#I cannot endure the lust I have for that man

[neiptune]

bro I need to snap out of this oliver thing whatever it is

[biggest-geo-oogami-enjoyer]

So I just wanted to say your writing is the most delicious, delighted thing I ever read, I could basically inhale it :D It's like wow!!

Anyway just a small request (If ur not that busy) can you make hcs of how good parents the kid at the back characters would be if they had a kid with Mc. Please with ur fav ice cream with sprinkles and a cherry on top (if u like cherries) with extra scoops (u don't have to do it if u don't want to) If u do then ur officially getting a geo plushie for Christmas

THE ART OF PARENTAGE

First of all, thank you so much for the kind words! I'm glad you felt like you could request me, despite my inactivity and overall lack of existence here. I do thank you for the plushie though, looking forward to it. ;)

Sidenote: Pretty sure Brittney and Jess are too gay for each other to have the thought of kids cross their minds tbh.

-- Signed solemnly by @biggest-geo-oogami-enjoyer AKA Sky Fort(resse)s and Burning Citadels <3

Let's start with the following: this man detests children. Cannot stand them. Would rather die than be in the immediate vicinity of one. Alas, all rules have their exceptions, and for Sol that exception would be your child. His child. The happy little accident that must've happened during one of your more intense sexual escapades. Oh well. Least you both agreed on just one.

Anyway in terms of being a parent, Sol is a very supportive and soothing dad. Considering how he grew up in neglectful, isolated and abusive circumstances, he would be nearly obsessive in the desire to make this family as safe, loving and wholesome as possible. He would rather be spat on by Ichabod than even consider the option of laying hands on either you or your child. He feels repulsed at the sheer idea.

Sol's a very poetic and artistic man, with a love for history and literature; in short, the 'humanities' side of things. He's the type of guy that would put in extra effort to entertain or educate his kid, especially if they're the more curious type. He'll also encourage his child to experiment with things, with a focus on arts and crafts and the theatrical. Don't be surprised if your kid starts spurting out "Splendid!" or "Stupendous" in the middle of dinner - which Sol cooks, mind you.

He'll be self-conscious of walking with his child, especially if you're with him, because despite how happy he is alongside you and this child, he's got a lot of insecurities. He's been attacked several times during uni in the middle of the day, the last thing he wants is for some idiot to recognise him with a child - call him a kidnapper or childfucker - or pull some other shit unto him.

If something happens to you? Or his kid? That man or woman is fucking 66 feet under. No way is he letting that slide, only thing that's gonna be sliding is his cock inside you every single night. His sex drive is insanely high, the fact you somehow only got one offspring from him is astounding.

Sol's a very patient man, and in topics he's good at (which is everything, to the surprise of many), he serves as a tutor, often encouraging his kid to ask him questions of any sort - he loves the morbid ones - and he does his best to explain in as child-filtered a way as possible.

Very protective father figure, will be insanely watchful over your child and especially anyone else who interacts with it. He's often torn between wanting his kid to be popular and happy, while also subtly wishing his kid learns that it's better to be a loner and to pick and choose friends through shared interests, hobbies or beliefs.

As for you? This man is dying to be inside you, whatever breeding kink he had amplified significantly after you fell pregnant, and while part of him was terrified at the idea of being a dad (and annoyed he has to hide his lust for you now), he gets so horny at the idea of you being pregnant he's willing to dick you down 24/7. To be fair, if you both had the stamina and your bodies held the endurance, he def would, but that's besides the point.

Put succinctly, Solivan Brugmansia is an awesome dad, and fully plans on being the absolute best parent (and husband and sex fiend) possible.

Here lies Subaru Oogami (2002-2024)

Cause of death confirmed to be sheer fear of sexual intercourse, ire at a 5yo and, of course, "The Big Question". that big question being "do you want kids"

May he eternally rest in peace.

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KIDDING!!! However, all jokes aside, Geo would rather be shot dead than be near a kid, and unlike the almightily horny emo 'freak' we know as Sol, Geo is repulsed by the idea of sex. AND children, so biologically the chances of him even considering it are near 0. Getting him to like you was labour enough, going into even more after 9 months is a crazy ask let's be real, and there's no way Geo will not be questioning why he's even here (look he's adopted if his dad left him he's gonna be shitting himself but at least he somewhat understands y'know).

The one way Geo can have a 'kid' with you is probably gonna be the same way Hyugo's family had him - adoption, and preferably not a newborn baby who shrieks and shits itself. Like a toddler is fine in his eyes (anything is fine but he'll never tell you that).

This child is definitely going to learn Japanese, piano and whatever the fuck else Geo and Hyugo were raised with and deemed somewhat useful.

Geo is a pretty stoic guy, and would remain so as a parent, but unlike with many others, he's much more attentive and considerate of both you and this child (he definitely gets along with this child, especially if it's also quiet and a loner like him).

Is the type of guy who gets severely attached but hates showing it, probably expresses affection through cutting fruits, cooking or doing something musically. Probably gives the child private concerts.

Would be extremely protective over the child, defends them at all costs, will use bodyguards - realize he doesn't trust them enough - and have the child holding his hand or in eyesight all the time. Hates feeling like he's not knowing what they're up to, if they're safe etc.

In terms of you, this man holds you in much higher regard. The fact you accepted his visceral hatred of sex, of everything, his fears and insecurities and stayed with him? Love him? AND decide to give another child a chance at life, like how the Sugimotos did for him? His heart is swelling his heart is ready his soul is in Heaven and his body is flushed at the thought that in a way, he does have a family with you. And, he doesn't hate it.

Banger parental figure and mentor, would be the type to drop bombshell level life lessons out of nowhere. ALSO IF THE KID IS INTERESTED HE DOES LITTLE COSMETIC THINGS WITH THEM. Mans would def play dress up to make the child satisfied.

"Mother, did you realize that Japan named an entire car franchise after dad?!" (Geo refuses to shatter this child's hope and faith in him lmfao).

Hyugo is a man of many words and a harsh past. He's seen a lot, done more, killed too many. In short, he's seen a lot of shit, so when he finds out you're pregnant after one of your more passionate escapades, he's stunned. Legitimately thinks you're kidding for a hot moment, before realizing you're serious.

He stood still when you told him, face eerily empty of emotion or feeling, before he stood up and lunged at you, pulling you into one of the most intense kisses he's ever placed on you. honestly considers doing it all over again to be certain but you don't need to know that

Mans is genuinely so excited he wants to burst. This child is learning Japanese and when old enough - self defense, jujitsu, kendo, whatever Hyugo thinks is efficient to learn (and also what he finds fun lmao); anything that can help the kid protect themselves and others. Speaking of protecting others, Hyugo's love of justice definitely is passed on. The kid and him watch true crime shoes (Rotten Mango and MrBallen are banger channels btw highly recommend).

Hyugo would 110% play video games with his child, the two would get highly competitive at times (Hyugo often lets the kid win, unless he's feeling particularly unforgiving), or stealing candy from the pantry and sharing it. May or may not take his kid to a gun club to learn how to shoot.

Wants the kid to stay away from the world of crime and murder by all means necessary, he can't afford letting that part of his life spread to his family - hence why he never speaks about why he tends to go missing for a while sometimes.

He'll even actively try to leave, and if he somehow temporarily escapes, he's taking you all somewhere far away, where no-one can ever find you.

He's wiling to kill, die and even live for you two, and that for Hyugo is everything.

Crowe is definitely on edge when the reality of his situation sets in. He's gonna be...a parent. He's the father of your child, you're the mother of his; the thoughts are swirling and twirling in his head as he's spiraling into a loop of sheer excitement and anxiety.

He's wealthy, he knows that he can provide well for you and the child, but all the logic and reason in the world can't calm his heart down. This is something he's secretly wanted for so long, but...the fact it's actually happening just hits different for him.

During the course of your pregnancy, this man may or may not get hot and bothered at the thought that you're so round and pregnant because of him. The fact you wanted this with him. Part of him is definitely struggling to remain composed. Definitely has anxiety about whether he'll be a good parent. Just to clarify, he is an incredibly good dad.

Crowe is someone I see being the dad who reads things to his kid, before bedtime or just in general. He's the type to serve as a role model asap. Will turn this child into the most well-spoken, respectful, kind little person the world has ever seen.

Is someone who helps with his kids homework, calmly explaining and re-explaining things and concepts to it. Tutoring always gave him a sense of calm peace, and it helps him bond with his kid, along with showing them early on that despite how sucky school is, you can still have some fun with learning.

Would do his kids' hair. Would go shopping with them and let them sit in the trolley (with some negotiation done by the child). He also like to share life lessons on these 'adventures', dropping quotes and morals so hard that the night said child was conceived looks light and dandy.

Would teach his kid how to cook, clean, do every chore possible, will find a way to make it fun( he def needed motivation as a kid lmfao). Also encourages his kid to go for walks outside, sometimes he even takes you all out stargazing. He'll teach you and your child every constellation and every star.

Crowe is definitely the type to memorise every appointment, friend, school, teacher etc. your kid has. The child and you matter so much to him, he's willing to ingrain everything to memory - the fact other men don't greatly concerns him - because you both are so worth it.

Would not mind if you asked him for another one, he loves the idea of building a family with you - and, well, seeing you pregnant - so expect that you both'll stop at...3?

TLDR: Crowe is a magnificent parental figure. Also teaches his kid how to be sarcastic.

Deryl is SO excited to be a dad, like beyond the normal levels a decent person would have. This guy is over the moon in terms of excitement, he becomes a jittery mix of terror and joy in the span of that day.

He becomes significantly more affectionate with you (so regular Deryl *12), insists on doing all the heavy work for you, is willing to fulfill all and any cravings you have during pregnancy; and even when the child is born, this man is hyperexcited.

He's a very loving and protective dad, willing to do whatever it is they wanna try or do (as long as it's not dangerous), especially if it involves sport. This man is willing to do all kinds of things in order to entertain his kid (and you).

Would definitely piggyback carry them everywhere while sharing random stories or fun facts he knows. Building off of facts, this man is pretty and smart, so he's gonna be a source of knowledge for your kid as well. He's an awesome role model as well, he's loving, sweet and he ensures his kid grows up respectful and loving life!

Deryl's a social butterfly, so he'd somewhat prefer if his kid was social as well, with good reason of course. He'd encourage your kid to know its worth and pick friends wisely. Would be an undying source of support if the child is sad or upset, whatever it is, he's gonna sit them down to watch a show and eat ice cream (totally doesn't get slightly more than acceptable for the both of them no he'd never).

Singing battles. Karaoke. Music, dance, performance. Deryl is so introducing his kid to music, every genre and every song you both like, will be princess twirling and everything.

He's become a source of prime amusement for the kid, not that anyone's complaining. He's also a prime partner and father.

The man will do his absolute best for you and this kid, and you're never gonna question or contemplate it for as long as you're with him (forever <3).

[johnwickb1tsch]

bittersweet ~ a yandere!John Wick x fem!reader sunshine/grump coffee shop AU... Part 35 all chapters

WARNING: NSFW, SEXUAL CONTENT, YANDERE SH!T. Plz take care. I luv u all. 😘

Winston’s solution essentially turns into a waiting game. 

This isn’t necessarily a bad thing, because whether he thinks or not, you know John needs time to heal his injuries before you face a sitdown with the High Table, the brat prince, and the top bosses of the Camorra, none of which are exactly eager to convene at a mutual time for the sake of John Wick–and you? You still don’t know what to think about this strange world John Wick has plunged you into. 

Even though you would supposedly be safe on hotel grounds, of course John doesn’t want to let you out of his sight. He rarely wants to leave the room either; you sense this is not just because he’s healing. The thought of wandering around here fills you with equal parts anticipation and dread. Maybe you both have caught a touch of agoraphobia, living your secluded little life in the mountains together. Gone are the days in which you flounced about the house in your designer sundresses with paint on your fingers and no panties to your name. If only you could have known at the time, how idyllic those precious moments had been.

Or maybe your recent trauma has skewed your memory of it all. 

It still feels strange, speaking to anyone but John, even when you’re just calling in your orders for room service. 

You sleep a lot, tangled together in the cloud-soft bed. Sometimes you watch TV or read, and sometimes you just lay there, and at least on your part, marvel that you’re not dead. 

You both have nightmares about the night the Camorra soldiers infiltrated your home. You relive the moment in which you’d nearly lost John, the knife wielding commando trying to stab him again and again in a replaying reel in your mind. In your dreams you cannot lift the gun to save him, or your every shot misses. The scene of John’s terrors seems to go a step further, and you know he has dreamed that they made it past him, up the stairs to you, when he wakes you with clutching arms and desperate kisses on your hair, as though he is assuring himself of your wellbeing.

One morning, he wakes you a different way, with his cock stuffing you full from behind and slow kisses on your neck, his strong arms wrapped around you. Up until this point you’ve avoided such things, scolding him that he’ll pull his stitches [again], and for once he actually listened to you. No more, it seems, and you cannot suppress a moan as he thrusts lazily up inside you with his hand on your breast. “John…” 

“Mmmm. I need you, baby,” he whispers into your hair, flipping you on your belly with his solid weight pressing you deliciously down into the mattress. “Need to feel you.”

“Your stitches–”

“Will be fine,” he interjects, and you can tell his patience has run short for you worrying about it. You don’t mean to be a nag, and you know he’s endured worse–you just don’t want him to have to be in unnecessary pain, again. You realize you would put this man in a bubble, if you could, he is so precious to you. It’s essentially what he tried to do to you, and see how that worked out?

“Please?” It’s the pure need in that last word that melts your last thought of resisting, and maybe, the fact that he actually asked. You realize you have not properly made love, have not felt him inside you since your primal chase turned borderline hate fuck in the woods, what feels like a lifetime ago. He thrusts again, his hips pressed into the curve of your bottom, and you feel your coherent thoughts evaporate into lust. You cant your hips just the way you know will tighten your hole and drive him wild; a ragged moan from behind you is your reward. 

“Temptress,” he grumbles, though you can tell he is smiling. “Trying to make me cum already?” His next thrust is a little too deep, but you take the punishment, only wincing slightly as you hide your grin in the pillow.

“Would I do that?” You sit up on elbows so you can look at him over your shoulder, your heart so filled with love you fear it might burst. He brushes your hair out of your face with tender fingers, a fire in those dark eyes all for you. In this love-charged lull he seems to change his mind about positions, withdrawing only long enough to flip you over before burying himself inside you again. 

Of all the ways John Wick has taught you how to make love, this is still your favorite; simple, vanilla missionary with his delicious weight on you, heart to heart with his mouth locked to yours. Something about almost dying together makes it even more intense for the both of you. When he draws back to look into your eyes while he wrecks you? It’s almost too much–too raw, too visceral. 

Too vulnerable. 

A part of you just wants to flee. 

“I love you,” he tells you between thrusts, one of your legs folded nearly to your chest, the other locked around his hip to hold him deeper.  “I need you.”

“You’ve got me. I love you, John, you’ve got me.”

There’s no room for higher cognition, in this gasping, bone-melting exchange of pleasure and bodily fluids. There is only the ability to speak the truth from the heart, and the breathless pursuit of release, together. It hits you both like a freight train, almost painful in all its ferocity–there’s no way in hell they don’t hear you next door, and maybe down the hall. 

You’re going to get into trouble. 

The absurdity of the thought makes you smile as much as John rearranging your insides. Sweaty and breathless, you stay locked together for what feels like a long time, neither willing to let go. Naturally its John who recovers first, catching your mouth in a deep kiss that curls your toes all over again. “Shower with me?” 

“Yes.”  

***

“Can we take Dog outside?” you ask during breakfast, the gentle beast in question leaning against your leg in pursuit of pets–and bacon. “I think he’s bored, walking the halls.” There was a pee pad for him on the roof–it was not the same, as touching paws to real grass.  

Once, John might have gotten mad that you would even suggest it. You think its a testament to improval, when he just sighs at you. “You know the answer to that, sweetheart.”

It’s too dangerous. 

You sigh too. 

As magnificent as The Continental was…it was starting to feel like you were going to be locked up there forever. 

“Is this a hint that you are bored?”

You consider this question, stirring sugar into your second cup of coffee. It does feel a bit like the two of you are stuck in purgatory, waiting. “Maybe I’m feeling a little cooped up,” you admit. “But the wake up calls here are spectacular…” You grin at him over your mug, and see your comment has the intended placating effect, the corner of his mouth pulling in a small smile, a flash of heat in his dark eyes that makes you clench between your crossed legs.

“I might have a solution for that.” Again, it’s like he’s asking, and he could have pushed you over with a feather. Have you arrived? Even with the sword of Damocles hanging overhead, just waiting for the moment you might set foot outside this hotel, this is the thing that starts to make you feel like everything might be alright someday. 

“Yeah?” 

“I want you to do some work with the Personal Trainer while we’re here. She’s very good.”

Everything is cloaked in double meaning in this place. Somehow, you suspect the title doesn’t mean this woman will yell at you to do five more sit-ups. “You…want me to lift weights?” you ask cheekily, waiting. 

“I want you to learn how to kill a man with your bare hands,” he tells you bluntly. “If you have to.”

You choke a little on your coffee at that. Point: John. 

“Jeesus.” 

“You’ve seen the truth of my world. Even though I’m retired…it just keeps fucking following me. That means…you’re in danger too. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

You’ve always thought you were a nice person, but as it turns out your moral fiber must be fairly flexible–at least, for this man. Back at the coffee shop, you’d known he’d murdered those creeps in the van, and you’d done nothing. You’d shot a man to save him without a second thought. Now he wanted you to learn how to kill–and you were perfectly willing. 

A part of you wants to caution him, that you will never be as dangerous as the lowliest clown in this vicious world of thieves and killers. But in the end, you keep it to yourself. He wants to train you out of hope, and you don’t want to take that chance for some peace of mind from him. And, of course…maybe it will save your ass someday. 

You’re in no hurry to die. 

You can see he is troubled, brooding over the danger he’s put you in. You know the dark spiral that can lead him down, and you offer him a lifeline. “John…even if I’d known, in the beginning, about who you are and the risk…I still would have followed you anywhere.” 

It’s the truth. He wouldn’t have even had to kidnap you. You keep that to yourself too. 

He weighs you with those dark eyes–once upon a time, that penetrating look might have made you squirm. But maybe there’s a freedom now, in having traveled through the darkest labyrinths of his mind–and come out in one piece on the other side. You just meet that gaze, letting it wash over you, and in the end it’s he who looks away.  

“I actually believe you now, you know.”

You manage not to grin like a fucking idiot, even if it’s how you feel inside. Utterly unable to remain in your own seat after that, you slide into his lap, pressing your lips to his cheek, the side of his mouth, then lingeringly, his lips. You snuggle like that in the chair for several minutes, just holding each other, and not to be left out, dog shifts to lay on John’s feet. 

“John…” you say quietly, not wanting to break the spell that’s fallen over the room. “What if…we just ran away together?” 

He raises an eyebrow to that, and you get the feeling that the option maybe hadn’t even occurred to him. He’s so accustomed to charging at his problems head first, guns blazing and fists flying–and usually that works out for him… Not so much, for the people around him, though. 

“Where would you want to go?” he asks, his lips against your temple. 

“I don’t know. Where could we go? Does anyone want you dead in South America?”

He’s quiet as he thinks about it. “...Maybe not?”

“We could…get new identities, and…move to Buenos Aires.” 

He blows through his nose as this, but you can tell he’s amused. “What is it with you and Argentina?” 

“It sounds like a great place to go,” you reason. “The Paris of South America. Good food. Culture. Architecture. Adventure… And they sleep in until like, 11 o’clock in the morning, it’s awesome.” 

He does laugh at this. “And I thought you were such an early bird, working at the coffee shop?” 

“I’ve come to find waking up early is overrated.” 

His chest quakes with mirth beneath you, and you reckon that even if he’s not taking your suggestion seriously, at least he’s amused, and that is good for morale. 

“So…when do I start with The Trainer?” John peers at his watch around your body. 

“In an hour.” 

“Fuck. Were you going to tell me?” 

He chuckles at this. “The less time for you to worry about it, the better.” 

“Why?” Now you are worried. “What is she going to do to me?”

“She’s not going to beat you up,” he’s quick to assure you. “I’m not putting you through real assassin school. But…I want you to take it seriously. Please? For me?”

Well…fuck a duck. 

“Ok, I will,” you promise him, wondering what you’re about to get into. 

[rubywithecat]

-First Night With Them-

(T/W: Minors do not interact as mature contents are included)

Summary: U are forced to marry them by your parent and feel shy for the first night with them after wedding as u are completely strangers to them.

Gojo Satoru

Waiting for him on the lavish bed in the new mansion u just moved, u were nervous. Gojo is so handsome and u thought u were going to marry an old ugly man as u only knew how rich he was. How can a person be both good-looking and rich and have a cool style. He is just a definition of perfection. U felt insecure now. What if he doesn’t like ur body? What would he think of u? Will he ever love u? Are u good enough? U had many thoughts about urself. Meanwhile, the door opened as Gojo walked inside the room after he had showered.

He looked at u lying on the bed in lingerie and smirked slightly. He doesn’t say anything tho he made a move onto the bed, coming close to u. U flinched and closed your eyes tightly. However, he held ur waist slowly and his fingers lifting up your face, making u look into his pretty blue eyes. “I want u to be a good girl for me tonight” he said. “Don’t be shy, sweetheart. I promise this won’t hurt” U gulped. But encouraged urself to say a word finally, getting a lil comfortable near him. He seems like a good person after all. And he is ur man now. U smiled with ur glossy lips and whispered into his eyes, “Please go slow. I like it slow and long” Gojo chuckled, proud of u for the courage to say what u would like.

“Don’t worry, Princess. I already said I will make u feel good, right?” He said as he slowly undressed u. “Ahh…Gojo” u moaned. “Gojo? Call me with my name bby. Don’t be a stranger” as he said u can feel him frowning. “Im sorry.. ah fck.. Satoru” u said again as his fingers slipped inside u. “Don’t c*m before me ok? That’s the only rule” he said as he undress himself. U guys finished at the same time after and he came on ur stomach. After that he laid next to u sleepily, his silvery hair being messy “U are so good and beautiful u know that, bby?” He said with his sleepy voice which is super hot. U were beyond happy by his praises and cuddled with him. He smiled and playing with ur hair as u guys having a chat, getting to know each other more.

Nanami Kento

“I would understand if u wanna sleep in separate bed” he said. He really is a gentleman u thought. But u decided that u will be playful with him. U bit ur lips and leaning closer to him. “U wanna leave ur newly wife alone Nanami?” U teased, looking at him with doe eyes, which he cannot resist. U could feel him turning red and blushed. “I mean if u wanna” he said, pretending he doesn’t realized anything that’s happening. Ur thighs on his laps as u face with him and being touchy around his chest, unbuttoning his shirt. Normally u don’t go flirty with any guys but he is ur husband after all and he is really cool and u completely melt at his serious personality.

Even tho it was an arranged marriage, u kinda felt lucky that u marry him. Tonight, u wanna go wild with him and make him breed u with his baby. It’s him who is feeling shy and u kinda like about that and u planned to go beyond his limit to tease.

Nanami knows ur intention and at last he couldn’t endure anymore. The way u looked at him with lust, turn him on so much that he now fck u with all his strength, rough and fast. He is so good that ur brain can’t think of anything except screaming his name and finished with all his c*m into ur womb.

In the morning, when u wake up he already left for work but he doesn’t forget to leave a lovely letter about how he enjoyed and he loves u. U smiled at it and maybe he is shy about telling u in person. U stood up to make the best meal for ur newly husband.

Toji Fushiguro

Toji is being a lil cocky here. He would not give a fck about u being ok with it or not, he would do anything to satisfy his need. After all, he had married once and he knows what to do. He told u to strip urself and fingers u as soon as u laid on him. “I know how to make u feel good so follow my lead, angel” he would say. He would be comparing of how good u r or not with his ex wife, which makes u go crazy and prove him that u are way better than his ex wife.

After that, he would leave u all the hickey, leaving marks on visible area that u are now his. U love the idea of it and u love him too. He can be a jerk but he also loves u so much in first sight. U forgive him as he gave u the best night after all.

Megumi Fushiguro

He is rather doesn’t care about what is supposed to do at wedding night at all. He just went straight to his practice. He doesn’t talk to u at all, thinking u don’t wanna be talked. U were confused about his actions and as u haven’t known him at all yet, u thought he is being a jerk. U called ur bestfriend on video call as u were bored, alone in bed room. “I think he is fcking asshole!” U said frustratedly to ur bff. “He doesn’t even look at me into eyes and I think he doesn’t want me. I feel so sad” U told her, without realizing he was standing behind u leaning the door, maybe hearing all the gossips u told about him.

Ur friend giggled and just hang up, wishing good luck with a hateful smirk. “Hey!! Don’t hang up!” U yelled as u don’t know what u r supposed to do. U could sense him, walking near u and from behind he said, “I’m sorry about that. I just thought u didn’t wanna talk to me as this marriage was arranged so soon so we didn’t get to know each other yet” U felt embarrassed.

“I know… I’m just…” u sighed, facing him. “Either way, we are still husband and wife so we should try our best at least dont u think?” U said in sad tone. He suddenly kissed ur lips softly, catching u off guard. “I’m so sry if I make u sad (y/n). I wanna get to know u more to be honest, I’m just feeling nervous around u. U gives me butterfly as soon as I saw u” he admitted.

Then u kissed him back and he lifted u to the table of his study and held ur hips tightly. “I want u” he whispered which makes u turn on. “I want u too, Megumi” u said as u grabbed his shoulder and hugged around the neck. “Make me yours” u said and he didn’t go gentle with u. He is a dominant type after all but still he knows ur need and also surprisingly, he reached ur soft spot fast and then finished quickly. “Next round, angel” he smirked, whipping his c*m on ur face.

Yuuji Itadori

He would be the most caring about u. He would ask u if u wanna watch movies with him or watch the stars in the sky at the balcony with him. U agreed to watch the stars at the balcony in his hoodie as u haven’t unpacked fully after moving. His smells felt like vanilla and he would be listening when u talk about urself, getting to know with u. He also tell all about himself and he seems to be a really good person that u fell in love immediately about his purpose of life and his cares about others.

After a while, u become cold so he held u tightly and silent occurs between u guys. U really wanna kiss him and he wanted to too but just awkward. U decided to make a first move and kissed him. He was surprised but kissed u back and then u guys the kiss became passionately. U got all shy after that and blushing. “Do u wanna go inside?” He asked. You nodded and then he carried u to the bedroom where he started to kiss u from ur sensitive areas around neck once u get laid down on the bed. Ur moaned made him crazy and he even left sone bite marks and tells u that he really likes u a lot and how he is so lucky to have u as his partner. He goes super gentle and takes good care of u too. “I’m c*mming” u said as rolling back ur eyes. He also finished at the same time, laughters filled with joy.

Sukuna Ryomen

He is kinda so demanding. He would tell like what women are supposed to do and have to give a child. He is so traditional and will even go as far as asking u if u r a virgin:)

“Ofc! I’m a virgin! But do u really need to ask?!” U got sensitive to how he treats u. He would smirked and laughed about how u got all shy and angry with him. He finds it cute tho. But he would tease u like how u turn on just by his touches and u got embarrassed. He would tell u to verbally say how good he is when he fck u and he is also so possessive type. However, when he would treat u like his queen as yk he is the king of curses after all. He finished right inside u and u could feel the warmth of his c*m. He kissed u deeply and fell asleep.

Hope u enjoy! Likes, shares and comments would be really helpful! Thanks babies! <33

[gilgaladswife]

Maybe you’re not an asshole after all…

Tom Ryder x F!Reader

Warning: smut 18+

He is a real asshole. You cannot stand him, as everyone else on set but you have no choice to endure him. Tom Ryder is the superstar every director wants in their movie. He looks good, has great acting skills, but as an individual, he is the worst asshole.

You are Jody’s assistant, the director of the movie and you love your job. She is an amazing boss and you can even consider her a friend. Colt, Tom’s stunt man, is also a good friend. He is kind and funny, the complete opposite of Tom.

Speaking of the devil, he is walking behind you as you storm off set after he called you a whiny bitch who doesn’t know how to do her job.

-Y/N stop! You can’t walk away from me, we aren’t finished! says Tom angry.

You stop and turn to look at him. You are furious and hurt by his words. You’ve worked hard to be where you are today. Tom almost run into you. He looks at you angry and astonished.

-I can and I will. I don’t let anyone insult me. Especially not an asshole superstar who cares only about himself. I’ve worked hard to get this job and I’m good at it. I won’t let you undermine me. Now excuse me, I have things to do.

You turn back and leave a stunned Tom Ryder standing there. You smirk in satisfaction. It was about time someone puts him back into his place. What you didn’t notice as you were turning aroud, is the tent in Tom’s pants. Your fierce personality turns him on, but he will never admit openly.

Later that day, when Jody tells everyone to wrap up, you sigh in relief. You just want a glass of wine and a hot bath after today.

You say goodbye to everyone and leave to return home. You live in a chic and spacious appartement, your job pays well. You make your way inside then go to the kitchen to get your well deserved glass of wine.

God you love your job, but working with Tom is exhausting. He is such a whiny actor who doesn’t give a shit to anyone but himself. Although you hate to admit it, he is really hot. Physically he is your type, but unfortunately his stupid bastard attitude ruins it.

You take the bottle and the glass then go to the bathroom to take a really hot bath. You need to relax and it will do the job. Once it’s ready you take off your clothes then climb inside. You sigh in relief and pleasure.

You are laying down and enjoying your wine when you hear someone knocking at your appartement’s door. You close your eyes and try to ignore it but the person doesn’t want to give up. You sigh then get out, wrap your body in a towel then go to the door.

Your eyes widen in surprise as you see Tom standing there with a bouquet of red,blue and white flowers. Your favorites. He looks you up and down, surprised but eyes darkening in lust as he see you’re only wearing a towel. You clinch it thighter against your body, feeling hot under his gaze.

-What the hell are you doing here? you ask trying not to blush.

-I wanted to apologize. You were right, I was an asshole and you didn’t deserve to be treated that way. says Tom remorseful.

You are stunned. Never in your life you’ve would thought to hear Tom Ryder apologize and admits his wrongs.

-Please say something. Don’t leave me hanging here. he says chuckling.

That gets you out of your stupor. You open the door wider to let him in.

-Well it’s unexpected. Not that I’m not thankful for the apologies and the flowers. you say with a chuckle.

-There is a first for everything. I’m sorry. You do an amazing job and you do deserve to be here. Will you forgive me? asks Tom with puppy dog eyes.

With this look you know you’re gone. And he seems honest with his apologies. So against what your head says, you walk to him and kiss him hard. He moans in surprise then with one hand puts the flowers aside and the other one holds you against him.

One thing leading to another, you find yourself naked in your bed, Tom’s head between your legs. The man knows what he is doing. You moan in pleasure as he switches from licking your wet folds to sucking on your clit.

-Oh god Tom… you’re so good at this… you breathe between moans.

He stops just for a second to smile, not smirk, at you.

-Glad to hear you like this baby. Means I’m doing my job correctly.

Tom returns to eating you out while now pumping two fingers in and out of your dripping cunt. He finds you g-spot immediately and it makes you come on his face and fingers. That was the best orgasm you ever had.

Tom slowly pulls back, his hair a mess because of your hands and his face is covered in your release. You blush. Especially when he moans as he sucks his fingers clean.

-You taste delicious baby. I could spend hours between your legs. says Tom smirking.

-As much as I would love that, do you have the intention to fuck me? Your apologies would be accepted entirely. you say smirking.

-You don’t have to tell me twice. You’re going to enjoy it so much you’ll never want another dick than mine.

Now you recognize the Tom arrogant from set. But instead of being turn off by his answer, you feel aroused at the idea of how good being fucked by him will be.

-Now spread your legs like a good girl and let Daddy fuck your pretty pussy. says Tom eyes dark with lust.

You moan at his dirty words and do as he says, spreading your legs wide. Tom groans as he sees your folds wet with arousal. He takes place between your thighs, grips his cock with one hand to align it with your pussy.

He thrusts inside you to the hilt. You squeal then moan at the fullness. He groans as he feels how thight you are. Tom let you adjust to his size. He his big and it’s been a while since you had sex.

You nod once you’re ready then wrap your legs around his waist. He slowly pulls out before thrusting back in again hard. Tom starts a fast pace, deep and hard. You whine in pleasure, the feeling of his cock moving in and out is heavenly. He moans loudly and it’s the most beautiful sound you have ever heard.

His balls hit your ass with each movement of his hips. Your breast bounces and Tom is captivated by the view. He brings his mouth to one of your nipple to lick and suck on it. He fucks you hard, making you see stars.

-Fuck Tom! Please… you beg on the verge of cumming.

-Please what baby? Use your words if you want something… says Tom smirking as he slows a bit down.

-I want to cum please! you say tears of pleasure in your eyes.

-Then cum for me Princess. Cum for Daddy. orders Tom circling your clit with the palm of his hand.

You explode, your mouth wide open in a silent scream, your cunt clenching his erection hard. You don’t have the time to recovers that Tom is pulling out, turning you on all four and thrust back in. He sets up the same pace, gripping your hair with one hand and your hips with the other one.

-Again? you say breathless.

-Sweetheart, I intend to make you cum at least three times on my dick tonight. he says into your ear.

Tom thrust two more times before halting, spilling into the condom as he comes. His release triggers yours and you climax again screaming his name. He groans in pleasure and your arms give up. You fall on your stomach, eyes half closed, completely spent and satisfied.

He pulls out then use his shirt to clean the mess between your legs then lay down at my side. You roll over to cuddle against him and he wraps an arm around you. You both lay in silence for a while, the only sound being our breathing. That was the best sex you ever had and you understands now the rumors about him.

-Apologies accepted. you say giggling.

Tom laugh. A real, sincere laugh. It’s the first time you hear it and you like it.

-I’m happy to hear it. I was wondering if well… if you want to go on a date with me? he asks suddenly shy.

You don’t hesitate when you answer him. You realize he might not be a complete asshole after all and you want to know the real him personally.

-I would love that Tom. you reply smiling.

He looks at you surprised but happy. It makes your heart melt.

-Really?

-Yes really.

Tom kisses you tenderly before it slowly turns into something more heated. You feel him harden again and you look at him surprise but aroused.

-Again? you say raising an eyebrow.

-Well I did tell you that I would at least make you come three times on my cock…

You kiss him again and he kept his promise. When you wake up the next morning in his arms, you are sore in a very good way and have a soft smile on your face.

My first ever Tom Ryder fic 🥵❤️ I love him so much it’s unfortunate that there is not enough fics about him :(

Tag: @tangerineboss @pretty-little-mind33

[temptresstitania]

You wrote this in your caard:

"DO NOT EVER ASK ME ABOUT RACE 'PLAY'. RACE 'PLAY' IS INHERENTLY RACIST."

And you paraphrased that on your pinned post too.

How do you understand this about race fetishes but deny this about fat fetishes?

How do you acknowledge the abuse, objectification, and oppression that one group endures but make a whole ass post denying the abuse, objectification, and oppression of another group?

Your hypocrisy is astounding.

just to preface: i really hope you're not white sending me this ask lol. i think you misunderstood what that post was saying. My post was not about the abuse, objectification, or oppression of fat people, because I did not want to discuss that, not because I do not think it exists. In the notes of that post, I wrote an addendum that I think it would be great for you to read if you haven't. Furthermore, someone also wrote a wonderful sentiment in a reblog of my post that discusses that manifestation of fatphobia through fetishism clearly. I want to make it clear what the difference between raceplay and a fetish for larger bodies is. Raceplay fetishisizes racism. It fetishisizes specifically the oppression Black people face and how that manifests into gender roles and sex. You cannot participate in raceplay without participating in racism. That's an integral part of the fetish. Considering a rounder stomach more attractive than a flat one is not the same thing as lusting after a man with dark skin because you think he will be more "rough" or "dominant" with you. Raceplay is not the same thing as having a preference for an appearance. Fetishizing the systemic oppression of fat people, or fetishizing the dehumanization of fat people is not the same thing as being aroused by a specific body type. But as I mentioned in my addendum, this does not exist within a vacuum. Biases and fatphobia may obviously inform what you find attractive and how you find it attractive. I also use the word fetish in different ways. Fetishization as a concept in terms of theory and how to describe oppression presented through sex, partnership, or aesthetic (because fetishization in this context is not always sexual) is different than the term fetish in the context of something that arouses you. Obviously there is overlap, but I really want to stress the difference here, because my post was not saying what you think it said. I'm saying fat bodies and their attributes can simply be appreciated and enjoyed, in the same way that any other body can simply be appreciated and enjoyed. Also I want to mention acknowledgement of intersectionality. Fat people and Black people are not mutually exclusive. There can be racism within fetishization of fat people and fatphobia within fetishization of Black people. There is nuance to this whole conversation, but do not for a moment think I would ever dismiss the subjugation of fat people. I am literally a fat Black person, I experience this oppression intimately, compounded by my Blackness. That is just simply not what my post was about.

[hadesoftheladies]

Girlhood Is Surveillance

In the imaginations of most men, oppressive policing is done by a military force or officers of a district. Men are deployed, with weapons and uniform, to enforce the will of the state. They use violent means (or the threat of violence) to intimidate. Certain words are banned by the government and uttering them risks being locked up, done away with, killed.

Yet, the most powerful, pervasive, and far-reaching form of surveillance is the reality for most girls.

Oppressed groups typically go through more surveillance than the oppressing class. They are viewed with more suspicion, afforded less allowances, and must work harder to prove themselves worthy of basic rights. The government is aggressively involved. They mandate what schools can teach, what media houses can publish, what public speakers can say.

For girls, surveillance starts before they can walk. This kind of surveillance is an extension of the surveillance her mother endures from her peers. She is dressed appropriately in pink, in bonnets, in frills and baby bows. By the time she is five, she is policed by her closest relatives. She may or may not be allowed to run shirtless like her brothers. Especially when her uncles are there. She must not wear nail polish or she must play with makeup. She must wear tutus and dresses.

This also happens to boys, but in a much different way. The reason I describe girlhood specifically as surveillance is because in a patriarchal, pornified world, the boy's body is neutral, that is, not provocative. Not insulting.

The female body, on the other hand, is semiotically significant. It is a symbol of sex, of desire, of lust (at least as a man experiences it) and thus is wicked, crude, and crass. The girl is surveilled because on the streets, in the home, by anyone who looks at her, who she is is interpreted to be provocative. In other words, her femaleness, naked or evident, is hate speech. Or impolite language. Language that polite society cannot be seen to be having. Her shoulders, knees, hands, thighs, breasts, are pornography.

This is just a fraction of the surveillance of girlhood.

As she grows up, she learns there are ways she must sit, things she must not know, things she must not say, and things she must wear. Her mother (and sometimes father) are the chief police on these things. They watch her, check her before going out, frisk her to make sure the skirt is not rising above her knees, the hijab is in place, etcetera.

On the streets, the girl learns, that she is also being watched by others. Men whistle at her as she walks to primary school. She learns how easy it is to be shamed as a girl. By teachers, strangers on the road, girls in school, boys at the playground. For having hairy legs, a crooked (normal) nose, a bare face, a face that isn't bare, too much height, too big boobs, too small boobs, thin lips or full lips, a flat butt, a butt that shows, etcetera.

She censors her womanhood when it comes. For if her brothers or father see her blood in the toilet, that is her body once again being provocative. Perhaps she becomes aware as a teenager, of the inequality and injustice. If she speaks out, she will be met with a host of police ready to put a stop to it. Her best friend will say, "Some women like looking beautiful. It is not a crime to want to be beautiful. You are judging me." Her mother will say, "Girls libidos don't matter. Sex is not for girls to enjoy, but for men." Her father will say, "Don't worry your pretty little head about things you don't understand." They will all dismiss, all shame, all hush her. They will call her ungrateful, a lesbian (which means social outcast, unnatural, inhuman, wrong), a radical, or a child throwing a tantrum. All of which are threats, whether or not they recognize them as such.

This policing system does not need the use of officers or the military much because the narrative is in society's consciousness. The people will police deviants themselves after the government tells them what the deviants look like and gives them the stakes of noncompliance. This kind of surveillance is also older than the government, if not as old as it is. It's oldness makes it that much more difficult to notice and resist.

The people who love you become the police. They will snitch on you to their peers if you do not conform. Your mother will tell your aunts and grandmother. Your father will joke about you with your brothers. Your sister will tell on you to the popular girls. And these are not the worst kind. Most girls, like every other animal, every other human being, will go the route with the most ease and the best chance at survival.

They will conform. They will cross their legs. Do their hair according to their age. Paint or not paint their nails. Wear the hijab. Wear skirts that go over the knee. Wear the pink. Curl their hair. Smear the lipstick, eyeliner, mascara. Put the powder and glitter on themselves. Wear the heels and stockings. Kiss the boy, etcetera.

And now, because they've been told how closely they're being watched, for their looks, whether their clothes are appropriate or not, whether their mothers are happy or not, whether their brothers feel threatened or disgusted by their pads or their tomboyishness or not, whether they are excelling too much in sports or academia or too little, whether they are smart or not, whether they are fat or not, whether they are acceptable or provocative or not . . . it becomes of paramount importance that they surveil themselves. Because they are in a hypervigilant state. They are in survival mode.

Girls are their own self-police. Harsh on every angle and feature. Because they have been told that people pay special attention to them everywhere they go. And to some degree, this is true. Everyone is easily insulted by femaleness, because femaleness is provocative. Please note, not femininity, femaleness. Femininity is camouflage because it signals conformity. Agreeing with the narrative that insists that the female body is the symbol for sex or motherhood. That the female body is pornography. The women that flaunt their bodies and say, "I am sexy and want you to know it!" are conforming. The women that hide their bodies and duck their heads to show meekness toward their God are conforming. None of them challenge the assertion that the female body is by-default provocative, an invitation to sex, shameful.

Now, surveillance has expanded. You see girls tilting their heads in one direction on their cameras because they believe this is their best side. They all have makeup or makeup filters. That thin their faces and enlarge their eyes. That make their lips a little fuller. They gag themselves and retch up nutrients and food in order to keep themselves safe. Obsessed with beauty and meekness because it is their livelihood. What secures them in society.

And yet . . . does it? Little girls are killed for a little hair showing from beneath their headscarf. Young women are murdered by the men whose advances were rejected. Toddlers are whistled at by grown men on the street. Teenage girls are the sex symbol of the generations in TV shows, movies, music videos. Mothers starve their girls, physically and emotionally abuse their girls, to keep them compliant. Girls have burn marks, scars, wounds from conformity. They have blistered feet and bra lines burned into their ribcage.

The government is not inactive, either. It does not punish femicides. It mandates forced birth. It regulates population by regulating the human female, rather than the male that has been left to run amock. Who starts these pregnancies and is responsible for any statistic for violence in the general population. It ensures that women need men to survive the economy. It ensures that women are successfully sold and bought for the economy. The pimps need their money, after all. And the president needs the pimps. The oligarchs need their workers, too. Workers need mothers to create them and wives to sustain them. Girlhood is the governments business.

A girl will blame herself for how her boyfriend treats her, for being raped. She will then, instead of looking at the world, at the perpetrator, will police herself and other girls around her even more aggressively. Violently.

Surveillance is most powerful when privacy is destroyed and the person made into a data point to be exploited. Girls do not have privacy, for their private parts are taboo discussions in public life. They are offensive discourse and so must be suppressed and regulated.

Girlhood is living under the most extreme and powerful form of surveillance, where everyone is the girl-police, including the girl herself.

[banana-with-a-bow-tie]

does the Bible say marriage is only one man and one woman? I’ve been seeing some controversy about that on my dash and some saying the scripture was never clear about that.

The Bible could not be more clear about this. Marriage is rooted in the created order. Genesis 2:24

For this reason a man will leave his father and mother and be united to his wife, and they will become one flesh.

Jesus affirms that design in Mark 10:6-7 citing God's created order of marriage between a man and woman committing to each other until death is not meant to be broken. God wants this relationship to be completely pure, no third parties involved, not even in the thought life which He considers adultery of the heart (Matt 5:28). Proverbs 5 warns to be faithful to the wife of your youth and not go straying into relationships with adulterous women.

This design of God is good because He is good. Humanity cannot exist without this design. Man and woman getting together is how human beings are born. It doesn't work any other way. Nature makes it obvious, but our sinful opposition to God makes us pursue unnatural desires

Romans 1:24-28

Therefore God gave them up in the lusts of their hearts to impurity, to the dishonoring of their bodies among themselves, because they exchanged the truth about God for a lie and worshiped and served the creature rather than the Creator, who is blessed forever! Amen. For this reason God gave them up to dishonorable passions. For their women exchanged natural relations for those that are contrary to nature; and the men likewise gave up natural relations with women and were consumed with passion for one another, men committing shameless acts with men and receiving in themselves the due penalty for their error. And since they did not see fit to acknowledge God, God gave them up to a debased mind to do what ought not to be done.

God hates unfaithfulness in marriage and the corruption of His design because He created marriage to reflect His own goodness.

Ephesians 5:31-32

"Therefore a man shall leave his father and mother and hold fast to his wife, and the two shall become one flesh.” This mystery is profound, and I am saying that it refers to Christ and the church.

Paul, quoting God's created order in Genesis 2, says that the relationship between a husband and wife shows us what Christ has done for His Church. Christ nourishes and cherishes those who believe in Him and gave up His life for them, and the Church loves and honors Him.

When we say marriage doesn't really matter and can mean whatever we want it to mean we are saying God's love does not endure forever, that we do not need Him to provide for us and we do not need to honor Him. We can be our own gods and find love in our own ways. You cannot have love without God because God is love (1 John 4:16).

Love becomes entirely about me and what I want instead of sacrificing and serving for someone else. That self-centered world is how we create our own destruction.

[simp-ly-writes]

Personal Hell (pt.9) Snippet

Pairing: (Hazbin Hotel) Lucifer Morningstar x demon overlord!Reader

A/N: a bit of what is to come, thank you all for waiting so patiently- really appreciate it!! School is fighting with me but only a bit longer to go! I'll try and have the complete chapter out as soon as I can. :)

Masterlist | Taglist | edited.

Clapping your hands together, hundreds of fireflies hurry themselves towards the ceiling- illuminating the space as you spin with a satisfied hum. Mahogany shelves line behind a grand desk that sits on a taller platform than your own. The chair demands a demanding presence without a body filling its seat, memories of you refusing to look up towards this very desk has you looking back over your shoulder as Lucifer leans against the doorframe with a lazy smile across his face. “Sometime it has been since I have been in this room…” he sarcastically comments, watching as a spider crawls its way across the floor and into a windowsill filled with cobwebs as your cringe in thought to all the eyes of the creature staring back at you. 

Shaking your head, disrupting a shiver, you make your way up to the desk, leaning on its surface as your hands trail over the various letters you had sent capturing your adventures and battles before taking up a full-time position at the palace. You hum out, picking up a letter with dried black blood, flipping it over and ushering out the note as it reads, “Best of Mornings, Queen Lilith and Company. I write to you today as an update from the front lines of outer rings. The civil war is soon to be under control once again as discussions have progressed with the deadly sins, I report that from now on I will no longer be talking to Lust after a… personal encounter. Flipping the page, there is a list of necessary equipment to be sent towards the western front that I will be maintaining come morning. To address your earlier concerns, I have endured minor injuries in the fight yet I cannot speak for the hundreds of my fellow brothers and sisters that have become ill in recent time- I cannot urge enough for supplies to come at the earliest moment. Sincerely, General Peacekeeper: your entrusted confidant, historian, and ally.” 

Your finger glides over your panicked writing, you remember writing this note while swords and bullets crashed over your head while knee deep in the trenches. Dead-man's land was littered with corpses, the scent vile- burning your nose with its decay as you readied the line for yet another charge as you powered up your shadows in the turning of nightfall. You fail to notice as Lucifer has taken a seat at his desk, his legs spread as he pats his thigh, motioning for you to take a seat as you both continue reading through yet another distant lifetime. 

One of his warm palms rests on your thigh, sneaking its way upwards as your breath hitches, swinging yourself to point him a glare. You both freeze as the door slams open and a dozen staff members present themselves to you, wide-eyed and seemingly in a frenzy. Taking a stand quickly, you jump down the stairs and listen to the hurried sentences they all speak out at once- barley picking up any of the words except for three that continue to get repeated, “Charlie, Speech, War.” 

Shit. You whisper underneath your breath, your battle armor settling against your skin in an instant, clashing against your spear as you swing it to rest on your back. Lucifer stumbles to a stand, running around the desk yet you fall to the floor and into the cracks between the wood in a blink, travelling through the shadows towards the Hotel as the King grips out his hair- cursing himself. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Hazbin Hotel Masterlist

↳ Taglist: @jtcat305 @tati-the-fangirl @randomgurl2326 @22carolina08 @amarokofficial @cynjinx0 @legacyreadsfics @repentant-repeller @ly-doodels

[rapha-reads]

To those of you wondering (aka no one), I finished both The Vampire Armand and Merrick and I have a lot of thoughts and feels. I'm skipping Blood and Gold for now to go directly to Blackwood Farm (I'll read B&G later), but first I'm going to read something else, just to take a break.

TVA thoughts: man, Armand is messed up. And extremely compelling. But so messed up. As always, the theme of faith crisis, which seriously reaches new heights with these bitchy vampires, is not something I can fully immerse myself in, but it was fascinating to see his numerous metamorphosis. I liked how he bridges Western and Eastern Christianisme, especially through art. Now I'm thinking that if Rolin Jones makes him originally Muslim in the show, that could expand even more the conversation on how faith, and especially Abrahamic faith, has been in conversation for thousands of years and could be such a rich, diverse and spiritual, intellectual and artistic theme. I can already imagine some fascinating discussions comparing (not in a superior way but in a complementary way) coming from Muslim faith to Roman Catholic faith, the way book!Armand talks about the richness of his life in Kiev Rus despite the poverty and ascetism, and the richness of his life in Venecia despite the luxury and abundance.

As for Benamin and Sybille... I don't have much thoughts about them. Sybille is one of those female characters AR seemingly favors, not so much human as a nymph or a dryad, "perfectly splendid". And Benji is a caricature of an Arab child. Nuance? 401 not found.

Merrick thoughts: David for the love if everything, shut. The. Fuck. Up. Holy moly. I like David, I do, but damn the entire recollection of his history with Merrick was looooooong. I'm here to see Louis haunted by Claudia and haunting Lestat's coma, not how hard you're pining for the kid you practically raised! Also. ALSO. You're just going to leave that whole thing with the Olmec or possibly another more ancient Mesoamerican civilisation without ever giving us more? That was the most interesting part of it all! The vodoo history, the connection between Louisiana and Caribbean vodoo and old Native South-American religions! More about this, less about Merrick's perfect breasts, I am begging you. (It is at this point that the reader of this post realises OP is 100% definitely ace and more interested in books and witchcraft than breasts and whether a 70yo man can still get it up - also, hey, Anne Rice's vampires are practically asexual and their lust and pleasure is mostly derivated from blood, with some notable exceptions like Armand and Marius, and a love relationship between two vampires is then based on romantic love and blood sharing, so can I hear a hell yeah for some ace representation or are we still conflating eroticism with sex)

Another thing I kept thinking about throughout the book is how Louis is perceived by his fellow vampires. Since basically the second book, since we've lost his own POV, everybody who's ever said anything about him (so Lestat, Armand and David) have insisted on two points: how very weak and meek Louis is, and also how irresistible, beautiful and charming. Granted, I've known Louis first through his portrayal on the show (hi Jacob you're so fiiiiiiine), and then through his own narration in the first book, but I've never had the impression that he was weak. Beautiful and seductive, yes. Weak? I see a human man going through tragedies and still enduring, going through vampiric transformation and then suffering for decades the loss of his humanity, struggling with reconciliating both sides of himself, but mostly I see a vampire who rebuilt himself after losing everything without sacrificing his sense of self. I see Louis as very strong actually (up to the point where resilience breaks, because resilience cannot be sustained on a long term, but that's another debate). He knows who he is, and don't you know how hard that is? He doesn't cling to faith or pride. He knows he's doomed, he knows he's monstrous, he knows there's nothing he can do to change that, and instead of railing against his fate, he goes on about his undead life. He gets his books and he reads them, he surrounds himself with literature and what little comforts he thinks in his shattered self-esteem he deserves (his ragged sweaters and soft trousers); let's not lie to ourselves tho, Louis doesn't like himself, or more exactly he doesn't care about his corporeal body - what matters to him is his mind, and once again, this author is extremely ace and also very aro and very nonbinary, so Louis to me is very much ace and agender coded, though really not aro, because his love for Lestat (and sometimes his fondness, shall we say, for Armand) is the only thing that can rouse him up from his literary slumber.

...

Oh, man, I have a lot to say about Louis, for how little he appears in the books so far. Still have BF, BC and the PL trilogy to devour. So I guess you can say, for as much as Lestat is occupying my entire brain, very much like him, my favorite is Louis? Yeah, that tracks. Melancholy, quiet, dark-haired green-eyed monster with more humanity than humans, preferring his solitude and the company of books to anyone else, hopelessly and helplessly devoted to one person, expert in brooding and grieving, literature specialist, not very attached to his physical self. Yeah. I'm not surprised.

[na-t0]

𝘚𝘪𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘳

Nicholas D. Wolfwood x reader (fem)

nsfw . male masturbation . multiple mentions of religious themes . minors please do not interact

"I believe in God, the Father almighty, creator of heaven and earth...shit, what's next?"

Despite of what others think, Nicholas D. Wolfwood has come to the conclusion that he is indeed, the perfect example to belie the thought commonly held by people that him, and all the other children of the Lord who is high in the heavens, are made in his image and likeness. He is just a man, a mere mortal, vulnerable and weak in the face of temptation, son of original sin. Trying to atone for, and amend, the errors that life has brought within his path, and from which he cannot seem to escape.

Same life that unfortunately has also placed him in the way of your so intoxicating self. As if it were an unforgivable and cruel test to endure the strength of his already cracked spirit, a test to prove how much he is capable of resisting when the sharp claws of lust slowly scratch his back when he tries to sleep and the image of your beautiful face invades his mind. He also claims being able to feel them scratching once again when, after what seems like an eternal week of waiting, he manages to spot you sitting among the 47 people that fit in the orphanage’s chapel at the time of the religious ceremony he presents on Sundays at 10 in the morning.

Nicholas talks to himself all the time. He talks about a whole bunch of different things to stay busy and distant from the loneliness that his profession entails. He also writes, on a small black notebook that shamelessly reads Holy Bible on its cover, which he keeps in the inside pocket of his suit all day. It is possible to find random thoughts scrambled between its pages, occasional unfinished sketches of the kids who visit him frequently, prayers and attempts at poetry that, despite the ease he possesses to release a speech towards an audience made up of people full of faith in the word he preaches every weekend, the simple idea that one day you might inadvertently read what lies on those yellowish paper sheets terrifies him to the point where he can feel each and every one of his nerve endings on the surface of his skin, pulsing with the same intensity as the wings of a flying hummingbird.

He writes for you, more specifically. Even though in life, there are weaknesses that sometimes, do not allow the deepest feelings of the heart to flourish freely.

"I am just an object waiting to be ashes, and it is precisely for that reason that I would like my body to burn until it is consumed as one with yours. So at the end, dust will be the only thing that remains of our spirits, mixed together, to be later carried away by the wind of this unforgiving desert we call home."

“I have reached such a degree of insanity that, not even with the help of a thousand divine healing rites, my composure will return. I have even considered exchanging the blood of as many sinners as necessary to the Devil in order to melt into the blazing but purifying fire that surely arises with the single touch of your lips, and if you allow me, to endulge in the perfect contradiction that lies between your legs. A place both sacred and infernal, a place where good and evil converge and is powerful enough to drive even the most righteous and ruthless of religionists to an infinite madness. A place that I can only imagine feels like heaven and hell at the same time, capable to burn but also soothe the wounds in the soul of a disgraceful believer, one such as myself, your humble servant.”

“And I am not ashamed to affirm in front of the cross in which the son of God was punished because of filth like me, that, your mere presence encourages me to violate every order imposed by the invisible power of my belief, all that for what he, the same guy I mentioned earlier, sacrificed himself for in the first place. He sacrificed himself for you and especially for me, and above all, for the atrocities that come with the human race to disappear from the world. Such as the kind of things that flood my mind when my gaze manages to distinguish a little glimpse of your underwear when you put on that pretty dress of yours and you take a seat in the front row. A dress I like to imagine you only use for me.”

When Sunday comes, the ceremony starts and it's your turn at the moment of communion. It all happens in a matter of minutes every single time, a fleeting contact that is difficult to remove from his system. The host is delicately held by Wolfwood's hands as he stares at you, the abyss of his obsidian orbs capturing your attention to ask for your permission. You nod and look back at him too, subtly batting your eyelashes and slowly sticking out your tongue in an inviting way, that more than innocent, seemed diabolical, as if you knew which cards to move to obtain an absolute victory. And he feels it, he feels something struck his chest. Like a pair of magnets who can't fight the silent attraction that tries to unite them. You glance at the thick fingers infront of you for an instant, and then once again, you lift your stare towards him to take the host. His breathing stopped the moment he felt the back of his fingers get in contact with the wetness of your tongue while accommodating the wafer on it, and he almost, just almost, stutters in his words, but he doesn't, it takes all of his will not to. He blinks and his hand moves away from your lips to continue with the the other presents. You turn around and go back to your place without looking back. Luckily for him, the robe that covers his body does not allow to reveal any trace of what could give away his growing hunger for you.

Reminiscing something that he himself already wrote once in his notebook.

“It’s a disgusting sight, truly. How you take the sacramental bread from the hands of a sinful bastard, how you try to be purified by the same hands that are permanently stained with the obscene thought of consuming your body, your entire being. But you don’t have an idea of how much I love it, how much I want you to be mine.”

The lecture finished at 10:57 a.m. Nicholas remembers glancing at the watch on his wrist to regain the track of time he lost when you got close to his body. Seeing that people were starting to get up, he decided to clean his instruments to leave everything in order, and at the same time, bring some peace to his mind. He didn't have long arranging his space when Wolfwood felt a sudden and intense urge to look back, and when he did, you were the first thing that he focused on, stumbling upon the surprise of your eyes already searching for his while walking to the exit, wearing the most precious smile he’s ever seen on your face. A smile just for him.

By 11:23 a.m. the chapel was completely empty and Wolfwood walked with an unbearable weight on his feet towards the confined space of the confessional, along with a box of matches in hand that he took from an old cabinet. He closed the door, took a seat and leaned his head against the wall, which protested with a slight screech, as if it knew what was going through the troubled man's mind. Of course you appeared immediately, the images of every time you two have exchanged greetings in the streets, in the market, or even at the events to raise funds for the orphanage.

First came the color of your eyes, which seemed to dominate and illuminate the darkness of the small space he was in, then your eyebrows and the expressions that characterize your words while speaking. Thirdly, your mouth, the Eden he dreams of so much, reflected in the shine that your lips acquire when you bite and wet them with saliva. Imagining how they move to the compass of your voice, if they are rounded, if you smile or if you stay quiet. Nicholas raised his right hand and gently touched his own mouth to try to calm the urgency of joining it with yours. He closed his eyes and remembered the slight meeting he had with it an hour ago. The warmth of your breath on his knuckles and the softness he touched with the pads of his mistreated fingers. How easy would it be to draw a whimper out of you, the sweetest sound he can think of. His pants began to feel more and more uncomfortable with every passing minute, the pressure exerted by the growing erection in his groin started to become unbearable. Will he be able to obtain salvation if he confesses everything, here and now?

"God...please" And just as he often does, he began to talk. "I want her more than...a-anything in this world...can't I have her either?" The hand that previously touched your lips, traveled up to his crotch and gave a first cautious squeeze, allowing himself to be carried away by the venom of the serpent that condemned us all as sinners centuries ago, which little by little contaminated his veins and blinded his sight. Now not only did he imagine the Eden in your beauty, he was about to enter that precious place, only to break the rules. "I haven't been...a g-good man, but..." His breathing began to falter, with great gulps of air, his chest rose and fell, trying to oxygenate his racing heart. "I swear I...I can treat her right." The restraint of the stiff bottoms was starting to be painful for Nicholas, so he reached for the button, hastily undoing it to reach into his underwear. The burning heat of desire greeting him. And as he could, he pulled out his member from the base without removing his pants. The cold edge of the zipper brushed against the prominent veins of his rigid sex while his hand tried to conciliate the relief he so desperately needed. He kept traveling with his mind through your neck, your chest, your waist and your navel, the unknown nudity that he longes for unfolding before him in an imaginary scenario within the four small walls of the confessional. His breathing became more and more disturbed and growls began to sprout from the depths of his being.

"I'm sorry, God...I'm so s-sorry" He started to apologize because he knows exactly what is next. He enjoys being rough with his wicked self, he is violent. Pulling his own hair with one hand while the other strokes himself harshly. He spits on the tip, and watches how saliva slowly rolls to the base. He grunts, an animalistic type of sound that reveals the wildest part of his existence, his human predatory instinct, the part that he tries to repress with calling himself a preacher of the Lord’s word. He likes to tighten the grip in his member to the point where the veins on his forehead begin to become visible and the color of his shaft changes entirely with the accelerated flow of blood. Suffocating in his own body, a prisoner of his dark desires.

"Our Father, who...a-art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done, on earth as it is...i-in heaven." It was in that moment when he began to pray. And the drops of fluid that came out of his slit with anticipation gave his hand more access to stroke with a quicker pace. From outside the confessional, it was possible to hear the faint slippery sound of friction from skin to skin and the murmured pleas of a man sunk in perdition.

"Give us this day our daily bread, a-and forgive us our trespasses...as we forgive those who trespass against us, and lead us not into temp-temptation...but deliver us from...evil."

Would God be able to truly forgive such an act?

"A-Amen."

And it's just when he finishes his pleas that he finds himself betrayed by his own mind, letting your name slip from his lips, over and over again, like a renovated prayer, but profane and corrupted. The peculiar burning sensation in the lower part of his abdomen starts to approach. He bites the collar of his white camisole and drool escapes from the sides of his mouth in the delirium of a near orgasm. Squeezing his eyes shut he imagined your breasts swaying in front of his face as you grind on top, your angelic face contorted with the ecstasy of a fictional encounter, and your core eagerly receiving each of his thrust. The sweet aroma that your sweat must have and all the possible ways you could moan his name.

"Ni..cholas, ah...Nicholas...Nic..."

The entirety of his skin crawls to the thought. And his hips begin to move with an unbridled, involuntary frenzy, consequence of the carnal instinct that species keep hidden in their bodies.

"Oh...God..please, please...ple-please." He calls uselessly for the only one who could redeem him, the only one who could accept a sin like this. Finally, he rapidly drags his hand a couple of last times and the orgasm begins to hit his senses. A last growl comes out of his chest before his teeth unconsciously loosen the fabric of the shirt to let out a deafened cry. With some last thrusts, his hips rise in a lost rhythm from the bench on which he is sitting as his seed spills violently into his right hand, staining some of the fabric of his black pants along the way.

The warm sensation of contact with his own release brings him back to himself, and he can only at this point, contemplate more clearly the mistake he has made.

“Divine forgiveness, what a bunch of shit.”

He drops the other hand that was tugging at his brunette locks in the heat of the momentum inside his pocket, pulls out a cigarette, places it in his mouth and proceeds to wipe the remains of cum on his right palm with a handkerchief, so he can pick up the matches he had brought with him, light the stick, and take a hit, trying to quell with smoke the latent nectar of lonely intimacy impregnated in the air. He takes a few moments to let the haze of the moment pass completely as he watches the mess in his lap and his now softened member.

The cigarette is half finished, he is a fast smoker.

He inhales and exhales once more, and then, there’s a subtle, almost silent, knock on the door, followed by what he recognizes is your voice coming from the rusty confession room's grate.

“F-Father Nicholas...?”

[lilymooreauthor]

"Ghost, Can I please see your face?” I purr, leaning forward, resting my hands on his knees, he lifts a hand to cup my chin rubbing his calloused thumb over my bottom lip. I part my lips and he pushes his thumb into my mouth and I lick the tip. Slowly he pushes more into my mouth and I moan as I suck his thumb into my mouth before biting down gently.

“That’s better love, much better” and without a seconds warning, he loops his arms under my underarms and lifts me to straddle on his lap. Our faces are millimeters away from each other, I can feel his cock harden underneath my ass and I take the opportunity to move forward grinding

against him. Simon’s head tips backwards and his Adam’s apple bobs and his hands lower to grab my ass.

He leans forward whispering into my ear, “Love, if you’re going to start grinding those sexy little hips against my cock, don’t stop”.

I grind myself against his length again and we moan in unison as his head falls back again. I take the opportunity to slide my hands up his bare chest, tracing over his shoulders before hooking my thumbs under the base of his mask under his chin. I feel his heart rate pick up as he uses his hands on my ass to firmly grind my hips back and forth on his lap.

“Don’t be scared love, lift the mask but once you do, there’s no going back. You’ll be mine, I’ll own you, all of you, just like you’ll own me, there won’t be a place on this earth that I cannot find you, there’s not a part of you that won’t belong to me.”

Simon reaches up, grabbing my wrists but not pulling me away, “I’m serious Sam, you lift that mask, and you’re mine,” he breaths into my ear. He removes his hands from my wrists, placing them firmly back on my hips. He squeezes my ass, hard enough to bruise tomorrow, hard enough to be intoxicating. My breath hitches as I begin to lift the mask.

I’m all in.

The dried blood has stuck the mask to Simon’s face so I try to be gentle not forgetting the reason he came to me in the first place was a huge laceration to his side, multiple broken ribs, a swollen eye and a possible concussion with a side of internal bleeding. In all the lust I have completely forgotten that this man just came back from a three month mission in complete and utter pain, yet here I am grinding myself on his rock hard cock desperately hoping he’ll fuck me to oblivion before the sun rises.

“Sam, just take off the mask baby, I’ve endured worse pain than you tearing this off. You’ve seen most of me already,” he winks.

[homunculus-argument]

One thing I always find fun in fiction is how different POV characters' descriptions of other characters differ from each other - nobody sees other people the exact same way.

In one unfinished fantasy book I had, having the ability to wield magic is genetic, and though most people of Wielder Blood are only passive carriers of the trait (it only manifests actively in women, male wielders are essentially unheard of), it has another feature that is always active: people with wielder blood can sense each other.

While it varies from person to person - some wielders emit a stronger signal than others, and some are more sensitive to it - the effect itself is the same: adrenaline. Wielders are tense, irate, passionate or anxious around each other. Since they come in families, and families form alliances, and they physically cannot be normal around or about each other, their familial and romantic relationships are generally intense, violently shifting and torrid. They either love of hate each other, and that coin can flip unpredictably.

There's one character who wasn't born into a Wielder House, the mutation sometimes happens spontaneously among common people. She never met other wielders before adulthood, and had no idea of what the Sense is. She herself senses other wielders very weakly, being hardly even aware of them, and her own "scent" is absolutely overpowering. The only way she notices other people of wielder blood is that they drop into full fight/flight/freeze/fawn before she even walks into the room.

She's first introduced through the eyes of a man from a wielder family - he doesn't just Sense her as soon as she walks in, but before it. Sitting in a room, he suddenly feels that there's Something Terrifying on the other side of that door, before he even hears the approaching footsteps. And as soon as she opens the door, he practically collapses in an overwhelming wave of awe and fear vaguely mixed with lust at the sight of her. Funnily enough he was never taught about the Sense either, so he has no idea why this woman has such an effect on him. Mainly, he's terrified of her, infinitely relieved and grateful of her (repeated, and very confused) reassurances that she has no intention to harm him.

For the first few chapters she's in, she's described through the eyes of other wielders, as an overpowering and otherworldly, awesome and terrifying radiant goddess, who is almost devastatingly indifferent about the effect she has on them. If sensing another wielder usually feels like trying to ignore a lit candle in an otherwise dark room, she is like the sun.

Then we meet her husband, who has zero wielder blood. He doesn't understand what the fuss is about. Through his eyes, she's just a completely regular and ordinary woman - an excellent woman, which is why he married her, but still only mortal. Ten years older than him, slightly grey at the temples and plump in the right places, and an even, stable and sensible personality. There is no buckwild torrid storms of lust and hate, worship and terror between them. She married him because he's reliable and sensible, and he married her because she's reliable and sensible.

Once they are introduced to the society of Wielder Houses, the women put on a brave face to endure her presence, while the men are gracefully allowed to withdraw to their own Men's Hall, to protect their delicate constitutions from being torturously overwhelmed. Her husband follows them for the lack of better ideas of what to do, and one of his new peers asks him how he can endure her constant presence without going insane. How was he so brave that he was willing to marry a rending typhoon.

None of them believe him when he frankly tells them that he married her because she's the only one who doesn't think his cooking is bad.

[xjulixred45x]

OKEY I know I should be working on JJK's other works now, but I have to talk about Helluva Boss as someone who studied the Divine Comedy (a work that Vivziepop based on to create hell and some characters) and say that it is INCREDIBLE.

First of all, ASMODEUS AND BEELZEBU, I saw a lot of people confused about why they seem like good people while Mammon is an idiot, but it is actually something that is repeated in the book in a way, let me elaborate.

In the divine comedy, the sin of lust is just below purgatory, that is, it is the first sin, the first circle, the least serious of all, and contrary to what some believe, they are not people like rapists, but people who did "inappropriate" or taboo sexual acts for the time (such as sodomy), had sex before marriage, "forbidden" romances, etc.

Even the punishment given to these people is that they are separated into the air with hellish winds, and just when they are about to come into contact with someone/the person they love, they are separated at the last moment. My teacher even said "the worst punishment for lustful people was to have the person they loved within reach and not be able to touch them."

Which fits Asmodeus very well! we are literally told in the show that it is the least threatening sin of all. It's quite appropriate. Don't talk about the relationship he has with Fizz, I mean did you see how he was when he was kidnapped? He almost went crazy.

NOW WHAT I WANTED TO TALK ABOUT, THE BEE DESIGN.

Many, and I mean MANY, people complained about the design, I get it, it's a bit overloaded. but i was also able to find a VERY good reference to the Divine Comedy that somewhat excuses her appearance as a dog rather than a bee.

In the divine comedy, the Gluttons endure an endless hail shower under the ATTENTIVE EYE OF CAN CERBERUS.

CERBERUS.

The legendary 3-headed dog! Because yes, in the divine comedy they put several characters from various mythologies (although the Greek one was Dante's favorite, since Charon, the old man who passes souls to the other side of the Acheron river, also appears).

I think it better explains why they decided on that design for Bee and her attentive attitude towards the people in her circle. After all, gluttons eat without measure and don't know when to stop, but in theory Cerberus prevents them from escaping the circle, so Bee prevents them from reaching that extreme.

Regarding Mammon, I can see why they made him an idiot, in the divine comedy the greedy were seen as plainly selfish who withheld their goods or squandered them without control, it is something that you cannot get anything positive from (not like being a glutton at parties or being lustful for your partner for example). I really like that they made him a pure and simple villain.

and my last comment regarding the serious work of the circle of laziness, yes, we barely have anything, but from the little I saw, I already have a reference.

The people in the circle seem to be amphibians or reptiles, even fish (except for the goat doctor), which is quite ironic considering that in the book the sloths are constantly DROWNED.

(EDITH: I FUCKED UP, THE FISH AND AMPHIBIANS ARE FROM THE ENVY RING, FOR THE LEVIATHAN, NOT FROM THE SLOTH, THE ONLY FISH THAT IS FROM THE SLOTH IS THE SHARKS, SORRY ABOUT THAT ONE)

ahghg sorry you have to put up with my fangirling over La Divina comedia and Helluva Boss, I know many hate the series but I love it.

I'll write something about JJK soon, don't worry. Love ya.

[foxdev1l]

you need to share more of your thoughts because i know they are good tell me tell me tell me teeeell meeeee

thank you so much for this sweet message. since it's kept vague, i wasn't sure what kind of thoughts you wanted to hear, but i've recently spent a lot of time thinking about and writing down notes about a/b/o headcanons for the rg characters which you might be interested in. i've got notes for basically all of them, but Six's headcanon kind of grew a mind of its own. if anyone's interested in more, feel free to let me know

◇Sierra Six – Shed Skin◇

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54652036

Wordcount: 2.507

Summary: Six does not feel comfortable in his own skin

A/N: much love to @hollandstrophyhusband for helping me brainstorm and beta reading this for me. i hope you guys enjoy my little spin on Six and the omegaverse. might write a second part one day, who knows. there was some talk about six/colt...

Content warnings: nsfw, canon typical violence, self-destructive behavior, rough sex, dub con, identity issues

He presents unusually late, at the age of fifteen, and without any prior warning. It's almost like he's grown a second skin, one that is simultaneously too large and too tight on his scrawny body.

Courtland expects to feel relief. He's an Alpha, after all, the only child to follow in his father's footsteps.

His mother is born an Omega, awfully timid and quiet, and too afraid to raise her voice. His brother has presented as a Beta young, too gentle and too defiant at the same time. His father has always resented them both for different reasons.

So Court should be relieved, to have dodged a bullet, to escape his father's cutting disappointment.

But then his father takes one look at him, his ragged features contorted into a strange expression, something almost akin to pride. He sweeps his gaze over Court's haggard form, breathes in the heavy stench of a newly presented Alpha, and smiles. The smile is twisted, foreign, wrong; like the newly grown skin pulled taut over his frail bones.

Court feels nothing but repulsion.

“I don't think it fits,” he tells his father.

“It doesn't need to fit,” his father says, the contentment on his face turning sharper, more dangerous. “Just wear it like you own it.”

And so he does.

He tells himself things can be different. That it is still about choice. That his second skin does not come sodden in blood. He can learn to be comfortable wearing it, can accept his status, and still reject society's expectations. He can grow up to be a better Alpha than his old man ever was.

It's only when he's standing above the dying body of his father – the powder burns from his gun tainting his fingers black – that he's struck with the sudden realization that he's always been destined to inherit the violence of his father; that this blood-lusting rage is so deeply carved into his DNA, he cannot have one without the other.

He hardly gets any time to think the first few years locked behind bars. He's too busy avoiding becoming a target. He makes himself bigger than he's ever been, plays his part as the aggressive and strong Alpha, and it feels wrong, sickening, but it doesn't matter because this is not about his comfort but the mere act of survival.

He doesn't experience a proper rut until the CIA has him catching the chain. The abuse and trauma he physically and mentally had to endure over his lifetime have taken a toll on his system and fucked with his hormones enough to suppress any prior ruts.

Though he's never experienced one, he's heard of it. How it takes over one's body and mind, burning up the insides with a maddening fever of raw lust.

Court mainly feels pain.

The CIA pairs him up with an Omega. Court is far too gone to protest at that point, but he doubts it would've mattered anyway. The CIA doesn't seem to care much about his autonomy.

He doesn't know the Omega's name, can barely make out their face past his blurred vision. But he knows what's expected of him.

The Omega is nothing more than a piece of meat for the CIA to dangle in front of him, not much unlike a gnarled bone thrown in front of a starving dog. He's supposed to claim them, feast on them, gorge himself on their willingness to submit.

The Omega tells him it's alright, that they don't mind his roughness, the bruises he leaves behind no matter how much he tries to hold back. Court almost wishes they wouldn't have said anything at all.

His rut ends eventually, the fever subsiding without him ever finding relief. The Omega is taken away quickly afterward. Court never sees them again.

The CIA has provided him with a soulless room in a depressing, gray building, and he's allowed a break, an undisturbed couple of days to gather himself back up.

He takes a shower to try and wash away the last traces of his rut, turns the heat all the way up. It burns him worse than the rut but he doesn't step away from the water. Instead, he uses his hands and nails to scrub, scrub, scrub his skin raw, till it's red, red, red, but still there. Despite everything, it's still a part of him no matter how hard he tries to get rid of it.

He wants nothing more than to shed his own skin, peel it away until it detaches from his flesh, tear it apart, so all that remains is a bloody and shredded framework of bones.

What he once reluctantly accepted and exploited for the sake of safety and survival, he's now grown to outright despise, to reject.

He showers multiple times a day over the next week, rubbing and clawing at his skin until it's stung and irritated. It doesn't make him feel better, only leaves him aching and longing for a different life.

Once his break is up, the CIA gets his training underway. It's brutal and laborious and keeps him busy once more, but it also makes everything worse. The once scrawny, lanky boy has grown into a strong, deadly man who seems to fit every stereotype he's sworn to dismantle.

His hands seem to be constantly coated in blood nowadays. He has to stop looking into the mirror when his reflection keeps twisting into the wilted image of his father.

At least he gets put on heavy military-grade suppressants. It berefts him of his ruts and fucks with his pheromones enough to dampen the aggressive smell of his Alpha; but above else, it mainly makes him numb. Court doesn't complain. It's better than the alternative.

He tries to keep to himself, avoid other Alphas at all costs though that's not always possible. He hates it, feels so out of place, uncomfortable, and strangely alien when he's around others.

Rumors begin to spread like wildfire, and as much as he tries to stay unbothered, it makes his hackles rise. They assume he's an omega because why else would he be so tight-lipped, act so odd and deflective whenever the topic gets brought up.

He doesn't know what to think of that. The word Omega doesn't feel as scalding as its counterpart, but it still doesn't fully seem to fit.

It's a bitterly cold winter night when Six makes the decision to hook up with an Alpha for the first time. He finds him in a seedy bar, his cheeks flushed and lashes wet from the snow.

He's freshly off a mission. The gun has left indents in the palm of his hand and he believes he can still feel the sticky, crawling sensation of blood despite the hour-long shower he took.

The alpha is leaning against the beer-sodden bar when Six spots him, nursing a cheap whiskey with one big, calloused hand. He's tall, taller than the Sierra agent, a burly, broad frame with a handsome, aged face.

The stranger turns, then, meeting his gaze dead-on. Six's pulse ticks up, his insides twisting. He isn’t quite sure whether it's from arousal or repulsion.

His instincts are reeling deep below his sternum but he's feeling daring, still drunk on the adrenaline-fueled high of his most recent kill and desperately chasing for more, to break through the heavy, numbing haze of the suppressants.

He ends up with his face shoved against the rough wall behind the bar. The stranger doesn't grant him the comfort of a bed, merely tugs down both of their pants as far as necessary and kicks Six's feet apart. Six thinks he prefers it this way.

The man's merciful enough to work Six open, though it still hurts when he pushes inside. They have nothing but a condom, and Six has never done this before, is hardly prepared to take a single finger, much less the thick cock of another fucking Alpha.

The Alpha's obnoxious scent is filling up the entire alleyway. It's thicker than the smoke of cigars, impenetrable like the billowing fumes of the streets. It clogs up Six's nose, lays heavy on his tongue, sharp and bitter all at once.

Everything about the experience is uncomfortable; the fingers in his hair, tugging and pulling and pressing his cheek into the sharp bricks; the hand on his hip, digging into his bones, squeezing bruises into his flesh; the mouth on him, panting against the shell of his ear, licking and biting up the side of his throat.

Six flinches away when teeth scrape over the skin just below his scent gland but he doesn't get far. The Alpha crowds him further against the wall, keeping an unbreakable hold on him as he relentlessly thrusts into him from behind.

A grunt escapes Six's bloody lips, gut twisting in fear but when the stranger reaches out and grabs his cock, it's already painfully hard and it doesn't take long for him to spill all over the Alpha's sweaty hand.

The Alpha doesn't stop, taking more pleasure than he draws from him, and Six is left to moan against the cold brick wall. He's cold and his legs are trembling by the time the Alpha finishes and pulls away.

“You're not an Omega,” the stranger acknowledges and Six just shrugs because his lungs have yet to fill up with oxygen again.

“And neither are you a Beta.”

Six shakes his head.

The man regards him with a flat, unreadable expression, “I didn't peg you as an Alpha.”

Six simply spits a glob of blood onto the dirt-stained pavement, the inside of his cheek sore where he's bitten through it. Then he shrugs once more and stumbles away, out of the alleyway and back into the shadows.

It becomes a common occurrence after that. The CIA keeps him on a short leash but Six still finds time to slip away every few weeks. He goes looking for meaningless fucks with willing Alphas every chance he gets, in the dark corners of whatever shabby bar is closest to him. He keeps seeking them out no matter how uncomfortable they make him feel.

It's painful, shameful, to be reduced to nothing but a whimpering mess under the aggressive grasp of another Alpha, but he cannot help himself. There is a certain thrill at being forced to give up control. It's strangely alluring, addicting.

He doesn't get off on the pain. In fact, he deeply despises it. But there is a certain sense of detachment that comes with it. It's still not enough to chip away his second skin, but it makes it less restricting, more bearable, gives him something else to focus on.

And then Lloyd comes along and ruins everything.

Lloyd manages to do something no one else has ever done before – he takes one look at Six, gasping and writhering where he's pushed into the wall, chin forcefully tilted back with the muzzle of a gun, and sees right through him.

“Ohh,” he croons, “What a little, pathetic Alpha you are.” He leans in, nuzzles at the column of Six's throat, digs the gun deeper to expose more of the heated flesh.

Gritting his teeth, Six keeps himself deathly still. He swallows down a rising growl, not willing to give Lloyd the satisfaction of a reaction.

“Or,” Lloyd continues, “Is it Omega?” His smile is full of teeth, his leer predatory, and Six does the only thing he can think of.

He fishes for the grenade safely tucked in the pocket of his pants, and pulls the safety pin.

In hindsight, he should've killed Lloyd then and there.

What follows isn't Six's fault. He is aware of that even though it doesn't stop the guilt from eating away at him. His handler is dead, his protégé traumatized, and Six just yearns for a fucking nap.

He's never felt such deep-rooted anger like he does for Lloyd. The Alpha is loud and arrogant and violent, and Six would've torn his fucking face off if Suzanne hadn't stopped him in form of a bullet to his thigh.

The next few weeks are a blur of heavy sedatives and strong pain medication. He's used to feeling trapped but the cuffs binding him to the hospital bed make him sick to his stomach. He finds great satisfaction in ripping them apart.

Tracing Claire's whereabouts is easier than expected and it pisses him off because the CIA obviously doesn't care enough to provide a proper safe house.

He steps onto the property, the smell of blood of his guards at the hospital still sticking to his clothes. The violence of his actions, though necessary, has torn something open deep inside him, a festering wound he fears will never heal again.

Perhaps he is his father's son, after all. Perhaps he's never been anything else.

He feels like a stranger, not only in his skin but his very own bones as he gets closer to the safe house.

His body aches, most of his injuries still not fully healed but he sets his jaw and pushes forward. Breaking open a window at the back of the building, he heaves himself up onto the ledge.

As soon as both his feet are flat on the ground, he goes to work, not daring to waste time. The suppressants have dulled his scent enough to stay hidden as he puts down the vinyl cover and a sloppily written note.

Incapacitating the guards hardly takes any effort. It doesn't bring him any satisfaction, only further rips and gashes at the wound inside. But it's worth it in the end, when all is done, and the blood has begun to dry, and Six pushes open the door separating him from Claire.

Being reunited after being forcefully pried apart feels a bit surreal. Claire looks tired, worn, but her smile is sincere as she clings to him, her nails sharp as claws where they dig into Six's shoulders but he doesn't have the heart to step away.

Instead, he buries his face into her hair, catching the subdued but familiar scent of a young Alpha; intense but gentler somehow, softened by the sweet and mellow taste of wild flowers dried by the sun.

Claire.

The scent slips below his skin easily, effortlessly, soothing the ragged edges of the wound beneath.

Claire is still so awfully young. Too young to be burdened by bearing the weight of her status. And yet, she does not seem to let it drag her down. Despite being impressionable and at the mercy of her biology, through all the illness and grief and trauma, the brutality of the last few weeks – she's remained unchanged.

Her eyes are still kind, her touch still gentle, and her heart untinged.

Six presses her tighter against his chest, his grip white-knuckled where it's clutching the back of Claire's shirt. He takes a moment, then, allows himself to linger, to breathe in the soft, calming scent of his protégé. For once, it does not feel like he's suffocating in the confinement of his own skin.

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

Flesh and Blood

Part 1: The final jousts

Pairing: Prince Aemon the Dragonknight x Fem. Reader (Northerner /House Stark | Third Person POV)

Themes: Angst

Warnings: Mentions of prior sexual activity |Emotional neglect | References to canon Targcestuous marriages (Daena and Baelor) | The supposed “relationship” between Aemon and Naerys. 

Word count: 3.5k words

Summary: The marriage between the Dragonknight and his Stark wife was one of duty, despite his wife’s desire for something more. Things come to a head on the last day of the jousts.

Author’s notes: This is an AU version, but within the same timeline. In this story, Baelor is still king, but Aemon is not a member of the Kingsguard. This story takes place after Baelor is crowned king, sometime during 163 AC. Unfortunately I couldn’t find anything pertaining to the season during this time period, so I decided to go ahead and write all of this taking place during the height of summer.

Minors DNI

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A maid held up the gown for her to see. "Tis a fine thing, m’lady," Melara carefully laid it on the bed. "Perfect for a Targaryen princess."

Y/n sighed. She was not a Targaryen princess. She was a daughter of the North and a Stark, no less. Hers were the colors of the harsh winters that ravaged the land and the direwolves that lived in the forests. She was the blood of the first men, and here, in Kings Landing, she felt like she did not belong.

Still, she could not deny that the dress was exquisite. It was one of several that had been made before she left the North for her wedding. A silky confection of deep crimson with hints of black was sewn onto a bronze collar that sat around her throat, leaving her shoulders and arms bare. A belt of bronze medallions was cinched at the waist. Y/n had risen just before dawn to bathe and fix her hair, as her attendance at the tourney was expected. She did not want to go. To go meant to see her new husband, Aemon Targaryen. He was a prince of the realm, a warrior dubbed the Dragonknight, and her husband for almost half a year. A pious man, he was a faithful husband and nothing more than that. As soon as he did his duty, he would leave for his own chambers without so much as a goodnight. During the day, he would spend his time sparring with the other knights. When he was not sparring, he was in the Sept, praying. On other occasions, he would be in his sister’s company. Y/n considered herself fortunate that her husband came to her at night.

Oh, he was gentle; she was willing to concede that. Aemon was gentle, but his embraces were brief and left her wanting. The one time she talked to him about it and told him it was not enough and that she yearned for more warmth, he looked at her like she had uttered the vilest thing ever.

"Warmth leads to desire, and then lust. And lust is sin," he said, his look so cold it chilled her to the bone. "Never ask such a thing of me, my lady. I will not agree to it."

Y/n did not broach the matter after that and had to be content with his occasional visits at night and his indifference in the morn. And it stung. Oh, how it stung. Being ignored stung. Having to play last fiddle to everything else in the prince’s life stung. Watching him run after his sister while she was left alone, stung. Y/n loathed that most of all, having to watch Aemon willingly seek out his sister’s company and never hers. Y/n was exposed to the pitying looks and gossip of those at court. A Stark wife who cannot satisfy her husband, they said. She is probably as cold as ice, they said. Unworthy for the Dragonknight, they said. She endured still, thinking that if she was a dutiful wife, then her husband was sure to find something about her that appealed to his heart.

"M’lady?" Melara brought out a selection of shoes for her to choose from. "Which ones?"

Y/n gave herself a quick shake of the head and chose. "The black ones," she said, pointing to a pair of doeskin slippers. The shoes were soft and comfortable. Even the headdress, one made by her mother’s hands no less, felt light. Made of stiffened leather and red damask, it sat over her braided and coiled hair like a halo. Black embroidery was its only adornment, but she was grateful for it. Others would come dressed in their finery, and y/n wanted to do the same. Today was the final day of the jousts, and she had to look her best. When a squire came to tell her the carriage was ready, y/n glanced at a silvered-looking glass, and approved of what she saw. She took the squire's hand and walked out.

Y/n looked around while she walked through lofty halls and incense-filled corridors. The Targaryen tapestries were all gone, as were the sculptures. No more Sphynxes. No more depictions of men and women cleaving to each other in various intimate ways. The skulls of long dead Targaryen dragons had been moved to unsused cellars, the candles lit in their honor snuffed out. Even the columns had not been spared. All scenes of Valyria, its conquests and victories, its gods and heroes, had been replaced by vines, flowers, and images of the Seven. Baelor, in his religious zeal, seemed determined to erase many parts of his family’s heritage, thinking they would all lead to sin. It made y/n ill. A king governed by fanatical piety was just as dangerous as an undisciplined king who was all too mercurial, greedy, and cruel.

At least Viserys has some influence over Baelor, unlike his son, she mused. But how long will it last?

It was a thought that kept her occupied until she was seated comfortably inside her carriage. Y/n looked out a window as it made its way through the winding streets of Kings Landing. The world was covered in a sunny haze when she peered through the sheer white curtains. There were plums, oranges, and peaches sold everywhere. Traders sold dried dragon peppers and olives from Dorne, and costly spices from the Summer Isles. The air was rich with the smell of flowers, perfume, and summer wine. In the distance, she watched a group of novice Septons walking single file, their faces concealed by black hoods. In another corner, mummers performed for a group of children while their parents watched over them. Most were hurrying toward the tourney grounds, and y/n could feel the excitement in the air. It was the day of the final tilts, with Aegon and Aemon among the remaining jousters.

There was even more cause for excitement. The queen and her sisters had been released from the Maidenvault. Baelor was told to do his duty or risk Aegon sitting on the Iron Throne. 

"Prince Viserys had painted the most frightful picture one night over supper," Melara had gossiped while helping her dress. "I hear the king went pale as milk after his uncle had finished speaking. Even the High Septon had agreed and urged the king to do his duty. Now the king has no choice but to close his eyes and think of Westeros. Prince Aegon flew into a black rage when they told him. His chambers are a ruined heap. He now has to sleep in his wife's bed. Gretchen said the prince and his wife are both miserable with their new sleeping arrangements."

Y/n tittered, half wishing she could have been there to witness it. She looked out again when the carriage lurched and stopped. They had reached the tourney grounds. There were silk pennants and flags and tents everywhere. She recognized many of the coats of arms, including the Sun and Spear of House Martel. It did not surprise her. The tourney was in honour of a peace treaty with Dorne, after all.

“The Dornish are finally here,” said the page who helped her out of the carraige. “And we have to be ready with the Gold Cloaks and an army of maesters, curse our luck.”

Y/n gave him a measured look. "It will not be that bad."

"That is what they all think," the page sighed, and led her to her seat. "Till some Dornishman loses his temper."

"Spoken like someone who has never traveled to the North." A smile broke across y/n’s face. She reached into a little silk purse hanging around her wrist and pulled out a few copper stars. "Go on. I can find my way from here."

The page eagerly pocketed the stars before flashing a gap-toothed grin and running off. Y/n looked around once more. The Dornish were everywhere, their linen robes distinguishing them from the others. The gold cloaks were everywhere, too. Amongst the crowd, near the lists, moving about the grounds. The Kingsguard was here, as were many guardsmen. Of knights, there were plenty, but only six had progressed to the final tilts.

"Y/n!" a familiar voice called out to her. "Cousin! Over here!"

Her smile grew wider. "Uther!" She went over to her cousin. "What time did you arrive in the city?"

Uther made room for her and grinned. "Last night. I would have called on you had I not had a terrible need for sleep."

"I received your mother’s letter." Y/n smoothed her skirt and sat by him. "Are you really going to take part in the melee?"

"I am." Uther flashed another grin, one that was known to charm even the most stubborn of maidens. At ten and nine, he stood well over six feet tall and towered over many. All lean muscle, Uther was dark-haired and darker-eyed, with skin that reminded her of the tawny stones that made up the city walls. "Mother disapproves. Father told me to do it. He thinks it might be good for me."

Y/n looked around the seats and realized with a start that very few Northerners were there. "Where are your mother and father? Are Lord and Lady Cerwyn here?"

"Father had to stay back to aid your grandfather. Visitors from Skagos." Uther helped himself to the refreshments being served to those in the royal box. He picked up a meat pie and bit into it. "Mother is here. She took the other children to the square to watch a firemage from Qarth. She will come on the morrow to watch the melee."

Y/n made herself comfortable. "And how are you, cousin?" Uther studied her with a critical eye. "How do you find life as the Dragonknight’s wife?"

"He is a good husband," Y/n said quickly enough. Despite his charm and easy smiles, Uther was quick to anger. She could already picture him charging up to Aemon and challenging him. "And life is wonderful here. I have no cause for complaint."

Uther seemed to accept her answer. A round of trumpets sounded, and the Master of Revelries stepped out into the middle of the field. He announced the arrival of the queen and her sisters. A hush fell over the entire gallery, and everyone rose as one. First came Queen Daena, then her sisters, according to their ages. The queen was garbed in black silks, her three-headed dragon pendant sitting prettily on a gold necklace. A tiara of Valyrian steel and a rare dragon’s eye opal, one the size of a robin’s egg, sat amidst silver-gold hair. Daena was just as beautiful as the singers said. Her younger sister, Rhaena, was just as lovely as her but had a timid look in her eye. The last to follow was Elaena. Her short hair gave her an austere beauty, but what caught y/n’s eye was the queen. Daena was escorted to her seat by the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, and she smiled up at him. Her smile never reached her eyes. They smoldered with resentment instead.  

She is angry about being confined to the Maidenvault. They all are. Y/n stood with the rest and only sat back down after the queen and her sisters did so. The Lord Commander made his excuses, as he had to equip himself for the lists. After staying away for most of the tourney, Naerys came at last. A frail-looking thing, she made her way to the other end of the royal box and kept to herself. When The Master of Revelries came forward again, it was to announce the knights that would be jousting for the last time. They all rode past the royal box first out of respect for the queen.

First came Lord Commander Hardyng, a giant of a man known to all as "Longshanks." An enameled pin of red and white diamonds added a dash of color against the chilly white of his armor. Next came a hedge knight from the Reach, Jasper of Tumbleton. Then came two knights of the Vale. All of them then turned their attention to the final two contenders. 

Aegon and Aemon Targaryen. Brothers by blood, yet so different from each other. One was disciplined and pious. The other was given to wanton excess, and it showed. Aegon’s handsome looks were slowly fading away. Dark circles had already formed under his eyes. A beard hid the beginnings of a double chin. Still, he had not lost touch with the lance and could still defeat his brother. Wagers had already started. One lord promised a hundred gold dragons if Aegon emerged the victor. A lady threw in her gold and sapphire ring, saying Aemon would win. Another lord, a Dornishman this time, backed Aemon as well and promised his own horse, one of the fabled sand steeds of Dorne. Trumpets sounded again, and all talk ceased. The final tilts were about to commence.

Y/n watched it all unfold before her. Horses tore up the earth as they rode down the lists. Ser Jasper surprised everyone by easily unhorsing Lord Hardyng, hitting him with such force that he fell to the ground with a clangor. When the dust cleared, shocked silence turned into sighs of relief when Lord Hardyng rose to his feet, shaken but unharmed. Relief quickly turned into laughter. Hardyng could not remove his helm, which was now a twisted ruin.

"At least it is just his helm that is a ruin," Uther mumbled when a page ran over to escort the Lord Commander to a smith. "And not his face."

Y/n agreed but applauded Ser Jasper’s victory all the same. The tilts continued. Horses rode down the lists, and lances met steel, only to shatter into tiny pieces. It continued until only four contenders remained: a knight of the Vale, Ser Jasper, Aegon Targaryen, and his brother, Aemon. When the Master of Revelries announced the brothers would ride against each other, everyone watched with bated breath. This was the match they were all waiting for.

Both princes took their positions. Their horses pawed at the earth, and their lances were at the ready. When the trumpets sounded, the entire gallery went silent again. Both rode brilliantly, matching each other blow for blow and edging towards a draw. Aemon proved to be the better jouster, unhorsing his brother and earning himself a hard-won victory. Aegon kicked at the dirt and let out a round of choice epithets. His wife, a daughter of Lord Tyrell, winced. The gallery erupted into roars and cheers. Several people grew a little richer from their wagers, while others grew a little poorer. Aemon rode towards the box, and the y/n fished around her purse for the ribbon to be given as a favor. The tourney had gone on for two days already, and Aemon never asked for her favour. Today was going to be it.

Except, Aemon never asked her. He rode towards the far end of the box, straight to his sister, seemingly ignorant of the stunned looks he received. Y/n felt someone reach over and take her hand, squeezing it gently. It was her cousin. The queen and her sisters turned back to look at her when a lady whispered something to them. There was pity in their eyes. She did not want it. She did not want their sympathy either. She heard the hushed whispers and saw the smirks. Her eyes started to sting.

 Aemon never cared for her, not in the slightest. Her marriage would never amount to anything but a match of political convenience. It was plain as day now. There would be no warmth, no affection. Only duty, a cold bed, and a husband that did not want her. The whispers grew louder. She had to leave, lest her tears come unbidden. "I cannot stay here," she said far too softly.

Uther did not say a word. He rose and took her hand, shooting icy glares at anyone who dared look at her. Y/n fought to keep her composure. She held her head high, even as the tears threatened to fall. Y/n barely felt Uther's hand around her arm, keeping her steady whenever she nearly stumbled more than once in her haste to leave. Someone called out to her. She turned a deaf ear to it and continued walking, not stopping until she felt soil and grass beneath her feet.

Uther called out to her coachman. "Do you want to return to the Red Keep?" he asked. "Or would you like to come with me and stay with us? Our house is outside the city, by the beach."

Outside the city. Away from everyone. A chance away from him, if only for a moment. Y/n took the offer with eager hands. "Take me to your home. Please."

Someone called out to her again. Y/n recognized who it was. Uther did so too. "Keep walking," he urged. "The carriage is not that far away."

Y/n picked up her feet when she heard her name being called out repeatedly. Then came the order. "Stop! Stop in the name of the crown!"

"Damn it," she muttered. Uther let go of her arm and reached for his sword. "No," she said. "Attacking a prince of the realm is treason. Stay your hand."

Uther muttered under his breath but heeded her words. He stood close to his cousin, his lips curling in distaste when Aemon drew near. 

"Leaving so soon?" Aemon walked up to them both and stopped. He was still in his armor, his helm in the crook of one arm. Y/n studied her husband. He was tall. Not as tall as her cousin, but tall all the same. And so handsome. Aemon was what every maiden fantasized about in a knight and a prince of the realm. Today his silver-gold hair hair had been pulled into a single braid. His eyes gleamed like amethysts in the sunlight. "May I ask why?"

"My presence was clearly not wanted." Y/n straightened her spine and looked her husband in the eye. "You made it plain to everyone in there."

Aemon looked shocked. "What?"

"I have been coming to the tourney for two days and not once did you ever ask for my favour. Today you finally do. Only you ask for your sister's favor instead of mine." Y/n spat, anger rippling through her. She had taken on the faith of the Seven and allowed herself to be anointed by the seven oils to please him. She went to the Sept and prayed to his gods, forsaking the gods of her own people to please him. She tried speaking like a Southron lady and acting the way they did, thinking it would grab his attention. It was not enough. Nothing she did was enough. "Why would you do that, except to show everyone in the city that you want her and not me?" 

Aemon did not reply. He looked unsure of what to do or even say. And y/n was not finished. She silently endured it all for half a year, thinking everything would change and her patience would be rewarded. A few moments ago, it became clear that nothing would change. There would be no happy outcome for her, no reward, and she was done keeping silent.  

"And for all your talk of desire leading to lust and sin," She remembered what he said—that first and only time she asked for something more. "Well, you certainly fooled me. You do feel desire, only it is not for me."

"My lady," Aemon reached for her, his entire countenance softening. "You misconstrue my actions. There is nothing untoward between Naerys and myself. I…"

"You flee my presence the moment you have done your duty, like you cannot wait to get away from me." Her words came out in a tumble, but y/n did not care. She had to get it all out while she still had the chance. "During the day, you barely acknowledge me. You always seek Naery’s company while I have to make myself content for those few brief hours you come to me at night. I keep asking myself what it is about me that offends you so. So far, I have found no answer. There are times when I might spend an hour or even more in front of a looking glass, trying to find the corruption that you see, but up to now, I have found nothing. Perhaps you could show me instead?"

A hand—large and warm and callused by years of wielding a sword—reached up and cupped her cheek. Y/n sighed. How long she had ached for her husband to touch her like that, she could not say.

"My lady," Aemon inched closer. His voice was barely above a whisper. "I swear upon the Seven, there is nothing between Naerys and myself. I swear it." Y/n lifted her eyes. Her husband looked deeply troubled. She did not know what to make of it. "As for the other charges you have laid at my door… I… come with me. Come back to the Red Keep with me. We can talk about this."

"No," y/n pulled away from him, not wanting to hear another word of what he said. She had to get away from him before falling apart completely. People were starting to wander about, and y/n did not wish to subject herself to even more humiliation. "I do not want to talk to you, or even see you. Leave me be."

"My lady…" Aemond reached for her again. Uther was quick to stop him.

"Your lady said no." He helped y/n into the carriage first and got in after her. "Good fortune with the rest of the day, my prince." Uther shut the carriage door and gave directions to the coachman.

When the carriage started moving, y/n began to weep. Everything hurt. It hurt to even breathe. She rocked back and forth, her tears coursing down her cheeks unchecked. Uther held her, not knowing how else to comfort her. She wept angrily and bitterly. She wept over shattered dreams and crushed hopes. She wept until her body exhausted itself and went limp. When her cousin looked over, he found she had cried herself to sleep.