#MURDERED FOR THIS BOY TO BE BORN ONLY TO CAST HIM OUT

[z0mbride]

i’ve never been an fan of Aegon but 30 minutes into ep 1 of s2 i feel so bad for him. he is really just a boy and of course he has stupid reckless violent and disgusting desires and doesn’t understand his role beyond taking what he wants and being loved and the sheep scene just :( he is an awful person but it is easy to see how his role has shaped him to be this way and those little moments where he just wants time with his son and to please his people and he wants fairness make me feel for him

[aeralux]

"Bet You Wanna (love me now)" - Aemond Targaryen

Aemond Targaryen x Wife!Reader (Targaryen!Reader)

Summary: Alys Rivers, the bastard whore who has plagued your arranged marriage to Aemond from the very start. But every woman has her limits, and you have reached yours. In a harsh ultimatum, you finally get her banished. But from whom was Aemond to seek pleasure now?

Warnings: SMUT 18+; targcest; mentioned infidelity; profanity; degradation; intense sex scene; fingering; breeding kink; angst; mentions of murder; canon mean Aemond

Words: 11.1 k

Notes: The reader is Targaryen with white hair (mentioned as Daemon's daughter), no other description is mentioned. If you do not like this content, do not engage with it.

𐔌 . ⋮ aera .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

Alys. It has always been Alys Rivers—the baseborn witch of Harrenhal, whose allure captured the heart of Aemond Targaryen.

In the noble life, it was hardly an anomaly for a highborn Lord to indulge in the pleasures of mistresses and whores, particularly a Prince of the realm. Yet Alys was no ordinary concubine. She had trapped your husband's affections long before you had even graced his side as his wife, and now her ghost continued to haunt you in the halls of the Red Keep. Her presence plagued not only your marriage but threatened the very fabric of your family.

You could endure the role of the resentful wife, having inherited your father's indifference—Daemon taught you all too well that a woman's worth was often measured in the fickle affections of men. However, misfortune struck when you bore a daughter. A daughter, born in a time that could not be worse, coinciding with the moment Alys also delivered an heir to your husband—a bastard boy with black hair.

You had given the Prince a sweet, delicate child with the striking features of Valyrian heritage and silver-gold hair; you had hoped that his devotion would grow anew with this gift of lineage. Oh, how mistaken you were.

In the wake of your child’s birth, Aemond turned his back upon you—a move both cold and calculated. Once you had fulfilled your purpose as a wife, you found yourself and your precious daughter cast aside as though you were no more than commoners unworthy of his regard. After the difficult experience of childbirth, your husband’s visits reduced to a mere whisper of presence. He had no further reason to seek your bed.

Meanwhile, Alys basked in Aemond's undivided admiration. He lavished her and their bastard child with affection and attention, caring for that boy of hers with an affection that often seemed to eclipse the rightful love he should have shown your trueborn daughter. The irony was not lost on you.

As your daughter's first name day drew near, you could feel the rage within you reach its climax. That wench had enjoyed the delight of your husband's affections for nearly two years now, and your patience had frayed to its end. It was far past time that you seized control of your fate—and the fate of your daughter—whether your husband would consent or not.

Fights were all too common between you and Aemond. You refused to remain silent while he insulted your dignity and that of your precious daughter. His bold displays with his mistress, treating her as a cherished lover, were a constant insult, especially as he neglected his rightful heir and wife.

Once again, he had opted to waste an afternoon with his two bastards instead of honouring the presence of his legitimate daughter. Fuelled by resentment, you strode intentionally into the gardens, ready to confront him and demand the respect your daughter deserved.

"How dare you act this way after showing such disgust for Jacaerys and his brothers?" You hiss, your gaze boring into him like a dagger.

You take a step closer, and your smaller frame does not diminish the threat you pose. "Now you go and bed a baseborn harlot, and she bears your son, no less!" You spit out venomously.

Your voice rises to a scream as you get right up in his face. "Treat me however you wish, but if you continue to treat our legitimate daughter with disregard..." you growl, your words dripping with barely contained rage. "I will gut your whore and feed your bastard son to Cannibal, make no mistake. And our precious girl and I will watch him scream as he burns."

You lean in close, your breath hot against his ear as you whisper the promise, your tone low and deadly. "Do not test me on this, Aemond. I am not some meek little maiden to be trifled with. I am a Targaryen, the daughter of the Rogue Prince, and I will stay true to my words. Choose your actions wisely, or face the consequences."

With that, you push past him roughly and storm off, your heart pounding and your mind already plotting your next move. This cannot stand. Your child will not suffer at the hands of that vile creature - not if you have anything to say about it.

Aemond's eye narrows dangerously at your threats, his jaw clenching as he takes a menacing step towards you. The violet of his good eye seems to darken, swirling with anger and desire.

"You dare threaten me, wench?" he growls, his voice low and menacing. He grabs your arm roughly, yanking you back towards him. "I am a prince of House Targaryen, and you will show me the respect I deserve!"

His grip on your arm tightens painfully as he leans in close, his hot breath ghosting over your face. "Your daughter is a pitiful whelp, just like her mother. She's lucky I acknowledge her at all."

"As for that 'baseborn harlot'..." he sneers, his lips curling in disgust. "She provides me with pleasure that you never could. At least she knows how to obey her prince."

Suddenly, his hold on you shifts, one hand sliding down to grab your ass possessively. "Perhaps I should remind you of your place, wife. Maybe then you'll learn to keep that sharp tongue of yours in check."

You push Aemond away forcefully, your eyes flashing with rage and defiance. Your slender fingers dig into his chest as you shove him back.

"I find no pleasure in feeding a dog that gets his treats from someone else," you scoff, your voice dripping with disdain. The corners of your mouth curl up into a smirk.

Your long white hair whips around your face as you turn your head, a mocking laugh escaping your lips. You step closer, your form exuding an aura of dangerous grace. Leaning in, you purr, "If you dare show Alys in court... trust me, her little powers have nothing on fire. After all, witches burn, my dear husband."

You pull back, your gaze boring into his with unwavering intensity. Your hand reaches up to stroke his cheek, a falsely tender gesture that belies the threat beneath your words. "Choose your actions carefully, Aemond. A Targaryen princess is not so easily cowed."

Aemond's eye narrows at your defiant words, a muscle twitching in his jaw. He grips your wrist tightly as you stroke his cheek, his nostrils flaring in barely restrained anger. Suddenly, he spins you around, slamming you against the nearest tree trunk. His body presses against yours, pinning you in place as he leans in close, his voice a menacing whisper.

"Careful, little girl," he hisses, his breath hot against your neck. "You may be a Targaryen, but I am still your husband. And husbands have the right to punish their wives when they misbehave."

His hand slides down your side, gripping your hip possessively. "Perhaps I should remind you of your duties. You're here to bear me, sons, not make empty threats."

Aemond's lips brush against your ear, his voice dropping to a dangerous purr."And if you think I'm afraid of your father's reputation, you're mistaken. I've faced dragons, little dove. What makes you think you can threaten me?"

He nips at your earlobe, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin. "Now, why don't you run along and tend to your brat?"

With a rough shove, Aemond steps back, his eyes gleaming with a mix of anger and desire. He adjusts himself, his posture strong and commanding as he looks down at you. "Remember your place, wife. Or I might just have to take drastic measures to ensure your obedience."

You walk away without another word, a cruel plan already taking shape in your mind. You stride purposefully towards the kitchens, your long white hair flowing behind you.

Inside the bustling chambers, maids scurry about, preparing dishes and tending to various tasks. But your sharp gaze locks on Lyra, one of your servants. You approach her discreetly, pulling her aside.

"Lyra," you whisper urgently, your light violet eyes boring into hers. "I need your help with something important. Tonight, before Aemond retires, ensure that his bastard drinks Hemlock tea. Not enough to kill him, but to make him very ill. And keep this between us."

You press a purse heavy with coins into her hand. "You'll be handsomely rewarded for your service."

With that, you turn and leave as abruptly as you arrived, your mind already turning to the sweet revenge that awaits.

The maid's eyes widen in shock at your whispered instructions, fear and curiosity dancing across her features. She nods silently, a small, nervous smile playing on her lips as she watches you leave, clutching the promise of reward.

Satisfied that your plan is in motion, you make your way back to your chambers. But as you step inside, you're greeted by an unexpected sight - Aemond, lounging on your bed, a smug grin on his face.

"And where have you been, my dear?" he drawls, his voice dripping with false sweetness. "I was beginning to worry that you'd run off with another lover."

You glare at him, your violet eyes flashing dangerously as you cross your arms over your chest. "Unlike you, I don't parade my lover through the castle halls. And unlike you, my lover is a Lord, not some bastard."

You spit the words at him, your voice dripping with loathing. Rolling your eyes, you let out a mocking laugh. "Going through the motions of being a doting husband must be so tiring for you. Why don't you run along and spend some quality time with your precious little Alys? I'm sure she's waiting for you eagerly."

Tonight, he'll learn the foolishness of undervaluing you. He'll see that you meant every word and that if he continues to neglect your daughter, his bastard son will pay the price.

You incline your head, a fake smile playing on your lips. "Well? Are you going to leave, or do I need to call the guards to remove you? I wouldn't want to cause a scene. You might be a prince, but I'm a princess, and my guards listen to me."

Aemond's face darkens at your words, his jaw clenching as he rises from the bed. He stalks towards you. His movements are predatory until he's standing mere inches away. His good eye bores into yours, filled with a mix of anger and intrigue.

"Careful, little dove," he growls, his voice low and dangerous. "You play a dangerous game. You think you can manipulate me with your words and your petty threats?"

Suddenly, his hand lashes out, grabbing your wrist and pulling you closer. His other hand comes up to grip your chin, forcing you to maintain eye contact. "I am a dragon rider, a prince of House Targaryen. I've faced worse than you and your little schemes."

Aemond leans in, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispers, "But by the gods, I admire your spirit. It's been far too long since anyone dared to challenge me like this."

He pulls back slightly, his gaze intense as it roams over your face. "So tell me, my feisty wife, what do you propose we do about this... tension between us?"

Your smirk widens into a wicked grin as you deliver your parting shot. "Well then, seeing as you've repeatedly said how I 'fail to pleasure you', I suppose I'll simply have to take matters into my own hands."

You raise an eyebrow, your eyes gleaming with mischief. "My guess is you'll scurry off to Alys' quarters, forcing her to cater to your every whim. And while you're busying yourself with your precious whore..."

You pause, letting the anticipation hang in the air between you.

"...I'll be here, enjoying the company of my lover. We'll fuck on every surface of this room until I can't walk or speak. Until the only word I can remember is his name as he brings me to ecstasy again and again."

You lean forward, your voice dropping to a sharp whisper. "Have you ever stopped to consider that perhaps the problem isn't me, but you? That maybe a man who appreciates my skills, who shows me the respect and appreciation I deserve, might find me to be quite satisfactory indeed?"

You toss your head back and chuckle, the sound tinged with bitterness. "But then again, I doubt a man like you would ever understand the concept of mutual pleasure or satisfaction. You're far too focused on your desires to bother with mine."

With that, you turn on your heel and stalk towards the door, your long white hair swishing behind you. You pause and glance back over your shoulder, motioning for him to leave.

"Enjoy your evening, my lord. I certainly intend to."

"You think your little lover can satisfy you more than I can?" he mocks. "You forget, wife, that I am a man who has taken cities and slain men. I don't need to be grateful for anything." He strides over to you.

Suddenly, he spins you around, pressing your back against his chest as his arms wrap around you in an iron grip. His lips brush against your ear as he whispers, "But perhaps you're right. Perhaps I haven't been... attentive enough in our marital duties."

One hand slides up from your waist, cupping your breast roughly through your gown. "Let me show you what a real dragon can do, little dove. I'll fuck you so hard, you'll forget your name, let alone your lover's."

Aemond's teeth graze your neck, biting down just hard enough to leave a mark. "What do you say, my wife? Shall we put your claims to the test? Or are you all talk and no action?"

"How do you know he isn't a 'dragon' as well?" You question him, your tone dripping with disdain as you break free from his grasp.

"If you had been a good husband and father, you'd have at least three children by now. But you decided to bed a bastard whore instead. Who has provided you with only one son, with black hair and no dragon. He is no Targaryen. He is a Rivers. And he always will be."

You fix him with a cold stare, your eyes flashing with barely contained rage. "I will have your son, do not worry your empty head... but only once the whore is gone from King's Landing."

Aemond's face contorts with rage at your words, his good eye blazing with fury. He advances on you, backing you up against the wall with the sheer force of his presence.

"You dare speak of my son that way?" he snarls, his voice low and dangerous. "He is the son of a Targaryen prince, and that makes him a prince as well. More than you can ever claim for yourself."

His hand shoots out, wrapping around your throat as he leans in close. His breath is hot against your face as he continues, "Perhaps I should remind you of your place, wench. You are my wife, and you will bear me more children, whether you like it or not."

Aemond's grip on your throat tightens slightly, not enough to cut off your air entirely, but enough to make breathing difficult. "As for Alys... she stays where she belongs. By my side."

He releases your throat suddenly, shoving you away from him. As you stumble back, he straightens his waistcoat, his posture regal and commanding. "Consider this a warning. Keep your tongue in check, or face the consequences. I am not a man to be trifled with."

You let out a loud, mocking laugh as Aemond released you from his bruising grip. "Oh, Aemond," you say, your voice dripping with disgust. "The very notion that I would fear you is hilarious. Believe me when I say that I am the last person who would be frightened by your empty threats."

Your eyes flash with a wicked gleam as you fix him with a knowing smile. "As for your precious whore, Alys... her days of bearing your bastards are numbered. Her last birth nearly killed her. Her womb is weak, Aemond. She won't survive another pregnancy."

You take a step closer, your voice lowering to a dangerous whisper. "Now, I suggest you leave my chambers."

Your hand rests on the hilt of the dagger at your belt, a silent threat hanging in the air between you. "Run along, my dear husband. Go play with your mistress and your bastard child. Just remember..." you hiss, your eyes narrowing. "You underestimate me at your risk."

With a dismissive wave, you turn your back on him. "Out. Now."

Aemond's face contorts with rage at your words, his good eye blazing with a mix of anger and... respect? He takes a stepforward, his hand reaching out as if to grab you again, but stops himself. After a moment of tense silence, he speaks, his voice low and menacing.

"You think you're clever, don't you?" he growls, his jaw clenched tight. "Playing your little games, threatening my mistress, my son..."

Aemond's eyes roam over you, a predatory gleam in his gaze. "Perhaps you're right. Perhaps I have been too lenient with you. A dragon needs to be handled firmly, after all."

He steps closer, his hand reaching out to grasp your chin, forcing you to meet his intense stare. "I will deal with Alys myself. She is mine, and no one threatens what's mine."

He turns to leave, pausing at the doorway to look back over his shoulder. "This isn't over. Not by a long shot. Consider this a warning - cross me again, and you'll regret it."

With those ominous words, Aemond strides out of the room, leaving you alone with your thoughts and the lingering threat of his presence.

With shaking hands, you ring for your maid as soon as Aemond leaves your chambers. When she arrives, you issue your orders in a clear, even voice, though inside your heart races with anticipation and trepidation.

"Double the dose of hemlock in the son's cup tonight," you instruct, your tone bearing no argument. "Leave him teetering on the brink of death's door."

As the maid scurries off to fulfil her mistress' dark command, a wicked smile plays across your lips. They will never suspect that you alone hold the key to saving Aemond's precious bastard from a slow, agonising demise.

And what a neat little trap you've set for your dear husband. Poison his son (but not to kill him, you're not that cruel), give him an ultimatum, and then dangle the antidote before him like a carrot. All he must do is love you, truly love your daughter, and you shall release him from his desperation.

As the day wears on, you find yourself unable to focus on anything but the impending confrontation with Aemond. Every fibre of your being is tense, waiting for the moment when your plan will come to fruition.

Evening falls, and you're seated in your solar, pretending to read a book, but your mind is miles away. The sound of approaching footsteps catches your attention, and you look up to see Aemond bursting into the room, his face pale and eyes wild with panic.

"Where is he?" he demands, his voice frantic. "Where's my son?"

You set aside your book, a cruel smile playing on your lips as you stand to face him. "Oh, Aemond. So concerned for your bastard, are you?" you taunt, relishing the fear in his eyes.

"He's ill," you continue, feigning concern. "Very ill. The maids tell me he's been vomiting all evening and can barely keep anything down. It's a shame, really. He's always been such a healthy boy."

You take a step closer, your voice dropping to a dangerous purr. "Of course, I have something that could help. A special remedy passed down through generations on my mother's side. But..." you pause, letting the tension build. "I'm not sure I want to share it. Not until you give me what I want."

Aemond's face contorts with rage and desperation, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "What do you want?" he growls, his voice low and dangerous. "Name your price, and it's yours."

You stare at him, your violet eyes locking with his sapphire one. The moment has arrived, the power is yours. What will you demand of the man who has wronged you for so long?

Your frame radiates an aura of controlled rage as you speak, your voice low and deadly.

"Send. Them. Away," you enunciate each word carefully as if speaking to a slow-witted child. "Alys and your bastard by dawn's light. They will never set foot in this city again, and you will never breathe their names aloud. If you fail to comply, I will ensure that your precious 'son' suffers a fate worse than death."

You pause, allowing the weight of your threat to settle over him. When you continue, your voice is dripping with scorn. "I will not be made a fool by a man who cannot control his urges. Your prick may wander where it pleases, but your illegitimate offspring is a reflection upon me. This...this abomination will be removed from sight."

Your lip curls in disgust as you look upon Aemond, the realisation of your words sinking in. "Do this, or face the consequences. The choice is yours but choose wisely. I am not a woman to be trifled with."

Aemond's face contorts with rage at your ultimatum, his jaw clenching and unclenching as he struggles to contain his anger. After a moment, he speaks, his voice low and menacing.

"You think you hold all the cards, don't you?" he growls, taking a menacing step towards you. "You think you can threaten me and expect me to bend to your will?"

"Fine. You want Alys gone? She'll be on the first ship out of Blackwater Bay come morning. But know this - if anything happens to my son, if he so much as sneezes out of turn, I will rain down hell upon you and everything you hold dear."

Aemond leans in close, his breath hot against your face. "And as for your little 'reward'..." he hums, a dangerous smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I hope you enjoy it. Because it's the last taste of victory you'll ever have over me."

Aemond is not a man to be underestimated, and you know that he will not forget this transgression easily. But for now, you have what you want. Tomorrow, Alys and her bastard son will be gone.

With a cold smile, you rise to your feet, your form exuding an aura of controlled power. Your striking eyes lock onto Aemond's as you reveal, "Give me your son. I know how to help him."

In your years at court, you've secretly studied botany and alchemy, learning to cure even the deadliest poisons, along with the knowledge of your mother's ancestors. This wisdom is your secret weapon, one that you've kept hidden until now.

You step closer to Aemond, your long white hair cascading over your shoulders as you tilt your head to the side. "Let me be clear, Aemond. I am the only one who can save your bastard son. Whatever your son has contracted seems to be fatal, but with the right ingredients and a skilled hand, he can still be saved."

"You have two choices. You can continue to play this game of power and risk losing your son forever, or you can hand him over to me. Alys might have premonitions of the future, but that is useless right now, isn't it?"

Your voice drops to a dangerous whisper as you lean in close, your faces mere inches apart. "What will it be, Aemond? Choose wisely, for your son's life hangs in the balance."

Aemond stares at you for a long moment, his face an unreadable mask. Then, slowly, the tension drains from his shoulders, and he nods once, sharp and decisive.

"You win," he says, his voice heavy with reluctance. "My son is yours. Do what you must to save him."

Without another word, he turns and strides from the room, leaving you alone with your triumph. You allow yourself a moment of satisfaction before setting your mind to the task at hand.

You make your way through the castle, your heart pounding with anticipation and a hint of fear. You know what you're doing, but there's always a risk when dealing with poisons and cures. As you enter the nursery, you find the bastard child writhing in pain, his small body wracked with convulsions.

Ignoring the concerned looks of the maids, you set to work, mixing various herbs and tinctures with practised ease. You feed the concoction to the child, holding him steady as he chokes and sputters. It's a long, gruelling process, but eventually, his breathing begins to even out, and the colour returns to his cheeks.

Exhausted but triumphant, you rise from the bed, stretching your stiff muscles. Aemond enters the room then, his face etched with worry and gratitude. You hold the black-haired boy gently in your arms, cooing as you set him on the bed, caressing his hair as a mother would.

Aemond stands in the doorway, watching as you carefully tend to his son. His expression is a mix of relief and bafflement, his single eye roaming over the scene before him. He takes a hesitant step forward, his voice is soft and uncertain.

"He's... he's going to live?" he asks, his usual bravado stripped away, leaving only a concerned father.

You look up at him, your gaze is steadfast as you meet his stare. There's a moment of charged silence between you, the weight of your actions hanging heavy in the air.

"Yes," you finally respond, your voice carrying a hint of triumph. "Your son will live. But only because I chose to save him."

Aemond's jaw clenches, a flicker of anger crossing his features before it's replaced by a grudging acceptance. "Thank you," he mutters, the words difficult for him to say.

He moves to the bedside, gently taking his son into his arms. The boy stirs, his small hand reaching for his father's face. Aemond's expression softens, love and pride evident in his eyes as he gazes down at the child.

"You did well," he says, glancing up at you briefly before focusing his attention back on his son. "I... I underestimated you. Perhaps there is more to you than I realised."

It's not exactly a declaration of love or devotion, but for Aemond, it's as close to an apology as you're likely to get. You incline your head slightly, acknowledging his words without comment.

You smooth the damp cloth across the boy's feverish brow, your fingers lingering on the soft skin of his cheek. You'll never know it was I who made you sick, little one. What he doesn't know won't hurt him. And neither will Aemond know.

You pull back, your violet eyes hardening as you look at Aemond with a stern stare. "I've changed my mind on one thing," you say curtly, tucking the quilt snugly around the child. "The boy can stay... if you treat our daughter with the same affection as you have him. If not..." your voice drops to a dangerous whisper. "He will be sent away to Harrenhall."

"This is the best offer you will get from me," You say, your voice laced with finality. "Your beloved son's fate rests in your hands."

Without waiting for a response, you turn and stride from the room, your heels clicking sharply against the stone floor. The game has changed, and now, you hold all the cards. Let's see how long Aemond's pride can withstand the weight of his new reality.

Aemond watches you go, his jaw clenched tight as he struggles to contain his anger and frustration. He knows he's been beaten, and by his wife, no less. It's a bitter pill to swallow, but he's not a fool. He knows when he's been outmanoeuvred.

Over the next few months, a strange new dynamic settles over the castle. Aemond is more attentive to you and more concerned with your opinions and desires. He's trying to make amends to ensure that you don't turn against him again.

For your part, you remain aloof and distant, content to let Aemond squirm under the weight of your power. You spend your days tending to your duties, meeting with advisors, and always keeping a close eye on the bastard child.

Your daughter, meanwhile, seems to thrive under the new arrangement. She and her brother have grown closer, and you often catch them playing together with their maids, their laughter echoing through the halls.

One evening, as you're preparing for bed, Aemond enters your chambers without knocking. He's dressed in his riding leathers, his hair still damp from getting caught in the rain. He looks tired, but there's a new light in his eye.

You gasped sharply as Aemond burst into your chambers without warning, your heart leaping into your throat. The flimsy silk of your black nightgown clings to your curves, leaving little to the imagination, as the oppressive summer heat makes the sheer fabric stick to your skin.

"What do you think you're doing, barging in here like that?" You demand, your voice is icy despite the flush creeping up your neck.  Crossing your arms tightly over your chest, you try to conceal your breasts and hardened nipples from his bold glare. "What brings you here at this late hour, husband?"

Your tone is crisp and unwelcoming despite the warmth pooling low in your belly at the sight of him. You've trained yourself to maintain this frigid facade, never letting him see how his presence affects you. But deep down, a part of you yearns for his touch, his approval, even as you keep him at arm's length.

Aemond's single eye rakes over you hungrily, taking in every inch of exposed skin. You refuse to let your posture falter, even as desire simmers beneath the surface.

"Well?" You demand, arching a brow imperiously. "Unless you have an urgent matter to discuss, I suggest you leave me to my privacy."

Your voice wavers slightly, betraying your unease. You're acutely aware of how thin the silk is, how easily he could shred it away with one tug. The thought sends a shiver down your spine.

Aemond's lips curl into a slow, wicked smile, and you feel your knees go weak. Gods, what is he doing to you? You are a princess of House Targaryen, and yet in his presence, you feel like nothing more than a mewling kitten, desperate for his attention.

"This is highly inappropriate," you manage to grit out, even as your body betrays you.

Aemond's gaze rakes over your form, lingering on the curves of your body as they're revealed by the thin silk of your nightgown. He licks his lips, his desire is evident in the hungry look in his remaining eye.

"My apologies, wife," he purrs, his voice low and seductive. "I didn't mean to startle you. But I couldn't wait any longer."

He takes a step closer. "I've been thinking about you. About us."

His voice drops to a husky whisper, and he brings his face close to yours, his breath hot against your skin. "We've been at odds for too long."

Aemond stands even closer to you now, you can feel the heat of his body, the hardness of his muscles beneath his clothes.

"I know I've been an arse," he murmurs, his lips brushing against your ear.

You're conflicted as you stand before Aemond. You want to scoff at his attempt to win you over, but the raw desire in his eyes is unmistakable. He looks at you like he wants to devour you whole, and it both frightens and excites you.

Stepping back, you try to compose yourself, but the heat of the summer night seems to intensify, leaving you feeling hot and breathless. Aemond hasn't seen you like this in Gods know how long, not since you fell pregnant and he no longer needed to lay with you.

"Is that so?" You ask, your voice dripping with sarcasm. "You've been thinking about me, have you? Now that your mistress is gone and I'm finally good enough for you?"

You close your eyes for a moment, trying to ignore the way your heart races at his proximity. You've always found Aemond repulsive, his cruelty and infidelity driving a wedge between you. But seeing him dote on your daughter these past months has softened some of the ice around your heart.

"You're not fooling me, Aemond," you continue, opening your eyes to meet his gaze. "I know your games. But I'll admit, this newfound interest in me is... intriguing, to say the least."

Aemond's lips curl into a smirk, his good eye glittering with amusement and desire. He takes another step forward, closing the distance between you once more.

"Intriguing, huh?" he purrs, his hand coming up to cup your cheek, his thumb tracing the delicate line of your jaw. "Well, maybe I'm just realising what I've been missing."

His other hand comes to rest on your hip, his fingers digging into your flesh through the thin silk of your nightgown. You can feel the heat of his touch, the promise of more to come.

"I've been a fool," he murmurs, his lips brushing against your throat. "I've let my pride and my lust cloud my judgment. But not anymore."

He pulls back slightly, his eye searching yours for any sign of resistance. But he sees none, only the flicker of desire that matches his own.

"You're a force to be reckoned with, my lady wife. Beautiful, intelligent, and deadly when crossed. How could I not be drawn to you?"

His lips find yours in a searing kiss, demanding and passionate. It's a kiss that speaks of pent-up desire, anger and passion.

As he pulls you closer, you feel the hardness of his arousal pressing against your stomach, a reminder of the power you hold over him. It's intoxicating, the way he wants you, the way he needs you.

But even as you melt into his embrace, a small part of you whispers a warning. Aemond is a master manipulator, and this could all be just another one of his games.

The worries in the back of your mind fade away as you feel Aemond's rough hands grip your rear, kneading the soft flesh. He's never touched you with such raw passion, such primal hunger. Reluctantly, you admit to yourself that you love it.

You whimper into the kiss, your hands tangling in his still slightly damp hair. You need him to know exactly what he's been missing out on all this time. You want him to regret every moment he spent with that whore in the tower.

Breaking away from his lips, you trail bites along the pale column of his throat, marking his skin with dark purple splotches. With your tongue, you soothe each spot, leaving no doubt as to who now claims him.

"Now the whole court will know that the prince has finally come to his senses," you murmur against his skin, "and bedded his beautiful lady wife."

Aemond groans, his hands roaming your body with a newfound urgency. He grips your hips, grinding against you, his hard length throbbing with need.

"Fuck," he growls, his voice ragged with desire. "I've wasted so much time, chasing after foolish fantasies. You're the one I should have wanted all along."

He tears your nightgown open, baring your body to his hungry gaze. His calloused hands cup your breasts, thumbing your nipples until they pebble under his touch. His mouth latches onto one breast, sucking and biting.

Your breath catches in your throat as Aemond's mouth closes around your nipple, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core. You gasp and moan, arching into his touch, craving more.

"So fucking perfect," he rasps, leaning down to take the other nipple into his mouth. He sucks hard, grazing the sensitive bud with his teeth.

Aemond steps back, his eye raking over your naked form. "Beautiful," he breathes, his gaze heavy with lust. "I've been a fool to deny myself this for so long."

When he releases your nipples, stepping back to admire his handiwork, you feel empty, aching for his mouth back on your sensitive flesh.

You stand before him, your torn nightgown hanging off your shoulders, exposing your breasts and stomach to his heated gaze. The fabric clings to your hips, the tear running down the front, barely concealing your most intimate place. You're flushed, your chest heaving with anticipation, waiting for his next move.

Aemond drinks in the sight of you, his eye dark with desire. "Exquisite," he breathes, his voice rough with want. He reaches out, his fingers tracing the path of the tear, teasing the edge of the fabric. "I want to rip this off and feast on you until you scream."

You shudder at his words, liquids pooling between your thighs. "Please," you whisper, your voice trembling with need. "Don't tease me, Aemond."

He grins, a predatory, hungry look on his face. "Oh, I intend to, my lady wife. I intend to make you forget all about that mistress of mine."

In one swift motion, he tears the remains of your nightgown away, leaving you bare before him. His eye travels the length of your body, taking in every curve, every dip, every inch of creamy skin.

"What an idiot I’ve been," he groans, his hand reaching down to palm himself through his breeches. "Seeking pleasure in another when my own wife could put all of the whores in Westeros to shame."

He walks you backwards until your legs hit the edge of the bed, pushing you down onto the silken sheets. Aemond stands over you, his tall frame looming above you, his gaze burning into you.

"Then why did you?" You demand, your voice sharp with disdain. "I'm not the naive girl you married. I've become a woman since we last shared a bed."

Your legs fall open as you sprawl before Aemond, baring yourself to his hungry gaze. The cool air kisses your heated skin, raising goosebumps across your flesh. You need him to see what he's been denying himself, to foolishly chase after lesser women.

Aemond swallows hard, his eye roving over your body, drinking in every inch of exposed skin. "A woman indeed," he murmurs, his voice rough with desire. "A goddess."

"Do you have any idea how many lords and knights in this realm burn with envy?" You purr, your voice dripping with bitter amusement. "All because they'll never have a chance at a wife like me. Yet you, my husband, were too blind to appreciate the treasure right in front of you."

You arch your back, pushing your breasts up and out, an offering to the god of war. Your long white hair spills around you like a dark halo, framing your face. You can see the regret and longing in Aemond's eye as he drinks in the sight of you.

He moves to stand at the foot of the bed, his hand trailing up your calf, over your knee, and along your inner thigh. "I was blinded by lust, my lady wife. Blinded by pride, by jealousy, by my own need to prove something."

His fingers brush against your slick folds, and you gasp at the contact.

Aemond's fingers delve deeper, parting your folds, teasing your entrance. "I saw the lust in their eyes, the way they looked at you when they thought I wasn't watching."

Aemond's touch is electric, sending sparks of pleasure racing through your veins. You moan his name, your hips bucking up against his hand, desperate for more.

Aemond chuckles darkly, his fingers continuing their maddening dance against your most sensitive places. "Did you like that, my dear? The way they stared at you like a piece of meat? The way they ached to have you?"

"Yes," you breathe, your chest heaving with each ragged inhale. "They made me feel desirable when my husband couldn't."

The words escape your lips before you can stop them, fueled by the hurt and anger still simmering beneath the surface. Your hips buck up desperately, seeking the satisfaction Aemond's teasing fingers deny you.

"Fuck," you snarl in frustration, your nails raking down his forearm. "Stop playing games and give me what I need."

You fix him with a defiant glare, your eyes flashing with challenge. "Unless you're too fucked up to perform now that you've realized what a prize you've been neglecting all this time."

Your lips curl into a sneer, a cruel twist of your mouth. "It would serve you right if I also paraded my lover around. Maybe then you'd understand— "

Your words are cut off by your cry as Aemond places a harsh slap against your sopping cunt.

The sound of your cry, of the wet slap against your flesh, sends a bolt of lust straight to Aemond's already throbbing cock. He's never seen you like this, so wanton, so uninhibited. It's intoxicating.

"You want to play dirty, do you?" he growls, his voice low and dangerous. "Threaten me with your infidelity? You want someone to fuck you senseless, to claim this sweet cunt as their own?"

He rewards your crude talk with another sharp slap to your pussy, the sound echoing obscenely in the quiet room. You cry out, your back arching off the bed, a fresh flood of wetness coating his palm.

He plunges two fingers into your dripping channel, setting a brutal pace as his fingers pump in and out of you. His thumb circles your clit with a pressure that borders on painful. He leans down, his breath hot against your ear.

"You feel even better than I remember. Gods, if only I had known this tight little cunt was waiting for me," he growls, his fingers pumping harder, faster, stretching you open.

The bed creaks beneath you as Aemond moves, his fingers still pumping into your soaked cunt. You can feel every ridge, every callus as he drives into you relentlessly. It's almost too much, the sensation bordering on pain, but you crave it.

You try to form words, anything to snap back at him, but his fingers are relentlessly hitting your soft spot with each thrust, making you gush all over his hand. Your mind goes blank, lost to the overwhelming sensations. All that escapes your lips are incoherent mumbles and high-pitched whines.

Your brow furrows as you watch him abuse your tight pussy with his long fingers, pumping in and out of your dripping cunt with brutal force. "Fuuuck... Aemond..." you manage to gasp out, your voice ragged and desperate.

Aemond grins wickedly at your desperation, at the way you're clawing at the sheets, your hips bucking up to meet his punishing fingers. Your pussy clenches around him, trying to draw him deeper, greedy for more.

He curls his fingers inside you, rubbing mercilessly against that sensitive spot deep within. Your cries grow louder, more desperate, and he smirks at the sound.

"Fuck, you're so tight. So perfect. I could play with this pretty little pussy all night."

Aemond adds a third finger, stretching you impossibly wider. He curls them just so, hitting that spot inside you that makes stars burst behind your eyes. Your juices coat his fingers, dripping down to soak the sheets beneath you.

"Fuck, look at you," he rasps, his eye drinking in the debauched sight of you spread out before him, his fingers buried in your cunt. "My perfect, filthy wife. So desperate for my cock."

You clamp your hand over your mouth, stifling the whorish moans that threaten to escape. You won't let him see how easily he can unravel you, how a few skilful thrusts of his fingers can have you writhing and begging like a common whore.

Your eyes screw shut as he pounds into you relentlessly, his filthy words washing over you, stoking the fire building in your core. You can't help the way your pussy clenches greedily around his invading digits upon hearing his dirty words.

It's humiliating, the way he can so easily turn you into a mewling, desperate creature with just a touch.

But gods, it feels so good. Too good. You squirm underneath him, your hips lifting to meet his thrusts, begging for more even as you hate yourself for it. You are losing control, slipping further into the haze of lust with each passing second.

Aemond smirks as he watches you struggle to maintain your composure, the battle written plainly across your face. He can feel your pussy fluttering around his fingers and can hear the muffled moans vibrating against your palm.

"Shh, don't fight it," he croons, his voice a sinful purr. "Let go, my lady wife. Let me hear those pretty sounds."

He withdraws his fingers suddenly, denying you the stimulation your body craves. You whine in protest, your hips chasing after his hand.

Aemond brings his drenched fingers to his lips, tasting your essence with a low groan. "Delicious," he purrs, his eye glinting with wicked intent.

He brings his fingers back to your face, painting your lips with your juices before thrusting them into your mouth. "Suck," he demands, his voice brooking no argument. "Get them nice and wet for where they're going next."

As you obey, dutifully licking and sucking his fingers clean, Aemond works at the laces of his breeches, freeing his hard, aching cock. It springs forth, thick and angry, the head already glistening with precum.

"Look at what you've done," he growls, gripping himself in his fist. "You're mine. This cunt belongs to me."

Aemond's arrogant declaration snaps you out of your lust-fueled haze, and you roll your eyes at his audacity. "Do you think I'd forgive you that easily?" You scoff, your voice dripping with sarcasm. "It seems you don't know your wife very well, husband."

You prop yourself up on your elbows, watching as he grips his leaking cock. "This cunt belongs to me," you remind him coldly. "And if I recall correctly, you didn't even like this cunt in the first place."

You huff out a bitter laugh, shaking your head in disbelief. "You'll have to do more than just rut into me like a beast in heat."

Aemond's eye narrows at your words, a flash of anger sparking in their depths. But it's quickly extinguished by a wave of lust as he takes in the sight of you propped up before him, your full breasts heaving with each breath, your hair tumbling around your shoulders.

"You're right," he concedes, his voice rough with desire. "But I do now. And I plan to worship it until you scream."

He stalks towards you, his cock bobbing with each step. He grips your thighs, pushing your legs apart, forcing you to lie back on the bed.

"And I know you all too well, my lady wife," Aemond purred, his voice a dangerous rumble as he settled between your legs.

Aemond's hand snaked out, wrapping around your throat in a firm but not crushing grip. "You're a woman scorned," he growled, his eye boring into yours with an intensity that made your heart race. "Angry and bitter. But I intend to change that. Make you into a dutiful and docile wife."

His fingers tightened just a fraction around your throat, not enough to cut off your air supply, but enough to make your pulse jump in alarm. You tried to pull away, but his grip was unyielding, keeping you pinned beneath him.

"After I'm done with you," he continued, his voice low and menacing, "you'll be as obedient as a puppy. You'll beg for my touch, crave my attention. And you'll forget all about your anger, your resentment. All you'll know is the pleasure I can give you."

He hooks his arms under your knees, pushing your legs up and back, folding you nearly in half. The new position leaves you completely exposed, your dripping pussy on full display.

Aemond takes in the sight with a low groan, his cock twitching in anticipation. "Look at you, spreading yourself open for me like a whore."

He lines himself up with your entrance, the thick head of his cock nudging against your swollen folds. "Beg for it," he demands, his voice a dark command. "Beg me to claim what's mine."

He doesn't push inside, doesn't give you any relief, just holds himself there, teasing, tormenting. Your pussy clenches around nothing, empty and aching for his cock.

Your chest rises and falls rapidly, your breath coming in shallow gasps as you struggle to regain your composure. Aemond's dark promises hang heavy in the air, making your head spin with desire and indignation. You try to remain logical as he presses your knees practically next to your ears, your most intimate parts completely open for him.

Despite the way your body aches for him, craving his touch, you force yourself to meet his gaze, your eyes blazing with defiance. "I think it's you who should be begging," you retort, voice steady despite the situation.

Through the haze of lust that threatens to consume you, the old anger still simmers, fueling your resistance. You won't let him break you so easily, won't let him reduce you to a mewling, submissive creature with just a few pretty words and a hard cock.

A twisted smile appears on his lips. He shifts his hips, rubbing the head of his cock against your slick folds, coating himself in your arousal. The teasing friction makes your hips buck up involuntarily.

"Oh, I'm going to enjoy breaking you," he purrs, his voice a dark promise. "Watching that fire in your eyes fade as I drive you to the brink of madness."

Aemond's smile widens, a predatory gleam in his eye as he watches you squirm beneath him. He knows your body's betrayal, the way it craves his touch despite your protests.

He places his hand from your thigh to your throat, not squeezing, just resting there, a silent reminder of his control.

"Last chance to beg, my lady wife," he growls, his voice a dark rasp. "Beg me to fill this greedy cunt, to make you mine again."

He applies just the slightest pressure, his cockhead nudging insistently at your entrance. Your pussy clenches, eager, aching to be stretched and filled.

"Or shall I just take what's mine?" Aemond's voice is a sinful purr, his eye glinting with dark promise. "Claim this sweet little pussy whether you want it or not?"

The heat of Aemond's cock pressed against your entrance sends jolts of pleasure racing through your veins. Gods, you need him to break you open and claim you as his. But your pride holds firm, refusing to let you beg like a common whore.

You stare up at him, your gaze defiant, even as your body betrays you with each quivering breath. "Don't pretend you don't want this," you bite out, trying to sound unaffected. "You're just torturing yourself."

It's difficult to sound assertive when he has you pinned, your legs pushed back towards your chest, completely at his mercy. Your pussy throbs, aching to be filled, to be stretched around his thick length.

Aemond lets out a dark chuckle, clearly amused by your feeble attempt at defiance. He shifts his hips, grinding his cock against your slick folds, painting your entrance with his precum.

"Torturing myself? Oh, my dear wife, you flatter yourself," he purrs, his voice a sinful caress. "I'm simply enjoying the show. The way your body trembles, the way your pretty little pussy leaks all over the bed, despite your best efforts to resist."

Aemond's lips curve into a wicked smirk, his eye glinting with mischief and dark promise. He rocks his hips, sliding his hard length through your soaked folds, coating himself in your arousal. Each pass of his cock brushes against your swollen clit, sending sparks of pleasure racing through your veins. You can't stop the moan that escapes your lips, your body betraying your desire.

"Fuck, listen to you. So loud, so desperate." Aemond growls, his voice rough with lust.

He pulls back, removing the delicious friction, leaving you empty and aching. You whimper in protest, your hips bucking, twitching, searching for his touch. But he ignores your needy movements, his focus solely on your face, drinking in your frustration.

"I wonder," he muses. "How long will it take to break you? How many times will you cum on my cock before you're begging me to fill you? To breed this fertile little cunt?"

Aemond's words are filthy and vulgar, and they send a shiver down your spine. You hate how much you love it, how much you crave his dirty talk, his rough handling. He owns you, body and soul, and you both know it.

"I'm going to fuck you now," he declares, his voice leaving no room for argument. "I'm going to take you hard and fast, just like a beast in heat. And you're going to take it like a good little wife because that's all you are to me. My property, my plaything."

With that, he lines himself up with your entrance once more. His cockhead nudges at your slick heat, teasing, taunting. "Open your eyes," he commands, his voice a low growl. "Watch as I claim what's mine."

You try to look at him, but your eyes are glossy and unfocused, clouded with the haze of lust. Then, with one hard, brutal thrust, he sheaths himself inside you, stretching you wide around his thick length.

Aemond groans as your tight heat envelops him, your slick walls clenching around his throbbing length. He stills for a moment, savouring the feeling of being buried inside you, your body stretched and full of his cock. Cursing himself for not fucking your tight wet heat earlier. For wasting time with his bastard mistress after your marriage.

"Ahhh!" You let out a kittenish scream as he filled you completely, your walls clenching around him, trying to adjust to his girth. It feels as if he is splitting you open, not even moving yet, but the stretch alone is enough to make you go mad.

Your eyes flutter, rolling back in your head as a wave of intense pleasure crashes over you. You feel so full, it's almost too much to bear. Aemond's cock pulsates inside you, hot and hard.

You can feel every ridge, every vein of his thick shaft as it throbs within you. He's so deep, buried to the hilt, his pelvis pressing against yours.

His hips twitch, a reflexive movement, driving his cock deeper still. The sensation is overwhelming and exquisite, and he has to grit his teeth against the urge to pound into you with abandon.

A moan tears from your throat, raw and primal, as your body struggles to accommodate his size. Your fingers scrabble at his back, your nails digging into his skin, holding on for dear life as he impales you on his cock.

"Fuck, you're so tight," Aemond groans, his voice rough with pleasure.

He starts to move, pulling out until just the tip remains inside you, then slamming back in, burying himself to the hilt. He sets a brutal pace, his hips snapping against yours with each powerful thrust. The bed creaks beneath you, the frame shaking from the force of his movements.

"Take it," he growls, his voice commanding, demanding. "Take my cock, you filthy little slut. This is what you were madefor, to be used and fucked like a whore."

His filthy words and powerful thrusts make you lose yourself to the pleasure, your mind going blank as he fucks into you with wild abandon. You feel like a rag-doll, legs thrashing next to you as he uses your body for his pleasure, driving into you with a ferocity that borders on violence.

"Look at you, taking my cock like a good little wife," he praises, his voice a dark rumble. "So obedient, so eager to please me."

You let out a pathetic mewl, unable to form any words. Your cheeks burn with a mix of embarrassment and intense pleasure as Aemond's grip on your thighs remains unforgiving, pressing your knees into the mattress.

He abuses your sopping pussy with brutal thrusts, each one driving you closer to the edge. Screams of ecstasy pour from your parted lips as your brows furrow in pleasure. His thick cock stretches you impossibly wide, filling you to the brink as he claims your body with wild disregard.

Aemond smirks down at you, revelling in your wanton moans and the way your body submits to his brutal pace. He can feel your walls fluttering around him, your slick arousal easing his way as he pounds into your tight heat.

"That's it," he growls, his voice thick with lust. "My beautiful little slut wife."

Gods, had your pussy always felt this divine?

Aemond continues to pound into you relentlessly, his hips pistoning back and forth as he fucks into your tight cunt. Each powerful thrust drives the air from your lungs, leaving you gasping and moaning like a bitch in heat.

Your body is lost to the sensations, consumed by the feeling of Aemond's thick cock stretching you wide, filling you so completely. You're nothing more than a vessel for his pleasure. Your only purpose is to take his cock and milk it for all its worth.

"Fuck, I love this cunt," Aemond growls, his voice strained with the effort of holding back his release. "Love feeling you squeeze around me, love how wet and ready you are for me."

Aemond's mind races as he fucks into you with abandon, his thoughts consumed by the exquisite sensation of your tight heat gripping his cock. He can't help but marvel at how your body yields to him, how perfectly you fit around him like you were made for his pleasure.

"I can't believe I wasted all those years fucking that Rivers whore when I could have been ruining this sweet cunt every night," Aemond growls, punctuating his words with a particularly harsh thrust. "Gods, you're so much tighter than her. So much better."

The degrading praise stings, igniting a fire in your gut despite the intense pleasure. "I hope you regret every second of it," you grit out through clenched teeth, your voice strained and shaky from his cock stretching you open. Each brutal thrust sends shockwaves of ecstasy coursing through your veins, making your back arch off the bed. You scream your next words, lost in a daze of lust and anger. "Would've had all of your heirs! Taken your seed into my womb every single night!"

The thought of carrying his children, of being filled with his seed night after night, sends a shiver down your spine. Why did he waste his time with whores when he could've been breeding me, claiming me?

"I was meant to be the mother of your heirs," you hiss, your nails raking down his back. "Should've been bearing your children, ensuring the Targaryen line."

The words are punctuated by gasps and moans, your body betraying you even as your mind rages.

"Regret it," I pant, your thighs shaking. "Regret wasting your seed on common whores when you could've been filling me."

Aemond throws his head back with a roar, your words stoking the flames of his lust. The thought of you swollen with his child, carrying his heirs, drives him wild with desire. He fucks into you even harder, his hips slamming against yours with bruising force.

"You would've been perfect carrying my babies. Dropping their siblings so I could fill your fertile cunt again and again." He snarls, his eye wild with passion.

The image plays out in his mind, a tantalising fantasy that makes his cock throb inside you. You, round and ripe with his child, your belly stretched and full. He, driving into your fucked-out hole, pumping you full of his royal seed, ensuring his line continues.

"I'll make it up to you," Aemond promises, his voice a dark growl. "I'll fuck a dozen babes into you, let your belly swell with my children."

The idea sends a thrill through him, his balls drawing up tight as he imagines it. He'll keep you barefoot and pregnant with his offspring, his cock buried in your pussy every chance he gets.

"You want that, don't you?" Aemond demands, his thrusts growing erratic, his climax approaching. "To be bred like a bitch, to carry my children? To give our daughter sisters and brothers?"

You squeeze your eyes shut, furious at yourself for desiring exactly that. To be round and heavy with his child, constantly full of his seed. But gods, you do want it. You want it so badly it hurts.

"Yes," you whimper, your vision blurring as your cunt clenches erratically around his thick shaft, drawing him in deeper.

You meet his gaze, your eyes wild and pleading. The unshakable, unfriendly wife he once knew is gone, replaced by a desperate, needy whore.

"That's it," he growls against your lips. "My little wife, begging for her husband to fill her up."

A shameful part of you hopes this new side of you will make him see you differently. Make him desire you, want you, maybe even love you. The thought is intoxicating, to be truly wanted by him.

Your cunt spasms around him, gripping his cock like a vice as you imagine it. He is constantly buried inside you every night, pumping you full of his seed, ensuring his heritage while you serve your true purpose.

Aemond's eyes blaze with triumph as he sees the desperate need reflected in your eyes. He knows he's broken you, reduced you to a quivering, wanton mess, begging for his cock and his seed. It's a powerful feeling, knowing he has this control over you, that he can make you crave his touch above all else.

He leans down, capturing your lips in a brutal kiss, his tongue plundering your mouth, claiming you from the inside out. His hips continue their relentless pace, pounding into your tight heat, driving you closer to the edge.

Aemond's cock twitches inside you, his climax building, his balls drawing up tight. He's close, so fucking close to spilling himself inside you, to marking you as his once and for all.

"I'm going to flood this pussy," he promises, his voice a dark, seductive purr. "Paint your insides with my seed, make sure it takes root. You'll be dripping with my cum, and everyone will know who you belong to."

The thought sends a shiver down his spine, his cock pulsing with need. He wants to ruin you, to claim you so thoroughly that you'll never crave another man's touch. He wants to fuck you into submission, to make you his in every way possible.

His filthy words, combined with the brutal, near cervix-pounding thrusts, finally push you over the edge. You throw your head back with a keening cry, your body wracked with violent shivers as you come undone beneath him. Tears stream down your face, your eyes rolling back from the sheer, overwhelming intensity of it all.

Aemond groans as your pussy clenches around him, the rhythmic squeezing of your walls pushing him over the edge. His hips stutter, his thrusts becoming erratic as his climax crashes over him.

"Oh, Gods!" You sob, your voice high and broken.

Your pussy clamps down on his cock like a vice, rippling and fluttering as you ride out the waves of ecstasy crashing through you. At this moment, you are not a princess or a lady, but a wanton slut, put in her place by her husband's cock. And gods help you, but you love it.

"Fuck, yes!" he roars, his cock pulsing and twitching as he spills himself inside you, painting your walls with his hot, thick seed, your pussy clenching down on him like a fist.

Jet after jet of hot cum shoots from his cock, flooding your womb, painting your insides with his seed.

"Take it," he snarls, his hips jerking with each spurt of his release. "Take my cum."

Aemond's mind goes blissfully blank as he empties himself inside you, his whole world narrowing down to the feel of your pussy milking his cock, greedily swallowing every drop of his cum.

You whimper softly as Aemond's hot seed fills you, your insides warm and tingling from his release. You can feel it trickling out around his still-buried cock, the evidence of his claim dripping down.

He rocks against you, grinding his pelvis against yours, ensuring every last drop is pumped deep into your fertile core. The thought of you, swollen with his child, carrying his heir, sends a primal surge of satisfaction through him.

Your mind is blissfully empty, thoughts scattered in the aftermath of such intense pleasure. You gaze up at him with wide, glossy eyes, your lips parted in a breathless pant. The world around you fades away, leaving only him.

Aemond leans down, his weight pressing you into the mattress as he buries his face in the crook of your neck. He nuzzles your skin, breathing in your scent, the musky aroma of sex and sweat clinging to your bodies.

His softening cock twitches inside you, a residual shudder of pleasure rippling through him at the feeling of your cum-filled pussy clenching around him. He rolls his hips lazily, grinding against you, savouring the sensation of his seed sloshing inside you.

Aemond's lips curl into a satisfied smirk against your neck. He can feel your body, pliant and sated beneath him, still grasping his softening cock as if reluctant to let him go. The knowledge that he's thoroughly conquered you, reduced you to a quivering mess of pleasure, sends a thrill through him.

He pulls back slightly, his single eye raking over your face, drinking in the sight of you - cheeks flushed, lips swollen, eyes glazed with satisfaction.

You're a vision, a goddess laid out before him, and he's drunk at the sight of you.

Aemond's eye roams over your body, taking in every curve and dip, committing the sight to memory. Your breasts, heaving with each breath, nipples pebbled and begging for his touch. The sheen of sweat on your skin, glistening in the candlelight. The way your thighs are splayed open, your pussy still stretched and dripping with his cum.

It's a feast for the senses, and Aemond is a starving man.

[lovl3igh]

"they made greens worse in show to push blacks agenda" "they made blacks worse in show to push green agenda" truth is they made daemon and viserys worse and greens are now arouse sympathy and rhaenyra is made more soft and all that destroys mostly female characters and is for more drama and to push whole tg vs tb thing for bigger marketing while saying that's not what we supposed to do (season 1)

and yes, greens are worse in the books, making alicent innocent in the beginning and stating murder of luke as accident was to make them look better. and yes daemon was more "grey" character in the book, while in show almost every scene who was supposed to make him look like good father, husband or just vulnarable guy was cut out or belittled, his relationships make him look like bad guy - killing rhea, admitting to not fully loving laena, abusing nyra - instead of book!daemon who is against everyone but his family (except of green side), there's show!daemon who goes against his family or ignore its' members. and yes there are things when the greens are shown worse than in the books and black better than they were written

but changing ages of characters harms team black only. and since there's many changes of those and that's of many important characters it DOES make team black look worse and makes team green victims

1. alicent instead of being adult woman going against little girl (alicent 18yo and rhaenyra only 9) is now teenager sexually abused by viserys who is even older than her in the show than in f&b. being rhaenyra's peer - and her former friend - also changes the dynamic because now people claim rhaenyra caused break up of their friendship as if she wasn't just suffering 14yo. no, alicent is no more adult woman climbing for power and acting against child, it's a teenager abondoned by her best friend after being force into relationship with much older guy

2. jace, luke and dragon twins aged up - now in book it was 10yo aemond who attacked 3yo joffrey and then fought 4yo luke and 5yo jace*. in the show 11yo (according to s2 timeline) aemond is fighting four kids in the age from 8 to 10. so he doesn't attacks children at least 2x younger than him but is jumped by almost his peers. poor aemond, right?

*before someone say "jace was 6 and luke 5" - jace was born in late 114 AC and luke in late 115, meanwhile laena died at the beggining of 120 AC, which makes them 5 and 4 years old respectively

3. we don't have actual age of twins but looking at actors' ages, jaehaerys and jaehaera were 4, maybe 5 years old, tho in s1 they looked like toddlers. now it's not a big book to show change, 6 to 4yo, but it still look kinda worse to murder boy who barely stopped being a toddler than 6yo

4. daemon fell in love with laena when she was 22 (!!!). she wasn't a teenager. she wasn't also 12yo when offered by her parents to viserys. making her younger in the show made daemon, corlys and rhaenys look worse than in f&b (the only person who looked "better" - there's no good word for that i'm afraid - in that situation was viserys, who decided to marry 15yo and not 12yo. good for you, pedo?)

5. joffrey being 6yo with baby dragon makes rhaenyra look worse and like an oathbreaker. sending baby dragons to the vale instead of dragon who can at very least carry his rider doesn't look cool even though was funny for a second, because she technically didn't break her word, she DID send a dragon, even two, but that was a loophole

6. not exactly the same but - fabien frankel and matt smith' casting. i'm not saying they don't play their characters well or anything. that's not the point. the point is that fabien was born in 1994, matt smith in 1982 and milly alcock in 2000. there's 12 years age difference between fabien and matt but between cole and daemon is supposed to be only a year. now daemon is still called a groomer and cole is not because he is played by a guy only 6 years older than milly. and there are also people who now call him a victim and not rhaenyra

so yeah, i don't really wanna see anymore how much blacks look better in the show than in the book and greens worse... because that's not true. yeah, there are things done that make tb look a bit better but the show started with making the greens victims they weren't at all in the book and a lot of that has to do with ages changing

[bookwormbynight]

please tell about your lawlight hades and persephone au 👀

Oh boy here we go lol.

Alright so its title was "Seasons Don't Fear the Reaper". The cast went like this:

Persephone (goddess of spring) - Light. He doesn't know his actual parents, probably gods, but honestly he could have also just been another instance of castrated-testicles-fall-into-the-sea-and-make-a-hot-person, fuck knows. Aphrodite found a very pretty baby and adopted him. He cultivates gardens because he connects better with plants than people, likes to experiment with it, and he's not really ever let out of the house, so he doesn't have anything better to do.

Hades (king of the underworld) - L. He's the king of the underworld by technicality, but he actually devotes himself to and is seen as the god of posthumous justice, because he likes to spend his time unwinding murders back to the living for fun. I'll talk more about underworld worldbuilding in a hot second. Also, L grabs Light because the Oracle said that Light was the one, and L was like “fuck it, he’s hot”. There’s really no feelings on either side at first.

Aphrodite (goddess of beauty, love, sex) - Misa. If you know Aphrodite myths, enough said.

Charon (guide into the underworld across the river Styx) - Watari. I haven't thought about him too much, I just want him there.

Thanatos (personification of death, god of the dying) - Ryuk. He's going to be Light's first friend in the underworld, because Light isn't gonna like L very much at first lmao. He's also the one who tells Light about The Rule.

I don't have a solid plot but here are some bullet points I got going for me:

Light hangs out with mother-approved naiad friends at the base of a waterfall for a bit, until he manages to slip away thanks to an intense storm. Unfortunately for his bid for independence, he gets entranced by a red tulip (plucked) in his path, and stops to examine it. From where the flower left the ground, a hole opens up, until it’s wide enough for L to fly out, scoop Light up, and drag him down to the Underworld.

Misa comes back to collect Light, and discovers that he’s disappeared. She flies into a horrible rage and turns all the naiads into sirens as punishment. You bet your ass she throws a tantrum and murders some nymphs and shit. Also she makes the entire animal kingdom infertile out of spite (she calls it mourning).

Light gets to hold Ryuk’s death scythe bc That Image (he has a fleeting thought to just fuckin take it and run)

A scene where Ryuk is eating apples in the garden, (talks about human world apples being better but), Light reaches for one, and then the exposition about the rule with underworld garden fruit (i.e. it binds you to the place) bc Ryuk is an asshole but a good frien :)

A scene where we acknowledge the fact that humans are using the nickname "L" to avoid calling the death god’s attention by using his true name… L (“what is L short for, anyway?” and L just gets the most shit-eating fucking grin because humans really fucked that one up and he thinks it's HILARIOUS). This is rooted in superstition that actually surrounded Hades and Persephone at the time the myths were formed.

Anyway Earth's going to shit because Duh, and Zeus (just called the King, only ever going to be mentioned and the reader will never see him) finally relents to what he views as Misa's temper tantrum, because sacrifices have stopped, and humans are panicking because no babies are being born and neither are any of the animals they work with. I'm thinking maybe after 7 months, because that's approximately how long Light and L interacted face-to-face total in canon. The King tells L to give Light the fuck back. L does not tell Light anything about any of this.

L discusses a plan with Watari after a week or so of keeping it from Light (Zeus is coming to get Light that day) - Light was eavesdropping. Obviously, this is an asshole move so Light fuckin socks L across the face, especially since they had been kind of falling in love yotsuba--arc stockholm-syndrome style, so it feels like betrayal even though it's not at all surprising.

MY FUCKING NOTES-- ONE LITERALLY SAYS "Rain scene(?) Can it rain in the Underworld??". I've decided yes it can because I need that. Another one says "When Light first got brought there his whole scheme was just to escap but oh nos! It backfired!" 😭 help

Light weighs his options while in a garden, realizes he doesn’t want to leave anyway, and remembers the foreshadowed thing Ryuk said about food grown in the underworld (L didn’t know about this rule - it’s Ryuk that’s the crazy fuck bringing non-dead souls into the underworld and vice versa, just because L doesn't leave the house enough to think of that). He plucks a pomegranate, eats some, and goes to L and demands that they bring him to Zeus when Zeus comes.

The Underworld:

Souls don’t go on living after death - that defeats the purpose of death. The underworld, or the land of the dead, just stores the souls, which would be everything that made up an individual, but the souls can’t be conscious or anything without a body because that’s the other half of what makes a person. Maybe the souls should be like dim little stars? According to this one website I found, souls supposedly went down there to slowly fade into nothingness. I guess they would disappear when there is nothing tethering them to the Earth any longer. Coco-style.

The underworld is also supposed to be UNDER the earth, but it also seems to be imagined in the modern day as vast, with high high high ceilings and lots of mist at the top ig, although it’s dark and shadowy.

THE FUCKING FLOWERS hoo boy are you ready for this shit I spent fucking ages researching flowers I could draw upon within the story because Light is a flower boy and then used NONE OF THEM because THIS is what made me lose passion about this thing but here you are:

Anemone (red) - tragic love (sprung from Aphrodite’s tears mixed with Adonis’s blood as she tried and failed to save his life)

Baby’s Breath - everlasting love, or new beginnings (really good for weddings and births)

Basil - murderous intentions, or romantic intentions (apparently it started as a symbol of hate in Greece because the name recalled a literal monster, implicitly cursing the Basilisk upon the person you sent it to, and then morphed into a declaration of an intent to marry in Victorian England - an enemies to lovers arc if I’ve ever seen one)

Belladonna - silence, death, poison

Blackthorn Blossom - this plant made up Jesus’s thorn crown, but the flowers are gorgeous

Camellia (red) - honorable death, or eternal love

Carnation (pink) - heartfelt gratitude and motherly love (given on Mother’s Day in the West)

Carnation (red) - love (common Mother’s Day gift in Japan but romantic in the West)

Cherry Blossom - rebirth, renewal, spring

Chrysanthemum (white) - death, mourning, grief, devotion, loyalty (funeral flower, especially for those who died young)

Daffodil - prosperity, or rebirth and spring, or regard and esteem (also called the narcissus)

Daisy - childhood, innocence

Hibiscus (red) - love, delicate beauty, brief existence (withers within a day of blooming)

Orchid - fertility, elegance, charm, beauty

Poppy - consolation, eternal sleep, peace in death

Rampion - the German word for the plant is ‘rapunzel’

Rose (red) - romantic love, desire

Rose (white) - innocence, virtue, purity

Spider Lily - final goodbye, death, funerals

Do you have any idea how much fucking time it took me to research these goddamn flowers fuck you Persephone and fuck you Light

Tulip (red) - a love confession, passionate love (apparently created from the blood of a Romeo-esq dude in Persia who committed suicide when he falsely believed his beloved had died)

Violet - watchfulness, modesty (created by Artemis to protect her nymph from Apollo’s advances)

[botslayer]

Horror Theory: Just Men Behind The Masks

So I just rewatched Behind The Mask: The Rise Of Leslie Vernon. A 2006 deconstructionist horror film. And I have a thought for the rest of the horror community to chew on:

A lot of people mention idly that this is a "Shared universe" film. That this is a universe where Chucky, Michael, Freddy, and Jason (All of whom are name dropped) exist. Which heavily implies the rest do, to. I have a different idea.

This is a universe where those STORIES exist. Fred Kruger may have been a real person. Jason Voorhees drowned at camp that fateful summer. Charles Lee Ray was gunned down in a toy store. Maybe even Michael Myers went to the asylum and got out.

Here's the kicker tho: If you pay attention, at least, it's implied that the characters as we know them are fake. The only one I'd be willing to say exists properly from the first movie is Michael.

Spoilers ahead but the guy up top is the titular Leslie Vernon... Except no. He isn't.

The Dr. Loomis to Leslie's Michael (The in universe term is "Ahab.") is Doc Halloran. Halloran reveals and Leslie later admits he is not Leslie Vernon. His real name is Leslie Mancuso.

(Incidentally, yes. That is Robert Englund as Halloran. A+ casting.)

At the end of the movie, after carving a bloody swathe through a bunch of people, Leslie is "killed" by the survivor girl, Taylor. When asked if Leslie is dead, she says "I don't know what he is." Halloran reflects on the idea that Leslie was "Just a man."

We spent the entire movie up to this point getting into Leslie's head, learning how he does things. Seeing all the preparation not only he, but the other slashers put into the things the do. Why is Jason's Machete indestructible but all the other tools around break with one swing? Sabotage. Why are windows usually stuck? Nails. Why do tree limbs break right away and cars not start? Also sabotage. Stuff like that.

We also find out that Leslie Vernon was very likely a real person but has been dead for twenty years. At the very least Leslie Vernon is a popular folk tale around the town, Mr. Mancuso is just piggybacking off it to do some murder in the interest of making his survivor girl stronger and doing good for the world through evil.

(Pictured: Leslie Mancuso as Leslie Vernon during his killing spree)

The story of Mr. Vernon, the dead man, is that supposedly a bastard kid was born to a married couple (possibly through rape.) They worked him like a slave, forcing him to till fields with nothing but a hand scythe until he murdered both of them. The town found out and a mob of people drowned the boy after the murders and his body was never found as the water was too cold, so he never came back up. Turtles picked his bones clean.

Twenty years later, Mancuso took on the name and started plotting to murder people at that farm house. The rest of the movie is the set up and execution of that murder plan.

So what does that say about people like Michael, Jason, Freddy, and especially Chucky?

We'll start with the man who started it all. One tragic night in 1963, a young Michael Myers murdered his older sister with a kitchen knife. No one knew why. No one understood his motive. But the fact remains he did it. A little before Halloween night 1978, Michael escaped the mental institution he was in and went on a killing spree for reasons not everyone will know but was injured and eventually stopped by Dr. Loomis and a local baby sitter, Lori Strode.

I see this as being the thing that inspires that most horrible of things in-universe: Copycat Killers.

They mention directly that Michael has done his attacks on Haddonfield at least 4 separate times. I don't know much about Halloween as a series so I don't know what movies that number specifically is referencing but I'm willing to suggest the first two movies are billed together as one attack because it was basically one protracted occurrence. At the end of which he was blinded and then set on fire, burning to death.

Later movies retcon that death but logically, the real Michael is dead in this universe. Later instances where HE supposedly attacks are the works of more calculating, crazy people like Mancuso. His whole deal is "We set things up like this, we figure out how to do that and yadda yadda."

You could easily apply most of what he says and does to people who can act out just like he does. Bullet proof vests, gel applied in spots to stop bleeding. Breaking into people's houses and cutting the power and telephones, etc. I think the other supposed three attacks in the BTM universe are people who took on Mikey's coveralls and a replica mask, were in some way stopped or got away, and then were either replaced by new fakers or maybe continued being Mike a time or two before being stopped. This could also theoretically riff on the idea of Michael using body doubles to fake his death in some of the movies.

Alternatively, The real Mike could still be at the Smith's Grove Sanitarium in this universe. He never got out but his legend made a perfect starting point for people to latch on to and start "being him." Or he may be a local legend with no real basis in reality.

The problem is we don't have any further context for the four attacks that happened. So... Yeah, this is nine tenths me BSing.

How about Jason? The Crystal Lake killer and my personal favorite?

I think the most likely case of what happened with Jason in the universe of BTM is that Jason Voorhees did actually exist. He did drown that one summer. Some years later his mother would go on to slaughter a bunch of camp counselors before the camp could reopen. Note the thing about how slashers need a story like that which would naturally draw somebody.

So I think it's worth considering that the "dozens" of people "Jason' supposedly has killed over the years we're actually the works of either one faker or multiple fakers who've taken up residence at camp Crystal Lake over the years. This is because while we don't have any real evidence that Jason is 100% real we do have evidence that sometimes people will take up these mantles just to take them up if it's the convenient one to work with and use for your own ends.

If you go to Jersey and you want to start offing people, why not try and find a way to pin it on the Jersey devil?

So you have this local legend of a kid who drowned in a lake and his mom goes on a murderous rampage. So what are you, an up and coming slasher going to do? Well you start acting how you think Jason would act. You put on this facade and start doing damage to people. Given a lot of the stuff Mancuso does that actually makes him look undead, a talented enough makeup artist could actually theoretically make themselves look like a super deformed crazy guy like Jason or even like Freddy... Speaking of.

I think the most likely course of Freddy's history here is that he did still kill around 20 kids at some point in the past. And then the people got together and they burned him to death in the boiler room.

However I think maybe there's a chance he survived and went on to not so much invade people's dreams as he did perhaps start drugging people and then torturing them. Alternatively his "Slasher" copycat started doing that.

We know that in the actual nightmare on elm Street movies Freddy likes to get in your dreams, play with your fears and even use some of your greatest strengths against you, because he just can. Now imagine someone with the face of a burn victim breaking into your house at night, drugging you or gassing you up in a way that makes the whole world feel very dream-like, and unreal, and then butchering you.

I think it would especially be very easy to reframe a lot of the ways in which these people turn up dead as Freddy simply doing things that he knows because it's established in the BTM universe that a lot of these killers will stalk their victims from months at a time.

That one scene in dream Warriors where he turns his hand into drug needles and injects a girl with them? Well that could be suggestive of the idea that instead what Freddie actually did was drug her and then make her OD in her sleep.

A lot of the kills all of these guys do could be someone embellished like that one time that girl was force fed things until she choked to death in her dream, in real life her windpipe just kind of collapsed if memory serves. As if something had been weighing down on it.

Then again, maybe most of the kills from all the movies we know didn't really happen. Michael being strong enough to pin a guy to a wall using a kitchen knife is otherworldly in its own way. Like. Maybe that didn't happen that way. It's just the rumor mill circling around.

Now. The last one. My personal least favorite. Chucky. AKA Charles Lee Ray, the Lakeshore Strangler.

Charles Lee Ray killed a good handful of people as a normal adult but in a crime gone wrong, he got gunned down in a toy store somewhere in Chicago. In the universe of the Child's Play movies, he uses a voodoo spell to put his soul in a "Good Guy" doll. He then uses a normal little boy, Andy, to go kill his partner in crime, Eddie and then spends the rest of the series hunting for Andy so he can be human again by putting his soul inside of Andy. Or just trying to kill him in three and I think Curse's after-credits.

In universe, I think what really might have happened was Charles swore bloody vengeance on Eddie and the cop who killed him, expecting to escape. He was then killed in the store either trying to get the drop on the cop or just get out. The hideout Charles and Eddie, who escaped custody, used to use, exploded in a random gas leak incident.

But urban legends have circulated over and over. That it was Charles' ghost possessing a Good Guy Doll. That a little kid was seen on the train carrying one such doll heading toward Cabrini-Green. Etc.

Now, I'm not 100% sure how later appearances by "Chucky" would go. Like. How do you fake a killer doll? Tiny Animatronics? A REALLY short guy? Leaving them as calling cards? I dunno. But it is just another guy piggybacking.

The only cue that anything vaguely supernatural is happening in this world is at the end, Leslie is alive after having his head crushed and being burned, but, to his credit, he was established to be a pretty tough bastard up to that point and the press was only turned enough to lock him in place and hear one squelch. It probably did damage but it also probably didn't do enough to put him on ice. So it's fairly ambiguous and still probably means killer dolls aren't a factor.

In summary: Behind The Mask is not a universe where all of our favorite killers exist. It's a universe where their legends exist and people who want to do evil become those legends. For a time at least.

Happy Halloween, everyone.

[tyranasauruslex]

Ok, so my modern Amos Bracken lore is that the murder of Jerrel completely devastated the Bracken family and caused a rift that never fully healed. Jerrel was poised to take over the family horse ranch when he was fatally stabbed by a then twelve year old Willem Blackwood, who at the time had been Amos' childhood friend. Amos, the slightly more surly second son, adored his brother but his death only brought out the inadequacies he already felt, as well as the guilt that it was his friend who killed Jerrel. Ma and Pa Bracken never got over the death of their son or the lack of justice (Due to his age, Willem avoided prison and got sent to a juvenile correction centre and was released on his 18th birthday) and both died shortly after Amos' 19th birthday. This left Amos having to step up and take over the family horse ranch far earlier than had been intended and take custody of his little sister, Twyla.

He marries a local girl and they have a son but Jerrels death still casts a large shadow and they barely make it five years before they’re headed for divorce. After Willem's betrayal, Amos struggles to let anyone in, although he adores his son and happily takes full custody of him when the Raylon's mother decides to move to the Vale. He pushes Twyla to work hard at school so that she won't be stuck on the family ranch despite his sisters insistence that she wants to carry on working with the horses.

At age 18 Twyla informs him that she’s pregnant and marrying the vets son, Gidden, which Amos is not happy about. She should be out exploring the world, not tied down with a baby. Gidden is a nice, kind lad, good with the horses and dotes on his sister so it's not like Amos can object. The wedding is held on the family field and Amos finds himself having a fun for once instead of wishing that their long dead family members could be present.

Not long after his nephew Aeron is born, and family move out of the main house and into one of the converted barns and life goes on for a while. Raylon is old enough to take on more responsibility on the ranch and they're able to expand into thoroughbred breeding and Amos finds himself mixing with all the ridiculously wealthy people of Westeros.

He’s out in the fields with the horses when Elmo Tully comes running to tell him that there’s been an accident. His sister, brother in law and newborn niece are all dead. Killed in a car accident when Daemon Targaryen, who was speeding down the country roads in his over expensive sports car, lost control and ploughed into them. Five year old Aeron was pulled from the wreckage and barely survived the crash. Once the funerals are done and the paperwork is signed, Amos formally adopts his nephew and retreats to the family ranch. The police investigation into the crash goes nowhere which was unsurprising considering how much money and power the Targaryens had.

Despite everything Aeron is a sweet and kind little boy, although he's inherited the family stubbornness, and Amos loves that boy like he’s his own. It’s not exactly a shock when Aeron tearfully comes out to him one night when they're putting the horses to bed. They talk about boys and being safe and Amos is secretly relieved that he doesn't have to go through another teenage pregnancy scare like he did with Raylon.

When Aeron is sixteen it obvious that there must be a boy on the scene so Amos tactfully leaves him a box of condoms and braces himself for some hormonal teenage angst. The boy in question turns out to be Davos Blackwood, Amos catches them kissing in the barn, and all hell brakes loose. A Blackwood was bad enough, but one so closely related to the person that started the downfall of his family? Years of built up pain and resentment boil over and he ends up shouting at Aeron, something that he's never done before, that he's disgrace to the family and that his mother would be ashamed of him.

They breakup which Amos thinks would make him happy but seeing his nephew so depressed and miserable only makes him feel worse. As does the fact that Aeron is obviously afraid of him which makes Amos feels so ashamed that he retreats to the sept for three days straight. He needs to put things right with Aeron and the two have a heart to heart and Amos apologises for the cruel things he said.

Davos is a headache; all snarling teeth and insecurities but there's a softness to him, one that probably would have been more evident if his surname hadn't been tainted with the actions of his older brother. When his family kick him out Amos allows him to stay in one of the spare rooms. He wouldn't see a kid out on the streets, not even a Blackwood one. Davos earns his keep though and has a talent for leather work so Amos puts him to work making horse tack whilst Aeron studies to become a vet.

[cookeybg]

Gotham Possesses

A cryptid Batfamily AU in which Gotham is the main character and follows its journey to consciousness as it follows its Bat and Birds. Chapters are short and a bit gloomy.

Main Characters: Gotham, Bruce Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake, Damian Wayne

Honorable Mentions: Joker, Harley Quinn, Poison Ivy, Mr. Freeze, Riddler, Cobblepot (Penguin), Two Face (Harvey Dent), Superman (Clark Kent), Superboy (Jon Kent)

No romantic relationships

Stuff to know: Cryptid Batfamily, grim, Melancholic mood, Angst, this chapter has mentions of drug use, murder and unsolicited touching

Word Count: 933

[Here's my table of contents]

Chapter 10 - Gotham Watches

Death. That’s what happened when their warmth seeped into me, emptying, leaving behind a husk, a body no longer needed. Death. I had been born because of it, awakened. Death. It hung over me, clung to my Bat and our Birds. It tittered in the jester’s presence, in his arrival, in his exit. In the wake of a bullet fired. In the hands of anger and in the perception of love. In the tumbling of a dear butler, a father, when his neck snaps as he lands crooked. A kiss to the lips and he’s back, dazed, in pain, bound to me and the manor he holds so dear. Tethered to my shadows, forever serving in our love for our Bat. He moves on, dusts himself, there is dinner to be served. It is the thing that the living must always meet, the thing I greet and make my own. Their souls and warmth fuel me, a near endless supply. It is a curious thing, to watch them. I float around a young girl, she sits in the dark, I’m her only company. She is not afraid, not happy, used to it. She was told to never turn on the light, never answer the door, the phone. When she was alone she was to stay hidden and wait. A door opens quietly, she stiffens, then relief as her mother calls for her in a tired voice. I move on. I linger in a building where the jester laughs maniacally in his glass cage. He suddenly stops and stares, his gaze following me, his smile widening, unnerving. I stay away. Slither past the female jester, the blue cold man, the green woman who sprouts life on my soil, the man who mumbles riddles, the female cat whose too familiar with my Bat. All uninteresting, captured. Much more fun when they are free. I slip through old brick loosening the mortar. I caress a young woman, passed out on the cold floor. Her skin nearly as cold as the stone. She smiles as her final, shuttering breath escapes, a needle tumbling to the ground. My senses alert me to look up. I see a red cape fly by, avoiding me. As he should. His presence casts a heavy shadow, my Bat does not see me when he’s near. Leaves with him for periods at a time, far from my gaze. More often than not my Bat tells the red cape, whose skin is far too warm and whose smile reflects the sun, to stay away. It’s satisfying. I dance in the clubs, enjoying the manic thrum, the unbridled joy of its patrons. Some if not most, using something to increase their vivacity. Not all will make it through to morning. A hooked nosed man in a black hat smiles from the second floor window. Plotting, monocle gleaming.

A boy steals a half drunk bottle that his father was hugging in his sleep. The boy tosses it out the window, the sound of shattering glass echoes down in the street, not uncommon. He huddles under his blankets a bag of frozen peas pressed to his let eye. His mother won’t be back for another few hours. I hear the mumbling of a man, arguing with himself. A silver coin gleams under the dim light of an abandoned building. He shoots his gun when the coin lands, a body falls to the ground, warmth seeps into my earth, salty. Another body to be sunk into my harbor. Laughter distracts me away. I sweep in on a lovers cuddling, enjoying the images playing on a screen. His arm loosely dangling over her shoulders. Her gaze is reminiscent to how I stare at my Bat. The man will be gone by morning, he was never planning to stay, he will not let her know. Life glows within her belly. New potential. I sink down into my depths. There’s a meeting, men and women in white masks. Myths, creatures that should not exist. Watching, just as I do. Abominations that must be purged, a new mystery for my Bat. I waft upward through the grates. I watch a man, shivering, digging through the trash amongst the rats. Searching for something, maybe food, maybe something to numb. Unsuccessful, he moves to another dumpster. I wrap around the clock tower, a red headed woman sits typing furiously on a computer. She also watches and observes as much as I do. I help her steer the cameras in the right direction. A female bat stands beside her, stitched mouth, silent. My first bird sleeps contorted, on the manor’s couch. Tired from a long grueling night. My second hugs his knees to his chest, woken from his sleep. I encourage him to calm and close his eyes. My third hasn’t gone to bed, wide eyed and wired, placing theories on a board. My fourth has escaped, our bond shows me that he is in another city, asleep next to a body far to warm to be human, far too bright. My Bat, with labored breathing, is forced to dream. Forced in bed by the older man. I shape my shadows into hands, they aren’t perfect, sharp ends. I slide them down his overheated chest. My shadows press into his skin, ecstatic with the proximity. I lick his wounds to try and heal them quicker. He tastes sweet. He is not bound to me, not yet. I wait in anticipation for when we can be one, and settle on his side content. I will continue to watch, I doubt I will ever tire of it.

The end!

I hope you have enjoyed Gotham Possesses. I will be posting it on Ao3, maybe tomorrow. I'm a bit sad about it ending but also proud of myself. This is the second thing I wrote that I posted and was super nervous to do so. Thank you to everyone who has stuck with reading this and endured my lack of editing.

I will be planning a series of POVs from the birds. I hope you look forward to them :)

Please feel free to comment, I get rly happy when I see your reactions.

[mousy-nona]

Half My Soul (As the Poets Say) 1/?

They called him Menoetiades. They called him Patroclus. 

But he knew himself to be Alastor, in this incarnation and in every other. 

He was born a prince, among jewels and fur. Here is a little known secret: when a prince is born, he is born with a crown on his head. And even if someone were to throw the crown away, the boy does not forget the weight of it. 

A prince is always a prince. His city might cast him out, his father may strike him down and send him away, they could take his title, his wealth, his armies – but they would never be able to drain the blue blood flowing thick in his veins. 

And so when his father exiled him to Phthia (you’re a freak! An abomination of nature! I would rather be childless than have a killer for a son!) he went with his head held high. As if his crown still sat heavy in his blood-red hair. 

The only thing he’d said to his father before he had left was: no one cared when it was a servant boy. 

Menoetius had sneered, but when he turned away from Alastor, there was a glimmer of fear in his eye. Why? Because he feared a man who could kill a prince as easily as he could kill a farmer’s son? 

Phthia was rich in soil and boys. Alastor stared eagerly, drinking in the unfamiliar sights, his eyes open so wide they caught the sunlight there like rubies in firelight. His native land had been all shadows, darkness and fog for miles unending. Phthia, on the other hand, was drenched in sunlight. Everything was bright, even the palace itself. It was the home of a hero – the mighty King Peleus, blessed by the gods, who had known Heracles and Jason both – and the stories of his great feats were written in the mosaics on the wall. 

As a disgraced ex-prince and a known murderer, Alastor was given a tiny bunk in the darkest corner room, which he shared with six other boys. No matter. Within a week of Alastor’s too-sharp smiles and his jokes about accidentally slipping and falling in the dark as he twirled his knife, the other boys slunk away to sleep in the courtyard, the olive groves, the stables – and Alastor had a room for himself.

The next week he figured out why there were so many boys in Phthia. King Peleus was building himself an army. Every day and sometimes well into the night, they were forced to do drills, run sprints, fire arrows, and – his personal favorite – spar. Alastor found he was particularly skilled with the spear, the sharp point finding its target again and again and again until even his teachers looked a little pale at his deadly accuracy. 

He was the best – aside from one. 

Achilles.

The first time Alastor saw the Prince of Phthia he thought: so the gods are real after all. 

Then he thought: why is he so short?

Achilles was carved from sunlight and grace. He had one foot on the back of a man’s head and one of his arms in a death grip, and he made the awkward move look like a song. His every movement was fluid and quick, more water than man. 

But his golden skin, his golden hair, the golden tips of his tunic – that was all divine grace. 

Achilles was the son of a king, but he was also the son of the sea, and Alastor shivered at the echoes of Thetis’s power that shimmered just underneath his surface. Alastor’s mouth started watering. The power of a god…what did that feel like? What did it taste like?

He must have made a sound, because Achilles looked up then, and their gazes met. 

If Alastor had had a heart, it would have skipped a beat. Red eyes. Just like his own.

“What are you doing?” He asked, cocking his head as he watched Achilles twist the man’s arm as easily as someone might pop the cork from a wineskin. 

“Stopping a thief.” Achilles’s voice was soft, almost musical. “This man was taking from my father’s stores.” 

“Why don’t you kill him?”

Achilles shrugged. “He doesn’t deserve to die.” 

“You’ll let him get away?” Alastor snorted. “So he can tell all his friends back home that Phthia is an easy target?”

The man let out a muffled shout of protest, but was quickly silenced by Alastor’s glare. Achilles huffed. 

“They wouldn’t dare. These are my halls. They know who I am.” 

“If your reputation is so frightening, why was he able to break in?”

Achilles spluttered, that godly grace broken by human indignation. Alastor smirked.

“What would be your solution then, o’ wise one?” Achilles snorted.

The blur of the knife was too fast for any eye to follow. Anyone other than that of Achilles’, of course. He stepped backwards, smooth and easy, milliseconds before the sharp blade impaled itself in the man’s head. 

He glared at Alastor, and a thrill of pleasure went down Alastor’s spine. Pissing off the Prince was fun. “You could have hit me.” 

“But I didn’t.” His smile was sharp. “I had to test your famous reputation, didn’t I?”

Achilles scoffed, bent down, and picked up the dead thief. Even though the body was twice his size, he lifted him as if he weighed nothing at all. 

Alastor stepped into place next to him. “Where are you going now?”

He sniffed. “To place this man’s body in a shroud until his family can come for him.”

Alastor raised his brow, paused, then started cackling. 

“What?” Achilles lurched to a stop, exasperation painting his face. “What is it now?” 

“You really are as righteous as the stories say,” Alastor grinned amid peals of laughter. “Achilles.”

The Prince wrinkled his nose. “Don’t call me that.”

“Then what should I call you?” He started counting on his fingers. “Prince of Phthia? Son of Thetis? Aristos Achaion?” 

“Lucifer,” was his unexpected answer. 

“Lucifer,” Alastor purred. Even then, the first time he said his name, the word came out like a caress. It sounded right on his tongue.

“And yourself?” 

Alastor couldn’t tell if he was being polite, or if he actually did want to know. But when he answered him, he gave him his true name, and not the false one. “Alastor.” 

That was how he became Lucifer’s shadow; the darkness to his golden light. That was how the threads of the Fates started to spin. 

[kings-highway]

consider this: Soldier, Poet, King by The Oh Hellos, but as the main trouble-makers of Paranormality.

"There will come a soldier who carries a mighty sword. / He will tear your city down." -> "Daichi is not one of us - the bigeneric children born of alien experimentation are like parasites on this planet, they can cast their eyes onto the yokai without belief in them, forcing them to exist without purpose, to live in uncertain circumstances."

Perhaps not a sword, but certainly his nature - his inability to let sleeping dogs lie. Every time Oikawa called on him, Daichi unwittingly answered each time as though he were a soldier following the orders of his commander. When let loose, he did not stop his hunt. He stuck his nose in the dirt and kept sniffing out the drugs buried in a dealer's backyard (metaphorically speaking). Mixing that quality with his poisonous DNA seeping into the very fabric of the supernatural universe, the product is a man who can crumble towers with each footfall, who can make the citizens tremble at the end of his bayonet.

"There will come a poet whose weapon is his word. / He will slay with his tongue." -> "That is the unfortunate burden that we both must carry as believers - there would be no power in your belief if you were able to see it so easily, would there?"

His belief in Daichi's alien heritage, or at the very least, his belief that Daichi's father was up to something shady, is what, essentially, made Daichi an alien. If he had never been told, never been given the inkling of an idea that he is anything but human, then he wouldn't have had to deal with the adverse effects of seeing yokai. Oikawa believed in his ability to perceive, so Daichi did. Oikawa believed that being a monster does not make you monstrous, that the name of the woman who died by her husband's hand is her maiden name, not the one of her murderer. He can destroy and create worlds with words in his mind, with words spoken aloud.

"There will come a ruler whose brow is laid in thorn. / Smeared with oil like David's boy." -> "Sinistrals are not inherently magic but ones born and bred from bloodlines of power and superstition have innate…"

He cannot perceive the yokai. In fact, he barely even believes in them. Yet, he is the only one who can innately physically affect them before they touch him. With Daichi, he can see them. He doesn't know how to lay his hands on them before they've already gotten ahold of him. Using your sinistral hand can be learned, but Ushijima's ability is innate. He is strong in his ancestral power. He is marked with centuries of superstition, a bloodline capable of bringing the yokai to heel. His arm can move as a separate part of him. The very oil of the yokai is smeared into his skin, his veins, his bones, to the neurons connecting to his brain.

these are not set in stone, i think, considering i could also make a sound argument for all three of them in every position, such as both oikawa and daichi in the ruler spot, and ushijima as the solider. and so on and so forth. but, this is what i'm going to go with and submit. i fear i cannot consume media normally. will i be back in the future? maybe. just wanted to leave you with this, and should you have any thoughts, of course i'd love to hear them.

(obviously i know this song is about jesus christ. but it is something to be said that when these three came together, the bigener, the believer, and the sinistral, they tore the city down, as the last line of the song would go.)

I am CRYING.

dear readers, in case you haven't been following along @mania-sama has been waging psychological warfare against me for a few weeks and I'm pretty sure it's punishment for making them enjoy an DaiOi fic

this has killed me. is it possible you understand the themes and motifs of these characters more than i do? absolutely. fuck you. Also, deeply impressed that you put Ushijima up there, because he initially was slated to be the third metaphorical heavy hitter of the story but I decided to bench him for a bit and instead he will be back in a sequal to develope what the sinistrality hand meant. BUT FU K YOU BECAUSE YOU'VE SPOILED IT. HOW DID YOU NAIL IT 100% ON A SUBJECT I BARELY FUCKING TOUCHED. YOU GOT IT. ABLE TO TOUCH THE YOKAI BEFORE THEY TOUCH HIM. SATURATED IN THEIR OILS. IM CHEWING ON YOU MANIA. IM CHEWING ON YOU SO HARD. DO YOU FEEL THESE TEETH GNAWING? MMMHMMMM TASTY MANIA MUNCH MUNCH MUNCH.

Anyways I love you thanks for this I have to go back to work and be normal for another 5 hours now.

EVERYONE should read this. If you read Paranormality: its accurate. You know that. Enjoy the extra. IF YOU HAVENT this is the best goddamn endorsement of the story I could have written.

[orangepeelshortbreadcookies]

Thieves Of Dusk

by @orangepeelshortbreadcookies

Relationships: Sophie Beckett/Benedict Bridgerton

Characters: Benedict Bridgerton, Sophie Beckett

Summary: Freshly christened, yet-already-bored-out-of-his-mind nobleman Benedict Bridgerton is roused back to life by his encounter with a curious, enchanting figure at twilight.

OR

The Evil Bridgerton AU nobody asked for

Tags: The Villainous Viscount AU, Benophie meetcute but they're both kind of evil, the Bridgertons are nouveau riche, East Asian!Sophie, BiWoc Sophie, villains doing bad things and having fun with it!, Smoking, Chaos, Love At First Sight

Gliding out of the lively event inside the Mayfair Auction House, Benedict Bridgerton made his way outside, disappearing into the shadow cast by the building and twilight. He snuck to a vacant corner between two giant stuccos, leaned back against the wall, trying to mend his fraying nerves.

It’s alright. He told himself. You’re alright. It was getting rather stuffed in there. The socialising, the drinking, the parading. The presence of art and relics played only second fiddle to the oppressive atmosphere of quiet, vicious competition, mixing with the joyful flow of coins and banknotes. Nowhere, Benedict discovered, was the contempt between the titled and the moneyed for one another magnified quite like the way it was in an auction house.

And he was one of them now. Moneyed and then titled. Well, at least his eldest brother was. Anthony, or as he had been known for the past three years, Viscount Bridgerton, bought his title with an exorbitant amount, the likes of which usually bankrupted a well-off man, but made only a small dent in their family’s fortune. Not only was this move considered, privately, a social spit on the face to the sensitive high society of Britain, Anthony also had the audacity to take a piss on his initial offence by holding half of the Lords in debt, and the other half in his employment.

Benedict was the backup Viscount, at least temporarily. His brother had been hard at work procreating.

Meanwhile, Benedict was sent out into the world, presenting himself as a respectable gentleman of Mayfair society. On the other hand, his job also consisted of being Anthony’s errand boy, running things his brother had neither the appetite or taste for. Things like acquiring a new painting for their drawing room. What kind of painting, Anthony did not say. An expensive one was not a particularly helpful description.

So now, here he was at an auction house, pockets heavy with funds, attempting to bid on an expensive artwork that would fit their drawing room, out of all the other expensive paintings, excluding the ones that could only reach the pricey range.

The experience was so horrendous, so overwhelming that Benedict had to excuse himself in the middle of it to catch his breath. It was not that he was incompetent. He liked society, for the most part. He liked playing the role of a charmer. He had learned to like subtly manipulating the conversation and quietly instigating shit. It was only--

All this art was sitting right there and he had to pay for them?

The Bridgerton siblings did not come from money. They were born within the halls of a fledgling gambling hell, eight labours of love between an ostracised noble lady and the owner of said gambling hell, a former bruiser who she had eloped with, and who was now dead. Anthony certainly could not have risen to the position he did today purely by running that establishment in a respectable, honest manner. Edmund had been, and Violet was as close to saints as mortals could get, yet they had given birth to a collection of unnaturally talented liars, cheats, brutes, swindlers and murderers.

And Benedict loved his siblings even more for it. Every single one of those seven fuckers.

He eyed the side of the building. The ledge above him, where a nimble chimney sweeper was scaling, looked promising. He could imagine it now. In five minutes, he would return inside. Perhaps he should chat up Lord Bhandari and then attract the House’s director into their conversation. Maybe he would pretend to be drunk off his ass and stir up some chaos. But that might be found out by Anthony, and Benedict was too old and too bored to receive another scolding from their eldest brother. He could try to get the director himself drunk? Which approach then? The man was conservative enough at whist, preferring to serve as accessory to the egos of bigger, more powerful players. With the right kind of bait… A man like that would not miss a chance to amass, especially on art, even more so if he only needed to spend but little for vast returns. What if he heard of an obscure blackmarket offer from a raw, undiscovered talent, who also had the misfortune of being gravely ill and desperately poor? Which tales of greatness and/or of woes could he bullshit up so the honourable Auction House’s director would forget about his keys, long enough…

His fingers twitched at his sides in excitement. Nighttime. Craft knife. Tubular case. Fuck! He tightened his hands into fists. Steel yourself! He took three deep breaths. One. Two. Three. Calm down, Benedict. We’re going legit now. Think legal thoughts.

Tucking a hand into his breast pocket, Benedict pulled out his cigarette box, entrusting the vice to fog up his racing mind.

Just after his first inhale, as the warm chemicals were only starting their invasion of Benedict’s veins, soundlessly, a figure landed in front of him, not so far away. It took him a few seconds to recognise the chimney sweeper he had observed not long earlier. The smoke of his cigarette was making his vision extra ghostly.

It was when they looked up and met Benedict’s mildly intrigued gaze, that his breath was knocked out of his chest, for they were the most enchanting creature he had ever laid eyes on.

It sounded rather absurd, as he could hardly make out any particular features under their ragged, dirty, ill-fitting clothes, including the dark stripe of cloth covering the top half of their face. All he could tell was that they were small in stature, they moved so gracefully and lightly as if gravity was of no concern at all. Around their waist and half-hidden, was a curiously intricate-looking chain, whose metallic shine Benedict was fairly certain came from silver. A strangely fine item, utterly out-of-place on a drab chimney-sweeper’s costume. 

The stranger was smiling while looking at him, their eyes imprinted an exhilarating thrill and unadulterated joy into his soul. 

And they were coming his way.

‘Good evening,’ he uttered, trying to sound smooth, briefly forgetting that he was still holding a cigarette in his mouth. With swift motion, the stranger caught the tube between their fingers before it could reach the ground.

Well, that was embarrassing. Benedict thought, blushing. I must look like a bloody idiot.

Fortunately for him, the expression his new company showed him leaned more toward amusement than mockery. More… flirtatious than mockery. Their eyes on him, still smiling, they brought the cigarette to their lips, giving it a greedy whiff, then releasing the vapours in a blissful exhale.

They had very kissable lips, Benedict remarked mentally, plump and soft, framed by elegant lines of the cheeks and chin.He suspected there was a woman under that disguise. Or a very young, very pretty man. Suddenly feeling shy, he averted his eyes from their mouth, drawing his attention back to the little torch they had stolen from him. They were quick, he must admit. Too bad Benedict was no slowpoke himself. 

The cigarette had returned to him before they noticed it. 

Taking his time, Benedict took another whiff, carefully closing his mouth around where theirs were, seeking their taste. Meanwhile, his gaze fixated on the object of his fascination, watching as the eyes of the dust-covered little pixie grew wide and their lips trembled in surprise. As if they were taken aback by his boldness, by his indirect kiss, or had just come to the realisation that flirting with him was a reckless impulse on their part.

Very interesting.

Benedict could rationale, from personal experience, that their presence here, at this auction house, meant no good deed. 

‘Who are you?’ He asked.

The stranger grinned, delighted in their own mystery. The tip of their tongue caught between their teeth in a mischievous manner, and Benedict resisted the urge to press his own tongue against the spot.

‘Guess.’ Their voice was raspy and strained, perhaps a disguise attempt. The excitement and curiosity were not hidden, however. He could hear it.

There, as they stood between day and night and between social bubbles, as cigarette smoke billowed gently between the two of them. It was as if they existed out of time, Benedict and this vibrant phantom. Their identities were protected by half-lights, by the mute, blinded nature of elevated, civilised Mayfair streets and by criminality, against the eyes of the world and each other.

Using his left hand, slowly, openly, giving the stranger the time to react, to change their mind, Benedict took a hold of their right hand, pulling their bodies closer together. Little bursts of lightning shot up his fingertips where their skins touched, expanding all over his body. Carefully, with his thumb drawing little invisible circles, he memorised and processed the stories written on the skin of the adorable enigma with his touch. Their hand was small. He did not know any adult males with such small hands. A bump on the first joint of the middle finger. A writer’s callus. So they were educated and right-handed. Many noble ladies slathered their hands with lotions and filed their skin down to within an inch of their lives to soothe these bumps away, ashamed that the hardened skin would mar the perfectly pampered appearance. Their skin was cracked, dry and callused. These were most probably resulted from manual labour. Not a prominent weapon user. The little surface of their palm and along their fingers were riddled with little nicks, cuts and burn marks. 

Benedict noticed the contrast between his smooth palm and the mysterious marvel’s roughened one, and felt the whisper of a murderous rage getting louder inside him. What happened? Whatever, whoever occupied this beautiful creature’s life so much that they had no time to take care of themself? A good criminal ought to maintain a tailored, professional appearance. He flipped their hand over to inspect the back. More burn scars. Were they a black smith? They certainly did not carry themself like one. And why would an intellectual put one’s self through the dangers of blacksmithing? No clear impressions or calluses on the knuckles, the exact opposite of how his younger brother, Colin’s hands looked. His siren certainly did not possess the punch of an experienced bruiser.

He leaned down, surreptitiously studying what he could perceive of their profile. At this distance, he could see how their left shoulder was tense, weighed down by something they were carrying up their sleeve. No trace of cosmetics on their cheek. No shaving scars. Most definitely not a man. It would not lessen his attraction to this person in any way were they of one sex or another. More information about one's opponent, however, was always better than less.

She, he half-decided that they could be a she, smelled of the city. Not of perfumed leather and pruned gardens, not of the Mayfair part, no. Her natural scent was buried underneath layers of smoke, his cigarette among them. She smelled of darkened alleyways, of sweat and metal, and the garden. The scent was not conventionally pleasant, and it would have taken an ass kicking his skull off for him to expect something more arranged, considering what she might be doing and what he knew himself of the profession. But her smell did give him a calming effect. It reminded him of Covent Gardens, of their gambling hall, of his wild, chaotic and utterly free childhood. Few where he was now would look at the area and consider it an optimal place to raise children. Anthony would not. Neither would Daphne. But Benedict had always recalled their harsher times with fondness.  

‘I got nothing.’ He grinned against her face, delighted in feeling her shiver and the heat emanating from her cheek. He decided to keep all that he learned in those short seconds to himself instead. Retreating back to where he was against the wall, he put out the cigarette, put the stub into his pocket, then lit a new one. Milking the tension for all its worth. ‘Except for that you smell like a ghost. Well done.’ He was, had been, a cardsharp after all.

She looked frozen for a few seconds, registering his remark, unsure if it was a compliment or a snide. And based on the way her mouth dropped into a pout, on how she yanked the cigarette away from his shit-eating grin, and on how she smoked it in the most petulant manner afterward, he could see that she came to no satisfactory conclusion.

‘My turn.’ He offered his own hand to her. ‘Who am I?’  

The stranger took his hand and stared down at it. The brim of her cap, the mask over her eyes and the dim light made it impossible to glimpse her expression. What would she learn of him? Would she see the faded, chequered cuts of his fingers and deduce his upbringing in a gambling hell? Would she notice the old indentations of ropes and strings and discover his once-familiarity with them? Or would his recent lack of action already put a pristine mask on all of his past, and that would lead her to conclude that he was no more than a pampered aristocrat, who had never lifted anything heavier than a champagne flute in his life, pretending to play it tough? Would that perception be more charming? Was it a personality type she would prefer?

His heart pounded like a top thoroughbred in a race at the featherlight grazings of her finger all over his palm. Their close proximity did not help slow the rhythm. He almost wanted to pull back, to retreat, to put the hand she was holding into a glove, into his pocket, behind his back, to hide himself away from her gaze.

Benedict had no idea how he wanted to come off to this person, and it terrified him. 

‘Hmmm’, she started with a hum, releasing a puff of smoke. ‘Very healthy, vigorous male. Yet a turbulent life, your life, full of ups and downs.’ He pondered that statement and shrugged to himself.He supposed there were some degrees of truth to that.  ‘A chaotic professional life, indeed. Greedy man, you have not been able to commit to anything, have you?’

‘I prefer the term jack-of-all-trades.’

‘You have close, meaningful relationships with people around you.’ He smirked. ‘A mind of many ideas, can rarely keep his feet on the ground.’ He winced.

‘I don’t believe you saw all of that on my hand.’ He complained, on the defence. ‘Are you a witch?’

She looked back up at him, smiling. ‘It’s just palm-reading. Nursemaids’ hobby.’ Quietly, he tucked that information away, wondering if she realised she had given another clue about her identity. ‘Why, are you going to report me? If you do, considering I am telling you your fortune, I would include a forewarning as part of my fees.’ She tried to keep her voice playful, but he sensed true anxiety in her voice, in the way she subtly gripped his hand.

‘No,’ he swore. ‘I will not report you.’ And meant it. ‘Never.’

He heard her breath a sigh of relief, drawing his hand slightly closer to her chest. She trusted him. They’ve only just met, but she trusted him. And to Benedict’s surprise, he trusted her too. This stranger whose name he did not know and whose face he could not even see fully.

He gestured to the hand that she was holding again. ‘What else do you see?’

‘You are,’ she continued, slower this time. ‘A romantic soul. Artistic. A poet. There is so much love inside you.’ He quickly took the cigarette back from her, using it to mask his bashfulness. Benedict Bridgerton did not feel bashful. Unless when he was high. He leaned closer, attempting to decipher the comprehensive archive of his life and character, written in a foreign language between the lines of his palm. A language that she was apparently reading with ease.

‘You also possess great charm.’ She sketched a line from between his index and middle finger to the base of his pinkie. ‘Others can’t help being drawn to you.’

He smiled. ‘I think you are just describing my face now. It’s up here.’

She looked up, mouth open, fully prepared to give him another sarcastic remark. No words managed to escape her. Lost in her diligent inspection of his hand, she did not realise the gap between them had grown smaller. Their eyes met, closer this time.

And then they were kissing. With her hands still closed around his, he pulled her closer to him, before sliding that hand away from her grasp, making a lingering trip up her neck, then resting upon her cheek. Her newly freed hands clutched at his lapels, while her body enthusiastically pressed him even further against the wall. Benedict’s other arm, the one holding the cigarette, snaked around her waist. His pinkie looped a few twice around her silver chain.

With her breath and lips, she put the moon on his tongue. He swallowed it, and it lit up his insides. Feeling her response, he trusted  a celestial body resided in her too. It ignited her bones, and he knew he put it there.

When Benedict nipped at the edge of her mask, intending on removing it with his teeth, his silver mystery was startled out of their trance. She pushed against him, took a few steps back, and readjusted her mask till it sat firmly again across her face. Where he toyed with the chain on her waist left a mark on his hand. Neither of them noticed it.

‘I must go.’ She said quietly. They were pulled back to their existence inside time.

‘What are you doing here?’ He asked, feeling fundamentally altered.

‘Guess.’ Her smile reflected his own melancholy. Then that feeling made room for a blossoming of brewing mischief.

He did not answer. Not with words, anyway.

He gave her back his cigarette. A challenge. An inquiry. 

Show me.

He was damn excited to see what she would do.

‘Thank you’, she whispered, so softly Benedict could not make out her voice. Then the twilight nymph, one of the many names he would later refer to the stranger, retreated back a few steps and revealed briefly to Benedict the strange, elegant mechanism attached to her left wrist. She took one last drag of the cigarette, reigniting the dim glow, then inserted it into the mechanism.

Then, she almost levitated up the walls of Mayfair Auction House, tiptoeing from balcony to balcony like a sparrow. Aiming her arm with what Benedict just then realised was a kind of small, personalised crossbow, at an open window on the third floor, she shot the cigarette into the room. Then elegantly, she landed back on their feet, gave Benedict a little bow, and ran away.

Just as he started to take off after her, the explosion that came almost immediately halted him.

Reeling from the shock, Benedict lost track of his target in the smoke and the commotion. Furthermore, he was waylaid by the spectacle of the stranger’s handiwork. Sparks of gold and silver lit up the fancy building like a goddamn birthday cake. The air reeked of sulphur. Pediments and balconies fell over each other like flaming dominos. A symphony of confused worries growing steadily into horrified screamings, swelling in and out of the building. He could make out the desperate, ineffective authority of the director, ordering his employees to protect the auctioned lots.

It was fucking magnificent.

Yet just as swiftly, the Metropolitan Police rolled to the scene. From his vantage point, Benedict watched them making quick work of disbanding the gathering crowd of peasants. The vision of the Auction House’s door getting knocked down was not unlike the collapse of the Gates of Hell. Dust and smoke flared. An ash-covered entanglement of limbs, screams and chaos clawed its way out. Glamorous nobles, horror-stricken, losing all their dignity, climbing over each other to escape.

The police’s efforts to escort the guests to safety were met with earnest cooporation. All one could feel was relief. No one bothered questioning why only half of the servants assigned to work there that day made it out of the building.  

The auctioned pieces were carried into the police wagon in an orderly manner, before substantial fire damages could get to them. The process was further assisted by the director’s and his esteemed visitors’ hefty vocal demands and to some degree, warnings of the value of the item, how the lifelong servitude of the person carrying it would be inadequate compensation.

For once, to his dismay, their city’s police proved to be annoyingly competent. Even their unreliability is unreliable. Benedict thought irritably. Left on his own and out of sight, he made a surreptitious scan of the area, searching and then erasing any sort of trails that might lead to his darling firestarter, his fun was thought spoiled.

Until thirty minutes later, a second group of police arrived to assess the situation and attempt rescue, having been waylaid by an angry, drunken scuffle and then a swarm of curious civilians. They were struck dumb to discover the group of perfectly alive, albeit shaken and soot-covered Lords, Ladies and wealthy Misters outside the building. Their assistance was apparently not needed. The auctioned properties were reported by the house director, to be on their way to the station with the first responders.

‘We are the first responders.’ The constable said, growing more alarmed by the syllables. The Auction House’s director processed this knowledge, he turned white, then red, then white again, slowly understanding that the valiant officers, who had bravely and generously rescued his valuable collections, were none other than the thieves themselves. Benedict watched the man growing ill many times over in seconds with immense, yet hidden, amusement.

For his part, Benedict remained charming, confused and absolutely useless during his interview with the real  police. Only after he returned to the safety of his apartments, that he allowed himself to break into a smirk, which grew into a wide grin, then hysterical, uncontrollable laughter.

‘Oh, you brilliant creature.’ He was wheezing. ‘That was good.’

Benedict Bridgerton was completely, utterly, smitten.

I will find you. He swore to himself, determined to unmask his silver siren.

[shadowknightapologist]

do yuo have any mcd gene headcanons perchance……

BOY DO I!!! hello my new favorite person enjoy your stay /silly

WARNINGS FOR: referenced child abandonment, sick parent, mild body horror (bad piercing habits), cannibalism, execution, and murder.

prior to being a shadow knight...

gene is afro-dominican (maria is dominican, his father is black).

bisexual demiromantic, he/they, BPD + insomnia (i fear him and laurance are going to become personal conduits /hj silly).

if he'd have had the chance, he probably would have become an artist.

he always loved cats. his childhood pet was a golden tabby molly named apple (after dante bc it was one of his favorite words and gene wanted to make sure he could pronounce it). she was very affectionate and usually rode around on his shoulders while he was patrolling the village and she'd cry at him whenever dante got out of school. very accomplished mouser and gift-giver, much to chagrin of her household. she got sick just before maria did and died the day after gene's execution.

gene was executed at 19 (dante was 13) and is 25 as of season 1. he looks about 21-22.

he looks like his father and he hates it (the design i made is already a little outdated but that's okay i'll figure it out one day).

his full name is eugene alejandro de la cruz.

"eugene" is after his father, but calling him that whether you're aware or not will get your teeth knocked in. the only person who got away with this is his mother, maria, because she was sick (dante, before and after gene's execution, would probably be fine too, but dante never had a reason to call him eugene anyway so).

gene took care of both dante and maria.

gene DID actually work to be headguard, and he was going to be picked fairly. however, he was in competition with an older, well-respected gentleman and panicked—i'm thinking the lord was corrupt and made it so low-ranking guards and villagers were kinda miserable, so with maria getting sick and their father leaving, gene was terrified he'd be unable to properly support them without the rank.

so his first run-in with his magiks was an attempt to manipulate the man into no longer wanting to be headguard so it'd leave gene as the only option. instead, he corrupted his memories so bad that he got severe PTSD and had to step down as a guard completely.

i think that, in addition to memory warping, gene can cast small illusions. this is how dante is introduced to gene's magik—he used to do little shows based on fairytales to help dante sleep.

gene was too busy growing up to bother with crushes or attractions beyond physical/aesthetic attraction and occasional flirting bc he's charming and knows how to read/talk to people. yes this means i'm making the lord's daughter thing largely noncanon!! instead she liked him and he used it to his advantage (not in a gross way) (more like "my family is safest when i'm on your side so that's where i'm gonna be") (unkind, yes; assault-y? no).

after becoming a shadow knight...

gene developed feline qualities after becoming a shadow knight. when passing for a human, this is visible in his eyes. in his usual knight form, he has a tail, the claws, and the teeth. in his more beastly form he basically looks like a fucked-up, zombified big cat.

additionally. shad gave him a nether-born feline mount.

in my headcanon, shadow knights are kept in the nether for 1-3 nether years (26-78 overworld days) so they can start training, acclimating to the realm, and be brainwashed. gene stabilized pretty quickly for newborn shadow knights, especially as magiks user. shad allowed him to leave with supervision after eight months (17 overworld days).

i believe that, in general, spirits suffer memory damage after dying. it's typical and usually fixes itself in the afterlife. however, since gene never got to any afterlife, nothing fixed itself. so when he's reborn, he believes, whole-heartedly, that dante betrayed him. his little brother, his shadow, the one person dante would have done anything for—now the one who tossed gene away, who let them make a public spectacle of his murder.

gene eats his lord, the two senior knights, and the boy who executed him. while he's fighting he takes a few chunks out of people. all in all it's a complete bloodbath. i think he would have done something to keep maria and dante away from a majority of the violence tho, whether that was trapping them in the house or using magic to create some sort of "bubble" so they couldn't hear anything.

gene still hits dante with the "someone has to remember" line, but no one's memory is actively changed (1, because everyone is dead; 2, because gene is still scared of his powers at this time, having not used them a lot; and 3, a part of him is hesitant to inflict that on dante). he leaves the communication amulet with dante and tells him to run.

after that, gene stays with maria for a while. either she dies of natural causes or he kills her himself (considering it a mercy kill).

dante (and maybe shad, but in a different way) is gene's only flaw as a shadow knight. he's the one thing remaining of his old life that gene can't kill, the one thing that makes him act out. gene will simultaneously hurt dante and beat the shit out of any knights that breathe a word about him.

aphmau reminds gene of dante. laurance and aphmau remind him of him and his brother (i'm not doing laurmau i think).

gene handles most of the rebirth process for baby knights. laurance was his favorite due to the unusual circumstances surrounding his turning.

gene is an exalted knight.

gene has tattoos + piercings. the piercings are mostly from him getting bored and just... stabbing things through his body.

in a perfect world, gene forgives dante and makes him a shadow knight with him and they serve shad together. he doesn't know why he hasn't done it yet (he'll say dante needs to suffer the consequences of his actions a little longer, but the truth is some deeply buried part knows and acknowledges that being a shadow knight is torture. he doesn't want that for his dante).

gene considered sasha a friend against his better judgement, up until she fled (he knows considers her a traitor and a coward). vylad is disconcerting and frustrating to him because he's hard to read. vincent is a coward. laurance is both infuriating and, truth be told, a little scary to him. gene isn't a stranger to eating other knights so zenix is straight up just annoying to him.

um this quote makes me think of dante and gene

these are probably so boring and all over the place, i just got excited </3 some may be subject to change bc i fear they're not very interesting!! but we'll see

[simslegacy5083]

Today's (12/16/2024) Episode: Putting Their Issue to Bed

When Luigi and his sad, casted, boy finally arrived back home, Noemi came to help see her baby off to bed.

The bulky bandage swaddling xir battered arm had made Skye feel better, but xe still gratefully swallowed a prescription strength pain pill before spinning into xir sleepwear, sliding under the covers, and drifting off to sleep.

Luigi and Noemi gazed down at their almost full-grown progeny for a while before tiptoeing out to the living room.

Settling on the couch Noemi turned to her husband "Poor baby. I can't believe he needs surgery… again! Did he say more about what happened?“

"No" Luigi replied "but he did ask me if we'd still love him if he hadn't been born a boy. I said of course and tried to make sure he understood there's no time limit on figuring out his gender identity. He didn't say anymore tonight but I think something along those lines is coming soon."

"Well, it certainly won't be a surprise if it does." Noemi chuckled before turning serious “We know his prom invite went wrong somehow, but I don't think his gender identity could have had anything to do with it, given Isra’s Par and other things we’ve talked about over the years." 

Luigi nodded "I know she and Rhys feel the same way about gender and identity expression as we do. Anyway, whatever happened what's done is done and now we’ll just have to help him navigate the fallout. Oh, the joys of parenthood!"  

Noemi nodded "I’ll murder you if you mention this to him, but I’m glad we decided to stop at one kid. You know I love that boy, but man parenting isn't always easy.“

 "You can say that again!" Luigi smiled "So what do you think about calling it a night? We’ll need to get up early to help our little wounded duckling get both a healthy breakfast and his usual makeup applied with only one arm.”

"You handle the cooking; I’ll do the warpaint" his wife replied. “Now come on, there’s just enough Love Day left to squeeze in a quickie before bed.”

Today’s episode title is a little pun… “issue” being another word for child 🤭

View The Full Story of My Not So Berry Challenge Here

[thelampisaflashlight]

Siúil, a Rún

[Tonight you get rewritten Mountain lore because it's humid as hell and I needed something to do. Hinted Drywall. Mentions of past infidelity (like centuries past) and possible murder.] Below the cut.

For all his strange otherworldliness, Mountain was, at his root, a man.

A man born of mortal parents who tangled and fled from each other.

A child born of an affair.

And from birth his life was set upon a tragic course, for fate is unjustly cruel to those whose only sin was to breathe.

He'd been young when the abbey was built.

A lad of twelve, who watched as the monks set about their work, hauling stones and taking axes to ancient trees.

He'd been cast out by then, four years since his mother vanished and his grandmother was rid of him, and found himself begging for his meals, so when the monks approached him offering food, it was only natural he'd accept.

From then on, the monks were good to him, and he was good to them.

They taught him to read, showed him how to work the land, and told him all of God's wisdoms.

Indeed, for some time Mountain was a devout follower of the church, though, as he grew older and wiser himself, he found reason to doubt the monks followed much of what they preached.

Whilst tending the gardens one afternoon, Mountain had caught sight of a lovely maiden with hair like fire, adorned with green ribbons that stood out amongst the flames, and eyes so blue he felt no clear sky could compare.

She had been weeping, and Mountain, kind soul that he was -but awkward to a fault- had approached her with the purest red rose he could find and offered it to her, a stutter to his voice as he tried to console her.

"I've plucked away the thorns, it will not hurt you."

I will not hurt you.

And from then on, ah, from then on Mountain found himself often in the company of that fair lady until her shift grew tight in the middle, and he knew, lord below, he knew, it could not of been his.

Still, he could pretend, for the sake of his own heart, that he was -the babe was a boy, and Mountain had considered him his son- and because it was the way of the times, he married that fair lady and tried his damnedest to make them a proper family.

But even though he had it in himself to love his wife, to care for his son, there was something nagging at him whenever he looked at the boy's face.

Too familiar to a man in his memories, from his days living in the abbey.

And too familiar still was the winding road upon which he followed his wife, who'd sworn to be loyal, down into the valley to the gates of that accursed building.

Though even then he did not confront her.

Did not ask to where she went when the days were long and the sunset well into the evening.

When winter came, he had to wonder which would claim him first; The cold of winter, or the chill of an empty bed.

One night his wife did not return, and no body along the road nor in the woods could be found, so with a brow heavy with burden, Mountain made for the abbey, bidding his son care -now not much older than he had been when left for the last time- but not before telling him plainly...

"If I do not return, do not linger here nor seek to find me. Go to the town, to the baker or the blacksmith, but for all that is good in this world, do not seek shelter in a house of God."

The descent into the valley was tiring in the snow, and Mountain could see his breath thicken in the air.

When he arrived at the abbey, he made not for the main entrance, but instead crept in through a side door, and the sight that met him there...

...Shockingly easy to forget with the passage of time.

Indeed, the exact scene he had witnessed was long faded from mind, replaced by better memories of more loyal friends and lovers, but there are times when he does recall bits and pieces.

And as Mountain licks the trickle of red from his fingers, having thoughtlessly dragged his hands through the thorns of newer blooms, he recalls his first taste of blood.

Flexing his fingers, Mountain uncurls his fist to gaze upon the treasure he'd pulled from the roses; A singular green hair tie that he deposits into Dew's waiting hand.

"You should really wear gloves." the ghoul gently scolds, casting the hair tie into a small bag filled up with lost and forgotten things, "Even I'm not dumb enough to stick my hand in there."

Mountain huffs a little laugh and plucks a rose from the bush -blush pink with a white center, less grand than the passionate red of yore- and does away with the thorns before tucking it into Dew's hair.

Half teasing, half to admire the way the faint burst of color stands out amongst the white strands, "I've plucked away the thorns."

I won't hurt you.

"You're such a..." Dew puffs his cheeks and a bit of steam flutters his curls, "...Just be careful, yeah?"

Please... don't hurt me.

"I will be from now on."

[lurking-latinist]

I am sure everyone has been biting their nails waiting to find out what the next Hornblower fic premise that I’ll never write is. It is below the cut.

Retribution fix-it, obviously. Nobody is dying and if anybody tries to confess to anything and sacrifice himself (I don’t trust Hornblower not to pull this stunt either) the other two will sit on his head until he stops being silly.

So the lieutenants all stick to their story and as far as the court-martial can tell there’s not a pin to choose among them. Hammond argues that in that case they should hang the lot but Pellew is pulling every string in the British Empire to save their necks, and he has a lot of strings. The compromise they come to eventually is that they will all of them be stripped of rank and dismissed the service. (I don’t know if this is historical. I haven’t done any research at all. That’s why I’m not actually writing it.)

So our boys (and Buckland I guess; I wonder just how many times Buckland’s name has been followed up with “I guess”? Anyway he goes off and does his own thing) are cast adrift, metaphorically, they are on land, that’s the problem, in Kingston. There will be opportunities for fun (for the reader) and chaos (for the characters) if they are drifting around penniless for a bit; I imagine Hornblower’s one remunerative land-based skill, which is card-playing, takes him to rather less posh surroundings than in Portsmouth.

But anyways obviously they are still sailors and they eventually find a short-handed privateer that will take them no questions asked under the names of Smith, Jones, and Robinson. Only to find a few days out of port that she is less of what you might call a privateer and more of what you might call a pirate, and her captain is a drunken murderous tyrant… During a particularly horrible moment Bush sees Hornblower and Kennedy exchange one of their telepathic glances, realizes he too knows what they’re thinking, and thinks, when did this become my life?

With practice and without Buckland, and with a captain none of them had any respect for in the first place, they’re a lot quicker. If they have a reputation as desperate men now they might as well use it. So they explain to the pirate captain very softly, very politely—well, Kennedy’s very polite; Hornblower’s blunter, and the headlock Bush has the pirate in would definitely not be accepted in any drawing-room—that they are the Renown mutineers, they find they don’t like how he runs his ship, and if he doesn’t care to accept their advice he is welcome to find out what happened to their last captain.

(They don’t really mean to kill him in cold blood. Probably. But he thinks they do. Hornblower will be miserable about this ambiguity later—more so, weirdly, than the big ones like “we are technically also pirates now.” The loss of identity he has suffered through loss of his rank and position in the Royal Navy has not even begun to reach the surface of his labyrinthine subconscious. If you were wondering, Bush is just straightforwardly sad and angry about it and Kennedy is mostly worried about the practical aspects, i.e. what are they actually gonna do.)

They don’t kill him and he does agree to their terms. But very soon they take a small French prize and he tells the three of them, you take her, take a small crew and she’s yours, just get off MY ship, and they take some of the more decent-minded and/or ex-Navy sailors who were amenable to their attempted reforms, and they do, and now they have their own ship. They probably pick one of themselves to be officially in command but they are really a triumvirate and everyone knows it. And they work really, really well together.

I wish I could make them go properly ideologically rogue but I am afraid they will still mainly want to harass the French. (Hornblower is despite his own repeated assertions chock full of revolutionary sympathies but they’re not democratic, they’re aristocratic-republican, and he was born 150 years too late to be an English aristocratic republican.) But it’s a start.

As I said this is probably deeply unhistorical in some way and anyhow I am not actually writing it. But it brings me pleasure.

[tmisherewrites]

Let's round out the rest of Crassus' men

I've shared them all in one post here. Having these actors in mind was the critical difference which helped me write Crassus' chapters because boy oh boy was I struggling.

Without further ado, here are Trebonius Moss, and Cassius and Marcus Luna:

The Baby

Trebonius Moss. The only other high born Capitol member of Crassus' squad. He's the youngest of the six and isn't totally convinced of Crassus' view of the world... yet.

He's the oldest living sibling with three younger sisters, one of whom becomes a classmate of Coriolanus', mentoring the female tribute from District 5.

He's a bit naive, but with Teller's help he's improving everyday.

I cast Kodi Smit-McPhee, unfortunately best known for that one "he's white" meme from Elvis, but what made me think of him for the role of Moss was his performance in The Power of the Dog. From an unassuming, slightly odd boy, to a man capable of expert deception and murder. He is from the Capitol after all.

Big brother extraordinaire

The most obvious of the names, Cassius Luna is named after actor Diego Luna and his character Cassian Andor from the Star Wars universe.

Andor was one of my absolute favourite shows of the last 5 years and I've rewatched it several times and it greatly influenced how I wrote this fic.

Diego Luna also appears to share a lot of similar political values to me, many of which are on display in Andor and in his actions, particularly joining the Zapatista protests in his teenage years.

Cassius has one goal: keep his brother alive. He's taught him everything he knows about how to survive and they've only stuck around because that's their best option until the weather clears. While not a great shot like Teller, Cassius is very adept at laying traps to catch small game, which helped keep the men alive when deer were harder to come by.

Also, excuse the blurry pic, I thought it was clearer than that.

Marcus has got your back

Marcus Luna is the younger of the two brothers and while he's still learning from Cassius, he's by no means dead weight, being incredibly capable in his own right. Marcus will forage and find every single edible plant in a several mile radius, having encyclopaedic knowledge of everything that can feed, hurt, or heal his compatriots.

I cast David Castañeda because I just think he should be in more stuff. Like most, I first saw him in The Umbrella Academy as Diego Hargreeves, but it was his performance in an indie called Standing Up Falling Down where I saw just how talented he is, not to mention endlessly charming. And like David, I could absolutely see Marcus sneak off in a corner to write a little poem to himself just for fun.

I also wanted to make sure to include a reference to the Lunas speaking Spanish to each other considering it is both Luna and Castañeda's first language. And while Suzanne Collins doesn't allude to languages other than English in canon, I know that languages don't disappear that easily and that there would be a class component to who speaks languages other than English in Panem.

This rounds out Crassus' men. Let me know what you think of my choices if you've read the fic. Did they match up with who you had in mind? If you haven't read the fic yet, I introduce all these characters in Chapter 2 of They Will Come For You In the Night, would love it if you would check it out 💚

[blueikeproductions]

The main OCs of my Heathers AU!

From the bottom left to right onwards:

Kara Sweeney: Ram’s kid sister. A bit bratty but a good kid. Knows her brother is gay and keeps his secret, so long as Ram pays her in Crunch bars. On good terms with Veronica, Martha, Braverman and Sputnik, but likes to tease Kurt.

Charlie Chandler: Red Heather’s baby sister. Shares Red’s smug attitude and superiority complex, though she mostly is just copying her sister as a phase. Likes stealing Red’s scrunchies and is typically wearing them on her wrists, hair and ankles. When at the funeral, Veronica overheard Charlie say to Heather’s corpse it was HER time now, which made Veronica concerned, doubly so when Charlie looked at Veronica and gave her a thumbs up. Adores Veronica and views her as her big sister. Likes to mess with JD and has kicked him in the shin more than once.

Sacha “Specs” Silverman: Part of Veronica’s geeky friend group. His nickname comes from the 3D glasses he’s constantly worn since kindergarten. A huge Star Wars and anime fan, extremely loyal to his friends, and a whiz at computers and electronics. He was the leader of the AV club and delegated Braverman and Jamie tasks suited to their skills. He and MacNamara shared a mutual romantic interest but never dated. Specs became the first tragic murder at Sherwood, being tricked into coming on the roof of the school thinking he was meeting MacNamara, but instead was pushed off the roof by a petty Chandler.

Dan Braverman: The main protagonist among the OC cast. Originally born and raised in Hawkins, Indiana, he came to Sherwood when his stepfather got a better job in Ohio. A cheerful, easy going type who doesn’t let high school cliques and stigmas bother him and happily goes to the beat of his own drum. He (along with Tracey, Cheryl, Specs and JD) is naturally viewed as a threat to the Heathers because he can easily make friends with those from other cliques (Tracey from the stoner faction was the first “non geek” friend he made when he moved into town), and the cliques being divided gives the Heathers their authority. Has an interest in comic art and is usually found reading ALF, Transformers or Disney Ducks comics or drawing comics. Braverman is JD’s best friend, and if we’re being honest, his only friend at the start. The two became close friends during Sophomore year at Hawkins High, and after dealing with a problem involving the Upside Down, Dan unexpectedly moved away leaving JD feeling betrayed. Two years later out of sheer luck, the two boys reunited at Sherwood, Ohio, with new challenges putting their friendship to the test.

Bud Dean Sr.: Jason’s grandfather. His only remaining immediate family after Jocelyn and later Bud died. He came to Sherwood to repossess his late son’s assets taken by police when it was learned Bud Jr’s company was committing fraud. Among the assets Sr. wanted to collect was Jason, and like Bud Jr., only really viewed the boy as property and a tax benefit. Bud Sr. also plans to restart the family company, and groom JD to take over, something JD doesn’t want anything to do with, having finally escaped that nightmare. He comes to the Braverman house unexpectedly one day to pick up his “free loading” grandson, and earns the immediate ire of Cassandra Braverman, Dan’s mother

Elliot “Sputnik” Silverman: Spec’s twin brother. Gained his nickname for his admiration of space exploration. While Specs was older and immature at times, Sputnik was the youngest and the more mature one of the two; however, Sputnik lacked confidence, making him an easy target of bullies. His primary tormentors in high school were Kurt’s group, which all the more stung because Sputnik and Kurt used to be great friends when they were younger. Usually relying on Specs, Veronica, Tracey, Dan or JD to protect him, Sputnik’s world was destroyed when his beloved twin died. Sunk into a near endless depression, and wanting to die, he practically tried to make Kurt punch him so hard he’d succumb to it. Kurt, who had since been changing his ways because of Dan, JD and Specs, instead comically cried uncontrollably which then caused a confused Sputnik to start crying. The two reconcile over grief of their past and losing a loved sibling, and mend their friendship then and there.

Jocelyn Heron-Dean: JD’s late mother. A shy, meek person who is kind and caring to her loved ones but struggles with social situations. She had trouble making friends, but in middle school she met Cassandra, Dan and Liam’s future mother, and the two became fast friends. Jocelyn seemed attracted to those with wild/aggressive personalities, a boon when it came to Casey, but a curse when she became smitten with the rich and good looking Bud Dean, who was in the same class as the girls. Come senior year of high school, Jocelyn was talked into eloping with Bud, leaving town to take over his dad’s construction business. Reluctantly, Jocelyn does so, and never saw Casey again. Nine months later and against Bud’s desire for an abortion, she had Jason. Their relationship soured over time, with the stress of constant moving, Bud’s true, cruel nature becoming more apparent, with Jason being the only bright spot in her life at that point, but even that couldn’t last as her mental health deteriorated. Once again, forced between two rough paths, Jocelyn accepts suicide as her only means of escape, reluctantly leaving Jason with Bud. Prior to this, when Jason was still a baby, she considered divorce and getting in touch with Cassandra somehow so she and Jason could stay with her. She would learn through an old acquaintance that Casey was having her own struggles as a recently single mom with a baby boy of her own, and didn’t want to pile on with her own problems, feeling ashamed she left Casey behind in the first place.

Cassandra “Casey” Braverman: Spunky, loud, and a bit chaotic, but stern and commanding when it matters. A big kid at heart, which makes her one of the very few adults in Sherwood to be sympathetic to Veronica and the others’ problems when they’re brought to her attention. In her teen years, she had a wild streak and was part of rough n’ tumble local biker gang, always looking for a thrill. Her first husband was a man called Clay, who resembled a more fit version of Dan with a handlebar mustache. Dan was not a planned baby (and really neither was Liam later), as Dan was the result of a drunk fling out of wedlock. Casey rolled with it, and figured a kid would be an interesting adventure. She and Jocelyn would become good friends in middle school, Casey made the first move to Jocelyn’s surprise, and were inseparable. She would often drag the shy Jocelyn into crazy adventures, the two having a blast together once Jocelyn loosened up during one. The one thing they disagreed on was Bud Dean: Casey hated him and Jocelyn loved him. They had a fight about it senior year that saw Jocelyn choose Bud, and saw Casey hurt, but for her friend’s sake accept her decision. After Jocelyn ran away, Casey suffered her second major loss in Clay, who died in a horrific motorcycle accident just after Dan was born. After parting ways with her biker friends in Hawkins, Indiana, she worked odd jobs there until she met and fell in love with Roland Braverman, a mostly mild mannered young man who fell for her spunky nature. 16 years later, she gave birth to her second child Liam, and a year after, she met Jocelyn’s son Jason who she happily took in when he needed a place to stay.

Liam Braverman: Dan’s baby half brother. The two share a room and Dan tends to watch over him the most. Martha, Veronica, JD and Kurt have assisted in one form or another in taking care of him, but while Liam loves his big brother the most, he took an interest in JD to the point his first words wound up being “Jay-Jay.”

Cheryl Rodgers: One of the popular kids, though she doesn’t view herself as such, and like Braverman, chats with whoever she pleases with which annoys the Heathers. She’s sweet but tragically dim, not realizing when those like Thrash or Green Heather take advantage of her for their own means. Cheryl hates Heather Chandler, and often Red has to make Green or Gold talk to Cheryl to get her to do something Red wants. She’s part of the cheerleaders and very athletic and very limber which makes her popular with boys. She has something of a male harem kink and has a romantic interest in most of her male classmates, but deep down just wants a sweet, smart guy who respects and cherishes her. Despite this, she has an unhealthy obsession with Thrash and Throttle, the biggest and hunkiest guys on the football team… as well as the most aggressive and cruel. She’s on friendly terms with Veronica and Braverman’s group, and joins them on adventures occasionally.

Roland Braverman: Dan’s stepfather. Mild mannered and kind, but is quick to anger when he gets really stressed out, and has a habit of shouting about what’s bothering him. Is the complete opposite of his wife, and the two will butt heads over matters, but they deeply love each other and find a compromise to a given problem. They’re pry the most stable couple in Sherwood, and are fairly open minded about things the other parents like Ram’s tend not to be. He loves his stepson and son to bits, and works hard to make a good future for them, but his work unfortunately consumes a lot of his time so he’s not around as much since they moved to Sherwood.

Toby Throttle: A cold, quiet, highly perceptive and intelligent type. A member of the football team. Comes from one of the rich families of Sherwood like the Heathers and Ram. While he has everything, he’s cruel and blunt and always seems unhappy, indulging in bullying out of a sick desire to feel something. Throttle appears to hate everyone, even his own parents and little brother, with the only one he seems to care about is his best friend and other half Thrash, and even then that’s peculiar because Throttle particularly hates low income people. He’s the counterpart to the loud, boisterous, simpleminded Kurt, and the one who took him in under his wing come high school.

Terrance Thrash: Arrogant, moody, dim, and violently aggressive. Part of the football team. The stock 70’s-80’s teen movie bully. He’s the middle child of a large low income family and tends to be ignored, freeing him to do as he pleases. Like Throttle, he loves to bully his classmates, and throw his weight around. He truly has peaked in high school, with what could be charitably called his best years behind him already. He’s Heather Chandler’s on again off again boyfriend, and while they mostly use each other for sex, there DOES seem to be genuine love between them ala Pete and Peg from Goof Troop. Between the two boys, Thrash does all of the talking, and is often pointed in the right direction by Red/Green Heather or Throttle to stir up trouble. He’s the counterpart to the marginally more intelligent (by comparison) and thoughtful Ram, taking under his wing come high school. He has a disdain for gays, fat chicks and nerds, though he’s thankfully stupid enough to not realize Kurt and Ram are (secretly) gay.

Kelly Kelly: Kurt Kelly’s older sister. A kind, chatty girl who was very popular and loved, who Kurt admired when he was little. Kelly was the one who helped nurture Kurt’s nerdy and sporty interests, along being the only one at the time who was aware Kurt was more into boys and tried helping him understand those feelings. Tragically, she died in a plane crash along with their mother, with it being suggested Kurt’s fall to bullying and his comical behavior was partly him still grieving over his sister. It took JD beating Kurt up to protect Braverman, Spec’s death and Sputnik’s own despair for Kurt to properly move on and return to his true self.