regardless of the preparation or the amount of times you had taken Aegon before, you could never quite adjust to his glorious girth.

"Easy baby, that's my good girl. D-Don't be afraid, I got you. You can take it, I know you can. Making Daddy so, very proud."

Carefully positioning you atop, as you began to gently settle down, the sharp jolt of pain, as its tip etched between your silk folds, made it subtly easier for him to slip his full mass in.

"Wet for me already, my cock's practically drowning baby... So tight for me, my sweet princess. I can feel you swallowing up my fat cock."

Witlessly yet diligently, bobbing up and down on Aegon's lap, as your father vigorously thrusted his heavy mass upwards, craving to shove himself deeper into your slick folds.

"Good girl, Y/N. Daddy's going to fuck you so hard, fill you up to the fucking brim with my seed. Want to carry Daddy's babes, like a good princess? Make Daddy so proud, huh?"

"Y-Yes, I'll do w-whatever Daddy says, whatever D-Daddy wants. Anything to m-make you proud."

The rough texture of Aegon's battle-torn hands, cooed and caressed at your back, one hand gripping your neck once more, keeping you steadily mounted against his body. His other hand, continued to firmly squeeze at your tender breast, almost mimicking a wringing motion, as though anticipating for milk to ooze.

"Making me the proudest Daddy in the realm, princess. But you are far from being done with your royal duties... I'm going to fuck you day and night, till I see your belly swell greatly with child, with our child... Not till we fill this entire keep with the future leagues of the Targaryen dynasty. And if anyone dares to question our customs... They can play the fucking fool and answer to me."

Aegon, in a breathless, heated rut, finally reached his almighty gusto. His fresh, hot seed spilling up into you, as it oozed out of your tight crevices, clenched around his achingly, pulsating cock. In turn, your cum released in a liberating gesture, pouring over Aegon's rigid, thick cock.

"Hmm, Daddy spoils me s'good. Blessed I am th-that you want me to carry your heirs. Blessed I am to be carry on your legacy, Daddy."

Just as you were about to dismount from Aegon's sturdy lap, and tense cock, still stretching out inside of you, did you feel his strong embrace pulling you back down, keeping you situated over him as you were before.

"Daddy's not done yet, princess... I told you, I am fucking you endlessly till I see this belly-" His palm lightly grazing over your lower stomach in circles.

"-swell and these beautiful tits, leak with milk as I knead and suck. I will fuck you day and night, till you reek of my scent, exhausted of pleasure, and drenched in my cum and sweat. Princess belongs to Daddy and the whole realm shall know of it. I won the war, and I shall win the heart of the realm... That is you, my angel."

The remainder of the night, into the sleepless, bright dawn of the morrow, Aegon had kept his rigid cock buried deeply, and warmly planted inside of you. As the hours nudged on, you could feel yourself repeatedly peaking inside, as did your father, growing more and more numb to the cramping sensation. Your wincing and whimpers did not go ignorantly unnoticed, as Aegon would lull you, praising how proud he was of you for taking him so well. The only time he released was to clean up the god awful mess strewed across the sheets, and the minor bleeding pooling from your inner thighs.

In the morrow, he commanded the servants to fetch you a warm, floral scented bath, with the condition that he bathe you himself. Breakfast was brought to you directly, as you remained bed bound resting and recuperating.

"Now it's Daddy's turn to take care of his princess. Just as you took care of me during those dreadful months. My sweet, precious angel never left her Daddy's side, like an obedient, loyal girl. And Daddy will never leave you, okay."

Words had spread like wildfire, as your belly and tits had swollen healthily with a growing babe inside. The maesters to confirm and seal your fate, Aegon and yourself could not have been happier. Despite the relentless, whispering gossip alongside the timid side glances, no one dared to speak against Aegon's decision to marry you lawfully in tradition of your Valyrian customs, otherwise. Blessing the King a long-awaited, hearty male heir, the prophecy his late father often uttered about in his ill, deluded state: Aegon believed the Prince that was Promised, would emerge from his bloodline, thanks to you.

general taglist [bold means I could NOT tag you]- @evenstaris @chompchompluke @fan-goddess @malfoytargaryen @hightowhxre @bibli0thecary @m1ndbrand @connorsui @elegantsplendour @randomdragonfires @sylasthegrim @arcielee @s-we-e-t-t-ea @sahvlren @aemondtargaryensrider @watercolorskyy @hypnos-daughter-certified @urmomsgirlfriend1 @backyardfolklore @snowprincesa1

Aegon ii taglist - @who-told-you-this-was-butter @f4ll-for-you @amiraisgoingthruit @bucknastysbabe @jawline-of-steel

credit for dividers - @/saradika

[imaginetheonewith]

The one where Y/N gets jealous

Pairing: Joey Tribbiani x f!reader

Warnings: none (I think)

Author's note: It was not easy to imagine reader in the "Friends" universe, but .. hey! I tried my best and I do hope you all enjoy it. The lack of fanfiction about this tv show is criminal x

Red.

That is all could see in front of you at this moment. But it was not the type of red that you see when you are in love and the world seems to suddenly become a better place.

Oh no, it was way worse than that. It was the bright crinkly red, which was currently barely covering the tall blonde’s chest from lustful eyes. Or more specifically Joey’s.

“You know”, Chandler’s voice sounded next to you, “If you keep staring at her for 30 more seconds her head may catch fire. Or preferably that tight, low-cut…”

Your head whipped towards him and he quickly raised his hands in defence.

“… shoes!”, he cleared his voice, while pointing aggressively towards the girl’s feet, “These tight, low-cut shoes! Burn them! Burn them!”

Rolling your eyes, you turned your attention back to the bar, where Joey was shamelessly flirting with his ex, Angela. She was a beautiful and lean part-time actress, with an amazing fashion style, and wild blond locks. She was also the only girl who managed to keep Joey in a relationship for more than a few weeks. 3 years, to be exact.

It was not a secret that you did not harbor any warm feelings toward her. Not only did she break your best friend’s heart, but she was also the only one of his girlfriends that managed to catch on to your feelings towards him and use any chance she got to remind you that you will always remain stuck in the friend zone. It was almost as if she enjoyed inflicting pain on people around her and seeing them suffer.

“I can’t believe he is still talking with her”, you groaned, clapping your hands on your tights, “Look at him laughing! What could she say that is so funny?”

You didn’t wait for a response, before turning towards Chandler and pulling the newspaper away from his hands.

“Sure, I was totally done reading that”, he fake-smiled at you while grabbing his cup of coffee. His sarcastic remark went right above your head, as you grabbed his hands and squeezed them in yours.

“Chandler, you are one of the most, most special and valuable people in my life!”

“Well, I do have this effect on people”, he winked at you, while getting himself in a more comfortable position. You smiled with tightly pressed lips, doing your stop any smart remark that was sitting at the end of your tongue.

“And I would do anything… well, almost anything for you. Because I believe that when I need your help, you will do the same for me and-“

“Is it by any chance my birthday today?”, he interrupted you with a suspicious glare and you had to stop yourself from rolling your eyes, “Because the Y/N I know is never, ever so nice, unless he wants something and-“

He paused for a second, his face falling with realization. He quickly pulled his hands away from you and pointed an accusing finger at your face.

“NO! Whatever is going in that pretty head of yours, I am not going to do it.”

Chandler tried to get from his seat, but you were quick to lay down and throw your legs over his, trapping him in his place.

“You didn’t even listen to me!”

“I don’t have to”, his words were mumbled through a fake smile and squinted eyes, “I already know what you are thinking. And I am not going to do it.”

You raised your eyebrow, challenging him:

“What I am thinking? Maybe I just want to show you how much I love you as a friend…”

“And also send me to the bar, so I can eavesdrop on Joey and Angela.”

“Damn, you’re good”, you mumbled under your breath, finally releasing your friend from your leg trap. Your head fell in your hands and you closed your eyes in a weak attempt to stop yourself from thinking about the couple just a few feet away from you.

There was no reason to feel like this. You knew Joey for over 6 years now and you’ve been best friends for just as long. You two became close almost immediately after Chandler introduced you to each other and much to everyone’s surprise, including yours, the actor never showed even a slight romantic interest towards you. On the other hand, you fell head over heels for him from the moment you met him. His charming smile, flirty jokes, and kind soul made you overlook all his bad qualities, and “red flags” Monica and Rachel warned you about. Sure, he did have a bit of a reputation with the ladies, but seeing how loyal was he toward his friends, you knew that he was capable of commitment.

He just needed to find his woman. His one true soulmate, who would love him and cherish him the way he deserves.

What wouldn’t you give to be this one woman?

“Hey”, Chandler tried to catch your attention, while his hands started rubbing small circles on your back, “It’s going to be okay.”

Besides Joey, Chandler was your second closest friend. Before he moved to his current apartment, he was briefly your roommate and with both of you being new to the city, it didn’t take long for you to form a strong bond. From being children of divorced couples to having a career in statistical analysis and not-so-lucky love life, you two lived almost identical lives. It was not a surprise you often found comfort in each other, knowing that there is no other person who can understand you better than him.

Just as you were leaning back towards Chandler’s shoulder, Joey jumped on the sofa next to you with a wide smile on his face.

“You won’t believe who I am having dinner with tonight!”

“Winona Ryder?”, Chandler tried to guess and you bit a smile. Joey on the other hand did not find the remark funny, rolling his eyes instead.

“Remember Angela? My ex-girlfriend? The one that I thought I am going to marry because we were dating for so long?”

“How could we forget her?”, you mumbled under your nose, crossing your arms in front of your chest, “She is very…. memorable.”

Joey eyed you with furrowed brows, his eyes stopping at your shoulder, where Chandler’s hand was still gently massaging you. He let out a scoff, before moving to his favorite chair next to the bar. He knew that you and Angela had a bit of a strained relationship in the past, but he was hoping that you would at least try to act excited for him, instead of being all cozy with his roommate.

“Wow”, he breathed out, “Still jealous, I see.”

His words made you freeze in place, your cup of coffee just millimeters from your lips. Chandler tensed next to you and while you could not see, you were sure he was mouthing something to Joey. You slammed your cup on the table and turned towards the actor, only to find him glaring at you.

“Excuse me?”

“Look, Y/N, I know you girls love to be competitive and compare to each other all the time…”, he stayed silenced for a second, his hands moving in slow circles in front of him as if it was helping him gather his thoughts quicker, “But there is no reason to feel that way towards Angela. You know you will always be my best friend. Nobody will change that.”

You let out a dry laugh, turning towards Chandler, who was watching the happening with wide eyes. He shook his head as a warning for you to not continue this conversation, but he quickly realized your mind was already set when you shook his arms away from you and stood from your place.

“Is this what you think? You think I feel threatened by Angela?”

“Well, I did not use exactly that word…”, Joey mumbled, trying his best to avoid your furious gaze. The regret of saying anything was already clear on his face. If he could turn back time by just a few minutes, he would’ve just kept his mouth shut and enjoyed a nice quiet afternoon with both of his closest friends.

You, on the other hand, were not about to let this go so easily. Jealous? Of Angela? Pffftttt. Pushing your hair behind your ears, you tried your best to keep your voice low and not startle all of Central Perk’s clients.

“Joey, as your best friend, I can assure you that not even a cell in my body feels threatened by that manipulative and sly snake.”

“Okay, you are just being mean now”, the feeling of regret quickly vanished and his eyes hardened in a glare, “What is your problem?”

Before you can even open your mouth to reply, Chandler jumped between both of you and raised his palms towards both yours and Joey’s mouth, preventing you from saying anything further.

“Ah, this is exactly how my parents were acting just before they got divorced”, he made a disgusted face when the memory flashed in front of his eyes. He turned towards Joey, “We are happy about you, Joey. All of us. But… you know… we all remember what Angela did to you.”

“She’s changed”, Joey whined with a high-pitched voice, earning another mocking laugh from you. This gesture immediately resulted in his features becoming serious once again, “You know what… I don’t care if you approve of Angela or not. I love her and I will not give her up. I know she is the one and we will be together… once she breaks up with Bob.”

“Bob?”, Chandler moved his hands away as if burned, “Who is Bob?”

Joey opened his mouth but then closed it again when he didn’t get the courage to say anything. For you, however, it was enough to confirm your suspicion.

“This is ridiculous!”, you groaned, “She has a boyfriend and she is still trying to get in bed with you. She is using you, Joey! I can’t even believe you are agreeing to take her out on dinner!”

“It’s not like I am taking only her. I am taking Bob as well!”

“Oh, that’s great. So all three of you can be one big happy… throuple.”, you grabbed your coffee cup and matched towards the bar, where Gunther was not even trying to hide his interest towards your argument.

“I don’t mean I am going to go out with both of them”, Joey argued, looking at Chandler to check if he agrees, “You don’t think I am trying to get both of them, right?”

Chandler just shrugged his shoulders in response, too scared to get any more involved.

“I am going to ask Monica to come with me, so it’s like a double date. That way I keep Angela for myself and Monica can keep Bob.”

“Monica?”, the name fell as a surprised yell from your lips, “Why not me?”

Joey let out a scoff as if you were asking the stupidest question he ever heard, “Well, you and Angela do not get along well… And also I don’t think Bob is going to be your type.”

The last sentence made you raise your eyebrows and you crossed your arms in front of your chest. A tiny voice inside your head was telling you to not dwell on his remark and leave instead before you do something that can ruin your friendship forever. However, your bruised ego could not handle Joey having the last word in this.

“What do you even know about “my type”? For all you know, Bob may be exactly the man of my dreams.”

“Yeah, right”, he laughed under his nose, directing his attention toward the sandwich Gunther just brought, “The guy is a dog food tester. How can that be your soulmate?”

“Well once I thought my soulmate is always an out-of-job actor”, you stomped towards the coat hanger, grabbing your coat and purse, “So how much worse can a dog tester be?”

Without sparing even a glance towards them, you made your way outside, ignoring Chandler’s calls. You didn’t know where you were going or what were you going to do. All you knew is you just need to be alone.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A few days passed since your and Joey’s argument and you have not seen each other since. Despite your friends telling you it is valid to feel the way you feel, you couldn’t help but feel guilty about the way you reacted. It was unreasonable to expect that he would not pursue a woman he clearly had feelings for, just because of your opinion of her. You wanted him to be happy, even if it was with someone who was not you.

Still, it hurt. Not only the idea of him being to another woman but also the fact that you certainly ruined your friendship. You did not realize what slipped past your lips before you left the coffee shop that day till Chandler came to your apartment later and informed you of the talk he and Joey just had.

The actor did hear you and did put two and two together “surprisingly quickly”, as Chandler described it, which lead to a big argument between the two. On one hand, Joey thought it was unacceptable that you kept this secret for so long from him, instead of just talking. On the other hand, Chandler thought he was judging you unfairly and was unhappy with the fact that Joey still went ahead with the date with Angela.

It seemed that everyone heard about what happened the same day, as later that night Rachel, Ross, and Phoebe all showed up with some Chinese takeaway and five boxes of ice cream. You appreciate that they all showed up for you, but you could not shake away the tight feeling of anxiousness in your chest. You needed to know how the date went and if Joey and Angela were back together, and the only way to find out was to speak to Monica.

Now, finally being the weekend, both of you were off work and eager to catch up with each other. Sitting on the floor in her living room, you ate homemade biscuit cake and spilled gossip about the events from the past week.

“I would’ve never agreed to go with him if I knew all the details” Monica exclaimed, “He told me they were siblings. And I did believe him, till I saw her tongue in his ear. It was disgusting!”

You choked a laugh and quickly covered your mouth, trying to keep the food inside. Apparently, Joey told Monica Bob was Angela’s brother in order to convince her to go on a double date with them. And while they did manage to break the “happy” couple and keep the pieces to themselves, Monica was far from impressed by Bob’s performance in bed and has decided to not see him anymore. Listening to her detailed story from that night, you could not judge her at all.

You finally swallowed your bite and were about to respond, when the door opened, and the man you least wanted to see came into the kitchen.

“Hey Monica, I know you said to not bother you tonight, but we have no beers left and… Y/N?!”

Joey froze in his place next to the fridge, his eyes dancing between you and the dark-haired woman. Monica has told them to stay away from her flat earlier, but he has just assumed she was having a date over. He definitely did not expect to see you.

“Y/N, um… What are you… uhm.. doing here?”, he shuttered and you had to bite your lip in order to stop a smile from spreading on your face. Flustered Joey was a rare, but cute sight.

You quickly jumped on your feet and grabbed your bag from the sofa, giving an awkward smile.

“I was just about to go, actually”, you turned towards Monica and pulled her into a hug, “I will catch up with you soon. Bye, Mon! Bye, Joey!”

You hurried towards the door without sparing your friends a second glance and were almost down the stairs when you heard heavy steps behind you and felt a hand pulling you back by your wrist. You stumbled back, almost losing your balance, before another hand wrapped around your shoulder in order to stable you.  

You looked up only to come face-to-face with Joey, who was staring at you with wide eyes. He was so close his breaths were hitting your face like a warm breeze and almost closed your eyes, trying to save the feeling of closeness in your mind.

“Y/N…”, he whispered, “Listen, I…”

“Yes?”, you tried to push him to finish a sentence, eager to hear what he has to say. There were a million and one things you wanted to tell him, but how could you after you threw away years of friendship in just a few seconds of pure rage? You were simply not ready to talk about it yet.

But did not stop you from trying to hear what he has to say.

“I made a mistake. I should have never gone out with Angela.”

There was a skip of your hearbeat. Were you dreaming? You were sure you did get up from your bed morning, but then again the only times Joet was saying the words 'mistake' and a girl's name in one sentence it was in only in your imagination.

You furrowed your eyebrows and were ready to argue that the only person in this hallway who made a mistake was you, but before you can start talking, he pressed his finger to your lips, shushing you.

“No, let me finish”, he moved his hand away, “I have… I have prepared this speech for a while.”

He got silent for a minute, moving his eyes away from you and focusing on the floor instead.

“I have been in love with you pretty much since the day we met. Your smile, your wit, your beauty… I have never seen another woman like you. And I know you think I didn’t like you, because I’ve never made a move, but I was so scared… You know? And I was trying to forget you by seeking someone else, but I could never do it. All I ever wanted was you. Which hurt, because I knew that I will never be good enough for you and-“

His words were interrupted by your lips on his. A wave of electricity passed through your whole body and you could swear your feet became jelly. His arms circled your waist, pressing you against his hard chest.

 It lasted only a few seconds before you both pulled away with wide eyes. With uneven breathing, you pressed your forehead against his, enjoying the warmth of his hands on your lower back. A small smile broke on your lips and Joey mirrored it.

“Wanna do it again?”, he asked, giving you a wink.

“Absolutely”, you whispered before catching his mouth with yours again.

[dragonlady-writes]

I'm Safe With You

Scenario: After being rescued from being kidnapped by a villain, you finally get to have a moment to relax in a safe place. However, you still feel trapped in their grasp, like any moment it could happen again. It takes the tender and gentle touch of you partner, lover, and friend, Shota Aizawa, to bring you back to peace.

Warnings: 18+, NSFW

Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Her Pleasure, Oral, Fingering

Triggers: Mention of kidnapping and gun violence

Smut starts at the red line.

Your home was still an active crime scene. You stood in your boyfriend's shower trying not to relive the horrifying event in your head. You focus on the burning hot water, pouring over your shoulders, the loud sound of water flowing through the pipes and hitting the tub floor. Yet, this was the first time you were alone since your rescue.

You could still feel that villain's gun against your temple. Their piercing eyes staring down at you like you were barely human. You could still count the seconds when they would pull the trigger and it would all be over. Suddenly, the shower's steam felt suffocating as you tried to take a deep breath. The more you forced down the memory of your near-death experience, the more real it felt. You had always prided yourself on your ability to be positive no matter what and to smile in the darkness.

But when you forced a smile on your face, it was like a thousand tons were added. For the first time in your life, it hurt to smile.

"It's okay," you whispered to yourself, "you're safe now."

The words offered a fleeting comfort, but they were not enough. These emotions were spiralling out of control and you threatened to lose yourself.

You didn't know when the tears started falling, but once you noticed them, you couldn't stop them anymore.

There was a knock on the door that pulled your attention. You flinched before straightening up and wiping your eyes.

"I brought clothes for you," Aizawa's voice called from the other side of the door, "Can I come in?"

"Y-Yeah," you called back, trying to stop your voice from shaking.

You heard the door open and forced yourself to quiet down your tears. When you were taken from your home, the first one who came running to your rescue was your partner, Shota Aizawa. The two of you were co-workers initially at U.A. High School. You both fell in love after only a few dates together. Your friends always teased that a wedding was around the corner. You never had a partner like Shota before. Most men loved to show off how great they were with big romantic gestures and loud declarations. Shota was quiet and reserved, but no less loving. He was always the first to notice when you wanted something even before you realized you wanted it. He could read your needs based off your mannerisms and always took care of them. Every morning, there was a gift of your favorite coffee order on your desk or a note asking you to have lunch with him later. So, in your most vulnerable moment, you knew he was going to notice and he was going to worry.

"I left them by the sink for you," he said.

You tried to respond with an 'okay' but felt your voice crack. His silhouette turned to look at you and you knew he heard it.

"Thank you, love," you said with a tight voice.

He was quiet for a long moment, making it harder to hold yourself together. You didn't want to hide these feelings from him, but how could you burden him with this pain? You already knew he blamed himself for letting you get taken in the first place. You didn't want to add to his burden because you cared about him.

"You've been in there for a while," he said, "Are you ready to come out?"

You felt a sniffle break out and you hung your head in shame. You turned off the shower head, knowing it wouldn't hide your suffering any longer. You never liked to burden others with your struggles. Maybe it was a bad response cemented into you or a learned coping skill you developed, but you always wanted to put others first. Aizawa never let you do that with him. Since the beginning of your relationship, he always had you speak your mind to him. He ensured you were taking care of yourself before asking anything of you. You both cherished each other.

You slowly pulled the curtain screen back and stepped out the shower. He stood in front of you with a towel opened for you. As soon as you were within his grasp, he placed the warm towel around you and embraced you. You wrapped your arms around him as you buried your face into his cotton shirt. The lavender scent of freshly washed clothes pulled you deeper into him as the nightmare was pushed back. His muscled arms gripped you tightly as they held you against him. For a moment, you could feel he was trembling before his hands tightened around your waist in reassurance. You couldn't stop the tears as you felt your walls melt away.

"I thought I was going to die," you said through tears, "I didn't want to leave you."

You heard his breathing hitch as he buried his face into your neck.

"I'm sorry Y/N," he said, his voice breaking, "If I'd accepted your call faster-"

"No," you said quickly, "No, Shota, you saved me. It's because of you I'm still alive. Please... don't blame yourself."

Your hands went up to his head and cupped his face. You pulled him up slowly to look into his eyes. His black eyes stared down at you between tears. They were like delicate glass about to spill over with water; his eyes held so much pain and regret. He'd been holding back his own fears just the same for your sake.

"I love you Shota," you said with tears in your eyes and a warm smile on your face.

His hand rested over yours and wrapped his fingers around it. He placed a warm kiss on the back of your hand, "I love you too."

He pulled you closer to him and leaned into you. You tilted your head up and kissed him, slow, tender, and filled with need. You loved him with your entire being. Your whole heart belonged to him. Your kiss was filled with every bit of love you held for him. His hand went to the back of your neck as he drank in your kiss as if it was the last kiss he would ever receive.

---

You pulled back a moment to breathe before diving back in. Your arms wrapped around his neck as his hands traveled down your sides. The towel fell as he lifted you by your thighs around him. He supported you as if you weighed like a feather, not daring to break from your kiss.

He carried you out of the restroom, still dripping wet, towards his bedroom. Your eyes were closed as you focused on the touch of his lips against yours, the warmth of his hands that gripped into your thighs, and the sound of his soft grunt as he carried you. You were caught off guard by the sudden sensation of falling into a fluffy bed. Your heart was racing as you gazed up at him.

He pulled his black long sleeve over his head and revealed his toned, strong chest. No matter how many times you saw him naked, the sight of his bare chest always filled you with wanting. You felt your legs naturally want to part and let him have his way. He gazed down at you, eyes filled with desire as they trailed over your figure. His fingers lightly pushed your knees apart as he crawled between them.

"Is this okay?" he asked as he gazed down at you.

He cupped your face with a tender hand as his eyes were filled with love. You smiled up at him as you turned your head to kiss his wrist.

"I'm safe with you," you whisper to him.

You watched the expression on his face soften. He leaned down to place a gentle kiss on your lips before lowering to your jaw. To your chest. Then stopping between your breasts as he placed his lips against the soft skin.

A small moan escaped your lips which only encouraged him to leave small marks on the skin. Yet, unknown to you, it was a distraction from his other hand. It held up your knee before resting it over his shoulder. As you melted to the kisses at your breast, you were shocked as his fingers traced between the walls between your thighs.

"Shota..." you couldn't hold back the moan in your voice as his fingers held you open.

"Shh, just relax," he coaxed as his lips found your nipple.

His finger slipped inside of you and stroked over the sensitive skin. You could barely contain yourself as he touched you perfectly. He always touched you perfectly. He knew your body better than you did as you were enthralled by him. With your leg raised above, it gave him the perfect angle to reach your most sensitive spot. You couldn't hold back the moans that escaped you. Your hand reached down to hold onto his hair, but his other hand stopped you. Instead, he placed your hand over your breast as he lowered himself further.

"Keep yourself busy, sweetheart," he purred as he kneeled down.

You rolled your head back as your fingers traced over your breasts, circling around your nipples to please them. His hands gripped your thighs and lifted them above his head. Then with little warning, his soft tongue stroked over your pearl, the stubble of his beard tickling between your legs.

Your back arched as the tension in your body built up. You could feel yourself about to reach a climax as his tongue and lips devoured you. His fingers picked up their pace as he felt you tighten around them.

"Shota I'm-" you struggled to get out words as you felt all of your muscles grow tight around your thighs.

"Don't keep me waiting," he said, "Let it all out."

It didn't take much more for your body to release. You came over his fingers as your muscles all let go at once along with the stress and the pain. In place of it was pure bliss and love. The memory of today's horror felt so far away in comparison to that feeling. There was no fear, no pain. Only the love that you held for Shota and the love he held for you.

You barely could catch your breath as he moved onto the bed and pulled you over his chest. You could hear his heart racing as he rested your head against it, holding you steady in his arms. His hand stroked your bare back as your body trembled from pleasure. He tilted up your chin to gaze at your face and smiled as he saw yours. Your eyes fluttered up to meet his to see the relief and joy in his eyes.

"You're my everything," he said sweetly, placing a warm kiss on your forehead, "And I'll stop at nothing to save you. I promise."

[silverzoomies]

Summer Wind

tate langdon x reader smut

warnings: existential crisis, death, afterlife, implied/referenced character death, murder, angst, aged-up tate langdon, fingering, fingerfucking, kissing, canon divergence

word count: 4,690

a/n: another drabble. y'know that thing people do sometimes? where they "age-up" a character, but don't really age them up? i initially wrote this in response to that. but it somehow turned into a means of venting my existential terror instead. i was gonna include more smut. but tbh i didn't feel right about it. this one's gonna stay unfinished. sorry about the abrupt ending !!

inspired by the song summer wind by frank sinatra

You were dead for an indiscernible span of time.

You couldn't be sure how long. But you suspected a few years, at least. Through one of the top floor windows of your eternal purgatory; you watched the trees. Nature alternated between skeletal displays of branches, to vibrant arrays of color. Withered. Blooming. Withered. Blooming. Withered. Blooming again. Rinse and repeat.

Once you accepted your fate, things started clicking into place. Trapped in a vintage hotbox of murder, you put together the pieces of a long lost puzzle. And though some parts were still absent, you pushed yourself to move on. You might never figure out how you died, or who you were before. But to worry so much would be senseless at this point.

Through acceptance, you began to feel again. If only in small bursts. Abrupt, but worth cherishing.

One memory remained ever present. You had the sense you were a school guidance counselor in life. And in death, you took up the mantle again. Offering your services to the other souls lost in the house. One of the ghostly residents shared a similar occupation. Way back in his breathing years. He didn’t do it so much anymore. Instead, he spent time with his family, working towards redemption for his past actions.

You steered clear of most residents, fearful of their unpredictable episodes of bloodlust. They allowed the evil within the house to lure them further into madness. On the days they came to you for your services, you spoke to them in hopes they’d find absolution. Change in the afterlife was extremely difficult to achieve. Your 'clients' rarely ever scratched the surface of their tainted psyches. And any progress they made, they always resorted to their old habits in the end.

Only one of them ever found true change. Of course, he had to be the most wretched of them all.

You once felt sympathy for Tate, making excuses on his behalf. In the years when his heart still pumped blood through his veins; he was young. Misguided. Perhaps the pressures of his upbringing took too much of a toll on him. And in the afterlife, he suffered under the influence of the house itself. The evil buried deep within channeled through his broken soul.

But if such an evil did exist, it never took hold of you. Nor did it sink its venomous teeth into Violet, or her innocent mother, or that pure of heart baby, or even Ben Harmon himself - sinful a man as he was. They resisted, and so did you.

Tate was pure evil. Carnage incarnate. Maybe that made him susceptible to the influence of dark forces. But after talking with him for a few years, you accepted him for what he was. Foul from birth, deplorable in death. No matter how often you tried guiding him to goodness, he remained forever loathsome. The evil in him burned eternally, needing no kindling.

His own acceptance of that fact allowed him to change. In a more physical way, much like Moira. Tate embraced his fate, convinced the house was where he belonged. A punishment until the end of all things. Simultaneously, a safe haven from whatever lay in waiting after purgatory. Tate’s progress was very much real. Albeit, not the kind you aimed for.

You could see his growth in his features, rather than his morals. Sitting across from you during another weekly session, Tate fidgeted with a frayed hole in his jeans. With his blond brows creased, he stared down at the denim. As you watched him like this, you picked apart his finer details. Where his skin once beamed with the pale, ghostly image of youth; creases were now etched in. Faint, but noticeable lines curved under his eyes.

An aura of maturity emanated from him like a light much too dim. Tate carried the same mannerisms from his heyday - if one could even call it that. But he had long since graduated from his mentality of that era. Tate spoke of his past actions as if he regretted them, though you suspected he felt no real remorse. He used to cry all the time. He used to throw childish tantrums. But you couldn’t remember the last time you saw his soulless, black eyes water. Now…

He carried nothing but cold desolation. Common amongst those trapped in perpetual limbo.

“I saw her again today.” He admitted, his lidded eyes flitting up to meet yours, “She hasn’t changed any. Not like me. Not like…” Tate made a gesture at his face, his thumb grazing the angular shape of his jaw. Tiredly, he blinked, “Not like this. Fate’s a funny thing, isn’t it? I always thought we were fated to be together forever, but…”

On the sofa across from him, you kept your cheek perched in a hand. As you scribbled in your notebook, you took note of the way Tate’s features bled misery. All at the mention of her. It must have been painful for him, watching her stay the same. While he finally outgrew himself. Those changes only further separated the two of them. Obliterating any chance he had to make amends. If there ever was.

There especially wouldn’t be now. Even Tate was on the tailend of coming to terms with it.

“How’d it make you feel this time around?” You pressed in a soft tone, shifting on the couch. His dark hues zeroed in on your thighs, bare in a simple dress. The lining appeared cheap, glittering with sequins reminiscent of childhood nostalgia, “When you saw her?”

“Fuckin’...I dunno…” Tate put his face in his vascular hands, fingers curling into his hair, “She’s like a kid to me anymore. What am I supposed to think?”

“Maybe she’s content like that. In the same way you’re content the way you are now.” You shrugged, tenderly laughing, “Maybe teenage angst suits her that much.”

He shook his head, shifting from a criss cross position on the loveseat across from you. Bouncing a leg, Tate gave you a pointed look. His brows turned downward.

“We thought it fit me too, didn’t we? But look at me now."

You were. You were looking at him a lot. And he wasn't wrong. Teenage angst once paired well with Tate's immature nature. Back when he thought like a kid, and acted on impulse. These days, he'd become more lethargic. When he wasn’t consumed with blood lust. Rugged virility was his partner now. Coupled with the melancholy existentialism of a man pushing thirty.

“You wanted to move on.” You clarified, your teeth clicking the edge of a pen at your lips.

“Did I?” Tate bitterly laughed, the empty vacuums of his eyes caught your tongue in motion, “Doesn't seem like anyone else here wants to. ‘Cept Moira.”

“Well, they only think they can’t. They believe they’re tethered here, frozen in time at their moment of death. I used to think growth was impossible too. Until you…”

You took in his masculine features again. The scruff around his chin. So fair, and not too noticeable. Catching yourself in the midst of ogling him, you redirected your gaze to Tate’s eyes. Imposing. Starless. Easy to get lost in. He wasn’t ignorant to your attraction. A hint of grin pulled into his laugh lines and dimples.

“Does it scare you?” He asked, “What’s your excuse then?” Tate threw a condescending nod of his head, “If you’re so enlightened. If you know better than all of us - with your morals ‘n bullshit like that. Why haven’t you changed any since you died?"

Shrugging, you looked bashfully down at your notes.

“Why would I want to? If I can stay young for eternity. If I can keep these curves, and what’s left of my youth. What’s the point in growing older?” You admitted in truth.

“That’s a little superficial though, isn’t it?” Tate leaned back into the loveseat cushions, “Shit like that doesn’t matter here. Who are you tryna impress? And what’s anybody living gonna think? When they meet you, and find out you’re nothin’ but food for maggots now.” He teased, legs spread, one knee bouncing, “There’s gotta be another reason you haven’t moved on. You’re not like us. I dunno why you and the Harmons don’t just…y’know…go.” He trailed off, his gaze falling to his lap.

You saw his bitterness return in full force. Another miserable wave of longing washed over him. Yearning for something that didn’t exist anymore, and never would again.

“I…” You paused, doodling hasty flowers in your notebook. You avoided Tate’s eyes, “I wanna know how I died first. I wanna know who I was. Before I even consider moving on.”

Sinister acidity flashed through his vision, “Seriously? That’s what’s stopping you?” Tate huffed a harsh laugh, admitting without missing a beat, “You wanna know how you died? I’ll tell you. I stuck a knife in your back and stabbed you to death.” He confessed, monotone, “You know it too. You’ve known since we met. You’ve just been in denial this whole time.”

You sat up in an abrupt movement, scooting forward and tossing your notebook away.

“What?! What are you even talking ab-…I’ve been trying to figure this out for years, Tate! Years!” You threw out your hands, “You…you can’t be serious! Why would I be in denial about something like that??”

Tears of betrayal stung the corners of your eyes. Tate shrugged, seemingly unbothered. He crossed his arms, his eyes dark under the ridges of his brows.

“‘Cuz you feel bad for me. Or…uhm…you wanna feel bad for me.” He shrugged again, “Fuck if I know why. I’m the last guy you should have sympathy for.” Tate said, his black hues narrowing in thought.

“You didn’t…did you really stab me? Really? You’re not lying about that?” You almost shouted, clawing your fingers through your hair, “Please. Please tell me you’re lying!”

Tate appeared unfazed, ignoring you, “Do you love me or something? Is that why you’re so broken up about this?” He asked, desperate in his infinite search for validation.

“Why the fuck would you stab me?!” You shouted, full of wrathful turmoil.

You stood off the couch, surging toward him with your fists balled at your sides. Tate didn’t flinch. He pursed his lips, thoughtful again. With an insufferable aura of nonchalance, he shrugged once more.

“Wanted to.”

The blank emptiness in his expression told you everything you already knew. Tears streamed down your face, painting your cheeks and chin in damp threads.

“Where? Where did you stab me??”

Tate gestured with a nod of his head, towards the only window in the room. A summer breeze fluttered, catching the curtains in its dance. You wanted to find the radiant light of nature beautiful again. But it only served as a haunting reminder - the environment remained symbiotic with time. And you were forever left behind.

“Over there. By that window.” He said, watching you pad over to said window, the skirt of your dress fluttering.

The window. In the one room you always felt so drawn to, for reasons unknown. Now, you knew. Bracing your hands on the windowsill, you peered your head outside. Ghosting your skin, the air breathed an essence of life. Something you were no longer a part of. You used to be content with that fact. But now? Knowing your life was unfairly ripped from you, how could you ever move on? Your death wasn’t an accident. Nor had an irreversible illness seized your physical form. Just Tate.

His low voice droned from behind you and in your ear. A faint vibration followed, along with a presence at your back. You felt the soft texture of his sweater, but no body heat with it. One of his icy hands met your shoulder. He reached his other arm out. Tate pointed to a spot near the entrance gates.

“I didn’t wanna tell you. Because I didn’t wanna lose you too. But…” He paused for a beat, “It was on Halloween. Ten years or so years ago, I guess. I was gonna leave. Make my rounds. Y’know…like I used to. The house was-uh...up for grabs back then. You came up to the door. One of the kids here opened it for you. And you kinda...walked in. Tried lookin' for 'em. Wrong place, wrong time.” Tate lowered both his hands to yours, after sliding his fingers down the sides of your arms, “You were holdin’ hands with some kid the whole time. He had to be, like…seven? Eight? I don’t even remember what his costume was.” His lips curved in a grin, “But I still remember yours.”

Your fingers curled into the sill, scraping wood, indenting the paint.

Ten years.

“So, you stabbed me in front of a child?”

Another breeze blew by. The steady air picked up your dress with it, flitting delicate fabric. Glitter along the seams of it fell away, sparkling like microscopic crystallites in the wind. Tate’s long fingers drew patterns over the cold surface of your skin. Tracing infinity symbols onto your hands.

“Rapunzel.” He whispered, “That dress was kinda pretty on you. Sucks about all the blood.”

You remembered then. When death imbued you with unexpected consciousness, you wandered around the house in a blood-stained dress. And ever since, your afterlife wardrobe alternated only between dresses of similar styles. Always cheap fabrics. Decorated in craft materials. You assumed you must’ve loved playing dress up in life. The thought of perishing in a store bought Halloween costume never crossed your mind.

“Who was he?”

You sniffled, breath hitching without any need for oxygen. Tate brought a hand to your cheek, wiping away your tears. He loomed behind you. A cold-blooded apparition of your nightmares. His casual talk of violent depravity made your blood boil.

“Who, the kid?” He asked.

He lowered his hands to the sill. Looking out the window over your shoulder, Tate squinted in the sunlight.

“Yes! I don’t-” You burst into tears without warning, sobbing into your hands, “I-I don’t remember anything! Nothing! I had no idea…who was he??”

“Dunno…” he dropped his head, pressing his cheek to your hair, “I didn’t really stop to ask. He ran away. Right after I pushed you out of this window.”

“You pushed m-what?! You’re a fucking monster.” You whimpered. Wishing you could leap out and disappear with the oscillation of the wind, “You know you’re never getting out of here, don’t you? You’re never going to change, Tate. You’ll always be a monster.”

“Probably.” He droned, wrapping his arms around your middle. Pulling you closer, he added, “You’ll be stuck here too. If you don’t let go of that anger. If you let your rage consume you. All that bitterness and hatred. This house feeds off of it.” Another pause. He nuzzled the top of your head with his cheek, “Uhm…I know this won’t fix anything. But…I really am sorry I took your life from you.”

You huffed, staring teary eyed out the window. Taking in the vast, effervescent world you’d never be a part of - through the border that brought your demise.

“But I’m really stoked you’re here….’cuz it’s not as lonely with you around.” He admitted.

“I could always tell you to fuck off.” You choked, venomous in your revulsion.

“Yeah. You could. But you won’t.” He grabbed your arms with gentle hands, wheeling you around to face him. He took your tiny fingers in his palms. You refused to meet his eyes, “If you made me disappear, you wouldn’t have anybody.”

You decided to hit him where it hurt, strangling through tears, “I could always talk to Violet. She has such a good heart. Not like the rest of you. You’re all just…awful. So horrible and cruel!”

Tate clenched his jaw, dropping his forehead into yours.

“You’re right. She’s not.” He woefully mumbled, “How come I still miss her, huh? Been missin’ what we had for, like…forever. Now I’m pushin’ you away too. And you’re all I have left.”

“Maybe stop killing people, Tate?” You snuffed, tears catching your eyelashes. He wiped them away all the same, “Who knew death could be so miserable. I…I finally found out the one thing I’ve wanted to know after all these years. I thought a little closure might help me, but…” You cried, “I feel even more messed up.”

“Why? Do you love me?” He pressed with so little confidence, you felt he only said it to convince himself.

“I…” You hesitated, brows furrowed, “I cared about you. Even though you’re a lunatic. I wanted to give you a chance. But now…now I just want to shove you out this window like you did to me. I want to scream at you, Tate! I want to make you suffer! I want to-”

He shifted closer. Within this vicinity, his maturation became all the more clear. Your weeping hues glazed over the creases under his eyes. The blond bangs of his hair had thinned by a smidgen, losing its youthful shagginess. He was all fine lines and outward exhaustion. Had you met him like this in life, you’d think him a mere decade away from a mid-life crisis.

“Go ahead. If it helps. I don’t mind.” He reached down again, grabbing your hands and guiding them up to his chest, “Just let all that rage go…you can take it out on me.”

This was just another tactic of his. An attempt to appease you, in desperate hopes you’d forgive him. Still, you didn’t think twice. Whatever wrathful anguish you kept buried inside finally erupted. The soul crushing weight of loss tumbled down over you, sending you into a frenzy. You thrashed your arms, throwing your fists in shallow, but sharp strikes. Battering against Tate’s chest, you landed every blow - inspired by betrayal. He remained still, watching you with a hollow look.

Hits turned to scratches as your grief took hold of you. You clawed into Tate’s sweater, wailing, powerless to the pain of his disloyalty. Taken aback by your overwhelming emotions, you wondered how the afterlife could bring so much suffering. Tate wrapped his arms around you again, and you buried your nose in his sweater. Your sorrowful tears stained the stitching.

“I hate you. So much. So fucking much.” You whimpered.

“You said you cared about me.”

“I hate that I care about you.” You cried, sobbing into his sweater, “I-I want to hate you. I need to hate you. But you’re right. You’re fucking vile, and you’re right. If you were gone, I wouldn’t have anybody else.”

Shifting again, he tilted your head up with a cold hand under your chin. Tate stared down at you, weary with lonesome desolation. The endless monotony of purgatory brought forth nothing but turmoil. And that turmoil linked you both in all-consuming angst. When he dove in to kiss your lips, you allowed it. If only to feel something far less painful.

Tate hadn’t kissed anyone in over a decade. But he flowed naturally with you, wary of applying too much pressure. The last of your tears fell, and again, he wiped them away. Separation came slow, as he parted from your lips. He blinked, leering like he couldn’t believe you reciprocated. Another beat, and he dove in all over again.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered.

Kissing in your ghostly state felt bleak as the dull air of winter. In the throes of lonesome yearning, death nuzzled death so intimately. You opened yourself up for him, moving back until you hit the windowsill. In your negligence, you sat on it. A calm, easy breeze enveloped your back, tickling your neck. His desirous kisses swallowed you in, his hands claiming your cheeks.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He mumbled, his words weaving through every kiss.

Fate had yet to deliver you closeness of this kind. You couldn’t fathom how intimate connectedness might work in death. As Tate’s cold lips fell to your neck, the atmosphere between the two of you shifted. Something akin to the radiance of life saturated the air. Like the summer’s glow shining from outside. A few seconds more, and coldness turned to heat. Sensual heat.

“What does it feel like?” You asked, breathless without the need for air. You tipped your head back. Tate took this as an invitation to ravish more of you, “To make love after dying?”

The glossy warmth of his tongue painted gradual lines across your neck. He caressed you with a thumb, gliding the digit over your cheek. Under the newfound heat of his palm, you felt burning intensity. No one else brought you physical touch like this. Not since a time before you perished, so long ago.

All because of him.

“Feels kinda the same?” Tate muttered in a hushed voice. Capturing your lips again, he kissed you with cautious tenderness, “It’s a lot like being alive…from what I remember. Some of us get addicted to it. Like a drug. They suffer without it. Drives ‘em crazy.”

His forehead fell to yours once more, and Tate’s eyes fluttered shut. He continued stroking your cheek, cradling your face. As if you’d disappear once he let go. You noticed the way his chest heaved. Slowly, like his lungs were still infused with the essence of life. But when he moved in for another kiss, you felt no breath on your lips.

“Does it drive you crazy?” You whispered between kisses, “Do you suffer without it?”

“Not really.” He said, dragging his thumb over your lip, “Missed this, though. I miss it all the time.”

“What? Kissing?”

Tate nodded, blond brows creasing as his smile faded. For a beat or two more, he fell silent. Staring down into your eyes with all the liveliness of a barren void. You gazed into a cave-like abyss, lost with no light to guide you. Beckoned by the promise of something unseen.

“This feels…different…with you.” He whispered.

“Different how?” You shivered as his soft touches moved elsewhere, "Are you feeling guilty? Does it hurt? I hope it fucking hurts."

Dragging the tips of his fingers up and down your arms, he drew invisible lines with his nails. So careful. Like you’d shatter if he treated you too roughly. His palms settled over your hips, and again, he kissed you. Tate just couldn’t seem to stop doing so, even as you spoke to him with poison on your tongue.

“No. It’s warmer.” He squeezed your hips a little tighter, “Why…why’s it so warm with you?”

The initial kisses between you both were so frigid and lifeless. But now, somehow, so heated and real. You locked your legs around his hips, crossing your ankles. Inviting him forward, you loomed in the sill of the window. Your body tilted. In the arms of the summer’s air, you almost fell backwards. You had every reason to believe Tate would let you plummet.

But he didn’t. Not this time.

With an arm wrapped around your waist, he kept you from slipping. Under your dress, his free hand sought the heat between your legs. His palm cradled warmth over thin cloth. Discreetly, he pressed the pads of his fingers to your sex over your panties. And the contact amplified a scorching fire within you. A vigor exceeding the bitterness of death.

You wondered if Tate had less experience than he claimed in therapy. It took him a few tries before he found your clit. His sizable fingers circled your little nub in easy motions. Drawing long, needy noises out of you. Silence lingered between you both in calm, but tense quiet. Until the rasp of his voice caught your attention.

“Do you feel this? Do you feel, like…anything?”

You whimpered in response - timid like a churchmouse - as wetness stained Tate’s fingers through fabric. Cotton once so pure and untouched became damp. He chuckled, the sinister rumble in his throat making your blood run cold. Until the warmth of desire lured you in before you could second guess yourself. Savoring the hot friction on your pussy, you allowed sin to taint your clarity.

"For you? No. Never. You're sick. You're twisted. You're-" You cut yourself off with another whimper, once Tate caressed you with more pressure.

“Oh, shit…” He hastily tugged your panties down your thighs. Cupping your bare cunt, he pressed firmly into your clit. Thick digits teased the blazing heat of your folds, “You do, don’t you?”

Tate’s fingers dipped into your slick valley, his digits predominantly larger than your own. You rolled your hips just a smidgen, careful not to lose your balance - lest you fall out the window. Again. Though, maybe a rough tumble onto the lawn would knock some sense back into your muddled head. His other arm stayed iron locked around your body, keeping you safe. He eased inside you with all the hesitance of a man out of practice.

"F-Fuck! Fuck this. Fuck you." You mumbled, hushed under airy moans.

Following the squeeze of pleasure in your core, came something you lost in the afterlife. You almost felt the pumping of your dead heart again. A ghostly sensation of life blossomed under your ribs. Warmth flowed through your veins in syrupy bliss. Cozy wind billowed from outside, tickling your skin. If you closed your eyes for long enough, basking in the ecstasy of true feeling - you might’ve believed you were somehow revived.

Flitting your lashes, your eyes gradually opened. The sunny glow of afternoon light painted Tate’s aged features, showering him in golden rays. An image far too heavenly for a cold-blooded monster birthed from sin. You looked lazily into his hues. A whirlpool of guilt intermingling with lifeless cruelty; all within his dusky eyes.

“Feels like…” He mumbled, clumsily nuzzling your clit with the pad of his thumb. Biting his lip, Tate stifled a groan. He buried his fingers to the knuckle in your cunt, “...like I can feel your blood pumping.” Adding a third digit, he stretched you open. Your walls made effortless room just for him. You whined, making him smirk, “Fuck, this is hot. You love it, huh?”

"No. No. No, I'd never! Not with you. I'm just-" You swallowed, feeling your cheeks burn, "It really does feel like-"

Post-mortem coldness became lost on you now. Left behind, alongside your broken hearted resentment. Instead, you were overcome with the lively spirit of beingness. The afterlife had been so unkind to you. For a decade now. It abandoned you to stew in the longevity of solitude. With no one but Tate to provide you true company. Bringing your hands up to his cheeks, you pulled him in for a kiss. Your fingers threaded through his blond locks. Winding your tongue sloppily with his, you whined.

"Make me cum." You asserted, your legs sealing tighter around him, "Make me cum, and I might forgive you."

A flash of vulnerable sweetness overtook Tate's face, his puppydog eyes lighting up. An almighty flood of euphoria built up to a radiant crescendo, as his digits fucked you into oblivion. You clamped around his fingers, squirming with such intensity - he almost lost his hold on you. Tranquility found you at the peak of your climax. A divine miracle. As you cried little pleas into Tate’s lips, you felt as though you grew angel’s wings. As if some ethereal being descended from the heavens themselves, stole you away, and led you to the golden gates.

As you shuddered, your paradisal tremors eventually subsided. Blissful nirvana faded, and the hollow nothingness of death’s touch came again. Outside, the world continued on in slow-moving seconds. And in the distant horizon, the sun began its steady fall into night. Tate’s nose brushed yours. Looming in so close, he withdrew his drenched digits from your pussy. Leaving even more forsaken emptiness behind.

“I could…do that kinda thing for you every day…if you wanted me to.” He whispered, peppering your forehead in kisses, “It feels really good, doesn’t it? Just…please don’t make me go away? Please…”

[genderfluid-insomniac]

Based on the conversation we had and the fact you mentioned you get things done faster if it's a request. Can I get Sun Wukong and Macaque separately with their glamour accidentally dropping in front of their s/o and them being absolutely drowned in kisses and compliments before they can put their glamour back up?

Kat you know I can't resist this and I loved writing this!!

Sun Wukong + Macaque (separately) with their glamour accidentally dropping in front of their s/o

Sun Wukong

"There's my gorgeous king." You always got genuinely distracted by the beauty of his eyes and how they glowed a crimson color, better than any sunset they'd ever seen. His scars made him look more attractive and you tried to kiss each and every one of them. After minutes of pleading and using puppy dog eyes, you were finally able to convince him to lower his glamours, now fully sitting on his lap and facing your beyond-beautiful lover. Brushing your fingers over his scared chest and loving the shiver that flowed through him at the affectionate touch he wasn’t used to.

A gentle rumble came from his chest and signaled to you that he was enjoying this, cupping his face in your hands and resting your forehead against his. “Such pretty crimson eyes. All for me to adore and love.” Sun leaned into your hands and smiled at you, every bit of him melted at your touch, and couldn’t help the way his tail swayed back and forth. You felt the extra furry appendage thumping on the ground, its gold and brown colors fading into one another from all the battles and burns he’d suffered.

You sweetly kissed his lips and chuckled at his eagerness to return it back. He mumbled how lucky he was to have such an affectionate and caring significant other, one who worshipped every aspect of him; even the features he considered ugly and shameful. “I love you.” Sun’s tail wrapped around your waist and buried his head into your neck, feeling your fingers run through the whitened patches of his fur. “I love you too, peaches.”

Six Eared Macaque

The shadow could barely process what was going on with the mountain of affection being poured onto him. Feeling every spot your lips kissed him and relishing the warmth radiating off of you, still energized from the beach day you had both attended. You had gone back to his place to recharge your social batteries (mostly his) and he’d dragged you into his arms for a nap. Although a persistent thought in your mind had told you it had been too long since your beloved demon let his true features show and one of the ways that successfully convinced Macaque to drop his glamours was showering him in affection and praises of affirmation.

The repeated pecks and hugs had caught him off guard at first, only being able to stare into the space next to you “So pretty.” You whispered and combed fingers through his fur, caressing his now accidentally unglamoured ears and petting the inside of each. The soft fur led into smooth scarred skin around his eye and lighter patches of fur from LBD forcing her power into him, white fur that contrasted his midnight black streaked down his right side. Macaque felt how you worshipped his ears and unconsciously curled his tail around his leg; an anxious tic he'd picked up over time. “Please, Mac. I know keeping up your glamours is tiring but I love seeing you. The you I fell in love with.” The red mask surrounding his eyes seemed to glow as he became flustered and stalled, attempting to find a response or witty comment. He laughed, tail swaying happily and forehead now resting against yours. You felt his hot breath against your lips and ears flutter at your affection, quietly laughing to himself. “You spoil me with affection too much, lotus.”

[zarnzarn]

"Penelope," Odysseus whispers, heartbroken. She cannot stop crying enough to see him, and it makes her cry harder, even as the familiar scent of him moves closer and is followed by his arms around her, holding her up as she falls to pieces.

"I couldn't- I couldn't find-" She gasps for air, desperately hoping no one is around. Grief comes slamming into her like a tidal wave, laying her low with unrelenting memories of the injustice of wanting her husband home the most of anyone in the war and being the only to not get her wish and fear for how her reign would end and all the other feelings she should have gotten over already. "I couldn't find you," she sobs out finally, the words shaking out of her as her shoulders heave.

"Easy, my love, breathe," Odysseus coaxes, picking her up like it was nothing, tilting her at an angle that must be straining his shoulders to let her cling to him tighter. Cry, like it's the first time she realised how her wait had outlasted their marriage, where cannot breathe in for how hard she weeps, lungs burning. "Peace. I'm here, my darling, see, would a shade be able to do this?"

A choked, teary laugh is forced out of her as he spins on his heel suddenly, stopping her sobs with the momentum, leaving her gasping for breath and sniffing, shaking like a beaten dog, out in the rain. Alone and pawing at the memories of a warm hearth, with a pack's responsibilities on her shoulders and nowhere to set it down.

"See, now, there you go, drifting away again," Odysseus chides, twirling them both around once more, fast enough to make her half-squeal. "Am I so boring to you, compared to the mamba's nest of statespeople you have toyed with these long years? Must I put on a silly costume and dance around as entertainment, my dearest, tell you jokes and riddles to keep your attention? You wound me if you say yes, for I will lose the little respect our son still has for me."

She laughs wetly again at his chatter, the tempest in her head fading enough for the sobs to go from wailing to crying.

"Penelope," Odysseus sings her name in that strange way that sounds oddly like an owl's call, that no one can replicate. The chains around his feet jangle, a familiar sound she has trained herself into associating with her husband. She blinks the tears from her eyes, calming a little at the sound so she can see him. He clicks his tongue and wipes her tears away by rubbing their cheeks together, making her burst into choked giggles.

They don't last long, and she returns back to gasping for air as she runs out of energy, trembling.

Odysseus sighs, bittersweet, as he gives up on trying to make her laugh. Penelope sniffs, clinging on tight when she's suddenly lowered into soft sheets. "I'm here," He whispers, stroking her hair, letting her dig her nails in. "Oh, my poor beautiful wife. I'm back now. I would not leave for anything."

"I couldn't find you," Penelope whispers, small and scared. "I was calling for you from the door and there was no answer. I couldn't hear the chains. And no one knew where you were."

"All those who knew were with me, which won't happen again. I was only out at the merchants to see the new cloth with Tele," Odysseus murmurs. "Darling-"

"I cannot let go of the fear," She confesses in a rush. Closes her eyes and rocks them back and forth, trying to bury her face into Odysseus' shoulder and disappear into him. "Don't know how to convince myself that you are not an illusion. How to stop missing you, even when you are right in front of me. That I will wake up and still have to do it all alone."

Odysseus pulls back and stares at her, devastated, tears in his eyes. He opens his mouth and shuts it, helplessly. "Sweetest of my heart," he says finally, and lowers himself down on top of her so she can feel the full weight of him, smell his sweat and the ointment he applies on his scars and the juices of the fruit he fed her that morning by hand.

(Telemachus had sighed the sigh of the long-suffering when he took his seat next to them that morning for breakfast. "Must you?"

"Must we what?" Penelope had teased, and then opened her mouth for another fruit from her husband's hand, who was hiding a laugh in her hair, perched on her lap, his chair knocked to the side and lying sadly on the floor.

Telemachus shook his head, mock-disappointed and sighed louder.

"Come," Odysseus had said, patting his own lap. "Here, Tele, I will feed you too. Come."

"I'm not a dog," Telemachus had complained, over Penelope's sudden protests about not agreeing to this- and then came over and jumped up into Odysseus' grasp anyway, making Penelope yell at the sudden weight and her two rascals cackle at her.)

"Odysseus," She whispers as she exhausts of her crying and interspersing sobs an hour later, letting it curl on her tongue. She had stopped saying it, when the looks around her transformed from sympathy to concern over her sanity, and it became a political decision to not say her husband's name until he returned.

"Penelope," He returns, tightening his arms around her until her ribs creak. She sometimes wishes he were a violent man, that war had changed him enough to be rough with her, so she would have bruises to carry around to remind her he was there with her. But if he was, would she love him still?

"Give me something," She begs. She feels incredibly small and stupid, shaking like a child, and it is the only the fact that her real husband wouldn't falter or recoil in the face of her weaknesses and breakdowns that keeps her talking. "Something to prove you're here, please, please, husband-"

"Peace, Penelope," Odysseus says, in a voice sterner than he's ever used with her; the one he uses in court, making her stomach swoop. He moves back when he feels her tense under her, and studies her expression with a sharp eye. She loves him more than anything, would gladly slit open her torso to give him her innards if he so much as implied a passing fancy to having them, but even that isn't enough to fend off the slight bloom of mortification when realisation flashes across his eyes.

He kisses her, harder than usual, and she tries to focus on it rather than her still-racing thoughts.

"You are no longer Queen of Ithaka," Odysseus says, low and final, and the horrifying shock of the sentence nearly makes her moan. "Not in this room. You have held the burden of the kingdom for fifteen long years, and now you will let me make you put it down."

"No," Penelope protests, between kisses. She is still coming down from the fear planted in her by all the strong women that buoyed her these years, who grimly predicted that her husband would snatch the throne back as soon as he returned, coupled with the guilty relief that she no longer had to be in charge, no matter that it was by force. "I love her. My Ithaka. Rough and beautiful."

Odysseus huffs, smiling against her skin. "She loves you too. Which is why you must listen to her beckoning for you to rest." He punctuates his sentence by pressing down on her stomach, entire body weight on his hands as he drags his palms up her abdomen, between her breasts, up to her shoulders. "Relax, Penny. The kingdom wants for nothing, food is overabundant, no one fights, no ruler gives us trouble. You do not have to hold everything together on your own anymore."

Penelope snorts. "Ithaka says so, does she?"

"Am I not Ithaka?" Odysseus says, voice twisting and changing until it sounds like a woman speaking. Penelope is hit sideways by lust, stomach flipping at the smirk sent her way. It gets wider at her expression, as he leans down and croons, "Penelope."

"Oh, gods," Penelope says, strangled, bracing herself on his shoulders.

"Give you something," Odysseus muses, in that same voice, that lights on fire the part of her that used to be obsessed with the stable master's daughter. "How about..."

He picks up her hand and kisses her wrist gently, tenderly, like it is the most delicate of pottery, the most precious of gems. He rubs a hand over her veins once lovingly, then fits his teeth around them, eyes flashing with heat as he glances over her.

Her heart skips a beat. She nods. He bites down with canines sharper than he'd left with and she screams.

"Oh," She gasps when it's done, looking at the bleeding wound lovingly marked around her pulsepoint. Her husband tips her chin up and she smiles finally, stretching up to meet his bloody kiss. "Oh, more. More, Ody."

"As my wife desires," He murmurs, possessiveness catching fire in his eyes as he turns to set his teeth to his neck- still not violent, but perhaps the slightest bit loosened from the leash.

Penelope moans, vision hazy as her head rolls, staring up at the ceiling. She takes a deep breath, then another, letting the panic recede in the face of a daydream of wandering around with a necklace of bruises every day, until they grow old.

He always knows how to handle her so well. She had begun to think she'd imagined it, how well the man she married had met her at every turn, every trick. Yet only a few months in his return and still he guides her expertly from all the bad things in life like a sheepdog, like an overanxious newlywed; some days making her so happy that the fifteen years past had never happened.

"You will look at these and remember no one else could leave them but me," Odysseus orders, the sneer of the rabid slaughterer in his gaze. It makes all the tension seep out of her, tears escaping in relief as she nods. "And I won't go out of earshot ever again, so you always can hear how you've chained your poor husband down like a mule, forever to trip over his own feet and smash into the floor."

"Chained you like a bird," Penelope corrects, her smug, thrilled smile returning at the reminder, reaching down to shorten the chain. "No more flying for you."

"None," He agrees.

Her smile wavers as the tail end of her grief comes sliding back. "Hold me?"

"Forever and ever and ever," He promises, wrapping his hands around her. She shakes in his hold. He kisses the side of her head, holding his wrist still scarred with her own teethmarks up to her lips in offering. Her eyes roll back as the familiar blood rolls over her tongue, calming the storm in her chest at last. He pulls his hand back and cards it through her hair, pulling out all the ornaments that mark her as Queen, staining them with blood. "I promise. Calm, Penelope."

"I'm calm," She sniffs wetly. "I wouldn't do it for anyone but you."

"Neither would I," Odysseus replies. "Would you like to have sex? I can please you with my mouth if you want."

Penelope snorts ungracefully at the formal way he still says it, like it's an offer to go fetch something from the kitchens. "No. Just hold me."

Odysseus murmurs something in response and starts humming, rocking then back and forth. Blood on both their mouths still.

"Actually-" Penelope says abruptly, and Odysseus bursts into laughter like she knew he would. She smiles at the sound, and closes her eyes to bathe in it, and carefully brings herself to take the first step to trusting that he will still be there when she opens them.

[tossawary]

I'm reviewing episode transcripts from "Merlin" to build up my worldbuilding document (character list, mostly) and, a little ways into S2, I'm kind of feeling like the show is actually quite mean to Arthur as a character sometimes? S1 E14: "To Kill the King" is one of those episodes where I forget how badly it pissed me off until I run into it again.

Like, don't get me wrong, Arthur can be a bully, entitled, hotheaded, and reckless, but he's also at this point risked his own life to save people multiple times. Both individuals whose lives were "worth less" than his own (getting the Mortaeus flower for a poisoned Merlin, smuggling Mordred out of the city, protecting Ealdor from bandits) and also Camelot as a whole (fighting the plague-causing monster in the sewers, fighting the mam-eating griffin, drinking poison to lift the unicorn curse).

Arthur is giving me vibes of being both bored and frustrated (and probably not able to name those feelings or exactly why he has them) because he wants so badly to do good things, but he's not really sure how to go about it because (no one ever tells him anything, he almost NEVER knows what's really going on to make informed choices, and) he's also stuck under the thumb of his tyrannical father, who spends most of their scenes together berating Arthur for being too merciful, for not being dutiful enough, and/or not finding sorcerers for execution fast enough. When Arthur tries to be fair-minded and compassionate, Uther often essentially tells him that he's going to be a weak king with that attitude.

Arthur's pathways to betterment are limited, his parent and role model and boss here is an AWFUL person, but he's trying!

So, it's quite frustrating to get to this one episode where characters like Gaius (extremely biased, admittedly, clearly not an objective individual) are saying things like: "Arthur's not ready. The responsibility would be too great. Brave though he may be, he lacks experience, he lacks judgement."

Like, I don't know, Arthur may be only 21 and kind of a dipshit, but I personally think he'd still do a better job than the guy who tried to kill a kid (Mordred) just for existing a few episodes ago? Maybe? Gwen's father, who wasn't even a sorcerer or knowingly working with one, is dead explicitly because of Uther's awful laws. Did everyone in this episode forget that Uther tried to BURN GWEN ALIVE AT THE STAKE not that long ago (Episode 3)?

ARTHUR: "[Morgana]'s right, Father. You hear the word magic, you no longer listen."

UTHER: "You saw it for yourself. She used enchantments."

ARTHUR: "Yes, maybe. But to save her dying father, that doesn't make [Gwen] guilty of creating a plague. One's the act of, of kindness, of love, the other of evil. I don't believe evil's in this girl's heart."

UTHER: "I have witnessed what witchcraft can do. I have suffered at its hand. I cannot take that chance. If there is the slightest doubt about this girl, she must die or the whole kingdom may perish."

ARTHUR: "I understand that."

UTHER: "One day you may become King. Then you will understand. Such decisions must be made. There are dark forces that threaten this kingdom."

ARTHUR: "I know. Witchcraft is an evil, father. So is injustice. Yes, I am yet to be King, and I don't know what kind of king I will be, but I do have a sense of the kind of Camelot I would wish to live in. It would be where the punishment fits the crime."

UTHER: "I fear you're right. She's played with fire, and sadly she must die by fire."

When the adult druid (Cerdan) accompanying Mordred is killed (Episode 8), Arthur objects afterwards! On his own! While Arthur is sometimes an active participant in Uther's tyranny and otherwise complicit, he's been told all of his life that magic is inherently evil and corrupting, he was raised by the very man spreading this hateful philosophy, he should probably hate magic more than anyone after Uther, and yet he still disagrees with Uther's methods and judgments. Even though Uther is apparently VERY willing to lock both his son (Episode 4) and his ward (Episode 8) in the dungeons for disagreeing with him and disobeying him!

ARTHUR: The Druid was only in Camelot to collect supplies. He meant no harm. Is it necessary to execute him?

UTHER: Absolutely necessary. Those who use magic cannot be tolerated.

ARTHUR: The Druids are a peaceful people.

UTHER: Given the chance, they would return magic to the kingdom. They preach peace, but conspire against me. We cannot appear weak.

ARTHUR: Showing mercy can be a sign of strength.

UTHER: Our enemies will not see it that way. We have a responsibility to protect this kingdom. Executing the Druid will send out a clear message. Find the boy. Search every inch of the city.

Obviously, running a kingdom is complicated! Uther apparently won Camelot by conquest and is in conflict with many of the neighboring kings, including Odin and Cenred, and likely has more of the respect of the local nobility than young Arthur does. Uther's death would create some instability! (Agravaine de Bois hasn't been created yet, but let's assume there are many other potential vultures.)

But the show generally isn't pushing that angle. This isn't really about smooth transitions of power. Personally, concerning Arthur's "lack of judgment", I do find his ready conviction that it is his duty to die for Camelot's honor if necessary (he says as much to Merlin explicitly before fighting Valiant in Episode 2, then again before fighting the Black Knight in Episode 9) more than a little concerning, but that doesn't seem to be angle pushed here either.

The show has characters (Merlin, Gwen, Gaius) suggesting that offing the King, who regularly kills innocent people whether they have magic or not, who has forbidden use of the tool that might have saved innocent people from Nimueh's plague or the wraith of Tristan de Bois, would be wrong! It would be murder and murder is bad! It would make (in the words of a grieving Gwen) her "just as bad" as him.

Even though Merlin has at this point already killed Aulfric and Sophia (Episode 7), as well as Mary Collins (Episode 1) because they were trying to kill Arthur. And arguably got an assist with Valiant (Episode 2). And will kill many more as the show goes on. This conversation with Kilgharrah in S1 E14 is in many ways so, so funny:

KILGHARRAH: Well, young warlock, what is it you come to ask of me?

MERLIN: I need your help.

KILGHARRAH: Of course you do, but this time, will you heed my words?

MERLIN: The sorcerer Tauren is plotting to kill the King. He's made an ally of Morgana. I don't know what to do!

KILGHARRAH: Do… nothing.

MERLIN: What do you mean? If I do nothing, Uther will die.

KILGHARRAH: Don't you want Uther dead? It is Uther that persecutes you and your kind, Merlin. It is Uther that murders the innocent…

MERLIN: But surely that doesn't make it right to kill him.

KILGHARRAH: Only if Uther dies can magic return to the land. Only if Uther dies will you be free, Merlin. Uther's reign is at an end. Let Arthur's reign begin. Fulfil your destiny!

[The dragon flies off.]

MERLIN: Wait! Where does it say my destiny includes murder?

KILGHARRAH: Free this land from tyranny, Merlin! Free us all!

I feel for Kilgharrah here. He was VERY straightforward. I don't know how he could have been clearer about this.

I won't say that Merlin's character writing doesn't make ANY sense here (I do think the character writing in this show is NOT amazingly consistent), because... he IS being influenced by Gaius, who is, unfortunately, a bootlicker and also probably extremely traumatized by all of the death he's seen (big contributor of the bootlicking) (also, apparently Gaius only becomes a "freeman" at the end of Episode 6, so there's that). And Merlin is also being heavily influenced by Arthur, who loves his father, despite everything. For Arthur's sake, if no one else's, Merlin will go out of his way to save Uther. Sure! That tracks!

Merlin spends a lot of time in this show protecting a terrible status quo under some assumption that Camelot will... somehow suddenly become better under Arthur? Instead of perhaps eventually just trusting Arthur and talking to him after their years of knowing each other? There are several, in-world reasons for this and I don't think they're all unrealistic! It's tense! It's thrilling sometimes!

(Though I am ultimately a little annoyed that Merlin's many secrets never really come out and get dealt with by the characters, because that would have been fun drama and some resolution to all the tension, even if the story did still end in death.)

There's some tasty tragedy in this silly show, in many ways. Merlin is confused and conflicted and scared and without clear guidance in many ways. Kilgharrah is mysterious and not at all reassuring. Gaius is complacent and (very reasonably) incredibly secretive. Merlin doesn't get to see many of the moments where Arthur speaks up for magical people and tries to talk Uther down. Morgana and Arthur are both stuck here in a "The hands that cradled you are covered in an unimaginable amount of blood." "But they cradled me, yes?" nightmare scenario. (There's also a sexist element where male characters like Gaius and Merlin won't let Morgana know about her own powers "for her own good" in a gaslight-y way that's fascinating to me in how it creates a villain.)

But, also, the compelling tragic elements here don't make certain episodes any less frustrating to watch in their execution. (I don't think villains being frustrating to watch or read necessarily makes them effective villains, especially when what I really find annoying here is the heroes' reactions to the villain. Uther has killed SO MANY PEOPLE! FOR NO REASON!) Especially when a lot of the overall results of this show often feel more accidental than purposeful. I do understand why the writers keep Uther around! He's a formidable antagonist to have looming all over the place and the actor is fun.

But OOF, I felt that "Do... Nothing".

Merlin! MERLIN! LISTEN TO THE SCARY DRAGON! MERLIN, REMEMBER THAT TIME UTHER TRIED TO BURN GWEN ALIVE??? JUST BECAUSE GWEN IS TOO NICE TO GO AFTER UTHER WITH A KNIFE AND TAKE REVENGE, IT DOESN'T ACTUALLY MEAN KILLING HIM MAKES YOU "JUST AS BAD"!!! MERLIN!!! YOU HAVE ALREADY MURDERED MULTIPLE PEOPLE WHO KILLED WAY LESS PEOPLE THAN UTHER!!!

In Episode 4, Morgana says to Uther: "You can't chain [Arthur] up every time he disagrees with you." This implies to me that Uther has had Arthur thrown in the dungeons before. In Episode 3, Arthur says to Morgana: "Father will slam us both in chains if he knew I'd endangered you," and maybe he wasn't at all joking with that? Arthur is rattling the bars of his cell here, apparently fairly ready to be aimed wherever Merlin points him, bucking against being aimed at innocents by his tyrant of a father.

But nooo, Gaius says Arthur is "not ready yet" because...??? He seems less hotheaded than Uther to me, honestly. Are his tax policies not up to par yet? You can hire a guy for that. Suggesting that Arthur would be in any way worse than His Majesty "Anyone Who Talks To A Sorcerer Gets Executed Even If They Didn't Know They Were A Sorcerer" feels quite mean to Arthur, really. I think he'd do alright, in comparison, Gaius who lies to the King every single day, but I suppose you sometimes want to be a loyal friend to good ol' King "Made Merlin Drink Poison That One Time And Wouldn't Let Anyone Go Get The Cure". Good for you. Bad for everyone else.

Like, I know, I know this show is not very deep. I like that all of the characters are flawed and fumble a lot! I even kind of enjoy that it ultimately ends in death with so many loose emotional threads. It is a weekly burst of fantasy nonsense that is not especially concerned with consistency in worldbuilding or characters from episode to episode. But the executive discrepancies here are, like the ones in "Star Wars", weirdly fascinating with all of the holes and wobbly bits it creates.

This show: "Yes, our hero has once again saved the tyrannical king who kills innocents! Preventing the oblivious prince from assuming the throne and trying to do better as he so clearly wants to do! Good work, Merlin, taking the high road (which involved murdering the rightfully angry people trying to kill the tyrannical king) again!"

Me, every time: "...I am genuinely not sure how the show wants us to interpret this. What did they think they were doing with this? Was this always meant to be a tragedy from the first season? Because personally, I'm getting some kind of tragedy from this."

[romana-after-dark]

Our Gentle Sins: Chapter 8

Thank you so so so much to @plasticbabies for making this beautiful header!!!! we finally have a good one!

Dark!Logan Howlett x fem!reader

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Chapter summary: Past. Logan and you dance. Present. Your admit your issues with doctors.

Warnings: This fic features non con, pregnancy, and themes of religous trauma. I will not be saying everything that happens to warm you, by clicking read more you are prepared for extremely dark themes and that you at 18+. You are responsible for your own media consumption.

3.0 words

Before

You were beautiful. No, no, beautiful wasn’t enough. Radiant. Ethereal… Fuck, Logan was struggling to find words as he watched you in your dress, confidently striding around the dance with a spring in your step. You wore a yellow, floral dress that vaguely resembled regency era, everyone around you wearing the best they could get. Charles had put money towards allowing the teens to get nice dress clothes, believing knowing how to dress properly was important, so when you and your literature class planned a school ball, they were prepared. Everyone came, because of course they did. You were the favorite teacher.

Being the favorite teacher meant Logan hadn’t hardly seen you all evening, watching you float like a butterfly around the hall talking to everyone. You had enlisted him and Remy, as well as a few others like Scott or Emma to help chaperone, but you and Remy and him had spent the week setting everything up. Logan never saw himself as the type to hang up streamers, but for you he’d do it all. Sometimes, he’d catch you glancing towards him even while chatting with another, and that made him happy.

You made him happy.

“She’s beautiful, Logan.” Kurt appeared next to him, but Logan didn’t stop watching you. The way you looked tonight, he needed to make sure you didn’t suffer unwanted attention. He’d protect you. 

“Yeah, she really is.”

“You make a move yet?”

Logan rolls his eyes. Kurt was nosey. “No, Kurt. You know I can’t.”

A chuckle beside him. “No, I actually don’t. Charles didn’t actually say you couldn’t. I think you just like to wallow in self pity. Remy agrees.”

His head whips towards his friend, tearing his eyes off you for just a minute. “The fuck you talking to the Cajun about me for?”

Kurt remained playful. “Besides you and her, no one wants you together more than Remy does. Now, for fucks sake Logan, go get your girl.”

*

You were talking to Hank, discussing the struggles of making the most period accurate dance you could with one of the few people here who could understand.

“Can I cut in?”

Logan.

You turn to see him, and god, he was beautiful as ever, but incredible in that dapper suit. He slaps a friendly hand on Hank’s back, and Hank gives him a knowing look, politely excusing himself to go get some food. Logan smiles down at you, holding out his hand. “May I have this dance?”

Heat warms your skin, heart picking up as you try and fail to hold back a smile, taking his hand. “My dance card is very full, but I think I can squeeze you in.”

It was perfect. Logan, being the man 200 something years old, knew how to dance. Remaining chaste, somehow you still managed to feel like he was burning a hole through your clothes when he touched you. His hand on your waste felt indecent, salacious… but his touch on your shoulder was downright lewd. Logan had never seen your shoulders, always covered up even that night, and a few nights after, you came to his room as he tossled in the throws of a nightmare. Not that he had seen the waist he touched so lightly either, but you imagined him slipping off the dress with the hand on you, heat beginning to pool in your stomach.

 Logan had never mentioned catching you masturbating, although he’d certainly heard you calling his name as well. The window was nothing to his hearing. He was polite enough to leave it be, and that’s one of the things that made you fall in love with him. He was better than you deserved. Logan was good, Logan was kind and gentle and you didn’t care what other people thought of him. He was better than you.

“You look beautiful, Dolly.” Logan spoke earnestly, thumb caressing over the material on your collar bone, making you wince in pain, his large hand splayed over you. 

The compliment made you blush, casting your eyes away. You knew how to take a compliment, even if you weren’t convinced of its truth. “Thank you.”

“Hey.” His hand, smooth and soft from the regenerative cells in his body, cupped your face, coaxing it up to look at him. “I mean it.” When your eyes avoid his, he presses further. “Why don’t you believe me?”

You swallow hard. How to explain it without sounding like a jealous or catty bitch. You didn’t hate other women. You were jealous of many here, yes of course you were. Jean, Emma, Rogue, Storm. Of course you were jealous, you weren’t an idiot. But it wasn’t the sort that made you dislike them. All the women here had been wonderful to you, but still, you struggled to connect. You felt out of place in womanhood, often feeling as if you were a perpetual teenage girl on the outskirts, no idea how to be a woman correctly. It wasn’t that you were a virgin, but you hadn’t had any idea what they were talking about with sex. Your husband made you feel dirty for wanting to try anything new.

You didn’t know how to do make-up or how to dress like them, do hair and fuck and kiss and maybe kiss each other? You didn’t know. Did friend kiss all the time like in college movies? What was normal? Getting married at 16 certainly wasn’t. You couldn’t really talk to them about interests because you didn’t really know what interested you. You liked reading, but the books Emma read were…. Well, far from the Jane Austen and Agatha Christie you read. Part of you wanted to read those books… but you was scared.

It was a big world out there, and you didn’t know how to navagate it.

“Dolly, talk to me.”

“I just… sometimes I wonder why you spend so much time with me… there are far prettier women here-”

“Dolly-” 

“Who don’t cry when they try on pants, who don’t dress like grandmas, who can drive a car-”

Who can give you children.

“Hey-”

“You should be spending your time chasing someone who can give you what you want. I’m not an idiot, Logan. I know you feel what I feel for you but…” Tears prickled at your eyes. “But I can’t… I can’t be what you need or want, Logan. I can’t.”

For a long moment, you danced in silence, Logan leaving you in a waltz as bodies blurred around you. Scott and Emma, Remy and Rogue, student couples of yours who you’d suspected were together… all of it surround you, filling the air with lust and love and friendship. In the middle of it, you and Logan, some combination of all three.

“I’m not who you think I am, Logan.”

“What do you know of what I need, baby doll? I don’t need what others have. I need what you have. I need you. You. You are my dolly, nothing else matters.”

Your next words blurted out. “I can’t get pregnant.”

Another pause. “I guessed that.”

Your head whips up, finally looking at him in shocked confusion. “What?!”

“Fundamentalists don’t believe in birth control. They don’t even believe in um… natural family planning. You were married several years. So, either you didn’t get pregnant either because of you or him, or you left children behind.”

“I’d never leave children with that monster.” You spat out your words.

“I know. I know you wouldn’t. I figured it was either you or him.”

His trust in your character touched you, but there was something else that stood out. “What do you mean him?” Logan narrowed his eyes, brows pinched together.

“Him? If he didn’t have enough…” He hesitated to find the polite words. “Well, if the issue was on his end.”

Your skin, if it was burning before with Logan’s touch, was on fire in a rage. “You mean the issue could’ve been him?”

*

You were absolutely livid. All those years, all those years he blamed you, said you were barren, and it could have been him! Your beliefs at the time didn’t allow for medical intervention for women who struggled with infertility (natural only!) so you never went to the doctor for help conceiving. For years you were miserable, wanting a child, wanting nothing more than to be a mother, told all you were worth was your potential motherhood and since you couldn’t live up to it, you were nothing.

And it might not have been because of you.

Logan watched with concern as your eyes filled with tears, burying your head in his nice shirt to hide your crying as you explained it all. Every negative pregnancy test, how badly you wanted it, the nights you spent on your knees until the bruises begin God to be worthy of a child.. How every time one of your siblings or church members announced a pregnancy you rejoiced for them but felt a punch in the gut, how your husband beat you for your failures. 

“Did Logan make you cry?”

Scott pulled you out of your thoughts. Not long after you and Logan danced, Scott asked for one and you happily obliged. Scott was very kind. Remy was a good friend, Logan was… whatever was happening with Logan. But Scott checked in on you regularly. See if you needed anything, if you were settling into the school well, if you were having any trouble or concerns with the teens. When you were sick, he checked in late that day much to Logans annoyance.

“What?” You snap to attention. “Oh! No, no… I was just… other stuff, you know.”

You couldn’t see Scotts eyes, so reading his face was harder than with most. Over the years, you’ve gotten good at reading men's body language and facial expressions, the only way to survive in the male dominated world you grew up in. Scott was an enigma. 

“Are you sure? Because Judith,” His use of your pseudonym threw you off. “If anyone here is harming you, we won’t protect them. I know the life you had, but you can just us. We won’t choose Logan over you.”

What on earth was he talking about? “Logan wouldn’t hurt me, Mr. Summers.” You insist, eyes searching for Remy, hoping to get out of this conversation.

Scott’s thumb pulled at the top of your dress, moving it aside just a single inch, but you knew what it revealed. You gasp, swiftly covering it up again, hoping no one saw. “What-”

“If he is hurting you, you need to tell me. I promise, I can he-”

A large, hairy hand clamped down on Scotts shoulder, a subdued cry of pain escaping Scotts lips. 

Logan spoke, a dark, low voice in Scotts ear. “The only fucking reason I’m not tearing your arm off is because my baby doll spent months planning this dance and it would be rude to spray blood all over her guest. So I suggest you take your hands off her, and we handle this outside like men.”

*

“LOGAN STOP!” You scream, crying against the wall as you watched Scott and Logan fight in the parking lot. Well, fight wasn’t the right word. Scott could probably have killed Logan if he was really trying, but he wasn’t. Scott was far more rational than Logan was, especially now.

The two men battled it out, leaving you all but forgotten as you sob on the floor.

Then, an explosion. It wasn’t big, nothing and no one was damaged, but enough to make Scott and Logan stumble back and pause, chests heaving in their torn and dirty formalwear. 

“For fucks sake!” Remy appeared from the purple cloud, gesturing towards you. “I leave for 5 minutes and I come back to find my friends fighting like teenage boys! And I do say boys, cher, because a man,” He reached a hand to you, helping you up. “Wouldn’t leave a lady crying on the floor!”

“Take her inside.” Scott instructs. “I’ll handle this.”

Logan’s ‘fuck off’ went unnoticed. 

“And what, exactly, are you handling?”

“I dunno, Remy, maybe something to do with the claw marks on her!”

All eyes turned to you, including Remy. “Pistache,” His voice was gentle. Did something happen?”

You melt under the pressure, slinking away behind where Remy stood. “I can explain, Mr. Summers.”

And just like that, eyes were back on Scott. “Are really out here trying to kill our brother in arms before you even ask the girl what happened?”

Scott looked embarrassed. “She won’t say anything about him! She’s clearly scared! Besides, I wasn’t trying kill him…”

“Ah, just maim him then.”

“Dolly.” Logans voice called to you. He looked so worried, so sad, his eyes wide and desperate. “Did I… hurt you?”

You nod. “But Logan… It was the nightmare.” You turn to Scott, a hint of indignation you couldn’t help for him accusation to Logan, but a softness because someone, someone cared enough to notice. “He was having a nightmare. He scratched me in his sleep when I tried to wake him.”

Once again unreadable, Scotts voice was careful. “You don’t have to defend him. You can-”

“Respectfully, Mr. Summers,” You said, letting go of Remy in favor of approaching Logan and taking his hand. “I’ve survived abuse once. I told people then, they didn’t believe me but I told them. I would do it again if Logan did that. But from Logan’s point of view, you were pulling at my clothing. So I think its best both of you sweep this under the rug as a misunderstanding.” You walk away, taking Logan with you. “Logan and I are about to miss the last dance.”

After

“You’re missing the dance.”

“Can’t wear anything that won’t show them I’m pregnant.”

It was prom, and you had organized another dance for it. Months of work, and you couldn’t even see your students dresses. Everything nice enough to chaperone would be too tight, thanks to the slight bump. You didn’t know Logan would be back so soon, but him and Kurt returned this evening. Under the blankets, you feigned sickness to Remy, asking him to attend the ball in your stead, show your students the love you wanted to give.

Your first year here was almost done, and you were sure once the pregnancy came out you’d be fired. You couldn’t expect Charles to put the baby through daycare.

The room was dark, but the glow of the TV illuminated Logan as he sat on the chair with a heavy sigh.

“How's the girl?” You ask.

“She’s gonna need a lot of rest and food and she’s on an IV but… she’ll make it. Seems happy to be here. Kurt and her got along well.”

“Good.” The Tv drowned out the quiet, Bobs Burgers again. “You know, I don’t understand half of this show sometimes. Pop Culture references I don’t get. Like, who is queen Laytifa? Who is Bruce Springsteen? I don’t know.”\

A beat. “If it makes you feel better, I don’t get a lot of the jokes either.”

You give a small chuckle. “It kinda does. At least I have an excuse.”

Logan gives you a moment before asking. “How are you been since i left.”

You try to think of an honest answer. “Morning sickness is terrible. Nightmares are worse than ever, but Remy’s helped me. I’m too fat for some of my clothes already. Not going great, honestly.”

“Dolly,” He huffs, “We need to get you into a-”

“A doctor. I know. School’s out in two weeks.” You take a deep breath and release it slowly. “I’m teaching a few summer classes and the literature club is meeting through the summer but… I’m free at noon every day. We can go, I guess.”

Logan’s heart leap, relieved to finally get you and his baby medical care once again. He knew this was difficult for you, you never went to doctors for anything this whole school year.

“Is it a naturopathic thing? Like you guys didn’t believe in science.”

You groan, covering your face with a blanket. “Why do you think we’re friends, Logan? I’m not talking to you about my life like this!”

Frustrated and tired, he tugged the blanket back down. “”I just wanna take care of you, dolly!”

“After you raped me!” Your words hung in the air, bitter on your tongue, but more spilled out. “I- I was pregnant once. I think. It was too early to test but I just… knew. And then he beat me. It was… it was so bad, Logan. I’ve never known pain like that. And then I started bleeding. I tried to tell a doctor I was being abused…” You willed yourself not to cry this time. “But he told me…”

You think back to that night, your eyes pinched shut as you recounted it to Logan. Everything hurt. You wanted a female doctor but your husband insisted on seeing a family friend. When you were alone you tried to say no, you didn’t fall that he did this too you. You tried to say that you made you miscarry!

‘Do you know what the laws are for abortion here, ma’am?’

His question stunned you.

‘Uh… illegal?’

You didn’t really know.

‘Legal in some circumstances, unfortunately. But illegal outside of medical performance, and we don’t know how far along you are.’

‘I’m only-’

‘Whose to say. My point is, how are we to know you didn’t try to skirt around the law and end your own pregnancy?’

You couldn’t take the TV anymore. Too loud, too bright. You turn it off, getting up to open the window for fresh air. Through the crack, music from the prom spilled in, Glitter in the Air. 

Logan’s arms wrapped around your waist, burying his hair in your face and you wanted to pull away. You wanted to scream. But you also wanted Logan to just be your Logan again. Maybe he was? You had missed him, even now after everything you missed him. You wanted to be with him. 

“Dance with me, Dolly. Even if it’s our last.”

So you danced with him. And it was not the last.

But Charles returned for graduation, and you needed to make a choice what to do.

WOW THANK YOU SOSOSOSOSOOSOSOSOSO much!!!!!

comments mean the ENTIRE world and the in depth thought you've all given are so wonderful!!!!!!

I really really am so delighted with the love here, and all the new followers and friends!!!

Thank you so so much everyone. I love you all!!

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[userautumn]

this fandom is annoying me so i'm going to say this once and then fuck off back to my shows.

on the topic of eddie's parents: helena has always treated eddie like he is an unfit parent. both of his parents have, but helena especially has led that charge. yes, his parents love him. i do not doubt that. but i said some weeks ago that i think helena/ramon would have been much happier raising eddie and chris as siblings rather than letting eddie be a father, and i stand by that. throughout the narrative, they have indicated time and time again that they think his choices are wrong—from their unwillingness to accept shannon fully, to coming outright and saying they think eddie is on a downward spiral and that he's going to crash and burn and take christopher with him. this is not an "Evil Parents" buddie conspiracy theory, this is a canon fact.

at every opportunity, helena especially has been trying to pry christopher away from his father. this is also a canon fact. in 2x18, after shannon's funeral, she tried to get eddie to bring chris (and himself, but eddie was most definitely the afterthought in that conversation) back to texas. in 4x14, eddie says to buck that his parents will fight for custody. and while eddie's relationship with his father has changed since the early seasons, this is still very much so a recurring theme in their dynamic.

so it stands to reason that helena would feel gleeful, or satisfied, or maybe even triumphant over the fact that she's finally gotten what she wanted. again, this isn't a headcanon, this is just common sense. she's been wanting chris back in texas for years, and now she's finally gotten her wish. i mentioned earlier that eddie himself is an afterthought in the conversation of the diaz boys' return to texas, and this remains true. helena favors christopher over her own son. this is also a canon fact. in 8x1, she sees her son sitting on camera at the saddest looking birthday party anyone's ever seen, and her response is "oh well! better luck next time! bye!" she doesn't offer to call him back later. she doesn't even look sad that he's sad. she simply continues about her day like her child is not suffering.

now, i still firmly believe that helena diaz loves her son. but if she has empathy for her him and the struggles he's facing—and has faced—she has yet to express it. this is also, unfortunately, canon.

having said that.

christopher is a teenager. he is not a little boy anymore. it was cute when he took an uber to buck's house because his dad made him mad, but this is quite a different situation. we've talked ad nauseam about the kim/shannon of it all because the trauma and betrayal of that is significant. but there are layers here. because it's not just that christopher thought his mom was back from the dead, it's also that eddie did what he (in christopher's mind) does best—he messed up a good thing right as christopher was getting to enjoy it.

9-1-1 is designed so that we, the viewers, are able to empathize with eddie's struggles. we're adults so, on average, we know why he makes the choices he makes and we can, on some levels, relate to them. even if we don't agree, we can understand the logic behind these choices. but christopher does not have the luxury of adulthood. and, if you put yourself in his shoes, his entire life since coming to los angeles has been extraordinarily unstable. some of these things were obviously outside of eddie's control, such as the tsunami and his dad getting shot. but they still happened.

so now, he is this fourteen year old kid who has lived through trauma after trauma, all the while witnessing his dad try to put himself back together after a lifetime of pain. and one of those ways eddie tries to put himself back together is by dating again. first, he dates ana and, objectively, ana was the perfect choice. she was smart. she was beautiful. she was good with kids. she was latina, which his parents/dad would have approved of, and christopher liked her very much. but then, just as it's getting good and looking real, eddie breaks up with her. again, we, the viewers, know why he did what he did. he was having panic attacks at the mere thought of being with her. but if you're christopher it looks like dad is pulling the plug on a good thing for no reason.

same as when eddie leaves the 118. we, adults, know eddie is struggling. hell, even christopher knows eddie is struggling. but we can understand the depths of the layers here. christopher didn't/doesn't. all he knew/knows is that, not only did his dad leave behind his job/his family/his stability, he did all that and cited him as the reason for that decision. which is why christopher said, "i never asked you to [leave the 118]." so now we fast forward to the present and we have eddie and this thing with marisol. they go on family outings, she moves in, and all these things start to feel like permanence. they start to feel like eddie has finally maybe gotten himself on solid ground and can start to enjoy his life again, or maybe for the first time.

and then he goes and cheats on marisol. with christopher's dead mom.

so we can see the multiple layers of this situation.

eddie loves his son, christopher loves his dad, and eddie diaz is a good parent. i will stand by that to the day i die, and all of these things are overwhelmingly evident. but that doesn't change the fact that the most stable home christopher has ever known is the home he lived in with his grandparents. which is sad. it's really sad to say, because we know eddie has tried so hard for that boy in so many ways. as a single parent, raising his kid to the best of his ability was so much more a full-time job than he was prepared for. but he did it. he strapped in and did the work of two people and, in doing so, it became imperative that, above all else, he gave his son a safe place to land and didn't give him reasons not to trust him because, at the end of the day, eddie is the only parent christopher has.

but eddie's broken that trust. and now, he has to live with the consequences. but let's be clear, the consequences in question are christopher's absence. helena's satisfaction over having chris in texas is an enormous insult to painful injury that must be addressed by the narrative if they ever want me to like her or believe she has eddie's best interests at heart. but this situation, in typical 9-1-1 fashion, is one in which multiple things can be, and are, true at the same time.

but relative to the matter of christopher and what he's "allowed" to do? eddie's lucky his son is even taking his calls, and he knows that. so he's going to continue to do the work to earn that trust back because he's never done anything but put in 1000% for his son. and that is also a canon fact.

[kckt88]

baiser de la mort.

Summary:

'The innocents are always the ones to suffer during times of war'

Aemond and Y.N grieve for the loss of their son.

Warnings - Heavy Angst, Drama, Langauage, Child Loss, References to Death, Grief, Mourning, Mental Health, Delusions, References to Smut, Suicide, Dark Aemond, Mention of Non/Con use of Moontea, Death.

AEMOND TARGARYEN x Y.N

A.N - baiser de la mort - Kiss of death.

Word Count: 4654

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon or Fire & Blood characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used.

Comments, likes, and reblogs are very much appreciated.

Tag List - @jasminecosmic99 @kaelatargaryen @yesterdayfeelings-blog @immyowndefender @0eessirk8 @darylandbethfanforever9

Y.N stood at the window, her hair unkempt and wild, her eyes glazed with a haunting emptiness as she clutched a blood-stained blanket to her chest.

Her precious son, Aerys, was gone, ripped from her in the most violent of ways. Assassins had come in the dead of night, seeking retribution against her husband, Aemond, for the death of Lucerys.

But it was her innocent boy who had paid the price for his father’s crime.

Y.N couldn’t eat; she couldn’t sleep. She was a mother without her child, her heart shattered beyond repair. The once vibrant woman now stood a ghost of herself, consumed by an unbearable grief that echoed through the silent halls of her home.

The world outside continued on, indifferent to her pain, while she remained frozen in that moment of loss, her soul forever scarred.

Aemond sat with his head bowed and his hands trembling. The weight of his grief pressed down on him, nearly suffocating.

It was his fault, all of it. That fateful day at Storm's End, he had lost his temper. The bitterness and pain over the loss of his eye had reached a boiling point. He had chased after Luke with Vhagar, intending to frighten him, not to kill him.

But Arrax, had attacked first and Vhagar, in her fury, had snatched the two of them out of the sky and torn them to shreds. The image of that violent moment played over and over in Aemond's mind, an endless nightmare from which he could not awaken.

He was sorry for what had happened, but he couldn't take it back and now his son had paid the price for his actions.

He would never forget his wife's screams as she held their son's lifeless body in her arms, her cries of anguish piercing through the night.

Even now, the haunted look in her eyes tore at his soul as she slowly lost herself to the unbearable grief. It was his fault. He had done this.

Aemond's heart ached with a remorse so profound that it seemed to consume him. He could not escape the shadows of his own making, the regret that gnawed at him every waking moment.

His son was gone, and nothing could ever make it right. The price of his anger was too steep, and he would bear the weight of it for the rest of his life.

Aemond's fists clenched at his sides, his eyes burning with a fury that matched the intensity of his grief. His grandsire, stood before him, suggesting with cold pragmatism that they should parade his son's body through the streets of King's Landing.

Aemond could scarcely believe the audacity. How dare he propose such a monstrous display?

"Do you hear yourself?" Aemond spat, his voice trembling with rage. "You wish to parade my son's body through the streets like some grotesque trophy for the smallfolk to gawk at? He was my son, not a pawn in your political games."

Otto's face remained impassive, but his eyes were steely. "The people must see the cost of Rhaenyra's ambition, Aemond. They need to know who is responsible for this tragedy."

"It wasn't her," Aemond growled, his voice breaking. "It was me. I killed Luke-I drew first blood”

In the end he was persuaded by his mother, to allow his son's body to be paraded through the city.

The procession moved slowly, the atmosphere thick with sorrow and tension. The streets were lined with citizens who stood in quiet respect.

They watched as flower petals were scattered in the air, a delicate contrast to the grim reality of the event. The petals fell gently, almost mockingly, on the solemn parade.

In a dark carriage that followed the procession, Y.N sat hunched beside Alicent. Her gaze was distant, fixed on some unfathomable point in the space before her.

She wore the grief like a cloak, her face an ashen mask of silent torment. The parade’s spectacle did nothing to pierce her numb shell; she remained unresponsive, lost in her sorrow.

When the procession finally reached the pyre, Aemond, his face pale and drawn, gave the command to Vhagar, with a voice that trembled but held a resolute edge.

The dragon's fiery breath ignited the pyre, sending a column of flame skyward. The flames consumed the pyre with a fierce, unrelenting hunger, and the smoke billowed up into the grey sky, carrying the last remnants of their son away.

Even then, amid the crackling fire and the tears of onlookers, Y.N remained silent. She did not react to the sight of her child's remains being turned to ash. Her grief had rendered her mute, a mother broken beyond the reach of words.

The chasm between him and his wife, Y.N., grew wider by the day, an abyss of grief and guilt that he couldn't bridge.

Once, they had shared a good marriage. Aemond had been hesitant to take a wife, but she had been kind and patient. She listened to him, held him, loved him. And he had loved her in return.

They had often indulged in the pleasures of the marriage bed, Aemond loved nothing more than devouring her sweet cunny until she cried and screamed his name and then sheathing himself within her warm wet heat.

Given the frequency in which he spilled his seed inside her they were blessed with their son. Such a little thing he was, but so perfect, his silver hair and amethyst eyes.

Now, his son was gone, and so was the woman he loved. Y.N. wouldn't look at him, wouldn't speak to him.

She had stopped taking care of herself, spending hours staring out of the window, still clutching their son's bloodied blanket. Aemond felt a deep, helpless frustration. He wanted to help her, to reach out and pull her from the abyss, but he didn't know how.

Otto's suggestion had only poured salt into the wound. Exploiting his son's death for political gain had been abhorrent to him. But he had given in and allowed the spectacle and he felt even worse for it.

He approached the window where Y.N. stood, her gaze distant and unfocused. He reached out, his hand hovering just above her shoulder, but he couldn't bring himself to touch her. The distance between them seemed insurmountable.

"Y.N.," he whispered, his voice filled with a sorrow so deep it felt like it would swallow him whole. "I'm so sorry. I don't know how to fix this. I don't know how to help you."

But there was no response, no flicker of recognition in her eyes. She was lost to him, just as their son was lost to them both.

The war between Aegon's Greens and Rhaenyra's Blacks raged on, each day bringing new horrors.

Amidst the chaos, Y.N.'s behaviour began to change in unsettling ways. She started talking as if their son, Aerys, was still alive. She would call for him, her voice filled with a desperate longing.

"Aerys, where are you my sweet? Come to your mother," she would say, her eyes scanning the room as if expecting him to appear at any moment.

Aemond's heart ached each time he heard her. He would gently try to remind her of the painful truth.

"Y.N., Aerys is gone," he would say softly, his voice breaking with sorrow.

But she would turn on him, eyes blazing with anger and confusion. "Why are you saying such things? It's a cruel joke, Aemond. Our sweet boy is still alive. Stop tormenting me."

The tension between them grew, Aemond's helplessness deepening with each passing day. He watched as his wife slipped further from reality, her mind a fractured mirror reflecting the past and present in a chaotic swirl.

There were moments when she would remember, and those moments were the most heartbreaking of all.

She would collapse, her screams of grief echoing through the halls, chilling everyone who heard them. "He's gone! My baby is gone!" she would wail, her voice raw and ragged.

Aemond would hold her then, rocking her back and forth, trying to offer comfort where there was none to be found.

The once vibrant woman he had loved was now a shadow of herself, caught in an endless cycle of denial and despair.

Aemond struggled to maintain his composure, the weight of his guilt and sorrow threatening to crush him. He was fighting a war on two fronts: one against their enemies, and one within the walls of their home.

In the rare quiet moments, Aemond would sit by Y.N.'s side, his hand gently holding hers. "I wish I could bring him back," he would whisper, his voice filled with a pain that mirrored her own. "I would give anything to see him again, to see you smile."

But Y.N. would simply look at him with vacant eyes, lost in a world where her son was still alive, and her heart wasn't shattered.

Aemond knew he had to be strong for both of them, to navigate the war outside and the turmoil within. Yet, with each passing day, he feared the war would take them both before they could ever find peace.

Y.N.'s descent into madness grew more volatile with each passing day. Her grief and confusion often turned into fits of rage, and Aemond often bore the brunt of it.

She would lash out at him, her hands striking him with a surprising force, her screams echoing through the halls.

"Why are you doing this to me?" she would cry, her voice filled with anguish. "Why are you letting this happen? Bring Aerys back! Bring my son back!"

There were times when the guards had to restrain her, their gentle attempts to subdue her only making her struggles more frantic. "Let me go! I want my baby! Aemond, make them stop!" she would scream, her eyes wild with desperation.

Aemond stood helpless, watching as his beloved wife was held back, her mind lost in a labyrinth of sorrow and rage. The sight of her, once so composed and loving, now so broken and tormented, tore at his heart. He longed to reach her, to pull her back from the brink, but he didn't know how.

In the midst of this turmoil, his grandsire approached him with a proposition that made Aemond's blood boil.

"Perhaps it would be best to send Y.N. away," Otto suggested, his tone coldly pragmatic. "She could become a septa, and we could annul the marriage. You could form new alliances that would strengthen our position in the war."

Aemond's anger flared, his fists clenching at his sides. "I will not set her aside," he growled, his voice low and dangerous. "I have already lost my son; I will not lose her too. And I certainly won't allow you to use me to forge alliances elsewhere."

Otto's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing more. He turned and left, leaving Aemond to wrestle with his despair and his resolve.

He knew that his wife's condition was deteriorating, but he refused to abandon her. She had been his strength, his confidant, and his love. He could not—would not—let her go.

Returning to Y.N.'s side, Aemond knelt before her, his heart breaking at the sight of her tear-streaked face. "I'm here, Y.N.," he whispered, his voice choked with emotion. "I'm not going anywhere. We'll find a way through this. I promise you."

But her eyes, once so full of life and love, were vacant and unseeing. She murmured incoherent apologies, pleading to be a good wife, to make things right, not understanding that the world around her had irrevocably changed.

Aemond gathered her in his arms, holding her tightly as she wept. He vowed to himself that he would protect her, that he would fight for her.

The war outside was brutal, but the war within their hearts was even more so. And in this, Aemond knew he had to stand strong, for both of them.

Aemond stood in the doorway, his heart heavy as he watched Y.N. sitting cross-legged on the floor. She was speaking softly, her voice carrying a gentle, loving tone that once filled their home with warmth and joy. Now, it only brought a deep, aching sadness.

"Aerys, you did so well in your lessons today," she praised, her eyes fixed on an empty spot before her. "I'm so proud of you, my sweet boy."

Aemond swallowed hard, his throat tight with emotion. He wanted to reach out to her, to pull her back to reality, but he knew it would only cause her more pain. She turned to him then, her eyes filled with a desperate hope.

"Aemond, aren't you proud of our son?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly.

Aemond nodded weakly, forcing a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Yes, Y.N.," he said softly. "I'm very proud of him."

She smiled, a brief flicker of the woman she once was. Aemond's heart shattered anew, the weight of his guilt and sorrow pressing down on him like a crushing tide.

He watched as she continued speaking to their son who wasn't there, her words a mix of encouragement and gentle admonishments.

"Aerys, remember to practice your letters. Your father and I know you can do it. You're such a clever boy," she said, her eyes shining with a love that was now directed at a ghost.

Aemond felt a deep, gnawing helplessness. He couldn't bring Aerys back, and he couldn't pull Y.N. from the abyss of her grief.

All he could do was be there, a silent witness to her pain, hoping against hope that somehow, they would find a way to heal.

For now, he would nod and smile, pretending along with her, because it was the only way he could offer her any semblance of comfort. And as she spoke to their son who wasn't there, Aemond silently vowed to stand by her, even if she never truly returned to him.

Aemond was seated at the council table, his mind only half-focused on the discussion of troop movements and supply lines, the Velaryon blockade in the Gullet was proving troublesome and food was becoming scarce.

His brother had suggested taking Vhagar and Sunfyre to burn the blockade, but their mother and grandsire urged caution.

Citing the dangers of unleashing the dragons during the war and the devastation they would reign down from the skies.

But he as only half listening, his thoughts were constantly with Y.N., wondering how she was faring in his absence. Suddenly, the door to the chamber swung open, and a guard hurried in, his face pale and anxious.

"Prince Aemond," the guard said, bowing quickly. "It's your wife, Y.N. She's—she's wandering the halls, calling for your son."

Aemond's heart sank. He rose abruptly, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. "Where is she now?" he demanded.

"The gardens, my Prince."

Without another word, Aemond left the council meeting, striding quickly through the corridors, his heart pounding.

As he approached the gardens, he could hear Y.N.'s voice, tinged with a frantic desperation.

"Aerys? Aerys, where are you, my sweet boy? Come to mummy!" she called, her voice trembling.

He found her among the flowers, her hair a wild mess, her bare feet dirty from the garden paths. She was dressed only in her nightgown, her eyes wide and searching.

She turned in circles, her hands outstretched as if she could catch hold of their son if she just reached far enough.

"Y.N.," Aemond called gently, stepping towards her. She didn't seem to hear him, her attention entirely focused on the invisible presence of Aerys.

"Come to mummy”

Aemond moved closer, reaching out to take her hand. "Y.N., it's me, Aemond. Let's go back to our chambers."

She looked at him then, her expression shifting from hope to confusion. "Aemond? But Aerys—he's calling for me. I need to find him."

He swallowed hard, his grip on her hand gentle but firm. "I know, my love. But it's time to come inside. We can look for him together later."

Tears welled up in her eyes, her panic giving way to a heartbreaking vulnerability. "I’m a good mother. I just want to find my baby."

"I know," Aemond whispered, his own eyes filling with tears. "You're the best mother. Let's go inside now, please."

Slowly, she allowed him to guide her back through the halls, her steps hesitant and reluctant. He kept a protective arm around her, his heart aching with every step.

As they reached their chambers, he helped her sit down on the bed, her fingers still clutching at his hand as if he were her lifeline.

"Rest now, Y.N.," he murmured, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. "I’m here. I won’t leave you."

She looked up at him, her eyes reflecting a flicker of recognition and trust. "Promise?"

"Promise," he said, his voice firm despite the sorrow that threatened to overwhelm him.

As she lay down, Aemond sat beside her, holding her hand until she finally drifted into a troubled sleep. He watched over her, his resolve hardening. He would protect her, care for her, and love her through this madness, no matter how long it took. He had already lost his son; he could not lose his wife too.

Sometimes, Y.N. seemed to come back to herself. Her eyes would clear, and for a brief moment, the woman Aemond had loved so dearly would return.

On those rare occasions, she would look at him with a haunting clarity, her voice trembling as she asked, "Aemond, have I gone mad?"

Aemond would hold her close, his heart breaking anew each time. "No, my love. You're not mad. You're grieving. We're both grieving."

But no matter how he tried to comfort her, the moments of lucidity were fleeting. Soon enough, she would lose herself again, retreating into the depths of her sorrow and delusion.

One night, Aemond woke with a start, his heart pounding in the darkness. He reached out, but Y.N. wasn't beside him.

Panic gripped him as he looked around the room, his eyes finally settling on the open window. Y.N. stood there, her nightgown fluttering in the cool breeze, her gaze fixed on something far beyond the walls of their chamber.

"Y.N.," he called softly, rising from the bed. "What are you doing?"

She turned to him; her face illuminated by the moonlight. "I can hear Aerys," she said, her voice filled with a desperate longing. "He's calling for me. I need to go to him. I need to be a good mother."

Fear surged through Aemond as he crossed the room in quick strides, his hands reaching out to take hold of her. "No, Y.N.," he said firmly, pulling her away from the window. "Aerys is gone. You can't go to him."

She struggled against his grip, her eyes wild with grief and confusion. "But he's calling for me-can’t you hear him?”

Aemond's temper flared, the weight of his own sorrow and guilt crashing down on him. "Aerys is dead!" he shouted, his voice cracking with anguish. "He's not coming back!”

The words hung in the air, a bitter truth that neither of them could escape. Y.N. stopped struggling, her eyes widening in shock.

Aemond fell to his knees, his body wracked with sobs as he finally gave in to the overwhelming grief that had consumed him since their son's death.

"I'm sorry," he choked out, his hands covering his face. "I'm so sorry, Y.N. I didn't mean for any of this to happen. I don’t know how to stop this pain-I don’t know how to make it go away”

Y.N. knelt beside him, her own tears falling silently. She gently stroked his head, her fingers running through his long silver hair in a soothing gesture.

"It's going to be okay," she whispered, her voice fragile but filled with a deep, abiding love. "We'll find a way through this. Together."

As the war progressed, the Battle of Rook's Rest had left Aegon grievously injured.

In the aftermath, Aemond was named Prince Regent, a heavy mantle he bore with a sense of duty and an unspoken grief that never quite left him.

Yet, amid the chaos of war, there were glimmers of hope. Y.N. seemed to come back to herself a little more each day.

They had began to lay with other again, the first time since their sons death had been slow and gentle, with Aemond trying to savour the feeling of his wife’s wet heat wrapped around him again.

But as the days went on, the physical intimacy of their relationship became something more, it became a brief distraction from their shared grief and more often not, Aemond would find himself pounding inside his wife with a series of deep penetrating thrusts.

He would take any opportunity he could to be inside her, no matter if it was in their shared chambers, the gardens or even the council room.

Things seemed like they were changing, that maybe the cloud of darkness was finally lifting, that maybe there was chance.

But one day, when Aemond was deep in discussion, making plans to take back Harrenhal. The room buzzing with the urgency of war strategies a guard burst in, panic written across his face.

“Your Grace, it's Y.N. She's at the window and she won't come down."

Aemond's heart sank, dread clawing at his chest. He thought things were getting better, that they were slowly healing.

But as he raced back to his chambers, a cold fear gripped him. He should have known better. He shouldn't have fooled himself into thinking it would be that easy.

Bursting into the room, he saw Y.N. standing on the ledge of the window, her hair blowing wildly in the wind, her eyes distant and unfocused. His breath caught in his throat.

"Y.N.!" he called, trying to keep his voice steady. "Come back inside. It's dangerous."

She turned to him, her expression a mix of sorrow and resolve. "I-I’m with child again," she said, her voice trembling. "I don't want to lose this babe like we lost Aerys. I want to be a good mother, to protect my child."

Aemond took a step closer, his hands outstretched. "I will do everything in my power to ensure our child's safety. Please, Y.N., come back inside."

But her eyes darkened with a painful clarity. "Had you done that before, Aerys would still be alive. How can I trust you to keep your promise now?"

Aemond's heart broke at her words, the weight of his guilt crashing down on him. "Please," he begged, his voice cracking. "I can't lose you too. I need you."

She shook her head, her eyes filling with tears. "I can hear Aerys. He calls for me."

Before he could react, she let go of the window ledge.

Time seemed to slow as Aemond lunged forward, his scream of anguish tearing through the air. He reached out, but it was too late. Y.N. fell, her figure disappearing from sight.

Aemond's scream of horror reverberated through the chamber as he raced to the window, his heart pounding in his chest.

He looked down and saw Y.N.'s body splayed on the ground, unmoving.

He lurched back from the window, his legs carrying him faster than they ever had.

Aemond tore through the corridors, the screams of maids and ladies echoing around him as the reality of what had just happened spread like wildfire.

Bursting outside, Aemond fell to his knees beside Y.N. The blood pooling around her, spilling in different directions.

Never had he seen so much blood in his life.

His hands shook as he reached down gently, lifting her into his arms. Her warm sticky blood staining his clothes and skin.

“Y.N” sobbed Aemond.

Y.N.'s eyes fluttered open, and she gasped, her voice barely a whisper. "I can see him, Aemond. I can see our sweet boy-he’s here"

Tears streamed down Aemond's face as he held her close, his voice breaking. "Go to him, Y.N. Be a good mother. Be with our son, he needs you"

A faint smile touched her lips as she looked up at him, her gaze softening. "I love you," she whispered, her breath faltering.

"I love you too," Aemond choked out, his heart breaking with every word.

Y.N.'s eyes closed, and with a final, shuddering breath, she passed away in his arms.

Aemond held her tightly, his body shaking with sobs as the world around him seemed to crumble. The weight of his grief and guilt was unbearable, the loss of his wife and son a wound that would never heal.

The days following Y.N.'s funeral were a descent into madness for Aemond. The raw, unhealed wound of his grief festered into something dark and malignant.

In the wake of her loss, he marched on Harrenhal, his heart consumed by rage and a desperate need for retribution. On the way many houses in the Riverlands fell to him like a storm, his soldiers cutting down anyone in their path.

Soon houses were nothing more than charred ruins, echoing with the screams of the dying and the roar of Vhagar as he laid waste to those who dared to raise their banners for Rhaenyra.

At Harrenhal, he slaughtered everyone he could find, his blade never without the stain of blood.

Alys Rivers was the only one spared, left to wander amidst the wreckage of the charred ruin she called home.

Aemond's heart was a cauldron of fury, his every action a reflection of the unrelenting torment he felt inside.

The memory of Y.N. and their son haunted him, their spectral forms appearing in his dreams and shadows, reaching out to him but slipping away before he could touch them.

Each night was a cycle of torment, their voices echoing in his ears, demanding answers he could not give.

In a desperate attempt to quell his rage and sorrow, Aemond turned to Alys. Their encounters were brutal and dispassionate, a violent outpouring of grief and anger.

He would not look upon her face as he sheathed his cock inside her, and he would not kiss her. Each time he lay with her, he was left feeling sickened, the physical act a poor substitute for the love and solace he had lost.

In his dreams, Y.N.'s spirit raged at him, her face twisted in anguish and betrayal, accusing him of infidelity and disrespect.

The final blow came when Alys revealed that she carried his child. The news was a knife to his heart, a reminder of all that he had lost and could not reclaim. In his torment, Aemond could not bear the thought of this new life, a product of his grief and anger.

In a cold, ruthless act, he had seized Alys and forced moontea down her throat, she had raged and struggled against him, but he was unmoved. His gloved hand pressed over her nose and mouth to ensure the child would never see the light of day.

He was no longer who he used to be, his heart and soul lost to the void of grief, he had become a monster and there was nothing left for him anymore.

Once she had recovered from the loss of her babe, Alys had cursed his name and he welcomed it.

Even as he mounted Vhagar, seeking a final confrontation with Daemon, and Caraxes. The two dragons clashing in a maelstrom of fire and fury, their roars shaking the heavens.

Amidst the chaos, he heard Y.N.'s voice again, softer this time, calling for him. Her voice was a haunting melody of love and loss, drawing him closer to an end he didn’t want to escape.

He reached out, feeling her ethereal touch, the blade plunging through his skull, and as the darkness closed in, he felt Y.N.'s hand in his.