#Nor he who weeps all is ended!

[sweet-as-an-angel]

Ghost, Simon & You [SMUT]

Warnings: 18+, Smut, Rough Sex, Unprotected Sex, Implied Breeding Kink, Implied Forced Pregnancy, Stomach Bulging, Possessive! Ghost, Kinda Evil! Ghost, Simon and Ghost are Separate People in the Same Body, No Pronouns used for Reader except ‘You’.

Backed up! Simon who uses you as his personal cum dump whenever he returns from deployment. You know you’re in for an absolute pounding when you hear him banging on your front door, only to see him standing there, tall and dark as a shadow, looking down at you with an almost manic gaze.

He hasn't even been home to change first, still clad in his balaclava, eye paint and the under-layers of his tactical attire. He pushes his way in, kicking the door shut behind him with his boot and pressing his lips to yours. It doesn’t matter that you can’t feel his skin, that he’s almost crushing your skull as he grips your cheeks and brings you as close as physically possible, that you can taste gunpowder, dust and death on his mask. That this isn’t Simon at all, but the unholy spirit that possesses him. 

Doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter.

It also doesn’t matter that he literally tears your shirt from your body, a rumble reverberating through his chest when he sees you without underwear. You were expecting him. Good.

Simon – Ghost – is never gentle when it comes to the first round. He never strips all the way down, either, always leaving his mask on, too. He just yanks his pants down as far as necessary before pressing the hard, aching, weeping tip of his cock to your entrance, pushing in with neither care, nor restraint.

He sees the way you fist the sheets, face down against the mattress but your cries still managing to reach him. He just doesn’t care. Especially when your familiar warmth encompasses him, pulls him into the here and now.

It’s at this point that Ghost sees why Simon loves being around you so much, loves being with you. In you.

His member protrudes, a bump in your stomach evident like a tombstone. Whenever you try to press it, try to flatten your hand against it to get a feel for just how big it is, he takes your wrists in his hands and presses them against the mattress. The message is clear: you don’t interfere. I’ll cum when I say so, not by your hand.

Ghost doesn’t stop until you’re raw and red and leaking with either his or your juices, a ring of white forming at the base of his shaft where you can’t fit any more of his length inside you. You feel it, pulsating and battering and alive in your middle, feeling as if it’s nudging everything else out the way so it can lie uninhibited inside your warm cavern.

He’s hard and fast, rough yet thorough. He never leaves an inch of you unmarked, unbruised, by the time he’s done. Whether he’s aware or not, you always end up finishing first, your walls tightening and pulsating around Ghost’s cock as he continues to abuse your hole, hitting your most sensitive point over and over again, prolonging your orgasm and leaving you utterly spent yet satisfied.

When Ghost cums, it’s long, hard and hot. So, so hot – as if the all fire of his anger he’s had building up these last few months is now cradled within you, an unspeakable offspring. He never immediately pulls out. No, he waits, hands about your waist, no doubt bruises from where he’s gripped you, where he’s kept you so he can make sure you don’t crawl away.

His load is thick and there’s so much of it – you feel like you’re being filled past full.

If you’re capable and fertile, he often considers not giving you birth control after the fact, rather letting you stay dormant in bed and tying you up so you have no choice but to let his seed take. The idea never fails to send a shiver down his spine, making him hard all over again as the image of you, bedbound and incapacitated by his hand is enough to make him retreat to another room just so he doesn’t act on the fantasy. 

The look on Simon’s face, he often wonders, when he finds you’re marked as Ghost’s, carrying a permanent reminder that he got to you first; when he realises that the creature he entrusts his dirty work to, his militant alter ego, has utterly ravaged and claimed you from the inside out.

The horror. The futility of apology. It’s enough to satiate Ghost for now. Enough, enough.

And with that, he pulls out, taking the blazing heat of his body with him. He leaves you on the bed, ass up, face down, with his cum dripping out of you. Leaves you for Simon to clean up, to deal with. 

And to your side does Simon come rushing, for once Ghost removes his mask, so does he the haze he casts over his unwilling creator, letting him return to humanity. The vague pulsing of his member, the wetness coating it and the sheen of sweat clinging to Simon’s body is enough to let him know – remind him – what’s happened.

He comes to your aid, scooping you up in his arms and tending to you in every way he knows how - in every way that’s routine. He apologises, over and over, for letting Ghost do this you, for letting him have his way with you, for not being able to protect you–

You shush him. Look at him with kind eyes. You tell him you’re happy to do it, that you’d rather it be you than anyone else, that you wouldn’t be doing it if you didn’t love Simon. Which you do. Monumentally. And Simon loves you, too. He just fears that Ghost may be growing to love you, too – in ways he shouldn’t. 

He feels him now, watching you bathe, sweeping over the bruises on your wrists, your hips and waist, the pressure in the back of his head mounting as Ghost lusts for the control to do it all again.

Reblog for more content like this! It helps creators like myself tremendously and it is greatly appreciated :-)

Masterlist Masterlist [Continued] Masterpost Modern Warfare AI Masterlist

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[natewriteslol]

Delicious In Dungeon Having a Crush on You HC's!

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:

Summary: Just like the title says, how they would act if they had a crush on you including how you find out!

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆ ☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*°☆.。.:*

Senshi:

-I'm not going to lie it is going to take a fat minute for him to fess up his feelings for you let alone for people to notice because it is the little things that stand out.

-Senshi is really good at keeping secrets and is a really private person and fights for his peace

-So what if he may slip a little bit more food onto your plate, make your favorite dishes only for you if the ingredients for it just so happens to be in his bag, is always the first person to get you out of a dangerous situation? It's all out of convenience and being kind

-But his lack of casualty is also really telling like when giving out compliments he sometimes has a tinge of shyness to his voice, "You look...very nice y-yes"

-The way you find out he has a crush on you is because he eventually comes to a realization that he cannot keep running away from his problems because that has never ended in anything good and confesses his feelings for you

-It happened whilst everyone was asleep and it was just you two alone by the fire, the embers were crackling and you always enjoyed watching it ablaze while talking with Senshi. Eventually he piped up after staying silent for so long and having you take the lead in talking,

"I don't mean to corner you, nor do I expect you to feel the same but...I have feelings for you, genuinely Y/N. And, meeting you in this party means the world to me as in a way you all are unique treasures but you. I couldn't imagine just walking away without letting you know how much you mean to me."

-Honestly, Senshi is one of the least in denial about this predicament with his feelings and will come to you sooner

Marcille:

-A person who completely avoids her feelings for you like the plague and will deny like her life depends on it

-She swears to others that it's just because you're an amazing friend!

-She brings you your favorite sweet treats, offers to cast magic for your slightest inconveniences, she just so happens to bring books that are about the things you mentioned one off or are a specific interest you love

-The contrast of how she treats others vs. You is so jarring and it's really obvious that she has a crush on you. She is really protective and a bit possessive (not in a weird way) over you and she does not really care about the other people in her party like that

-Anytime she's afraid of something, she holds onto you, Marcille is VERY touchy with her crush

-The blonde blushes pretty consistently and is really shy when it comes to you and tries to appear nonchalant but fails miserably

-It's honestly so bad that even Laios caught on after Senshi threw him a clue and one time when it was just him asked her, which resulted in her coming clean and being VERY distressed as if she committed a crime

-The way you find out she has a crush on you is when you're on a mission in a dungeon. She was near a weeping willow exerting mana, rumored to grant wishes to anyone who asks.

-She held a piece of paper and was on her knees, looking up at the grand tree on the soft blades of grass. She began speaking to the tree once you silently walked in through the cave hole to check on her and the half-elf was completely unknowing of your intrusion,

-"Please they're the love of my life, and I'm not asking to force them but maybe...show me a sign if they like me back. They make me feel like no other and I am just so confused and I need guidance, Ancient Willow."

Chilchuck:

-Deny. Deny. Deny. Deny.

-Oh, and did I say deny

-He absolutely hates being the person caught with egg on his face and being in the wrong, so the fact that he himself Mr. 'No Party Romances' violated his own rules?

-He wants to fall into a hole right on the spot

-While he is a grown ass man and doesn't want to be a coward, Chilchuck doesn't want to face this problem head on surprisingly (sarcasm)

-He shows his love for you by trying to keep you the safe the most out of everyone in the party, scolds you HEAVILY when you mess up that could've cost you your life

-Some may say that it's just Chilchuck's explosive nature, Senshi was actually the first to see through it and grow suspicion over his behavior but honestly didn't have enough evidence for his theory and was shot down by Laios and Marcille

-It's not extremely obvious his slight shift in treatment until you had been kidnapped by the Chain Devil to protect Chilchuck from it's clutches

-And multiple times have members of the party have been kidnapped and although shaken he was able to keep his cool...but this time it was heavily different

-He let out a horrified scream that they had never heard from the Half-Foot before. He scrambled to his feet after watching you getting pulled into the darkness, his eyes were glassy and full of panic as he asked the rest on what they should do

-When they get you back, you were too tired to really stand so you laid in the sleeping bag as everyone else slept as well, but the brown haired man never left your side and watched as you slept

-...or so he thought

-You find out about his true feelings as you laid in your sleeping bag. As you were drifting in and out consciousness but felt light weight on the side of your body and Chilchuck began to talk to you, asking if you were awake

-"Good, you're fast asleep...I hope you know that I'm not hard on you because I don't like you that's...not even close to the truth.

I love you, so much and...I get so damn scared for you."

Laios:

-Constant. Monster. Facts.

-One of the things that makes Laios so attracted to you is that you listen and like when he nerds out so please be prepared. You're a safe space to spew out knowledge and it means the world to him

-Consistently gives you small little gifts, but then sometimes gifts to the others so it doesn't look suspicious. Maybe it was something with the light but, the look in his eye as he gave you the bracelet and put it on you was so different.

-Usually doesn't care about other people being in a towels or shirtless, but when it's you he feels like a victorian man seeing an ankle for the first time. When he sees your collar bones and he tries to keep it very lokwey, but is highkey blushing

-Gives you some sketches of your favorite creatures, always "accidentally" makes your favorite dish for dinner nights, pouts a little when you need to be gone without him for a little

-If you're ever feeling insecure he might open his gob a little too much, "I get maybe why you'd feel that way but, if you ask me I think it's pretty hot" he says with a blank, enthusiastic smile on his face not at all understanding how that could come off

-You find out that the knight has a crush on you the first time he gets absolutely hammered with Senshi, Chilchuck as he was convinced by the two to get drunk

-The bar was packed in one of the "safe spaces" in town and you and Marcille were kinda the designated sober people within your party, and whilst the half elf was in the bathroom you decided to get some fresh air and got up from the stool seat

-"Whatcha' doing party is jus' getting started?" Laios asks

-You shot him a look over the shoulder and responded softly, "I need some fresh air hun, I'll be right back."

-And there went his inner dialogue. Out his mouth.

-"Woah, how sexy. Being in love really sucks sometimes since I'd really do tricks like a dog to be with them good god."

-The look you sobered him almost completely, and if that wasn't enough Marcille was right behind him and heard every word

-Love is cringe but he is free I guess.

[entitled-fangirl]

I won’t burn you.

Jace Velaryon x Targaryen!reader

SMUT

Summary: After the Battle at Rooks Rest, the reader is upset at Dragonstone. Her betrothed comforts her.

Warnings: oral (f receiving), fingering, heavy makeout, talks of death

Masterlist

…………………………..

Jace's eyes didn't leave her body.

Y/n Targaryen stood among the small council table of Queen Rhaenyra. A green at birth, Alicent's second daughter and youngest child, she now stood next to the rightful queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Across the table, Rhaenyra’s heir and the girl's betrothed, Jace.

The two had been betrothed to make amends between the two houses during Luke's petition of Driftmark.

And when Rhaenyra decided to take her children home and return later to King's Landing, she had proposed taking Y/n with them so she may get to know Jace more. Though hesitant at first, Alicent was persuaded to agree by Viserys.

Now, Y/n remained loyal to Jace through the betrayal of her brothers.

Rhaenyra admired the girl's bravery throughout the ordeal.

Now, months later, Y/n stood at the table, utterly silent and motionless, save for the steady stream of tears that ran down her face at the news of the Battle of Rook's Rest.

Her brother injured beyond repair. Rhaenys dead. Sunfyre gone. Meleys paraded around King's Landing like a war prize.

It was the first time she had cried at Dragonstone.

Jace stood on the other side of the table, watching in pain as she weeped in silence.

The council was speaking, he was sure of it, but he couldn't tell what. Nor did he quite care.

He had offered to fight that battle.

In anyone world, Vermax may have been the war prize paraded.

He wanted to help. He did. It seemed he never knew how to help.

The moment Rhaenyra called an end to the meeting, Jace rounded the table to his betrothed. He took her face in his hands. His eyes darted across her face rapidly before his voice came out softly, "Please stop this."

Y/n's eyes finally looked up at him with her teary gaze, and Jace felt breath leave his body.

"My love, please," Jace tried again, not caring for the others in the room.

Her voice was hoarse, barely a whisper, "Why must it all end in fire?"

He wasn't sure what to say to that. "It's… it's in our blood."

She pulled herself from his grip, wiping at the tears herself. "My brother did not even wish to be king, and now he lies in a bed, half-dead. And for what? The feud between our mothers??"

"Watch yourself, my love." He warned, "Do not say the wrong thing just because you are upset."

She pushed his chest lightly, "You don't understand!"

His face morphed into one of anger, "I don't understand? Your brothers live. Where is mine? Slain by one of yours! I DO understand. More than you know!"

She shook her head as fresh tears warmed her face, "Please do not shout at me."

Jace scoffed lightly and crossed his arms, "Do not be unreasonable."

"I wish I was not who I am."

She began to rush out of the hall.

Jace opened his mouth to call out to her, but nothing came out.

…

Y/n had spent hours in her chambers with the door locked. No servants or guards were to bother her.

Her weeping could be heard throughout Dragonstone, making the Prince's gut tear itself in two.

But only when his betrothed's servant came to him to tell him of Y/n’s refusal of food did he do anything.

…

A knock sounded at the door.

Y/n sniffled and her soft voice called out, "Leave me."

"It's Jace."

"I said leave me."

"No."

She turned to look at the door. "Leave."

"Not until we speak."

She cursed lightly for his Velayron stubbornness.

"I won't come in until you say the words."

She finally gave in. "Fine. Come in."

Jace slowly opened the door, a tray of food in his hand. He closed the door behind him before his eyes settled on her frame.

Her eyes were bloodshot and puffy from the tears, a few still escaping down her cheek as she sat on the floor in front of her bed.

He stood awkwardly, not sure what to do.

Finally, her meek voice spoke up, "Forgive me."

His head tilted, "W…what?"

"Forgive me." She sniffled, "I said awful things to you. You know the pain of loss more personally than I ever shall."

"That's not true," he said as he stepped towards her, setting the tray on a table. "You lost your father only months ago."

"He was your grandsire."

"Still."

She continued, "And you've lost Luke, Princess Rhaenys, your father Laenor, your-" She stopped herself. "Your mother's… guard."

Jace looked down at the floor. "Yes, but I… it is different with me."

"I don't see how."

When Jace finally looked back to her, unshed tears swam in his eyes. "I don't know."

She sniffled, "Please just say you'll forgive me."

He knelt down next to her, looking deep into her eyes. "You know I will."

She reached up, brushing his unruly curls from his face before connecting her lips with his.

Jace's body wracked with sobs as he pulled her into his lap. Her kisses became more passionate, intent on showing her feelings through them. His tongue darted out to her bottom lip, and he was quickly granted access to her mouth.

"I love you," he whispered against her lips.

"You know I love you, Jace."

He stopped himself, pulling his lips from hers, "We should stop here."

She leaned forward, connecting their lips again, "I want you, Jace."

He shook his head, "We're not to marry until after this war. I won't sully you."

"I don't care. I need to feel you. Please."

He nodded, his hands pulling her hips closer and reconnecting their lips.

Her hand moved to his hair, pulling lightly.

"Onto the bed," he murmured.

She quickly left his lap, standing and beginning to pull at her dress.

He smiled as he wiped his tears and stood with her, "Let me."

He stood behind her, his lips leaving open mouth kisses against her neck as his fingers unbuttoned the small ones down her back.

She let out a small moan, resting her head on his shoulder.

When the buttons were undone, he tugged her dress down, making it pool at her feet. Now only in her shift, she turned in his hold and kissed him again.

His hands moved to her hips, and he walked her into the bed, playfully pushing her onto it.

She let out a grunt as her back hits the covers, but she laughed lightly at his antics.

He made quick work of tugging off his clothes, leaving him in his small clothes. He then joined her on the bed.

As he crawled over her, she grabbed his face gently, "How do you do it?"

He sniffled from his past tears, "Do what?"

Her thumb brushed over his bottom lip, "Suddenly I don't mind being consumed by fire as long as it is from you."

His lips pulled into a bright smile, "I won't burn you.”

She pulled him to her again in a desperate kiss.

Jace's hands began to pull her shift up to her hips. He pulled away to look at her, "Are you sure?"

She nodded.

"Please, I have to hear it. Please."

She smiled, "I want you, Jace. As much as you'll give me."

He pushed her legs up by her thighs, "I'll give you anything you want." He then made agonizingly slow movements as his body began to move lower and lower down hers. She waited with bated breath.

Jace had never pleasured a woman before. He was rather terrified of failing. But he was intend on trying.

His face lowered between her thighs. He felt breath leave him at the sight that laid before him.

He slowly lowered himself the rest of the way, licking a long stripe up her slit.

She let out a gasp from deep inside her.

He looked up with a hesitantly, "Does that feel good?"

Her hand trailed to his hair, "Please don't stop."

She could feel his smirk against her as he continued his motions.

It was experimental, continuing the things that made her gasp or when her grip on his hair tightened.

When his nose brushed her clit, her hips jerked back as a sinful moan left her mouth.

He reached up, holding her hips steady as he continued.

His tongue moved deep into her now, wanting to moan along with her.

"Jace…. Oh gods, Jace…."

He pulled away and brought himself up to her face again, kissing her deeply. She let out a small whine at the taste of herself on his tongue.

He grinned, "Not like it?"

She let out a calming breath, "Just feels strange."

"Want to stop?" He asked with a tilted head.

She immediately shook hers, "No. No, please don't."

He smiled, "Pretty girl."

Their lips connected again in a heated makeup.

She let out a small gasp when his fingers began to toy between her thighs, and he took the opportunity of her open mouth , letting his tongue explore her.

All-consumed by Jace, she gave in completely, her eyes closed and her lips slowing against him.

When his fingers slowly entered her, her entire body froze.

"This alright?" He whispered when he noticed her stiffness.

She gave a whimper but nodded her head.

"Jace…"

"You're so beautiful."

His fingers began to pump very slowly, his pants tenting at the feeling of his fingers in her.

She pushed herself up to kiss him but his fingers curled and her open mouth paused inches from his own.

He couldn't help the smirk that came to his lips. "You like that?"

She breathed out heavily, her eyes meeting his. "You… You know I… I love you."

"I love you."

"Burn me, Jace."

He kissed her jaw lightly, "I'll never mar your pretty skin."

…

They returned the next day to the council meeting in new spirits. Daemon's eyes moved between the two with a knowing look.

He knows the look of a man that's pussy whipped.

Perhaps he could get Rhaenyra to move the wedding closer.

……………………………

[gay-dorito-dust]

Saw your most recent thought about writing Gambit, PLEASE DO ITTT!! He has been my favourite ever since i was young... After watching Deadpool & Wolverine, the one who played by Channing Tatum... OH GOD I need him more now 🤚😔💥 ((But please take your time to write tho!! Don't wanna rush or pressure you about it ✨️

Part two here

‘What if this is it. What if this is the ending we get because we were the unlucky ones and that this is where we were meant to be regardless of how hard we try.’ You say one day and Remy stopped shuffling his cards.

‘And what made you come to that bleak conclusion, mon cher.’ He asks softly, having a feeling that you had been withholding this thought inside for a while, and it wasn’t only until now did it feel like coming to light in the presence of someone you felt safest with, or at least he assumed you did with how often you tended to stick to his side. You had lost your friend Jubilee a while back to Alioth and ever since then you’ve been stuck to Remy and admitting things to him in confidence that he beloved you would’ve told Jubilee…had she stayed a little while longer.

You shrug. ‘Merely an educated guess. That and the copious amounts of times where we’ve tried and failed to escape but I’m pretty sure that’s evident, considering that we’re.still.fucking.here.’

Remy sighs, gets up from the table and walks across the room and takes his place next to you, shoulder to shoulder and as your thighs briefly touch. ‘You may think me stupid for thinking this mom cher, but it is the truth of my heart, and that truth is that I’m glad we’re here.’ He admits but starts laughing soon after upon looking at your confused face, finding it adorable.

‘Care to elaborate on that?’ You then said as you started at as though he had grown a second head. What did he mean by that? That he was happy he was trapped here? Had Remy finally gone mad, you weren’t quite sure but decided that you would hear him out in hopes that there was a logical explanation after a confession like that after all.

‘With pleasure,’ Remy began, ‘the reason I say this because if I weren’t here then I would’ve never met you, built a friendship with you and so on, so while I share your want to leave this place.’ He then leans in real close to you, so close to the point you could feel his breath fanning your face and his lips ghost over your own as your heart went nuts in your throat. ‘I can’t help but thank it for brining us together, for I wouldn’t have thought to experience a love quite like ours mon cher.’ Remy concludes and you couldn’t help but smile.

Remy has once told you that you did exist in his timeline, just with a minor detail in the fact that you weren’t a mutant like him. You were friends, close friends, but one day you died protecting him, he’s never forgiven himself since and still hasn’t. ‘Brave soul, courageous heart you had.’ He had said while fighting back tears as you held him just as he began to weep over a you that wasn’t you; Regarding whether or not you were together was a question that was never answered nor asked, for you didn’t want to reopen old wounds Remy chose to close for a reason.

You had a Remy back home but he was with Rouge and you weren’t even remotely as close as Remy and his variant of you were. You were barely even on speaking terms because of how little you interacted with one another. So needless to say your absence wasn’t felt nor missed in the slightest, but you didn’t have the energy nor the ability to care about that anymore.

You gently shove him in the chest. ‘Cheesy bastard.’ You muttered as Remy chuckled, pulling you into his arms as he pressed a kiss to your forehead, breathing you in as you melted into his warmth, feeling safe from all harm and most importantly; loved.

‘Don’t you know. All Remy’s to ever exist are romantics at heart mon cher?’ He playfully said as he tightened his grip on you, planting one more kiss on your forehead, humming in content.

‘No. I only know one Remy who’s a romantic at heart,’ you told him as you lifted a hand to gently boop him on the nose, ‘you and that’s the only Remy I need to know, for you are the best Remy out of all of them. At least in my opinion.’ You finished as you then kissed him on the cheek.

Remy smiles softly at you as he felt himself becoming more content with his fate if it meant sharing these moments with you for the rest of his life, you made life here bearable and he couldn’t imagine going back to a life where all he had to remember was your name scrawled into a cold, unforgiving headstone. ‘And your opinion is the only opinion I ever want to have for the rest of my life.’ He says as he held you tighter before smothering you in kisses, smiling widely as he heard you giggle and squeal for mercy, while back home you may not be anything to him, but here? You were everything to him and more.

[yandere-romanticaa]

Marriage was often used as a tool of convenience - be it to upgrade one's own social status, get some much needed silver and gold, or to just get one leg up over your enemies, it really did not matter in the end.

Like it or not, you were tied to that person till death did you part.

That was a chant that has been sung to you ever since you came out of your weeping mother's womb. As the daughter of the household, it was natural for you to wed one day. However, the family was one of average standing, it had no special titles tacked onto it nor did it have any grotesque reputation which could sully it to the darkness and back. In its own way, it was oddly blissful, being invisible like that. No one expected you to act like a stuck up lady who would be locked away deep in a tower and you were also safe from becoming a measley wench who would be forced to spend the rest of her miserable days stuck rolling around in the mud, selling her body to all sorts of horrific strangers just in order to eat for a day.

You had the privilege of being born into a happy life. Perhaps a slightly dull one sometimes but regardless, a good one at that. You were content with everything which was given to you, perhaps even happy.

However, all things come to an end, and your end came in the form of a man riding on horseback.

He was strong, capable, handsome... But you kept that thought to yourself as you helped the wounded stranger get back on his feet, his midnight black steed happily trotting away somewhere as it accidentally shook the rider off its back once it locked eyes on you, a stranger in the woods.

"And who might you be?" asked the dark haired man, his curly hair framing his pale face so wonderfully that it took the breath from your lungs away.

You held onto him tightly and pressed him close to your body, the odor of blood and sweat covering him from top to bottom but you couldn't be bothered to care. He wore simple clothing which made you think that he was in a similar position like yourself in terms of finance, which gave you a slight glimmer of hope.

It was embarrassing how much you were swooning over the stranger.

Taking him back to your hut took longer than expected but all was well in the end. The handsome stranger had a name, Robb he said it was, and you couldn't hide the adoration in your voice whenever he would speak to you. The night flew by like a summer breeze - too fast and too sweet. Come first daylight he had to leave, which you understood.

That didn't stop you from feeling a little blue.

He mounted his horse like a knight in shining armor, its mane tussling proudly in the bitter north wind as Robb looked down at you, his warm blue eyes desperate to tell you many stories and secrets, but time was cruel and scarce.

He would come back to you, he promised.

And you gave him a smile sweeter than any juicy fruit, telling him that you would gladly wait for him.

He rode away all the while looking back at you, sending you a heart stopping smile which could make anyone weak in the knees. The horse left large hoofprints in the snow and you focused your attention on that, rather than the bitter stabs of pain in your heart.

There would never be a day when you'd see Robb ever again.

You were due to leave for the South in a few weeks time, in order to finally be wed off. The fantasy of Robb was saccharine and enchanting, many hours of sleep were lost due to him. Even if you barely knew him, the matters of the heart were reckless and stupid.

The heart wants what it wants and your heart ached for Robb.

All the while, you hadn't a clue of him and his plans. The men in Winterfell grew tired of his constant ramblings of this lovely woman he met, this sweet little thing which made his heart sing like no one else. He would walk in the corridors with a pep in his step as he thought of all the ways he could take you back to his home and give you the life you deserved.

His candied tirade quickly came to an abrupt halt once his mother had informed him of the grave news, that you had been promised to another man.

Robb was furious.

Who was this man?! Who did he think he is?! Ever the meticulous man, he got to work immediately. In less than a few days he had managed to gather all the information he could on this mystery fiance of yours, all the papers sprawled across his massive table. The candles in his chambers glimmered gently, the shimmering light a stark contrast to the raging flames in his heart.

If he could have his way, he'd be out for blood. Robb was too much of a jealous man for his own good but he needed to think, he needed to prepare if he wanted to do this right.

In less than a day, he had everything set up. If the man wasn't willing to take the gold he was offering him, he was not above using any scare tactics. His anger ended up getting the better of him though, so a bizarre combination of both was used.

The way in which your fiance left you made your heart sink. How were you going to break the news to your parents? Whatever could you have done so wrong to earn the ire of this lord whom you haven't even met yet...

You weep in your room, staining the mattress with your salty tears, completely oblivious to the small cavalry with House Stark banners raging on your front door.

Robb Stark had come for his bride. And she had no idea what sort of future awaited her...

[fleuraimer]

hi girlies :)). i've got another breeding blurby to share, thank ms. bubbles @harrysonlylover.

wc: 1.6k

cw: talk of menstrual and ovulation cycle, smut, minors dni, 17+, breeding kink, and more. not proofread.

Some people might say that the extent of his knowledge and control over Y/N’s life is not healthy. They might even suggest that his possessive behavior is a red flag, too. The constant messaging, always knowing her location, who she’s with, when she’s with them, why, how…

They didn’t tend to think of it that way. Love comes in all forms and theirs is… different.

Y/N likes being controlled. She wants him to know everything about her. She fucking craves the comfort of being taken care of for the price of absolutely nothing.

Well, maybe a few things.

Her obedience, for one, was expected (required). Her honesty, and loyalty. Her submission, too (although, sometimes, he liked to submit to her).

They’d found a simple way of living on some inherit, basic principles.

One, Y/N loved to be taken care of.

Two, he loved to take care of her.

So that was that. He was controlling, and she reveled in the power imbalance, and they didn’t care if others didn’t understand it, or like it, or even respect it. It was theirs, and it was enough.

It was fucking perfect.

One of the many ways he kept a tight leash on Y/N’s life was by tracking her menstrual cycle. He liked being ahead of the game—warm bath with waterlily scented suds ready for when she arrived home after her courses, her favorite sweet treats scattered across the kitchen island, Gilmore Girls queued up on his laptop, candles lit and heating pad at attention. Keeping track of her period meant knowing other things, intuitively, too. Like knowing that her cramps were worst on the first few days ( they were horrendous the last days too, though), that she’s more cuddly and soft than irritable or grumpy, that if she was too— no, severely stressed, overworking herself mentally, emotionally, and physically, she’d more likely than not work herself into a dreadful tizzy and end up intensifying (or even sometimes missing) her cycle.

Like now.

The poor thing, she was curled up in a frail little ball by end of the night every day this past week, deadlines looming over her head like a dark, rainy cloud as midterms approach. And, stubborn angel girl she is, she doesn’t bleat and moan about it to him. She doesn’t weep into his chest about how difficult this time is the way he encourages her to. She holds her chin high until the sun falls from the sky, her perseverance going with it, the stars and moon left to keep her and her misery company. And him, of course.

So, before the height of her period—when the red devil actually rears her ugly little head instead of inspiring trepidation of the inevitable with sore tits, an achy spine, and mental anguish—he thinks he’ll treat her a bit. And perhaps himself, as well (what? periods meant ovulating, and ovulating meant a lot of things).

———

Y/N’s head is quiet for the first time in days, and it’s all because of him.

As if anyone else could do what he does for her.

“Pretty girl,” he whispers in the place he’s nuzzled into her neck, littered with love bites and bruises. His cock is stuffed in her drippy pussy, stretching her deliciously over his thick, lengthy girth; his strong, beefy arms trapping her body to his like a vice.

Cowgirl usually makes Y/N’s thighs sore, but he’d taken the liberty of doing all the work tonight. He was in no mood for teasing, nor mocking or degrading. She wasn’t his whore tonight, just his girl. His soft, gorgeous, sensitive girl that deserved a sweet fucking after all the tears she’d choked down this week.

She needed a good cry.

“My little pillow princess, yeah?” He mumbles, peaking up at her sluggish form. She’s slumped into him, head lain on his shoulder uselessly, hands gripping the tight Henley he’d neglected to rid himself of in the rush of their lustrous dance. She manages a nod, however, lazy and slow, but, somehow, still urgent. Frantic. In the glow of her eye, he can see, she adores that idea. “Yeah,” He nods, gripping the soft curve of her jaw to move her head with him, “My girl.”

She whimpers, but doesn’t speak. Too exhausted, too sedated. His cum is addicting, and if it were a drug, she’d inject it right into her veins (up her cunt).

Her arms wind around his neck, fingers spreading through the curly, sweaty tendrils of hair at the nape. Her nails tickle him, in the best way, only adding to the allure of her being. Of her mere presence.

Her hips swivel, rocking against his to create a mind-numbing sensation that has them both mewling. His cock stretches her out and fills her up completely, felt in the deepness of her tummy. Her lashes flutter when she feels him twitch inside of her, a sign that he’s close (she’d realize that she’s much closer if she had the brain capacity to think of anything other than him).

The thought—of his cum filling her to the point of spilling around their joined parts, a filthy mess between their legs—makes her dizzy. Eager. She’d been good, so good, this week, hadn’t she?

Fed herself, cleaned herself, went to class on time, even though school made her unpleasantly weak in the knees. She studied every day for at least three hours at the library, before trudging home with bleary eyes and a foggy head, only to do more studying.

She deserved a treat, right? A reward for staying in line, for not being bratty or whiny when he was busy and all she wanted was for her brain to shut off.

Now, with the opportunity before her (to go totally brain-dead, that is), she refuses to not seize the moment.

“Come,” she says suddenly, catching him mildly off guard.

Oh? She wanted to order him around?

“Please.”

Oh. Guess not.

“Please, please, come, Sir, I want it, so fucking bad,” she whines, mouthing at the chain sitting delicately across his neck. It’s nearly out of place; something so frail and pretty looks almost comical gracing his large, stocky figure. Perhaps that’s how those judgy people saw them, out of place.

She didn’t care though, she thought it looked nice on him. He made it look nice. Made it better, just like he makes everything better.

“Wan’ me t’a stuff you up, Babydoll?” he grunts, thankful that she’d somehow picked up on his primitive, feral need. Or maybe she just wanted it just as bad. “Fill you with my come and make you m’messy girl?”

“Yes, please,” she cries faintly, her lips brushing the shell of his ear, hiding her face in his neck as the tears finally start to flow.

How precious.

“Okay,” he sighs, his hands trailing from her hips to the plush, full of her ass. “I’ll fill y’up, Sugar.” He lifts her up, letting his cock slip from her fluttering hole to the tip— less than the tip. He smears himself onto her clit, making her jolt, and spanks her in reprimand. “Stay still for Daddy,” he scolds softly. “Lemme do my job.”

She cries pitifully when her thrusts back inside, hard. And he doesn’t lighten up. Not in the slightest. He pounds his cock into her small pussy, chasing his orgasm, trying to claim hers, bullying his way through her tight snatch to find them.

“Play with your pouty clit, Doll,” he offers. “Wan’ y’to come with me; cream my fat cock, Baby.”

Y/N does not need to be told twice.

One hand drops from the back of his head to toy with her swollen button, and it takes three weak twirls of her delicate fingers to get her there. He’s not far behind, nuzzling into her neck once more, mirroring her own position on top of him, groaning out profanities as his orgasm washes over him, from his head to the tips of his toes. He continues to drill his cock into her until his legs give out, trembling beneath her own.

They pant heavily, in unison, into each others necks as they start to come down.

He feels good, accomplished. He can feel that satisfaction rolling off of his girl in waves—felt it throughout their soft session—and it was more than enough to keep him happy. His orgasm was just a much appreciated bonus.

And Y/N… she feels great. Cunt clenching over his half-hard cock, full of him, literally, in every way she could be. Thoughts silenced and replaced with rose hued daydreams, floaty, fuzzy sensations that tingle through her entire body and make her slightly sluggish, slow. She feels fucking amazing.

“Hope it takes…” she admits softly, absently. The phrase slips off of her tongue without thought (we’ve established that their are none left in that subby head of hers), and her tone suggests she’s not expecting a reaction.

He gives her one, anyway.

“Say that again,” he demands, grip on her ass tightening, his voice grumbly, deep, shooting a shiver up her spine.

“Huh?”

“Tell Daddy what the fuck you just said, Babydoll.”

Her eyes round out even more, if possible, lips parted, gazing owlishly. Stupidly.

“Said, ‘I hope it takes,’ Daddy,” She whimpers quietly, squeezing around his, once again, stiff prick.

“Shit,” he hisses, eyes fluttering.

It’s like she wanted to stay locked on his cock all night.

…Oh well.

So be it.

“It’ll take, Sugar,” he says after a few moments of tense silence, shifting her up gently, manhandling her with a softness that makes her heart drop to the pit of her stomach. He presses a chaste kiss to her mouth, sweet. Contradictory.

“Daddy’ll make it take.”

[starsofang]

in which ghost is a ghost.

tw: nsfw, mdni, fingering, p in v, monsterfucking if u squint?? kind of and also yes

there was a ghost haunting your house.

all your friends called you crazy. they blamed it on your recent breakup, telling you that you weren’t used to living alone, that moving into a new house took getting used to. you didn’t agree.

there was no doubt in your mind that a ghost haunted your new home.

it showed in the way the floorboards creaked when nobody was there to step on them. or the icy draft that lingered in the hallways, sending chilled shivers down your spine. or the shadows that played tricks on you in the dark when you’d wake in the night to use the restroom or grab a glass of water.

you knew it wasn’t a figment of your imagination. the only explanation was a ghost. you just didn’t have solid proof.

things began to shift to something more strange the longer you lived in the house.

at night, you could feel prying eyes staring back at you from the depth of the shadows, yet when you’d look around, nothing would be there. or sometimes, the achingly familiar feeling of a fingertips caressing the skin of your ankle would coax goosebumps to rise on your skin.

whatever ghost resided in your home was increasingly growing more comfortable as time passed with you invading their space. they teetered on an edge, making careful calculations of their subtle touches as not to scare you away, while keeping you hooked with curiosity. really, you should’ve been scared, and you should’ve ran away.

that was precisely what went through your head when the touch of their hand would venture. beginning at your ankle and inching up and up every night that passed. it was a game between the two of you. they tested your limits while you threatened to further them.

it was dangerous, really. messing with a ghost who you had no clue if they were evil or not. demonic, even. none of that seemed to cross your mind when the touches soothed the agonizing ache of loneliness that squeezed your heart every waking day.

your curiosity was growing, though. you yearned to learn about the ghost who was tormenting the comfort of your home, to learn who kept you up at night with a racing heart and a lump in your throat. there was no harm in asking, right?

he didn’t speak much when you did. he told you his name was ghost, but that he remembered being called simon. how fitting ghost was, but how humanizing simon could be.

he remained a shadow when he appeared to you, masking his identity, one that you were unsure if it was a personal choice or he was stuck like that. regardless of it, you shouldn’t have grown attraction to it.

of course, you did. who could blame you? you had learned the name of the ghost who had been haunting you for months, touching you, teasing you. it was hopeless. there was nothing to fight, nor did you really want to.

it was the exact reason on why you ended up with your legs spread, the chill of the room and ghost sweeping over your skin as if being dunked in ice water. a ghastly hand was pumping its way inside of you, fingers curling into that spongy spot you can’t quite reach with your own, wrenching gravelly moans from you that filled the air with song.

it became a nightly routine of yours. ghost fucking you with his fingers, freezing to the touch, pulling orgasm after orgasm out of you until you were a weeping mess on the bed, riddled with blissful exhaustion.

then, his fingers became his cock. it was strange, fucking a shadowy ghost that had muddied features you couldn’t make out. you didn’t know what he truly looked like, but you imagined he was as rugged as his voice in the most handsome way.

his cock was much more intoxicating than his fingers. he fucked you with a goal in mind, and that was to take and take from you until your energy had transferred to him. he was sucking away bits of your soul with every long night of coming with him buried inside of you, making up for it with ghostly kisses on your skin once you were burnt out.

things were evolving into dangerous territory. having sex was already dangerous, but now, he was becoming possessive.

if you had a guest who was a male, he’d cause a poltergeist like a pouty child. throwing books off the shelves, knocking over glasses and shattering them on the floor, whispering taunting threats in the ears of your guest. his aim was to have them running out the door and never come back, and it always worked.

what did you think this was? you let him claim you. ghost or not, you were his, and you’d be confined to this house just as much as he was.

[rizsu]

"suguru, shoko... it's been nice knowing you guys. i always loved you both. please, tell y/n i loved her too, yeah?"

it's a tense moment. after satoru received your social medias, he did some snooping around and found the harsh truth — or so he calls it. comparing himself to what he found did nothing but install a depressing, hallow sadness into his system.

"satoru, get the fuck down from that chair," shoko's having none of it. the moment she glimpsed group-chat's notification she practically teleported to satoru's. her heart dropped, palms got sweaty, throat dry at the thought of satoru ending his life. when she arrived, suguru was already there, weeping for his dear friend's life.

it must've been serious, right? it wasn't.

what came into her vision was a grown, silver-headed man standing on his desk chair. around his neck held one of his ties. now, this is where it got unserious. everything seemed true until shoko's eyes traveled to satoru's neck. his tie was wrapped around it with his very own hand holding the longer piece of the tie.

in short, he's fucking dramatic. suguru doesn't fall far, too. it must be hard on shoko for being the only one with a decent brain... kind of.

"shoko, how can you be so... so mean?! he's dying over there! your own friend!" suguru wipes his tears, furious at his other friend's own indifference to such a sight.

"don't," she begins, walking to satoru's position to kick him off the chair. "don't piss me off."

satoru's now on the floor; laying on his back, body straight, arms clasped on top his stomach. this must signal his final moments. it's peaceful in his mind.

"satoru, i swear to god. get the fuck off that floor." she nudges his body with the front of her shoes, eyes twitching at the foolishness.

it takes a mere minute before satoru's tired of ignoring the obnoxious foot harming his body. so he sits up, hanging his head low.

"i just can't, y'know? it hurts," his voice cracks, radiating sadness throughout the room. his words receive two varying responses.

from suguru: "it's okay, satoru. there are many other fishes in the sea."

from shoko: "this is why you mind your business sometimes."

at shoko's response, he sighs loudly, "it won't kill you to be nice, shoko ieiri."

she sits on his bed, placing a pillow on her lap, fixing her posture, and re-positioning her imaginary glasses. "well then, satoru. tell me what you felt, what you saw, and what you think. you can let it all out to doctor shoko."

suguru stifles a laugh, eyes switching between shoko's new persona and satoru's defeated expression.

"okay, doctor shoko. i felt horrible — no, nauseous. i went through her followings and saw that she follows other men. she knows other men. i'm sick to my stomach," his rant begins. it all started when he decided to go through your profile. this meant snooping through followers, followings, tagged photos, and even comments. you both are in — what the youngsters call it — a talking stage.

there are no labels within this relationship, nor are there any confirmed feelings but this? this betrayal? what do you mean he's not the first man on your profile? this is devilish. all went well until he saw one specific comment that said: "baby you're so sexy ily," to which you replied: "i love you more."

the fiend ( as he calls them ) had the profile photo of a man. when he did the internal math, the unbearable truth was found. he is not the only one you're talking to. he feels hurt.

suguru, too, shares his friend's pain. shoko, however, doesn't. why? it's because the commenter was in fact not a man. had satoru did deeper research, he'd have known that the profile photo is the famous singer the weeknd, and the profile belongs to one of your girls who's a diehard fan of him. well, who's shoko to tell the truth? she'll wait for satoru to come to a realization.

[kckt88]

Sanguis.

Summary:

'Hell is empty and all the devils are here' - William Shakespeare.

Deep in his grief over the loss of his wife Aemond desperately seeks the help of a wood witch and his wife is returned to him, but he ignores the witches warning and soon he is confronted with the horror of what his sweet wife has become.

Warning(s): Character Death, Resurrections, Language, Kissing, Smut, Oral Sex (M & F Recieving) Fingering, Anal Play, P in V, Blood, Gore, Death.

AEMOND x Y.N

Word Count: 9352

A.N - I have taken a few creative liberties, I hope you don't mind!!

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

Comments, likes, and reblogs are very much appreciated.

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

Prince Aemond Targaryen, in utter despair, knelt before his wife's linen-wrapped body. The cold stone floor of the Red Keep felt like ice against his knees, but he barely noticed.

 His eye, red and swollen from endless weeping, stared at the lifeless form of his beloved wife Y.N.

The once proud and fierce prince was now a broken man. His love, his light, had been taken from this world in an act of violence that left his heart shattered.

Y.N had fought valiantly, her courage unmatched as she defended his niece and nephew against the assassins who had snuck into the Red Keep.

They sought vengeance for Aemond's involvement in the death of Lucerys Velaryon, and they had found it in the blood of his beloved.

Y.N had been gravely injured in the attack, and despite his desperate efforts to save her, she had died in his arms. Aemond could still feel the weight of her body as her life slipped away, her final breath a haunting whisper against his skin.

Since her death, Aemond's world had ended. His life had unravelled, leaving only a dark void where Y.N's love and care had once been.

Aside from Vhagar, Y.N had been the only good thing he had in this world. She had loved him, truly and deeply, and now she was gone.

Aemond's heart ached with a pain he had never known possible. The thought of living without her was unbearable. He couldn't live without her. He didn't want to.

His hands, trembling with grief, reached out to touch the linen shroud, his fingers tracing the outline of her face beneath the fabric. "Please," he whispered, his voice cracking. "Please come back to me."

He prayed to the gods, his pleas a desperate litany of sorrow and longing. He begged and pleaded, tears streaming down his face, but the gods remained silent.

The chamber was filled with his cries, the raw agony of a man who had lost everything.

"Y.N, my love," he sobbed, his head bowing low. "What am I to do without you? How am I to live in this world without your light?"

The silence was deafening, the emptiness of the room a stark reminder of her absence. Aemond's shoulders shook with the force of his grief, his tears falling unheeded onto the cold stone floor.

Aemond clung to her shrouded form, his despair a heavy shroud of its own. The pain of her loss was a constant, gnawing ache, a wound that would never heal.

He had lost his love, his heart, and without her, he was nothing. He was lost in a world that had turned cold and dark, and he saw no way forward.

As the hours passed, Aemond remained by her side, his silent vigil a testament to the depth of his love and the vastness of his grief. He was a prince, a dragon rider, a warrior—but in this moment, he was simply a man who had lost everything that mattered.

His face pressed against the linen shroud that covered her still form. His tears soaked through the fabric, mingling with the last remnants of her scent.

"There has to be a way," he murmured, his voice choked with desperation. "There has to be a way to bring you back."

In the depths of his despair, a thought flickered to life. If dragons existed in this world, great and fearsome beasts of legend, then surely bringing someone back from the dead wasn't entirely out of bounds. He clung to that thought, a fragile thread of hope in the overwhelming darkness.

Then, through the haze of his sorrow, he remembered the rumours. Whispers among the common folk spoke of a witch in the woods, a woman with skills beyond the natural world.

He had heard the stories many times, often dismissing them as mere tales meant to scare small children and the weak of mind. But now, he was desperate. He had to try. If the gods would not return Y.N to him, then perhaps this witch could.

Aemond's heart pounded with a mixture of fear and determination. He lifted his tear-streaked face from Y.N's body, his eye filled with a fierce resolve. "I will find her," he whispered, his voice trembling. "I will bring you back, my love. I swear it."

As night fell over the Red Keep, Aemond Targaryen moved with a grim determination. He waited until the shadows were deepest and the guards at their most inattentive.

Silently, he lifted Y.N's body into his arms. Every step was a careful manoeuvre to avoid detection, every breath a silent prayer that they remain unseen.

Once outside, he managed to secure her onto a horse, cradling her close as he pulled a heavy cloak over her still form. The hood of his own cloak was drawn up to conceal his identity. Aemond whispered a command, and the horse began to move, carrying them through the dimly lit streets of King's Landing.

The city was quiet at this hour, the usual bustle of life replaced by the eerie stillness of night. Aemond kept Y.N close, his arms wrapped protectively around her, as he navigated the winding streets. The walls of the city soon gave way to the open fields and the looming darkness of the Kingswood beyond.

Taking a deep breath, Aemond urged the horse into the woods, leaving the path behind. The trees closed in around them, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and decay.

The forest was a living thing, filled with the sounds of rustling leaves, the occasional screech of a raven, and the haunting hoots of owls.

Time lost meaning as he pressed onward, each step taking him deeper into the unknown. The forest seemed to go on forever, an endless labyrinth of shadow and sound.

Just as despair began to gnaw at the edges of his resolve, he came upon a muddy bog, its surface broken by the stark silhouettes of wooden crosses.

Ahead, a small wooden dwelling came into view, covered in moss and illuminated by the flickering glow of candlelight through a cracked window. Relief surged through Aemond, giving him the strength to dismount. He secured the horse's reins to a nearby pole, ensuring Y.N was still concealed beneath the cloak.

With a deep breath, he approached the door. His hand trembled slightly as he raised it to knock, but the door creaked open of its own accord.

He peered inside, the air thick with a nauseating odour. "Hello?" he called out softly. "Is anyone here?"

The room was dim, lit only by a few guttering candles. Shelves lined the walls, filled with bottles of various coloured liquids. The severed remains of animals lay strewn about, adding to the grim tableau. Aemond's eye scanned the room, taking in every detail.

A noise outside made him spin around. A hooded figure stood in the doorway, their presence almost spectral in the candlelight.

The figure's voice was a rasping whisper, "Welcome, Prince Aemond."

Aemond stood before the hooded figure, the words he had rehearsed tumbling from his lips. "I have come because—"

The witch interrupted him, her voice a rasping whisper that cut through the gloom. "I know why you are here, Prince Aemond. You seek to defy death and bring back your lost love."

He swallowed hard, his grip on Y.N's body tightening. "I need her back. I cannot live without her."

The witch's eyes gleamed with an unsettling light. "Such a thing comes at a great cost," she warned, her voice echoing in the small, dimly lit room.

"I don't care," Aemond replied, his desperation evident. "As long as Y.N is alive, that's all that matters."

The witch laughed, a sound that was almost a cackle. "The young prince does not realize what he asks for," she muttered, running a sharp blackened fingernail down his arm.

"I have no patience for your ramblings," he snapped, his tone hardening.

The witch's laughter echoed again. "Very well. I will need the body."

Aemond nodded, turning to retrieve Y.N. But as he moved, a sudden darkness overcame him, a moment where he seemed to black out.

When he came back to himself, he was confused to see Y.N already laid out on the table, her form bathed in the eerie candlelight.

"How...?" he began, but the witch cut him off again.

"Y.N must be free of her shroud," she said, her voice brooking no argument.

"No," Aemond protested, but the witch's eyes were firm.

"It must be done."

Reluctantly, Aemond took a step back, his heart pounding in his chest. The witch drew a small, sharp knife and began to cut away the linen, the fabric parting with a soft, tearing sound. As the shroud fell away, Y.N's face was revealed, pale and serene in death.

Aemond let out a small sob, his gaze locked on his wife's visage. She looked as if she were merely sleeping, but the cold reality of her lifelessness tore at his heart.

The witch moved with a slow, deliberate purpose, her hands deft and sure as she completed her grim task. "Be warned, little Prince," she said softly. "She may return in body, but she will not be the wife you remember. She will be-more."

"I don't care," Aemond whispered, his voice breaking. "I just need her back."

The witch's laughter rang out once more, a chilling sound that sent shivers down Aemond's spine. "Very well”

Aemond watched with bated breath as the witch moved with an unsettling grace. She snipped a lock of Y.N's hair, the strands glinting like spun gold in the dim candlelight and tossed it into the fire.

The flames roared briefly, casting eerie shadows on the walls. Aemond's stomach churned as the witch opened Y.N's mouth and poured in a dark, lumpy, foul-smelling liquid. The stench was nearly unbearable, and he had to stifle a gag.

The witch then took her knife and cut open Y.N's cotton shift. Aemond gasped, his eye widening in horror as he saw the knife wound that had taken his wife's life.

A tear slipped down his cheek, his heart breaking anew. The witch began muttering in a language he did not understand, her voice a low, rhythmic chant that seemed to make the very air around them vibrate.

As she chanted, the candles in the room all flared to life, their flames burning impossibly bright for a moment before everything went silent. The oppressive stillness was broken only by Aemond's ragged breathing.

"Is that it?" he asked, his voice trembling.

The witch shook her head and handed him a shovel. "She needs to be buried."

Aemond recoiled, anger flaring. "No! I brought her here to bring her back, not to bury her."

The witch's eyes flashed with something dark and dangerous. "You brought Y.N here, and now you will listen to what I say, or she will be lost to you forever. Choose a spot and dig."

Reluctantly, Aemond took the shovel and stepped out into the pouring rain. The sky had opened up, the deluge soaking him to the bone as he dug.

Mud clung to his boots and splattered his cloak, each shovel full of earth feeling like a betrayal. The witch stood silently, watching him with an inscrutable expression.

When the hole was deep enough, the witch commanded him to stop. Filthy and wet, Aemond threw the shovel to the ground and trudged back into the cabin. He lifted Y.N's body into his arms, holding her close one last time as he carried her outside. He hesitated at the edge of the grave, his heart shattering. Gently, he kissed her forehead before laying her in the hole.

"Now you need to finish it," the witch said. "Cover her with earth."

Aemond wept openly as he followed her instructions, each scoop of mud feeling like it was tearing pieces from his soul. He watched in despair as Y.N disappeared beneath the earth, the finality of it almost too much to bear.

When she was fully buried, he threw the shovel down, his hands trembling.

"Leave," the witch commanded. "Return to the Red Keep. Three sunrises, three sunsets, and she will come."

Aemond's grief turned to anger. "If you are lying, I will return with fire and blood."

The witch cackled, a chilling sound. "I do not fear you, one-eyed prince. I have been alive much longer than you, and dead a lot longer than that."

"What are you?" he demanded, his voice a mixture of awe and revulsion.

"You will find out soon enough, little prince," she replied, disappearing back into the cabin.

Aemond's gaze lingered on the freshly turned earth where Y.N was buried. His heart ached with every beat, the rain mingling with his tears. He mounted his horse and rode away, each step feeling heavier than the last as he made his way back to the Red Keep, hope and dread warring within him.

For the next two nights, Aemond was plagued by relentless nightmares. As he lay in his bed, his dreams were twisted and cruel, reflecting the torment that consumed his waking hours.

He would hear Y.N's voice calling out to him, her tone filled with desperation and pain. In his dreams, he would stand over the grave where he had buried her, only to see her clawing her way out, her skin decayed and peeling, maggots writhing over her rotting form.

The witch's cackle echoed through the trees, mingling with the foul stench of the dark, lumpy liquid she had poured into Y.N's throat.

The warning that Y.N would come back different gnawed relentlessly at his thoughts, a constant reminder of the grave mistake he had made.

With no body to bury, Aemond had been forced to lie to those around him. He had claimed that Y.N’s body had been burned by Vhagar in accordance with her wishes. The lie was a heavy burden, one that gnawed at him as he faced the mourners.

He could not tell them the truth of what he had done, the truth of the witch's promise and the body now rotting beneath the earth.

As the third day approached, Aemond waited anxiously by his chamber window. His heart leaped with every sound, every time someone entered his quarters, hoping against hope that Y.N had returned to him.

Each time he was met with bitter disappointment, the empty space only deepening his sorrow. The nights were the worst, filled with anguish as he wrestled with the realization that he had been manipulated by the witch. His beloved was lying in the earth, her body decomposing, and he felt like a fool for believing in the witch’s promises.

As night fell on the third day, Aemond sat alone in his darkened chamber, tears streaming down his face. The weight of his grief and anger felt unbearable.

The realization that he had been deceived by the witch filled him with a cold, bitter rage. He vowed to himself that on the morrow, he would return to the witch. He would make her pay for her treachery.

He lay down in bed, his heart heavy with both sorrow and fury. As he drifted into an uneasy sleep, his mind was consumed with visions of vengeance. The image of the witch’s mocking face and her cruel laughter fuelled his determination. He would make her suffer for what she had done.

Aemond was jolted from a restless sleep by a gentle, touch against his face.

His heart raced as he opened his eye, the darkness of the chamber slowly revealing a form sitting on the edge of his bed. It was Y.N, or at least someone who looked like her. For a moment, he thought it was a dream, a cruel twist of his imagination.

But then she spoke his name, her voice a soft, hollow echo in the dim light. "Aemond-"

His breath caught in his throat as he sat up in bed, his heart pounding in his chest. He reached out with trembling hands and pulled her close.

Her body was cold and filthy, covered in layers of grime and dirt, but it was undeniably her. Y.N had come back to him, just as the witch had said she would. The realization was almost too much to bear.

Aemond's tears flowed freely as he held her tightly. "I never thought I'd see you again," he choked out, his voice thick with emotion. "I thought I had lost you forever."

Y.N's eyes, though sunken and haunted, met his with a glimmer of recognition. She placed a muddy finger gently against his lips, silencing him. "Shush," she said softly. "I will never leave you again."

Her words, though whispered and tinged with the rot of death, were a balm to his shattered soul. He clung to her, his tears wetting her dirty clothes.

Aemond wrapped his arms around her, determined to cherish this second chance, even as the haunting reality of the witch's promise lingered in the back of his mind.

Aemond’s hands trembled with both anticipation and fear as he summoned the maids to prepare a hot bath. The sight of Y.N’s return was a beacon of hope, but he wanted to ensure that no one discovered her presence before he was ready.

He instructed them to fill the tub with steaming water, their murmurs of surprise and curiosity ignored as he hurried them along.

Once the bath was prepared, Aemond dismissed the maids, locking the door behind them. The chamber was now a private sanctuary, his heart racing as he approached Y.N, who waited patiently on the balcony.

“Come inside,” he called softly, his voice a mixture of tenderness and urgency. Y.N stepped into the room, her presence a stark contrast to the grim reality of her appearance.

Despite the dirt and grime, she moved with a grace that reminded him of the woman he had loved.

“I’ve had a bath prepared for you,” Aemond said, trying to mask his anxiety with a comforting tone. Her eyes brightened at his words, and a faint smile touched her lips. She began to remove her filthy cotton shift, revealing her pale, cold skin.

As she climbed into the bath, Aemond took a stool beside it, his gaze never leaving her. The warm water enveloped her, and he gently began to help her wash away the layers of dirt and muck. His fingers moved through her hair, carefully dispelling the mud that clung to it.

Y.N looked at him with gratitude, but as he tended to her, Aemond couldn’t help but notice the subtle changes in her. The knife wound on her side had healed into a scar, and despite the hot water, her skin remained unnervingly cold, and her eyes seemed different—lighter in colour, almost ethereal.

He tried to dismiss these unsettling observations, focusing instead on the joy of her presence. “I’ll help you clean up,” he said softly. “The maids won’t assist. I want to be the one to help you.”

Y.N nodded, her expression one of quiet acceptance. “Thank you, Aemond,” she said, her voice carrying a faint echo of the life she once had.

Aemond continued to wash her with careful attention, his heart aching with a mixture of relief and sorrow. He scrubbed away the dirt, the water turning murky with the remnants of her previous state.

Despite the lingering strangeness of her appearance and the coldness of her skin, he was overwhelmed by the joy of having her back.

He told himself that it didn’t matter—that she was back, and that was all that mattered.

Aemond carefully helped Y.N out of the bath and dried her with gentle, attentive hands. The contrast between her cold, damp skin and the warmth of the towel was stark, but he did his best to make her comfortable.

He selected a clean nightgown, soft and fresh, and helped her into it, adjusting the delicate fabric to fall gracefully around her.

Aemond led her to the bed, his heart heavy with a mix of emotions. Y.N sat down and, as he moved to adjust the bedding, she reached for the laces on his breeches. Aemond’s breath caught, and he gently stopped her, his gaze searching hers with concern.

“Y.N,” he said softly, ��you don’t have to—”

But she looked up at him with a pleading expression, her voice low and earnest. “But I want too, I love you.”

Aemond felt his resolve wavering as Y.N’s hands resuming unlacing his breeches, letting them fall to the floor once they were undone.

She pressed a series of tender kisses to his bare stomach, her lips brushing against his skin.

Aemond closed his eye and let out a low groan as he felt her teeth grazing against him.

Then Y.N removed her nightgown and lay back on the bed, her bare body on display, she reached out for him and pulled him on the bed.

“Let me take care of you” muttered Y.N as she placed kisses along Aemond jaw and then down his neck, making sure to gently nip and suck his skin as she went.

She carried on moving down, pausing as she reached his chest, she grinned as she took one of his nipples into her mouth, her tongue teasing it before she bit down gently.

“FUCK” moaned Aemond.

“Does issa Valzȳrys like that?” asked Y.N as she moved across and gave his other nipple the same attention, (My husband).

“Oh. Gods” whimpered Aemond as she moved further down his body, her tongue and teeth grazing his pale skin.

When she reached the trail of hair from his belly button down to his cock, she pressed her nose against him and giggled when she felt the hair tickle her skin.

“Kostilus issa jorrāelagon” begged Aemond (Please my love).

“Ao līs umbagon issa zaldrīzes” replied Y.N (You must wait, my dragon).

Aemond stared down at his naughty wife, his mouth hanging open as Y.N’s warm, wet mouth quickly wrapped around the head of his cock.

Her tongue gently moving around the tip – tracing the ridges and licking off that drops of pre-cum that had started to leak out.

“Fuck, Y.N!” groaned Aemond as he threaded his fingers through his wife’s silver hair.

Y.N ran the flat of her tongue along Aemond’s length, tracing every hard inch of him.

Aemond’s heart almost stopped when she sucked his stones into her mouth, one at a time.

Her hand moving slowly over the hard length of him.

When Y.N moved and engulfed Aemond’s cock in her mouth again, he squeezed his eye shut. She was driving him crazy.

But Aemond forced himself to open his eye, he needed to watch as his wife sucked his cock. 

“Your taking me so well. Such a good girl” moaned Aemond.

Aemond knew it would push the limits of his control, but he did not care. He just had to watch his cock disappear into Y.N’s mouth and see it come back out, shining with her spit.

Her head moving back and forth, her perfect pink lips stretched around him.

“I’m not going to last if you carry on” Aemond admitted, though it pained him to do so.

Y.N smiled slightly and began moving faster, also using one of her hands in rhythm with her mouth. 

Then she moved her other hand over his stones, caressing them before she slid one of her fingers towards his hole.

“F-Fuck” moaned Aemond as she gently massaged over the tight ring of muscle.

“Do you like that raqiarzy?” asked Y.N (Beloved).

“Y-Yes” exclaimed Aemond.

“What about this?” asked Y.N as she put a finger into her mouth and then returned it to his hole before she gently slid the tip of her finger in.

“It feels so good-that’s it” groaned Aemond.

“More?”

“Y-Yes. P-Please. M-More” groaned Aemond.

Y.N responded to his statement by relaxing the back of her throat, and swallowing as much of her husband’s cock as she could, whilst her finger slowly moved inside him.

“Another-p-put another inside me” begged Aemond his body rocking against her.

Y.N smiled and gently added another and Aemond began to whimper as she curled her fingers inside him.

“Shit-Y.N. I’m going to come. Oh, fuck, I’m coming!” shouted Aemond as he exploded.

His wife took every last drop, swallowing his warm seed and licking him clean.

When he recovered, Aemond saw Y.N’s self-satisfied smile.

“Was that to your liking husband?” asked Y.N.

“Y-Yes. Now get up here and ride my face until I’m ready again” gasped Aemond as Y.N removed her fingers from him and wiped them on her night gown.

“Are you sure” asked Y.N.

“Sit on my fucking face” ordered Aemond, his cock already twitching with interest.

Y.N hovered above Aemond’s face; her knees splayed on either side of his head.

“Such a pretty cock sleeve" breathed Aemond as he ran the flat of his tongue along Y.N’s soaked slit, from bottom to the top, tasting her.

“Oh, my god” moaned Y.N her eyes rolling into the back of her head.

“That’s it Issa dōna. Let me hear you” (My sweet).

“YES. It feels so good. Don’t stop. Aemond. Please” begged Y.N.

“FUCK” growled Aemond.

“Ooooh A-Aemond” shrieked Y.N.

"Delicious" purred Aemond as he began lapping at Y.N, running his tongue along every fold.

"More" panted Y.N "Please. I need more”.

Aemond inserted two fingers, sliding them in and out of her slick wet folds.

“Oh" whimpered Y.N; her chest heaving as she began to gently roll her hips against him.

“That’s it baby, ride my fucking face” groaned Aemond, his cock was so hard that it was boarding on painful.

Y.N was giving off a slew of whispered swear words, moans, and pleas.

 Aemond’s fingers were soaking wet as they continued to pump in and out of her tight heat.

“I can’t wait to get my cock inside you. I don’t want to wait any longer, come for me baby,” moaned Aemond.

Finally, he felt Y.N’s inner walls start to flutter around his fingers, squeezing them. Y.N’s back arched taut as a bow and she screamed her release.

Aemond pumped slowly and lapped at his wife’s centre as she came.

After a few minutes, Aemond gently urged his wife to move down, so she was hovering above his cock.

Her hand wrapped around him, running the head of his cock along her warm wet folds.

“Your such a tease” moaned Aemond as his hips jerked involuntarily.

But it feels so good” replied Y.N as she slowly sunk down on his cock, so only the tip of him was inside her.

“P-Please” whimpered Aemond.

“Uh-uh” said Y.N shaking her head from side to side.

After a few torturous minutes Aemond couldn’t take it anymore and seized his wife’s hips, before surging up and ploughing his hard cock into her soaked cunt.

"AEMOND!" screamed Y.N.

"Gods. You feel so good" rasped Aemond.

"Fuck me, Aemond" urged Y.N, her tone bordering on desperate as she rolled her hips against his.

Aemond started to thrust slowly, trying to prolong the feel of his wife squeezing his cock.

“P-Please. Husband” whined Y.N as Aemond began teasing her pearl with his thumb.

“That’s it-take all of me”

“OH-MY-“ shrieked Y.N Aemond began to move.

"Faster, please" begged Y.N.

“Like this?” replied Aemond as he gave a quick deep thrust.

“Yes, Aemond, just like that-" panted Y.N.

Her hands ran along his arms, over his shoulders and down his chest, digging her nails into his pale skin.

“Gods, Y.N" grunted Aemond, speeding up slightly.

"Fuck me, Aemond" whispered Y.N "Fuck me with that big, cock of yours. You feel so good inside me”.

Aemond knew exactly what Y.N was doing, and he couldn’t help himself.

Y.N wanted faster and he was going much faster now, his feet planted on the bed to give him more leverage and his pace increased with every filthy word that dropped from his wife’s luscious lips as he pounded into her.

“Aemond-I’m going to come. Oh, fuck!” screamed Y.N.

Y.N always looked amazing when she came. Her head thrown back in pleasure, her amethyst eyes alive with lust, and her pale skin shining with sweat.

“I’m going to spill my seed inside you-”

“Y-Yes A-Aemond. Give it to me” whined Y.N as she clamped down around his cock so hard he could hardly move.

That, combined with how glorious Y.N looked, pushed Aemond over the edge, the heat shooting across his abdomen.

“God. Y.N” groaned Aemond as he exploded. His cock throbbing and twitching as he spilled his seed inside his wife’s wet heat.

Over the next few weeks, Aemond observed a series of peculiar changes in Y.N's behaviour that left him increasingly uneasy.

Despite the fact that she only slept intermittently for a few hours at a time, she seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of energy.

Her insatiable hunger was another alarming sign. She complained constantly of being hungry, and her cravings were mostly for meat, often served barely cooked.

Aemond watched with a mix of fascination and concern as she devoured the meat with her bare hands, the juices and blood staining her fingers, her appetite seemingly endless.

Confined to his chambers, Y.N was shielded from the public eye, which allowed Aemond some measure of control. However, his duties often required him to be away from her, leaving her alone for extended periods.

This solitude seemed to agitate her, and more than once, he returned to find evidence of her growing frustration.

Her rage manifested in destructive outbursts—on one occasion, she hurled a chair across the room, and on another, she seized a table and smashed it into splinters. The sheer strength she displayed was unnerving, an indication of the profound changes she had undergone.

Another change was her unrelenting desire for intimacy. Her needs were voracious and unceasing, demanding more of him than he could give.

Initially, Aemond had been willing to indulge her, and he would often place himself between her thighs fucking her into the mattress with deep penetrating thrusts, his hips pounding against hers.

But he soon found himself exhausted and overwhelmed by her constant, almost insatiable demands. The frequency of her advances became a source of physical and emotional strain.

The situation became even more complicated with his mother's growing concern. She had noticed his seclusion and questioned him about his well-being.

Aemond had claimed he was still grieving Y.N’s loss, but when word of the noises of pleasure from his chambers reached her ears, he was forced to concoct another lie. He explained that he had taken a bed mate to help with his needs, an excuse that seemed to placate her but left her visibly dissatisfied.

As the days went on, Aemond's anxiety about Y.N's behaviour continued to mount. He was troubled by the physical and emotional changes she was exhibiting, which seemed to reflect more than mere grief or trauma.

Her behaviour was increasingly erratic, and despite his deep love for her, he couldn't ignore the growing fear that something was fundamentally wrong, that the witch was right, and Y.N had returned to him, but she was forever changed.

Aemond returned to his chambers from a gruelling council meeting, his mind heavy with the complexities of court politics. The relief of finally being back in his private quarters was short-lived as he pushed open the door.

The sight that met him was one of sheer horror. Y.N was kneeling on the floor, her focus intently fixed on a cat she had captured. The small creature was held in her hands, and Aemond’s stomach lurched as he saw her face pressed against its neck.

Blood ran freely down her hands, dripping onto the floor as she seemed oblivious to the mess she was making.

Y.N looked up at him, her expression eerily serene despite the gruesome scene. Her smile was unsettling, her teeth stained red with the blood she had drawn.

The sight of her grinning so contentedly, with the blood smearing her face, was almost too much for Aemond to bear.

He put a hand over his mouth, struggling to stifle a scream that threatened to escape. His heart pounded violently, a mix of revulsion and profound distress flooding his senses.

He had to stop himself from throwing up as he watched her return her attention to the lifeless animal, her actions methodical and disturbingly calm.

The room seemed to spin around him as he took a shaky step forward, his mind racing to process what he was actually witnessing.

“Aemond,” she said softly, her voice oddly gentle despite the blood. “You’re back.”

Her tone was casual, as if nothing was amiss. The cat, now lifeless, lay discarded on the floor as Y.N’s attention was fully on him, her eyes reflecting a strange, unsettling light.

Aemond struggled to maintain control, his eyes fixed on Y.N. “What-what have you done?” he managed to croak out, his voice trembling with fear and anger.

Y.N tilted her head, a hint of confusion crossing her features. “I was hungry,” she said matter-of-factly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to be consuming blood-soaked prey.

The scene was nightmarish, the blood and death starkly contrasting with the once-beautiful woman he had loved.

Aemond returned to his chambers after a long flight with Vhagar, hoping the time in the sky would offer some solace and clarity. But as he entered his quarters, a sinking feeling overtook him—Y.N was not there.

“Y.N!” he called out, his voice echoing off the walls. When there was no answer, panic seized him. He had to find her quickly. The risk of anyone discovering her before he was ready was too great.

His mind raced through the places Y.N had frequented before her death. He checked the gardens, the library, and even the secluded spots she had loved, but there was no sign of her.

His anxiety grew, and he began to consider revealing everything to his mother, admitting the truth about what had happened. But he knew that would only lead to further complications.

As he made his way towards his mother’s chambers, his gaze fell on the nursery door, slightly ajar. His heart skipped a beat. He approached cautiously and peered inside. The sight that greeted him was one of utter horror.

Y.N stood over his niece Jaehaera, who was sleeping peacefully in her bed. Y.N leaned down, sniffing the child with a disturbing sense of satisfaction. Her eyes were closed as she hummed softly, an eerie contentment on her face. Aemond’s blood ran cold.

Without a moment's hesitation, he burst into the room, his heart pounding with a mixture of fear and fury. He grabbed Y.N and pulled her away from the bed, her surprised eyes meeting his with an unsettling calm.

He dragged her back to his chambers, the fear of what she might have done fuelling his desperation.

Once inside his chambers, he shoved Y.N against the wall and locked the door behind them. His rage boiled over. “What the hell do you think you were doing?” he roared, his voice trembling with anger.

Y.N’s head tilted to the side; her expression serene despite the chaos. “I was hungry,” she said simply, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Aemond’s heart ached with a mix of horror and helplessness. “You can’t do this,” he said, his voice cracking. “Jaehaera is a child! She’s innocent!”

Y.N’s gaze grew distant, a shadow of pain crossing her face. “So was I when those men took my life,” she said quietly, her voice a haunting whisper. “I pretend not to remember, but it’s a lie. I remember everything—the screaming, the feel of the knife, the pain. I remember how you cried as you held me.”

“I didn’t bring you back for this,” said Aemond, his voice broken. “I brought you back because I love you, not for you to inflict more pain”

Y.N’s eyes met his with a mix of sorrow and resignation. “I don’t know how to control it,” she said softly. “I’m lost between what I was and what I am now. I feel the hunger and I can’t stop it.”

Aemond’s heart wavered, torn between his love for Y.N and the horror of her actions. As he stood there, the weight of his decisions pressed heavily upon him, he was left to grapple with the reality of the woman he had brought back and the darkness that now accompanied her presence.

Ever since the horrific incident with Jaehaera, Aemond had thrown himself into a desperate search for answers. He scoured the library for any information on what Y.N had become, hoping to find a way to restore her to her former self.

But the search yielded nothing. With a heavy heart, he resigned himself to seeking out the witch once more, a decision he made reluctantly but with a steely resolve. This time, he brought Vhagar with him.

As Aemond approached the cabin in the woods, Vhagar's imposing form loomed behind him, her massive hole ridden wings partially unfurled. His gaze was drawn momentarily to the disturbed earth where he had buried Y.N.

The ground still bore the marks of the grave, a grotesque reminder of the events that had transpired.

He reached the cabin and, not bothering to knock, pushed open the creaky door. The stench that greeted him was overwhelming, a foul mixture of decay and herbs. He pressed a gloved hand to his mouth to stifle the urge to retch as he stepped inside.

The witch was bent over a wooden bench, engrossed in her work. Her blackened hands were busy with a collection of severed fingers on a chopping board.

The sight was nauseating, but Aemond’s focus was solely on her.

“What exactly have you done to Y.N?” he demanded, his voice taut with fury.

The witch looked up; her eyes gleaming with malevolent amusement. “I did only what you asked,” she said, her tone dripping with mockery. “I tried to warn you, but you wouldn’t listen.”

Aemond’s anger flared. “You brought her back. Now you will fix her. She is not the woman I knew.”

The witch’s laughter was harsh and grating. “It doesn’t work like that, little prince. You got what you asked for, and now you must deal with it.”

“I wanted Y.N back, not whatever monstrosity she has become!” Aemond’s voice was a roar of frustration and anguish.

The witch’s eyes narrowed, and her laughter took on a mocking edge. “Can’t the little prince handle his wife?” she taunted, her voice dripping with scorn.

Enraged, Aemond lunged at the witch, grabbing her by the throat with a fierce grip. “Help her, or I swear I’ll make you pay for this,” he growled.

The witch’s reaction was swift and inhumanly strong. With a casual flick of her wrist, she removed Aemond’s hand from her throat, and sent him sprawling across the room. He collided with a shelf, bottles crashing to the floor in a cacophony of shattered glass.

Dazed and pain-stricken, Aemond struggled to his feet, his heart racing with both pain and rage. The witch, her back turned, resumed her grim task with an air of detached indifference.

“You wanted this,” she said, her voice cold and unforgiving. “Now you will deal with the consequences and if you ever come here and threaten me again, I will peel the flesh from your bones and make a necklace from your teeth. But not before I’ve had my fun with your pretty cock.”

The threat was clear, and Aemond’s blood ran cold at the thought of what she was capable of. He took a moment to gather himself, the pain from the fall throbbing through his body, before he turned and exited the cabin.

As he made his way back to Vhagar, his thoughts were a tumult of anger and despair. The witch had given him no solutions.

He knew he had to find another way to deal with the changes in Y.N and the horror of what she had become, but for now, he was left with nothing but the bitter taste of failure and the looming dread of what might come next.

The weeks following Aemond's harrowing encounter with the witch were a blur of tension and despair. Struggling to come to terms with the monstrous transformation of Y.N and the cruel nature of the witch’s promises, he barely left her side.

He kept her confined within his chambers, only stepping out when absolutely necessary. Even then, his absences were brief, and every minute away from her felt like an eternity.

His grandsire, however, was relentless. Otto hounded him with increasing urgency about the necessity of remarriage.

The weight of forging new alliances and securing the family’s future was emphasized with every meeting, and the grief for Y.N, though real, was dismissed as something that had gone on long enough.

One evening, after yet another confrontation with Otto, Aemond stormed back to his chambers, his mind a whirlwind of frustration and anxiety. The old man’s command that Aemond would be presented with suitable candidates to choose from was a crushing blow.

The thought of having to select a new bride while Y.N was alive—albeit in her grotesque and altered state—was a nightmare he could not fathom.

The walls felt as though they were closing in on him, the weight of his predicament almost unbearable. His mind raced, desperately trying to find a solution that would allow him to avoid the marriage his grandsire demanded without revealing the disturbing truth about Y.N.

He thought of the witch’s warnings and the terror that awaited if he were to fail in his attempt to protect her. Revealing Y.N’s current condition was unthinkable; it would lead to scandal and potentially dire consequences.

The very idea of the court discovering her state, coupled with the fear of her harming someone else, was enough to keep him awake at night.

His thoughts turned to possible alternatives. What if he could delay the marriage indefinitely? He could claim to be in mourning for an extended period, though the lie would be difficult to maintain. Perhaps he could use the upcoming council meetings to argue that the timing was not suitable, citing the ongoing war as a reason for postponement.

Another possibility was to feign illness or some personal crisis that would require him to withdraw from the marriage arrangements temporarily. It was a tactic that could buy him some time, though it would only be a temporary solution.

In a moment of grim determination, Aemond resolved to buy as much time as he could. He would need to play the part of a grieving widower convincingly while he sought a more permanent solution. His heart ached at the thought of living a lie, but the reality of his situation left him with few choices.

Aemond’s heart raced as he approached his chambers, the echo of a piercing scream jolting him into a frantic sprint. Bursting through the door, he was met with a scene that froze him in sheer horror.

One maid lay lifeless on the floor, blood pooling around her and another maid, terrified and struggling, was held captive by Y.N.

Her face was stained with crimson, her eyes wide and frenzied. She seemed to be in a state of maddened ecstasy as she pressed her face into the terrified maid's neck. Aemond’s stomach churned as he saw her sniffing the bloodied neck, her eyes gleaming with a predatory hunger.

“Y.N!” Aemond’s voice was a desperate roar, filled with a mix of command and fear. “Let her go!”

Y.N turned her head slowly towards him, her expression twisted into a snarl. Her teeth, once gentle and familiar, were now elongated and pointed. She growled, a deep, guttural sound that chilled Aemond to the bone.

Ignoring his command, she continued to hold the maid in her grip. Aemond rushed forward, but as he reached to pull Y.N away, she flicked him aside as though he were a mere inconvenience.

He hit the floor with a painful thud, the impact jarring his senses. Pain exploded in his side, but he forced himself to look up, unable to tear his eye away from the horrifying scene.

Y.N's grip on the maid tightened, and with a sickening crunch, she sank her teeth into the maid’s neck. The maid's muffled screams were agonizing, but Y.N silenced her by pressing her bloody hand over the woman’s mouth, drinking greedily from the wound.

Aemond's mind reeled as he struggled to comprehend the abomination before him. He scrambled backwards, his heart pounding in terror.

He slumped against the wall, his hands trembling as he covered his ears to block out the horrid sounds. The blood-curdling noises were almost too much to bear.

After what felt like an eternity, Aemond felt a hand gently stroking his hair. He dared to open his eye, only to find Y.N crouching in front of him.

The sight of her was both disturbing and tragic. Blood smeared her face and neck, and her eyes, though still carrying a flicker of familiarity, were clouded with an unsettling hunger.

Aemond’s heart ached with an intense mixture of love and revulsion. This was not the Y.N he had mourned, not the woman he had once loved. The creature before him was a demon masquerading as his beloved wife, a perversion of everything he once held dear.

“No,” he whispered, shaking his head slowly. “This isn’t you. You’re not Y.N anymore.”

The resolve within him solidified. He could no longer deny the harsh truth that had been gnawing at him. This was no longer about saving the woman he loved; it was about ending the monstrous existence she had become.

Aemond stood up, his face a mask of grim determination. He had to end this, to put an end to the nightmare that had consumed his life. His heart was heavy, but his mind was set. He would not allow the demon that had taken Y.N’s form to continue its reign of terror.

The love he had for Y.N was overshadowed by the need to rid the world of this abomination. The time for mercy had passed.

Aemond's hands trembled as he undid his weapons belt, each movement deliberate but shaky. He drew his dagger, its cold steel gleaming under the flickering candlelight.

Turning to face Y.N, who was standing before him with an almost feral hunger in her eyes.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. "There’s no other way."

Y.N's gaze remained fixed on him, her eyes glinting with an unsettling mixture of recognition and menace. Aemond’s heart ached with every step he took toward the door. He shut it with a decisive click and turned the lock, the finality of the sound echoing in the confined space.

Drawing a deep, shuddering breath, Aemond lunged forward. The dagger plunging into Y.N’s stomach. Her eyes widened in shock, and she gasped, staring down at the blade embedded in her flesh.

Aemond’s tears flowed freely as he watched the woman he had loved and lost collapse to the floor.

"I'm so sorry," he sobbed hysterically. "I’m so sorry."

Y.N's body quivered slightly, and she whispered in a trembling voice, "Issa vēzos se qēlossās"—. Her tears mingled with the blood staining her cheeks (My sun and stars).

After a few agonizing minutes, her movements stilled, her eyes fixed in a vacant stare.

Aemond slumped against the bed, his head in his hands, wracked with uncontrollable sobs. The weight of what he had done crushed him.

There would be no resurrection this time. The agony of his actions and the loss of Y.N was almost too much to bear. He would take her body far away, and Vhagar would incinerate it.

With a deep breath, Aemond wiped the tears from his face and stood up. The room was drenched in blood, and there was no way to cover it up without raising suspicions.

He began packing his belongings, moving with a sense of grim determination. He had enough gold from his princely allowance and could earn more if needed. The memories of the Red Keep and the pain of his actions were too heavy to bear; he would not return.

As he packed the last of his belongings, a shiver ran down his spine. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, a primal warning of danger.

Before he could react, strong arms wrapped around his neck from behind, pulling him into a vice-like grip.

“Surely you didn’t think it was going to be that easy”

Aemond gasped, his eyes widening in horror. "Y.N? How?"

Y.N’s tongue traced a slow, deliberate path along his ear. "You should’ve aimed for the heart," she murmured.

Then a loud snapping sound echoed through the room, and Aemond’s world plunged into darkness.

The witch’s cabin was dimly lit by the flickering glow of candles and the smouldering embers in the hearth. The room smelled of incense and old wood, mixed with the acrid tang of blood.

The witch was busy at her workbench, her attention focused on a needle and thread as she wove together a macabre piece of jewellery. She glanced up with a twisted smile as the door to her cabin flew open with a loud creak.

“Do you like my necklace?” she asked with a note of dark pride, holding up a string adorned with a number of bloodied ears. The grotesque adornment swayed in the dim light, casting eerie shadows on the walls.

Y.N, her eyes still gleaming with a predatory light, responded with a cold, detached tone. “It’s original.”

As Y.N stepped further into the cabin, she dropped Aemond’s lifeless body onto the table with a thud. The witch’s smile widened as she observed the body with interest, setting aside her needlework. She approached Aemond and gently brushed her blackened fingers across his cheek.

“Such a beautiful boy,” the witch mused, her voice almost tender as she examined him. Her gaze lingered on the eyepatch covering Aemond’s missing eye. With a deliberate motion, she pulled it off, revealing the sapphire in place of his missing eye.

“That’s much better,” she declared, admiring her work. Her eyes then travelled down to his ears. “He has good ears,” she noted, reaching for her knife with a gleam of anticipation in her eyes.

But before she could begin her work, Y.N stepped forward, her tone firm and unyielding. “No, he will not have any body parts severed. I’m rather fond of them, especially his cock”

The witch’s laugh was a harsh, rasping sound that filled the cabin. “And what do you want me to do with him then?” she asked, her curiosity piqued.

Y.N’s voice softened with a hint of longing as she replied, “Bring him back. I do not wish to be parted from my ‘Gēlenka zaldrīzes.” (Silver dragon).

“I need not warn you of the consequences of such a thing”

“I’m well aware of what he will become” replied Y.N

The witch’s eyes glittered with a dark amusement as she nodded in agreement. She snipped a lock of Aemond’s silver hair and threw it into the fire, watching as it curled and blackened.

She then poured a dark, lumpy liquid into his mouth, her movements precise and deliberate.

Next, she cut open Aemond’s leather tunic and placed her hand on his bare chest, whispering incantations in an ancient tongue. Her voice was a blend of reverence and authority as she beseeched the god of death to return life to him.

The witches breath was warm against Aemond’s ear as she bent down to whisper, “Your debt is now paid.”

Y.N was handed a shovel, and she chose the spot next to where she had been buried, beginning to dig with a determined fervour. The rain began to fall, soaking through her clothes and mixing with the soil as she worked.

Once the hole was deep enough, Y.N carefully placed Aemond’s body into it. The rain poured down, creating a muddy, bleak scene as she covered him with dirt.

When the last shovelful of earth had been placed, she wiped the rain from her face and went back inside the cabin, where the witch awaited her.

The witch stood by the fire, her demeanour calm and almost serene. “Three sunrises, three sunsets,” she intoned, her voice carrying a hint of finality. “And your love will return.”

Y.N’s eyes were filled with hope as she took in the witch’s words. She clutched the shovel tightly, her thoughts consumed with the promise of what lay ahead.

Three sunrises and three sunsets had nearly passed since Y.N took up her vigil at Aemond's grave. Her days were spent sitting on the wooden steps that led to the mound of soil, her gaze locked on the spot where she had buried him.

The heavy rain and the chill of the night did little to deter her from this self-imposed watch

The witch, who had taken to occasionally sitting with her, told Y.N stories of those who shared their condition. They were stories of distant lands and other beings who walked a path similar to hers.

The witch spoke of her origins in Pentos, and how she had journeyed to Westeros in 42 AC, a time long before the present.

When Y.N asked why she chose to remain alone in this desolate place rather than join her kin across the Narrow Sea, the witch’s answer was tinged with nostalgia. “This place has become home to me,” she said, her voice soft with a hint of sorrow.

During these conversations, Y.N learned that Aemond was not the only dragon to have transformed into one of them. The witch recounted tales of another, a figure of dark legend known as Maegor the Cruel, and her own past identity as The Lady of the Tower.

Y.N, her curiosity piqued, quietly muttered the name “Tyanna,” prompting a knowing smile from the witch.

“I haven’t been called that in a long time,” Tyanna admitted.

When Y.N inquired about what had become of Maegor, Tyanna’s eyes grew distant. “He died upon the Iron Throne,” she recounted, her voice a mixture of regret and admiration. “A blade pierced his back, striking his heart. History remembers him as a villain, and he did commit monstrous acts. But I loved him nonetheless.”

As the sun began to set on the third day, the sky painted in hues of orange and purple, Tyanna took Y.N’s hand in hers. “Never let go of Aemond,” she urged, her voice carrying a sense of urgency. “He may be a short-tempered young prince, but he has the potential to rise above such things.”

With that, Tyanna retreated to her cabin, leaving Y.N alone at the grave. The atmosphere was heavy, charged with a sense of finality and anticipation.

Then, the soil began to shift. Y.N’s heart raced as she watched a hand burst through the dirt, followed by an arm and then the rest of Aemond’s body emerging from the grave. Covered in grime and filth, he slowly stood up, his movements sluggish but determined. His eye scanned the surroundings, and when they fell on Y.N, a slow, radiant smile spread across his face.

“Ābrazȳrys,” (Wife).

[milswrites]

Something blue

~ Azriel X Reader

Summary: You and Azriel get married.

Warnings: Teeny bit of angst but then all fluff :)

Azriel couldn't hear the words his brother was speaking over the incessant pounding of his heartbeat which echoed in the depths of his ears. Not even his probing shadows could break him from his anxious stupor, the dark curling mists attempting to pull their master back to reality through their gentle nudges and soothing presence.

Azriel was sure that if he was aware of his families comforting words and his shadows warming embrace he would have been grateful. Yet all he desired was your reassuring company, your gentle aura having always been enough to ebb the rising doubts from his storming mind.

It was only when Cassian laid a heavy hand on his tense shoulder did Azriel allow himself to come back to reality. Permissing his faraway mind to return to it's earthly shell, rejoining him where he was stood at the end of the aisle.

It wasn't the prospect of marrying you which terrified him. No, Azriel couldn't think of anything sweeter than consolidating the love between the two of you. However, the invasive doubts that Azriel didn't deserve you pecked away at his brain. Worried that his monstrous past and his dark line of work made him unworthy of your love.

It was foolish to think this of course, you looked at Azriel as though he had hung the stars in the night sky, the male brightening the life you had claimed was once so dull. To you, Azriel could do no wrong and you had spent many sleepless nights reminding the male of this as you cradled his trembling form.

Which is why when Cassian asked him if he needed a moment to escape and gather his thoughts, Azriel stubbornly declined the offer. Not wanting to make even the smallest of mistakes out of fear that the one good thing in his life would slip away from him.

No, Azriel would wait. Patiently standing at the end of the aisle until you came to stand by his side. Your presence alone would be enough to melt away his insecurity and unease.

Which is why with this knowledge, he allowed himself to relax. The understanding that you would soon be with him was enough to loosen his taught muscles, enabling a steady breath to be drawn from his lips.

You were his home, his fortress, and Azriel needed only to think of you to instill him with the strength he needed to battle his demons.

He brushed Cassian's worried hand away, providing his concerned brother a smile overflowing with confidence. Teeth slightly bared in excitement.

"I'm fine Cas," Azriel promised, "I couldn't be happier."

He needn't lie when he spoke the words to his brother, each syllable laced with a welcoming truth. How could he not be happy, when you were the deliverer of his joy.

A soft melody began to hum from the harp beside him, an ethereal tune which sang the story of your love. Each harmonious note signifying a beautiful tale of your partnership.

But it wasn't the sweet tune which brought a silver tear to Azriel's eye. Nor was it the fact that he was surrounded by his friends, all sharing a smile of beaming warmth at the glorious occasion.

No, the reason for his joyous weeping was the angel who faced him at the other end of the aisle. His love, a vision dressed in white, who's arm was wrapped around that of his proud mother's.

Azriel cried as his entire universe walked towards him. As the two most important people in his life slowly made their way past his teary-eyed friends and family until they came to stop before him.

His doting mother came to wipe the wetness from his cheeks, face a picture of unbridled jubilation, before Cassian came to lead the exuberant woman to their seats as the last heavenly note from the harp was strung. The soft hum of the music still wavering in the air despite it's completion. And as Azriel's hazel eyes finally came to meet your own, a bond of love and passion was shared through your affectionate gazes.

You've always been beautiful, there was no debating that. But the god-like glow which the mother had blessed you with on the day of your wedding had rendered the shadowsinger speechless. The force of your otherworldly beauty almost being enough to pull the male to his knees before you. Azriel promised himself in that moment that he would spend the rest of his days worshipping you in all your glory until the day he died.

The trivial words of the priestess failed to register in his mind, Azriel's thoughts were consumed entirely by you. It wasn't until you began to make your vows, did Azriel's attention then turn to your enchanting voice. His mind, body and soul all enraptured by your tender words.

"I have loved you since before I even knew you existed. My heart has always belonged to you, and I finally found it when we first met. We were made for each other, you and I, two souls destined for each other. And even if we didn't have the cauldron's influence, I still would have loved you as deeply and passionately as I do now. You're my entire world Azriel and I consider myself lucky for the life I'm going to spend with you and I will continue to love you until we're the last stars in the sky."

Azriel was sure he couldn't have cried more than he had already done so, though it was clear his well hadn't run dry as of yet. Glistening trails of happy tears streamed down his smiling cheeks. His gentle shadows wrapped around his body under his clothes, their presence comforting him, reminding him that his feelings were natural, That he could allow himself to weep at his good fortune.

The male had planned his vows in advance, wanting to be prepared in case his nerves took hold of him and prevented him from saying what he wanted to be said. Yet being in the moment, standing here next to your ethereal form after hearing your impassioned promise, Azriel failed to find words worthy enough to be heard by your ears. And so, surprising even himself Azriel neglected the speech he had spent the past few days reciting and spoke from his heart.

"You are my strength and stability. My saviour and my undoing. You see me for who I am and yet you've never once shied away, you accept me in a way so few people have done so and I couldn't be more blessed than to have you as my partner for the rest of my life. I have never felt more loved, more accepted by anyone and I know that whenever the darkness overcomes me I need only to look to you for my salvation. And so I promise you this now, that I will never fail to be anyone other than the male who you know me to be. I gift myself you you with the oath that I shall love you forever as you deserve."

The exchange of your vows was done so in a moment of frozen existence. Despite the room full of your loved ones, it felt as though the promises were made in secret, a silent joining of your two souls morphing into one. You may as well have been the only people in the entire universe.

When the time came to present each other with the rings you had selected, you slipped the band onto his steady finger. A golden line etched into the silver metal, a constant reminder of the shimmering thread which tied the two of you together for eternity.

When the time came for him to slip the ring he had gifted for you onto your own finger, you marveled at the cobalt blue gem which stared back at you. A glowing piece of Azriel's siphon. A piece of your mate gifted to you.

"Your something blue" he whispered with a smile, voice low enough for only you to hear. Recalling the superstitious poem you had recited to him when you first began making plans for your wedding.

"It's beautiful Az,"you beamed at the male before you, at your husband, looking into his hazel eyes as you spoke, "But I already have my something blue and it'll take a lot more than a fancy ring for me to want to replace him."

[stillness-in-green]

The thing that doesn't make sense to me if Izuku resolved to kill is how it doesn't let them prove AFO wrong? AFO did his big reveal which only makes it clearer how deep the grooming went and it should've been time for Izuku to understand Tenko and Tenko to understand the abuse then reject the mindset forced onto him. But Izuku killing Tenko doesn't do that. Tenko just dies. It feels very wrong.

I guess Izuku just wasn't very interested in proving AFO wrong! Honestly, the only thing I immediately remember Izuku disputing the guy on was the same thing he disputed Shigaraki on: that he was anything more than a human being. AFO isn't a Demon King, but just a lonely man. Shigaraki hasn't transcended humanity; there's still a human somewhere deep inside of him. Izuku won't correct his allies' use of dehumanizing language for Villains, of course, but he's quick to push back when the Villains themselves self-aggrandize.

Sorry, I really only have withering disdain for Deku at this point. And I guess I don't really see any evidence that Deku was ever particularly driven by "proving AFO wrong." He wants to stop AFO, certainly, but that's because AFO is a monster who takes advantage of vulnerable people to maneuver them into doing Bad Things that advance AFO's Bad Plans and sets them onto Bad Paths that are difficult to walk back, not because he expressly opposes AFO on this or that ideological point about the nature of humanity and society.

(Hit the jump for the rest of a somewhat rambly reply.)

If anything, current evidence is that neither Deku nor the manga itself really do disagree with AFO about the frailty of humans, as expressed by Tsukauchi answering Deku's question about how to prevent future tragedies by shrugging and saying, "You don't, because life fucking sucks sometimes and that's just how it is. Our hands are completely tied on improving the system as we have it, so all we can do is punch out the Villains that appear in front of us to stop them from causing more harm."

That's also me being a bit harsh, of course. The fact that Deku is even still asking that question in the epilogue suggests that the manga hasn't reached its final answer yet, and maybe it will yet come up with something better! It doesn't have much time left, but it's still possible!

All the same, Deku is still having to ask that question in the epilogue because he never truly faced it over the course of the story. Never thinking about what Shigaraki as a person said in favor of fetishizing the Crying Child, never coming up with any kind of non-violent plan of attack or conversational approach, I have to ask what exactly about Shigaraki did Deku ever disagree with AFO on?

AFO, in the end, characterized Shigaraki as a puppet he molded exactly as he desired, a doll who he sculpted and programmed to act as he wished, a feeble child who has never made a single decision that AFO didn't cultivate him to make. So far as I can tell, Deku never really contested that framing. He didn't know the extent of it until the full reveal, of course, but Deku, like AFO, insisted on approaching Shigaraki solely through that "Crying Child" lens. He seemed to believe that nothing Shigaraki said or did on the surface really mattered (save as a reason that Shigaraki had to be stopped and potentially killed), that the "truth" of Shigaraki was that feeble little weeping boy who never grew up.

How could Deku possibly "prove AFO wrong" in that context? He doesn't even disagree with him! I mean, he's got some nice talk about how people deserve a second chance, sure; he says that people doing wrong doesn't make them Villains for the rest of their lives. What does do that, however - insofar as I can tell from how opaque the series keeps Deku throughout the final war - is refusing the hand out of the darkness. You stop being a victim and become a Villain for the rest of your life by choosing to remain a Villain even when offered an alternative (no matter how patently awful that alternative is).

Shigaraki chooses to remain a Villain and Deku doesn't have a counter for that because Deku never really got past the false binary represented by Villains and Victims to begin with. And I think the same goes for people who expected Shigaraki to just fold when he realized the extent of the grooming he'd undergone. Disallowing Shigaraki any agency in who he is and what he's done is defining him the same way AFO and Deku both did; when Shigaraki refuses to accept that framing, refuses to be a passive victim, the only thing left for him to be is a Villain. And when a Villain refuses to stop...

Well, Hawks already told us what the Heroes' answer to that is. "Someone has to die." As no one ever stepped up to prove him wrong, as far as the story is concerned, he isn't.

AFO always knew that victims can be turned into Villains with the right nudges; that's the whole reason for him cultivating "warped seeds" whenever and wherever he found them. Hero Society is - and always has been - much too rigid in its enforcement of the Hero/Villain/Victim narrative to effectively combat him. Crucially, Deku - the boy who wants to bring everything back just the way it was - doesn't disagree with him. He thinks AFO is an asshole for setting people up to fail, but he doesn't disagree about what failure means. So if AFO, Deku, and the story itself are all in agreement, what's even there for Deku to disprove?

Now, there is something that would prove AFO wrong, but it isn't something you can do while insisting on drawing lines to separate sad manipulated woobie victims who just need to be saved from awful unrepentant villains who just need to rot. It isn't something you can do while infantilizing Shigaraki Tomura.

The way to prove AFO wrong is to make room in society to help all Villains. Even if they aren't asking for it, even if they never ask for it, and even if they're jolly bastards who don't really deserve it! As long as there's a point at which it becomes okay to give up on trying to save Villains, Shigaraki will remain unsavable. He will insist on being unsavable. He could no more let that go than All Might could step aside and let AFO's attack kill an innocent at Kamino.

That's what it means to be a Hero for Villains.

Ultimately, what makes AFO right is that he knows that Hero Society makes it difficult if not impossible to uncross the victim-to-Villain bridge, and so anyone who does cross that bridge (with or without his influence) is that much more susceptible to him. Deku, in turn, thinks the only Villains he can save are those who drop everything and come sprinting as fast as they can back to the Hero side, so anyone who won't do that is someone he can't help.

Shigaraki refused to stop trying to create a better world for Villains. Toga refused to live in a world that would imprison her. Twice refused to give up on the friends no Hero would help. It's the same with every other Villain who refused to quietly endure their status quo: in a society that refuses to change how it treats Villains, anyone who won't submit to suffering in silence cannot be saved.

That's the paradigm AFO exploits, and Deku will never prove him wrong without resolving to change the paradigm first. We'll see if the last two chapters get him there.

[cod-z]

[NSFW 18+] Pegging Series (Anon Reveal)

Your media consumption isn't my responsibility | TW: NSFW 18+, Title itself explanatory

Pairing(s): John 'Soap' MacTavish x Stoic!Reader

| One-shots | A/N: My anon reveal and brain-rot. For those who knows said story, yes, I am THAT anon from said blog

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

Johnny has a thing for Stoic!Reader because of the mystery behind them, always keeping a poker face even in dire situation and the strong, powerful aura that reader has but it's also reassuring. A mix between Price and Ghost the stern yet comforting from Gaz.

Johnny knocking on stoic!reader's door because Price had asked him to get the paperworks that were needed but ends up just stammering towards reader because the way reader speaks is so emotionless and stern, it sends him into a horny frenzy-

Finally telling stoic!reader what Price wanted, reader dismisses him but he doesn't leave and just stands there like a sweet, lost puppy and who is totally not horny or anything because reader is only in a black tank top and their cargo pants while reader does paperwork.

Stoic!Reader casually staring at Johnny because he hasn't left and asks if there is anything else.

Johnny stutters as he tries to explain that Price, Ghost and Gaz were getting ready for a mission, clenching onto the documents, trying to ask a certain question because poor pup was going to be alone for quite awhile but ends up silencing himself and leaving. 'Cause why would reader do that for him if reader was aroace? (again, sue me).

Not even 2 weeks in when the other three were gone. Johnny pathetically asks Stoic!Reader if they could fuck him.

Stoic!reader who wanted to say 'no' till they saw the twitching outline of Johnny's bulge and felt a twinge of pity for Johnny boy and sighs.

Stoic!reader who says 'yes' but only on one condition which makes Johnny happy, though the next day Johnny was now on his hands and knees with stoic!reader prepping his rim to take in the strap-on they bought online together (Johnny totally didn't get the overnight shipping).

Johnny is already a squirming mess as he came twice already from being prepped by reader. Reader obviously not done with Johnny, had already put the big, girthy, bumpy strap-on, on already and grabs him roughly by his mohawk. Rubbing the plastic-rubber against his weeping cock gathering the cum and proceeds to rub coated strap-on onto his ass, slicking it up before pushing it to the hilt.

Pathetic whining moans leaves Johnny's lips as he's drilled onto Stoic!Reader's bed like reader hates him, shocking Johnny at the full force that comes from reader's frame, he never would've guessed reader would have it in them to be this way. Letting him orgasm in this position twice before doing it once missionary.

Johnny already an overstimulated little pup on stoic!reader's bed, crying from too much pleasure and was ready to give out, to fucked out to even help reader orgasm. But don't worry, reader already had a plan for that.

Stoic!Reader pushing Johnny's legs up, stroking the tip of his cock before guiding it into reader's hole making poor Johnny weep from overstimulation, pain and pleasure. Knees behind Johnny's ass while holding his legs up as reader fucks down onto him, closing in on their own orgasm and Johnny building up his, what? 5th? 7th orgasm? He doesn't know.

Neither of the two hearing the sound of multiple boots hitting the floor nearing reader's barracks. The door opening as both Johnny and Reader orgasms at the same time.

Johnny looks weakly at the other three with a smile, who stared at Stoic!Reader in shock, Reader's expression remains stoice but as their eyes trailing down the three men's body already seeing their growing bulge, stoic!reader gives a small smirk and removes themselves from Johnny (who totally didn't pass out).

Well shit. Price, Ghost and Gaz later on couldn't remember that reader smirked at them, nor did the four remember that reader pecked their foreheads as they all lay together, asleep, after being fucked and looked after by reader.

Stoic!reader who finishes changing, closes the door quietly letting their four boys sleep. Till next time.

[nxuvillette]

hanma + jealousy / possessive sex at some type of party?! maybe he overheard some guys talking about you… smirks evilly

❥- note: nonnie this made my brain cook i had to make a drabble with this !! nsfw under the cut !!

content warnings: nsfw [17+], fem!reader, ageless + blank blogs dni, established relationship, mentions of alcohol consumption, jealous / possessive behavior, bathroom sex, jealous sex, use of pet names (babydoll , doll), breeding kink

hanma shuji never really batted an eye when it came to men and how they brought you up. he was a confident man who knew at the end of the day, you were always going to be his. he never felt threatened by another man’s presence or words, and he trusted you. there was no need for him to get angry over things that were out of his control.

well, except for tonight.

the two of you both came to a party kisaki was hosting. you wore a pretty silk dress that was the color of the night sky. hanma thought you looked beautiful in your outfit. you never failed to take his breath away. it was going well, too. everyone that night was so polite and nothing seemed to be going wrong, until hanma stood near a few men who were speaking about you. it struck hanma as odd because these men didn’t seem familiar to you, nor him, so he wondered what they were buzzing about.

“haha, yeah, (y/n)? she’s fuckin’ hot.”

“fuck, i’d love to see what’s under that dress. i bet she’s got a nice ass..”

“why don’t you go find out? i don’t think she has a man..”

“heh, i might just give it a try. i might give her some good dick if she’s real nice..”

something snapped inside of your boyfriend. he wasn’t sure if it was because he was tired from work or the whiskey that was surging through his veins, but one thing was for sure, he was going to prevent any of those men from even breathing next to you that evening.

hanma didn’t even utter a word to you as he shoved you into the bathroom at the banquet you were at. he didn’t give two shits if any of those guests had to use it, he was going to have his way with you. he wasted no time pushing your panties to the side and placing you on the bathroom counter. your body was so perfect. he never got tired of how sexy you looked whenever your cunt was dripping wet for him.

“h-hanma..! what if someone hears..? or tries to come in..?!” you were trying your best to resist, but your body was betraying you.

hanma unbuckled his belt, seemingly showing no worry behind his expression. “who gives a fuck? let those assholes outside know who’s the one fucking your brains out, yeah, doll?” he looked into your doe eyes that he loved so fucking much.

you just nodded and gave into that ache between your thighs. once hanma entered you, your vision saw stars and you could hardly keep yourself composed. he knew how to fuck you just right. whether it was fixing your attitude or giving you dick for being a good girl, he knew your body better than anyone else.

hanma’s hips snapped at a quick pace. your juices leaked onto the counter below you, and your back was now pressed up against the mirror. his eyes never left yours as he pumped his cock into your weeping cunt. “fuck.. yeah, you like that, babydoll? shit.. this pussy is all mine, yeah? you fuckin’ love when i fuck you?” he gritted his teeth as he spoke the final sentence, making you body shudder from how sexy it sounded.

your hands placed themselves onto his shoulders, holding onto him while he completely ravaged you. “y-yes! god, yes! shuji!” you whined, pressing your forehead against his sweaty. “‘m all yours!”

hanma couldn’t stop the smirk from forming on his features. you were just so fucking cute. he never thought he’d take you inside of a bathroom with your cute little dress, crying his name like it was a prayer. all he needed was you at the end of the night. his favorite girl just where he wanted her.

no one could ever be better than him. those men who spoke about you should have known better to mess with you and say such disgusting things. hell, they probably wouldn’t be able to fuck you the way he does. they wouldn’t know a damn clue about how to make you cum so hard you can hardly form sentences. you were his. it didn’t matter who might have you next.

hanma’s hips stuttered as he felt his cock beginning to twitch inside of you. that release he had been chasing was finally creeping up on him, and all he wanted was to let go inside you. “i’m gonna cum..” he groaned, squeezing your hips as he felt you reach your orgasm. “fuck.. ‘gonna fill this pretty pussy.. might give ya a baby while i’m at it..”

you let out a loud cry of pleasure at the sensation of his cum filling your cunt. a thick load made its way into your womb, sending chills down your spine from the feeling. god, he felt so fucking amazing you could cry from it.

he leaned into your face, kissing your lips and cupping your cheek. “you’re mine.. don’t forget that, babydoll.” he then kissed you again, making sure you were satisfied.

© NXUVILLETTE ┆ all rights reserved, do not repost, translate, or claim as your own.

[messiahzzz]

as much as i dislike the dialogue option that leads to this scene, i genuinely appreciate gale's response. it is easy to overlook what he is actually trying to convey here and is instead commonly dismissed as him being "overdramatic" or as a display of his bruised ego.

player: it was fine. gale: i see. gale: well, fine is... fine. nobody weeps because the weather is fine. no monarchs were overthrown because their ruling was fine. no artworks were burned because they were not masterpieces, but merely fine. player: would you have rather i lied? gale: the dignified thing for me to say is 'no. of course not. forthrightness before all.' but honestly? yes... i would have rather you lied. gale: i'm just a man. an imperfect one, with needs, wants, and flaws by the bushel. a fragile vessel in which to place potentially world-ending power. gale: perhaps it would be better to not shake such a vessel. gale: forgive me. these were already trying times before elminster delivered his missive. now, for me at least, they are potentially end times.

gale is no stranger to introspection. despite having his natural blindspots, he is fully aware of his flaws and imperfections. he lacks an inherent sense of self-preservation, displays impatience on occasion, can be hypocritical, has trouble handling pointed criticism well, and has a tendency to respond in passive aggression if he feels his competence is brought into question. he seeks admiration and is known to not honor his limitations and own safety for the sake of receiving praise.

gale: [...] people have always commented on my confidence, sometimes my over-confidence, and in one particularly cut throat assessment at university - my 'abject and incorrigible self-delusion.'

gale is not blind to how he is perceived by others, nor does he dismiss their conclusions without careful consideration. instead of deflecting he simply takes what they dish out and files it away for later contemplation and inspection.

player: because you acted the idiot. and paid the price for it too. gale: as always, i endeavor to be invigorated by your candour, rather than eviscerated by it. gale: blunt as your summation is - it's correct. i dared to call myself an archmage while acting the apprentice. the hallmarks of a most excellent idiot, unfortunately.

player: i can't say i share the same high opinion of you, gale. gale: always bringing such candour to our conversations. some would think twice about mocking gale of waterdeep, but you just go straight for the gut. nodecontext: playing along, making fun of himself gale: i like that about you. it's one of your rarer qualities, though i fear my ego can take no more of it tonight. nodecontext: cheerfully accepting the brush off, not taking it personally

needs, wants, and flaws by the bushel.

gale craves as mortals do. for relevance, safety, consideration, loyalty, care, acceptance, and love. he's desperate, he's angry, he's petty and hurt and lonely. he's contradictory, and at times inconsistent. he's afraid, he stumbles, he yearns. if he loves, he does so with all his heart but forgets to extend the same love to himself. he gains understanding only to disregard it later. he is absorbed yet devoted. he expects kindness but is bewildered when it is extended to him in turn. he's neither a perfect colleague, a perfect companion, a perfect lover, nor a perfect husband. he's just another human who's trying to navigate and make sense of the world. who is silently hoping for his soul to be handled with tenderness and care, to finally be seen for who he is —no need for performance or pretense — and to be unconditionally cherished nonetheless.

a fragile vessel in which to place potentially world-ending power.

he knows the burden he carries. understanding that even a momentary lapse in judgment could spell catastrophe if he doesn't exert tight control over his emotions at all times. he knows what is at stake should he lose the composure he painstakingly had to master. a mere moment is all it takes. this self-assessment isn't an "indirect threat" intended to subject pressure on tav or solicit pity, it's a stark acknowledgment of the truth. he is a fragile human, housing powers that should've never been his in the first place.

player: unbelievable. did you ever think what would happen if the tadpole got the better of you? gale: every waking moment. every dreaming moment too. but there was no way out.

he is also keenly aware of how his (former) colleagues perceive him, following his fall from grace.

player: bold. few would dare to reduce a goddess to their 'muse.' gale: i am, after all, the villain of the tale.

this line in particular is one i often think about. it makes me wonder about the extent of information gale received from the outside world after locking himself in his tower for an entire year, setting magical wards so no one but tara would be able to enter. did he hear the whispers? ("shunned by the goddess of magic herself, of course, it was only a matter of time before he flew too close to the sun.") were his colleagues ridiculing him, applauding mystra for cutting off the rot at the source? how did he arrive at the assumption that he is perceived as "the villain" and not the victim?

player: you must have been lonely, with only tara for company.. gale: sometimes. but i imposed it upon myself, after all. i set up enough wards to keep an army at bay, never mind the few colleagues who sought to inquire about my welfare.

or is this solely his own harsh judgment of his folly? that there is no chance anyone would meet him with sympathy, kindness and understanding after what he had wrought. he was too greedy, too impatient — selfish in arrogance, ravenous in ambition. letting delusions of grandeur guide him. he brought it all upon himself with his lack of patience. entirely convinced of his success and skill, blind to the possibility of failure. now doomed to drag innocents into the abyss with him. the hallmarks of a villain, right? after all, who would truly believe him that his ambition hid no ill will?

players: by rights. i should kill you. gale: perhaps that is what i deserve, but you deserve no such thing. [...]

[antebunny]

a cuckoo in the nest

(Aka the Fae!Tim fic that I decided not to finish and thus am dumping on Tumblr)

The creature that the Unseelie Queen forces on Bruce is disguised as a human child. Worse, it resembles Bruce’s two current children. Skin on the lighter side, lighter than either of his kids, black hair, blue eyes, and a light sweater and sweatpants combination that either Dick or Jason might wear. It is quite the contrast to the wild fey flashing too-bright teeth at Bruce.

“You will welcome it into your home,” the Unseelie Queen commands. “You will treat it as you would your own son. You will do nothing to indicate that it is anything but a human boy.”

One gnarled claw curls around the creature’s shoulder. The creature’s expression remains eerily blank. Another point in favor of its otherworldliness. A normal human child would show some reaction to the Unseelie Queen’s possessive presence. This creature stays perfectly still.

“In return…” the Unseelie Queen crooks one finger of her free hand in a come here motion and a figure stumbles out of the dark trees surrounding their little clearing. 

It is Jason. Injured beyond belief, blue eyes red and weeping. Bruce’s knee jerks, but he forces himself to remain within the small summoning circle. A thin line of salt and iron protecting him from the Unseelie Queen’s unfathomable powers.  

“You get your son back.” She presents Jason to Bruce like she’s selling a prize horse at an auction. One hand on the back of his neck. “Alive and well. As he was before his death. The memory of his death will remain, but dulled. That is my bargain, Batman.”

Bruce is not fool enough to give the Unseelie Queen his real name, nor is he stupid enough to lie to her. Using his nighttime alter ego presents the perfect compromise. Batman is not his real name, nor is it a lie. So it is Batman’s black gauntlets that curl into fists as Bruce considers the Unseelie Queen’s deal. 

It is the height of stupidity to take a creature he does not know the abilities of into Wayne Manor, and pretend it is his son. Given what he knows of the Unseelie Queen, such a creature could cause unfathomable damage to his family, to Gotham. This is a bet of Bruce’s own intelligence against a fey hundreds of times older than Bruce. He could very well end up losing both of his sons this time. 

“B,” Jason sobs. “Wha’s goin’ on?”

But the alternative is to walk away from a chance to have Jason back. This is not the universe where Bruce is capable of such an act. At least with the Unseelie Queen’s bargain, Bruce has a chance to limit any potential harm. Perhaps he can even outsmart the creature and prevent all damage whatsoever. If she had asked him to kill someone, or something more direct, Bruce wouldn’t stand a chance.

Bruce uncurls his fists slowly. “I accept.”

With those two words, both the creature and Jason are invited into the circle. The creature steps forward calmly, Nike sneakers passing over the salt and iron easily. Its arms are flat by its sides, and its head comes up to Bruce’s chest. If it were human, it would be around the same age that Jason was when Bruce caught him stealing the Batmobile’s tires. A blatant attempt at emotional manipulation on the Unseelie Queen’s part. 

Jason is shoved forwards by the Unseelie Queen. He trips over his own feet, but Bruce is there to catch him this time, to gently fold him in his arms and check him over for injuries.  

“I’m getting you home,” Bruce promises. 

And if he has to bring home the Unseelie Queen’s little spy as well to make it happen, then that is a price Bruce is more than willing to pay to have his family whole again.

~

Tim finally has the chance to be part of a family again, and it is the best family he could have imagined. He can scarcely believe his luck as Mr. Wayne–Batman, for now–leads Tim and Jason (who doesn’t look so good) into the Batcave. Tim is so caught up trying not to gape in awe at everything that he misses the hushed conversation that Mr. Wayne has with his butler, and the slightly louder, much longer conversation he has with his eldest son. The original Robin is standing all of five meters away from Tim! He’s going to be Tim’s older brother!

A lifetime ago, when Tim was still fully human, with parents and the last name Drake, he’d been obsessed with Batman and Robin. Had followed them around pitch black rooftops, through the streets buzzing with neon lights and vices, just to get a glimpse of his heroes. Discovered Robin’s true identity shortly before Bruce Wayne adopted Jason Todd, and a new Robin came to roost in Gotham’s skyscrapers. 

Then Janet and Jack Drake gave their only child to the Unseelie Queen in exchange for money and power, and Tim lost his name, and his home, and his entire world. 

 “What is your name?” Mr. Wayne interrupts Tim’s memories. He looms in front of Tim in an empty Batcave. Mr. Pennyworth and both Robins are long gone. It is only Tim, in his ill-fitting human clothes, and Batman. 

Tim knew this question was coming. Mr. Wayne must think that Tim is a human child, and that asking for his name is a simple exchange of pleasantries. He cannot know that Tim is no longer fully human, and his name is no longer free to give or take, nor his own anymore. Luckily, Tim prepared a response. He does not want to lie to Batman, after all, but as much as he wishes he could trust Mr. Wayne with his name, he knows better.

“What do you want to be called?” Mr. Wayne amends, when Tim fails to answer fast enough.

Carefully, Tim purses his lips and whistles. Hoo-ooh. A sharp ho followed by a lower, longer oo sound. The call of a common cuckoo. Hoo-ooh. Hoo-ooh.

Mr. Wayne frowns in response. Tim panics briefly–did he not get the call right? He practiced so much!–and tries again, a little faster. Hoo-ooh, hoo-ooh, hoo-ooh. Please accept me. I know I’m an unwanted interloper, an imposter. Please accept me anyway.

“Do you have a name in English?” Mr. Wayne asks. He repeats the question in a few more languages. Tim recognizes the Spanish and Russian, but he’s not sure what the others are. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Tim nods frantically. He swallows with difficulty, and then whispers: “Tim.” 

It is not a lie, and it is common enough that hopefully Tim can remain anonymous. He is a common cuckoo bird, after all, not even remarkable in his imposition. 

“Well, Tim,” Mr. Wayne says, voice dropping to an ominous growl, “I will uphold my end of the bargain. But do not think for a second that I can be tricked into trusting you. And if you give me even the slightest indication that you intend to hurt a member of my family in any way, I will not hesitate to take you down. Do you understand?”

Tim has not cried in years, not since his parents gave him away. But tonight a peculiar wetness pricks at the corners of his eyes as he nods. “Yes, Mr. Wayne, sir,” he says quickly. “I understand.”

It isn’t as though Mr. Wayne is wrong. Tim is an interloper, here to trick Mr. Wayne and his family into caring about Tim. All Mr. Wayne did was make it clear that he will continue to pretend that Tim is part of his family and that he will not be tricked. There’s no reason for Tim to get emotional about it. 

It’s just that Tim hoped, if just for a moment, that it wouldn’t be pretend.

The Wayne family, aside from Mr. Wayne himself, is very easily tricked. Mr. Pennyworth (“call me Alfred, Master Tim”) lets Tim follow him around even though he won’t let Tim help with chores no matter how much he insists that he can do it. Tim is fine with that, really. For now it is better to be tolerated, if not liked, than not to be tolerated at all. He has noticed that even Mr. Wayne defers to Alfred in household matters, so it is good to have the real head of household somewhat in his corner.

Most days, Tim sits on the kitchen counter while Alfred cooks, and awkwardly attempts to answer questions about his previous life. It is mixed, as far as conversations go. The questions are very stressful for Tim, who is never sure how much he should say, but smelling and eating human food after so long without it still brings tears to his eyes. 

Simmering tomato floats through the air as Alfred adds a pinch of rosemary to his soup. Tim’s mouth waters, and he swallows before talking. 

“I had a really long argument with a rosemary plant, once,” Tim recalls ruefully. “It was dumb. But I was so desperate for human food that I’d’ve said just about anything.”

The rosemary plant refused, in the end. Everyone was too scared of the Unseelie Queen to help Tim. 

Alfred stirs his pot carefully. “You had an argument…with the rosemary plant?” He clarifies neutrally. 

“Yep.” Tim’s legs swing back and forth a bit faster. “I told you, it was really dumb. I would’ve tried with the mushrooms, but they’re mean and scary, really scary. And old.”

Some of the mushrooms are even older than the Unseelie Queen, which makes them even scarier. Except that the Unseelie Queen has Tim’s name, and the mushrooms do not. 

Tim blushes all of a sudden, mindful of his audience. “I didn’t mean being old makes them scary,” he mumbles, furious at himself. He is supposed to be trying to get Alfred to like him, and instead he insults him! What is wrong with him?

“It is quite alright, dear boy,” Alfred says. “I assure you no offense was taken. Now, what is it you were saying about being desperate for human food?”

Mr. Grayson (“call me Dick, everyone else does!”) is the easiest to trick into caring about Tim. He is actually not sure what he did to pull it off. Dick stays at Wayne Manor most weekends, and the first time he comes over, before Tim has a chance to enact any of his thirty-four “Trick Robin Into Liking Me” plans, Dick asks if he wants to get ice cream. Tim accepts eagerly, and Dick smiles so brightly that Tim nearly forgets about Mr. Wayne scowling in the background. After that, Dick always makes a point to seek him out. Tim is pretty sure he makes a bumbling mess of himself every conversation, but somehow Dick keeps laughing it off and taking Tim out for another slightly reckless and exceedingly enjoyable excursion. 

Jason is a bit harder to trick. He is still healing mentally and emotionally from his death, so he’s off-duty as Robin. Since school is out for the summer, this means he spends most of his time curled up in the library. Tim once hovered behind him for hours, trying to work up the courage to start a conversation, when Jason turned and snapped what so aggressively that Tim immediately ran away. 

In general, he is surly, defensive, angry, and reluctant to accept affection from his real family, much less Tim. Eight plans to trick Jason into caring about him are complete failures that end in Tim further earning Jason’s ire. Another fourteen plans are thrown out before Tim can enact them, after the humiliation of the eight failures. 

Eventually, Tim turns to Dick for help. Dick has alluded to a rough start with Jason, which sounds fake to Tim. Dick was Robin, how could anyone not like him? But maybe he can give Tim advice. 

It is a sweltering Saturday in late July when Dick pulls away from Wayne Manor in some type of fancy car with Tim in the co-pilot seat. 

“I need advice,” Tim says nervously as Bristol’s mansions flash by. Tim did his best not to look at the Drakes’ manor. He succeeded in not looking, but he wondered whether his parents started staying in Gotham more often once Tim was gone, and the question won’t leave him alone.

“What’s up?” Dick asks easily. He lazes in the driver’s seat, two fingers on the steering wheel. It is this nonchalance which convinces Tim to go through with his question. 

Tim’s hands tap out some pattern on his forearms and elbows. “How do I get Jason to like me?”

Dick curls his right hand around the wheel and glances at Tim quickly. Tim still struggles reading expressions, so he has absolutely no idea what’s going through Dick’s mind. Maybe he’s thinking that there’s no way that Jason will ever like him. Maybe Dick doesn’t like Tim. Maybe he’s only acting like he cares about Tim because he’s so nice.

“Jason doesn’t…” Dick sighs. “Not like you. He’s just going through a lot right now. On top of the stuff with his birth mother, he also, well, you know.”

“Died,” Tim supplies.

Dick’s shoulders inch towards his ears. Veins in his forearm pop as the hand on the wheel tightens. “Yeah. So, just, give him some time, yeah?” 

But Tim doesn’t have time. He has until the end of the summer, approximately two more months. To the fae the end of summer is not a specific day, but rather a sensation. Decay on the doorsteps, rot in the wind. Hot breezes melting into simmering afternoons. The crisp crackle of a leaf underfoot. 

If he cannot trick every member of the Wayne family into loving him by the end of summer, he must return to the Unseelie Queen, this time forever. That was her bargain. This is Tim’s one chance to escape her. 

Tim looks out his window at the cold, unfeeling mansions and nods miserably. “Okay.”

Jason does not like the new kid. Everything about him is just slightly off. He walks like he’s surprised that his feet come back down. He talks like he’s describing a dream and expects everyone else to understand. He’s constantly watching Jason silently with those eerie, unblinking eyes of his. Despite living in the same house as Batman, Tim is quieter still, always popping up unannounced and thrusting a trinket or a book at Jason. 

This isn’t even getting into the part where Jason knows he died but doesn’t quite remember it and keeps having nightmares he doesn’t understand. He vaguely recalls a forest that wasn’t a forest and a hand that wasn’t a hand, curling around his shoulder. Bruce won’t stop treating Jason like glass and Dick still looks weepy sometimes, but neither will let Jason out as Robin. All three are letting Jason get away with everything except the things he actually wants to do. It’s infuriating. 

In other words, the summer is off to a great start.

“Bets on the new kid,” Jason says. He’s in the middle of making himself peanut butter chocolate chip cookies, because he is the only one that Alfred allows in the kitchen. 

Dick is draped dramatically across the counter, because according to him it’s so tragic how Jason never wants to do anything fun. Jason hit him over the head with a spatula in response. Dick whined about that, so Jason hit him even harder. 

“What are we betting on?” Dick asks.

Jason half-shrugs. “Like…he’s clearly not human. What is he?”

Dick sits up on the counter. “Yeah, he keeps talking about talking to plants.”

“And plants are always a little bigger and shinier after he leaves the room,” Jason adds.

“Maybe he’s got some relation to Ivy,” Dick suggests.

This entire conversation would not be necessary if Bruce would just cough up the answer. But he responds to every question about Tim with some variation of “hmmm” or “I cannot say.” Jason even sucked up his pride and asked Barbara, but she doesn’t know what’s up with the new kid either. Jason suspects that Bruce promised Tim he wouldn’t tell, because–

“Have you seen his reaction to food though?” Jason asks rhetorically. “It’s like he’s so shocked he’s being fed.”

And he lets that hang, because maybe it’s true, and not a joke. 

Dick scratches his chin. “And he says ‘human’ like he’s not one.” 

“Okay.” Jason sets his mixing bowl down on the counter Dick claimed as his seat. “My theory: he’s a metahuman whose parents–or guardians–or whoever was in charge of him–treated as less than human, and he made B promise not to say ‘cause he doesn’t know we ain’t shit like his parents yet.”

“I mean.” Dick scoots off the counter when Jason comes swinging with the baking tray. He attempts to help Jason spread the parchment paper until Jason glares at him. “He thinks you hate him.”

Jason freezes in the middle of scooping a handful of cookie batter into the tray. Guilt curdles, expired milk and broken egg shells, in his stomach. “I don’t.”

“I know.” 

Dick doesn’t mention the part about Jason dying, because he’s ultra sensitive to that sort of thing. Jason has debated making extra jokes about his death just to force Dick to get used to it, but he hasn’t gone through with it. He’s never seen Dick cry like he did when Jason came back. They haven’t talked about it, because Jason is allergic to big emotions and Dick is nothing but an oversized bundle of big emotions. But it lingers in the back of Jason’s mind, everytime Dick pretends that everything is fine. You mourned me. It’s so obvious, said like that. Of course he mourned Jason. But it’s not an experience Jason ever expected to live through.

Not even Jason knows how he came back to life. He suspects Bruce had something to do with it, but Bruce won’t say. The continuous silence from him is driving Jason to insanity where the Joker and dying failed. 

“Fair tidings.” Tim’s head pops up by Jason’s shoulder and he forcibly suppresses a surprised reaction. Another weird-ism of Tim’s: what sort of American kid says fair tidings? “Can I help?”

“No,” Jason snaps immediately, curling one arm around the batter bowl. 

Dick makes a noise, and Jason winces. He didn’t mean to snap at the kid. It’s just that everything about Tim sets off sirens in Jason’s head. And usually by the time Jason is ready to invite the kid in, he’s run off. 

“Fine,” Jason grunts. He shoves the bowl at Tim. “We’re making cookies.” 

 Tim stares at the bowl with owlish eyes, and Jason clamps down on the urge to yell at the kid again. 

“Hey, Timmy,” Dick says faux-casually. “I never asked. You got a last name?”

Tim’s head snaps up. “Why do you want to know?”

Jesus, he sounds one wrong word from breaking into tears. Jason exchanges a glance with Dick, who is taken aback by the uncharacteristic bout of aggression from the weird kid, and reluctantly decides to intervene. 

“It’s ‘cause we wanna get to know the baby bro better,” Jason says gruffly. “Ya know. Bondin’ and shhhh, uh, stuff.” 

Tim’s blue eyes widen into twin moons. “You want to be my big brother?”

The naked hope in his voice is really not helping with Jason’s guilt. 

“Yeah.” Jason throws down a few more lumps of cookie dough a bit more forcefully than required. “Ain’t no way B is returning you to the kid store.”

Actually, he’s only seen Bruce interact with Tim once, and it was super awkward. But he’s pretty confident that Bruce wouldn’t take in a kid if he didn’t want that kid to be his kid. 

Dick is smiling dopily, so Jason is pretty sure he said enough right words in the right order. “So?” Dick prompts. “Got a last name, baby bird?”

Tim’s hands float to his elbows and start tapping out an unknown pattern. “It’s, uh. Drake.”

“Tim Drake,” Jason tests out, and neither he nor Dick miss the way that Tim does his best impression of a wooden plank at the sound of his name. “Why does that sound familiar?”

“Dunno.” Dick snaps his fingers and points at Tim. “Wait! You’re our neighbor!”

Tim gives Dick his weird blank stare, so Dick points at Jason instead. “The Drakes are our neighbors,” he explains. “The parents were always out of the country for vacation or something, but I remember they had a little kid tag along with them once or twice. What happened?”

“Bruh.” Jason shoves the tray in the oven with his bare hands, because he isn’t a wuss and he’s also not stupid enough to touch the burning hot metal with bare hands. “They supervillains or something?”

Tim shakes his head. His hands press flat against his legs. “They sold me.”

He says it so flatly that Jason exchanges another look with Dick just to make sure he heard right. But Dick’s jaw drops in outrage, so clearly they heard the same thing.

“How? When? To who?” Dick’s eyes narrow. He’s dropping into protective big brother mode. Jason has had the dubious pleasure of experiencing it first-hand a few times. “Does B know about this?”

But Tim shakes his head again. “I can’t say.”

“Are they threatening you?” Jason jumps in, pretending his tone isn’t leaning in the same big brother direction as Dick’s is. “You know B has Supes on speed-dial, right? Ain’t no one in the world who can get away with threatening you now that B’s got you.”

Tim shakes his head a third time, and Jason really has no idea if Tim actually means no or if he’s just moving his head. 

Dick and Jason exchange another worried look, but this time Jason isn’t sure what Dick is thinking. Mostly because Tim just gave them about a thousand more questions in the process of answering one. 

[sattlersquarry]

orange juice (steve harrington x fem!reader)

Summary: (Post Season 4 AU) Steve's world changes in the worst way when he loses you. He struggles to move on...but he learns he might not have to when he miraculously gets a second chance with you.

Word Count: ~8k

Warnings: 18+ PLEASE!!!! for language, death, grief, alcoholism, mentions of sex, mention of alcohol poisoning, and an allusion to a suicide attempt (in a miscommunication!!!! no one actually tried). the reader is presumed dead after the events of season 4. lots of angst and hurt/comfort with a happy ending bc if I ever wrote something without a happy ending my identity has been stolen. inspired by "orange juice" by noah kahan with some other references to his music sprinkled throughout.

a/n: i've been bouncing between this and bloom for the past few months and they are two very different fics tonally, but i hope you enjoy. please let me know if i missed any warnings because this one is kind of heavy.

🍊🍊🍊

ORANGE JUICE

MAY 1986

A ringing phone rouses Steve from a restless sleep.

A near-empty bottle of gin rests on the floor by his bed. He doesn’t remember drinking it, nor does he remember anything else from last night.

It’s been two months since you died. Steve’s not taking it well. 

That horrible day, Steve, Nancy, and Robin ran from the Creel House and found Eddie and Dustin sobbing over you, your eyes lifeless and the wounds on your abdomen weeping.

I’m so s-sorry, Steve, Dustin had said through sobs. W-we tried to save her!

An aftershock of the initial gate-opening earthquake caused panic amongst their group. Steve wanted to carry your body back to the real world for a proper burial, but there was no time before the aftershock got much too intense. Dustin and Robin refused to leave the Upside Down without him. He wasn’t going to let them get hurt, so despite the fact it broke his soul in half to do so, he allowed his friends to drag him back to the gate in the Upside Down’s version of the Munson trailer, leaving you behind.

When the dust settled and reality set in that Steve was going to have to move on without you, grief overtook him. He turned to alcohol as a welcome distraction. He’s been consistently ignoring Robin’s desperate pleas for him to talk to a professional, to drink less, to try and really process his pain.

Steve should listen, but he won’t. Instead, he’ll grieve. He’ll wallow. He’d rather wither away into nothing than work on bettering himself, because you died and that’s not fair. To you, to him. To everyone who loves you.

Steve groans, a deep rumbling thing from deep in chest, as he stretches and rubs sleep out of his eyes. He blindly reaches for the phone on his nightstand.

“Hello?” he mumbles.

“Steve, hey.”

Steve sits up like a rocket at the tremble in Robin’s voice.

“Robin? Is everything okay?”

“Uh, kind of. I mean, yes! But no. Sorry, I just—can you come to Hopper’s?”

“What is it?” Steve asks. He staggers to his feet, getting tangled in the phone cord. “Is it Vecna? Shit, who did he take?”

“No one!” Robin says, voice way too high to be believable. “Please just come over when you can.”

Steve drives over to their basecamp at Hopper’s cabin, a million bad scenarios racing through his head. What if Vecna cursed Dustin? Or Nancy, or any of the others?

What if somehow he got El, and the Hawkins’ team was really doomed?

It takes Steve almost forty minutes to get to Hopper’s, due to earthquake damage and military roadblocks all over town. He raises his hand to knock on the door, but it swings open before he can.

Joyce smiles at him, but her eyes are mournful.

“Hi, Steve,” she says warmly. “Please, come inside.”

This isn’t what Steve expected. Hopper, El, Will, Jonathan, Nancy, and Robin are sitting on various chairs and couches in the cabin’s main room. Usually, it’s frantic around here: everyone running around with mixtapes, weapons, and crudely drawn maps of the town with markings where the most frequent monster attacks are. It’s never this still.

When Steve and Joyce walk in, everyone looks at him, sympathy in their eyes.

Steve’s first thought: Shit, is this an intervention?

Before he can ask, Hopper says: “The gates are closed, Steve.”

Steve’s mouth twists into a frown, heart pounding in his chest. That wasn’t the plan.

“Wait, what? How?”

“We’re not sure,” Joyce says. “But Will—”

“I can’t feel Vecna anymore,” Will explains. “And El checked this morning, and she found Vecna in the Void and…”

“He’s gone,” El says quietly. “Dead. Finally.”

Steve sinks onto a couch cushion. That should be good news. Steve should be celebrating, toasting to the death of the bastard that ruined his life and took you away by way of the demobats. But—

“We were supposed to go back,” Steve says. The back of his throat burns when he swallows hard, trying to choke down the sensation of nausea that’s either from his hangover or his panic. Or both. “We were going to go back and get Y/N’s body.”

“I’m sorry, Steve,” Jonathan says, looking down at his feet.

Steve whirls to Hopper, eyes blazing with a flash of anger that never seems to leave him these days.

“You promised!” he yells. “You promised that we’d go back for her!”

“I know,” Hopper says, keeping his voice even. “But something—or someone—killed Vecna in the Upside Down and the gates closed. The fight is done. It’s over.”

Steve’s lip wobbles. He won’t cry in front of them. He won’t. But his head spins.

“What am I going to tell her parents?” Steve says, voice cracking.

“You don’t have to do it alone, Steve,” Nancy says. She reaches a hand to touch his shoulder and Steve bats it away. “Steve—”

“This is such bullshit,” Steve snaps, turning to Hopper again. “If you had let me go back down there before, I could have brought her body back. We could’ve given her a proper funeral. Given her parents closure! But you made me wait!”

“It was the right choice,” Hopper says firmly. “I didn’t want to invoke another Vecna attack on Hawkins until we were ready to fight.”

“Maybe there’s a gate that we missed and—”

“We checked the gates this morning,” Robin says softly. “They’re all closed.”

“I’m sorry, Steve,” Joyce says. “But it’s over.”

Steve doesn’t say anything else. He storms out of the cabin, ignoring Robin’s pleas to come back, to not be alone right now. Steve drives back home, not without stopping at the liquor store first and loading up on various spirits to numb the pain.

Over the next week, you go from declared missing to officially declared dead. Steve can’t let on to your parents that he had known for months, and Hopper doesn’t want him to tell them the truth about Vecna, demobats, and the Upside Down. It kills Steve to lie to their faces, to attend the funeral where they bury an empty casket, knowing what he knows. Knowing that your body is trapped in another dimension. Dead and alone.

🍊🍊🍊

NOVEMBER 1986

“Y/N wouldn’t want this.”

Robin’s words echo in Steve’s mind hours after she’s fallen asleep in the uncomfortable armchair next to his hospital bed.

An overindulgence forced Steve to spend his Thanksgiving in a hospital—not that he had any plans with his family to get ruined anyway. Although he had been invited to Thanksgiving with the Buckleys, Wheelers, Hopper-Byerses, Sinclairs, Hendersons, Mayfields, and Munsons, Steve declined every invitation. He resigned himself to a holiday alone without you, got heavy handed with a bottle of whiskey, and passed out in the neighbor’s lawn.

When he awoke, he was in the hospital. Joyce and Robin were there, the former fretting over him and the latter chewing him out for being such a dingus and scaring her so badly on a holiday.

Like a broken record in his head of the worst song Steve’s ever heard: Y/N wouldn’t want this. Y/N wouldn’t want this. Y/N wouldn’t want this.

Robin didn’t say it to be mean. She said it to get him to wake up. To cool it with the drinking, because if he kept going at the rate he was going, he’d meet a worse fate than a pumped stomach.

Joyce quietly reenters the room and smiles.

“Oh, you’re still up!” she says. “I thought for sure you’d try to get some sleep.”

Steve shrugs.

“I can’t stop thinking about all the ways I’ve screwed up.”

Joyce settles on the chair next to Robin’s, ignoring the sleeping girl’s loud snores.

“When I can’t stop replaying the past in my mind,” Joyce says, “I try to think about my future instead. What are my aspirations and goals? What can I do differently to achieve them?”

Steve chews his bottom lip.

“Is it bad if I have no goals?” he says, feeling quite sorry for himself.

“Why do you think that is?” Joyce asks gently.

Steve shrugs again, before rubbing his eyes.

“Shit, I don’t know. Maybe because I’ve spent the past 3 years on edge thinking I’m going to get killed at any minute?”

Steve barks out a hollow laugh. “Or maybe it’s because 2 years ago I met someone who turned my life completely around, and she did get killed, and I wasn’t there to save her or be with her when she died. And I couldn’t give her or her parents a proper end and every time I close my eyes, I see her laying there. And I don’t know what my future looks like without her. I don’t even think I want one.”

Steve hates crying in front of other people. But when Joyce wraps an arm around his shoulders, he breaks down.

“It’s going to be all right, Steve,” she says. She squeezes him a little tighter. “I know it’s hard moving on from loss, but you do have a future. You have so many people that love you and are going to help you figure it out. And Y/N would want you to keep going. She’d want you to go off and do wonderful things.”

Joyce was right. If roles were reversed, Steve would want you to keep going without him. Not waste away and drink yourself into a coma.

Steve’s life is changing. And despite everything, things might be looking up.

🍊🍊🍊

FEBRUARY 1987

There is a beautiful girl in Steve’s bed and she’s touching him all the ways he likes to be touched—but he can’t even enjoy it because she’s not you.

He tries to clear his mind of all distraction. The girl with him—Molly—is very, very hot. And the feeling of her hands all over him should be sufficient to keep him focused on the moment. But his mind keeps wandering to you.

You were the last person he was truly intimate with. Sure, he’s kissed girls at parties. But that’s different than what’s happening now. Different than being in bed with Molly and her wandering hands, her gentle touches, her salacious whispers.

Steve thinks maybe he’s finally done it. Found a girl that can help him move on from you, the girl to help him feel whole again. To not feel so alone.

But then, overcome with sensation, Steve makes the worst possible faux pas in bed: he moans the wrong name.

Molly ceases kissing him.

“What did you just call me?” she asks, sitting up suddenly with narrowed eyes.

Steve sits up as well, resting against his headboard and floundering for a response that won’t make him sound like a douchebag.

“I just, uh, well—”

“Who is she?” Molly asks. She widens her eyes in horror. “Oh my god, are you seeing someone else? Am I ‘the other woman’?!”

“It’s nothing like that,” Steve rushes to assure her. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to. I just got caught up in the moment.”

“Caught up in the moment thinking of someone else when I was about to blow you!” Molly snaps. She stomps off the bed and grumbles as she pulls her jeans and sweatshirt back on.

“Wait, hold on!” Steve says. He struggles to put a pair of sweatpants on, hopping around frantically one-footed to pull them up as Molly grabs her purse and yanks open Steve’s bedroom door. “Please don’t leave, Y/N—ah, Molly!”

“Unbelievable!” Molly scoffs as she stomps down the staircase of the townhome Steve shares with three other students at the University of Indiana.

Molly gets to the front door but stops, whipping around to face Steve as he catches up to her.

“Who is she?” she demands. “An ex-girlfriend?”

“In a sense, yeah, but—”

“If you’re still so hung up on her, maybe you should ask her to blow you instead!”

Steve thinks about being an asshole. About letting the anger that simmers in his bloodstream 24/7 rear its ugly head. About snapping at Molly, telling her that yeah, totally, he’d love to get a blowjob from a corpse stuck in an alternate dimension.

But then Molly would feel bad and give him the pitying look Steve hates. So instead, he says, “Yeah, I’ll do that. See you in class.”

Molly huffs before giving Steve’s cheek a sharp smack! He doesn’t wince. Upset at his lack of reaction, Molly storms out.

Just as well. Remembering how the love of his life is dead is a real mood killer.

Steve rubs his forehead and heads to the kitchen. He eyes the six pack in the fridge. He hasn’t touched alcohol in three months. The temptation causes his hand to graze a beer can, but he quickly pivots to a cartoon of orange juice.

He chugs the drink before stalking up the steps to his room. Steve drops to his knees and blindly reaches in the dusty space under his bed. He grips the corner of a box and drags it to the middle of the floor.

Once opened, two black button eyes stare back up at Steve. It’s Lambchop, a stuffed animal lamb that your parents gave him. After your parents held a small funeral and buried that empty casket, they gave Steve this box of your things.

Lambchop here was her favorite toy, your mother had said at the time, eyes glistening with tears. She always hoped to pass it on to her own children one day. I think she’d want you to have it.

Steve thanked your mother and father, gave his condolences, went home, drank enough whiskey to fell a horse, and passed out.

Shaking himself out of the memory, Steve climbs onto the bed and places the lamb on the pillow next to him. It’s one of few connections to you that he has left, so he’ll cherish it, even if it’s a little silly.

What Steve doesn’t realize is that in another dimension, the very person he’s yearning for lays in the version of her bedroom created by the Upside Down, holds a dirty version of Lambchop, and yearns for Steve right back.

🍊🍊🍊

MAY 1987

You and Steve used to have your futures mapped out: start at U of I together in fall of ’86. Move in together after your freshman year of college. Get engaged by fall of ’89, married in fall of ’90, and have two kids by ’95. Spend the rest of your lives together, happy and healthy, with the horrors of Hawkins far behind you.

That was before Steve’s world changed in the worst way. Before you died in the Upside Down, when you drew the bats away from the gate. You were a hero, trying to keep them from flying into your version of Hawkins and destroying it.

Steve struggled for a long time. He’s still struggling, but in a slightly better place.

He’s sober six months now. He thinks of you often, but he tries to focus less on how he desperately misses you and more on how you wouldn’t want him to spend the rest of his life miserable and drunk.

But he does miss you so, so desperately. And he would give anything to have you back.

It hurts being reminded of you, so Steve stays away from Hawkins. But he can’t say no when Mrs. Henderson invites him to Dustin’s sweet sixteen birthday party, so he makes the trek back.

“Steve!” Mrs. Henderson coos, opening the front door with a beaming smile. “Welcome!”

“Hi, Mrs. Henderson,” Steve says. She pulls him into a hug and he adds, “It’s good to see you.”

“It’s so lovely to see you too!” Mrs. Henderson says. She leads Steve through the house. “Please, come in! You can put Dusty-Bun’s gift on the dining room table. I have strawberry wine in the kitchen—ah, and orange juice, or lemonade. It’s yours if you want it!”

Mrs. Henderson pivoted to juice awfully fast. She must have found out about Steve’s Thanksgiving Break bender. Steve tamps down the feeling of shame worming its way through his mind and body, instead offering her another small smile before turning to the dining room to drop off Dustin’s gift.

Dustin and the rest of the Hellfire Club are in the den, playing a one-shot campaign that Eddie planned. When Dustin sees Steve, his face lights up.

“Steve! You made it!” he says, rushing over and giving him a bear hug.

“Hey buddy,” Steve says, hugging him back. “Happy birthday, Henderson.”

Dustin grins, and it lifts Steve’s mood immensely.

Mike, Lucas, Will, El, Max, and Erica greet him next, along with Eddie and his Corroded Coffin buddies. Eddie can barely look Steve in the eye, guilt from not being able to save you eating away at him. Steve’s told him multiple times not to feel bad about it—he knows Eddie and Dustin tried their best.

“Want to join the campaign?” Dustin asks Steve.

“Oh, I don’t know how to play,” Steve says. “I’ll just watch, okay bud?”

A short while later, Robin arrives. Once the campaign ends, Mrs. Henderson brings out the cake, and then gifts are opened.

“He looks really happy, huh?” Robin whispers to Steve, nudging him gently with her elbow.

Steve nods with a smile. Dustin took your death really hard—the two of you had been close ever since you helped him, Steve, Lucas, and Max fight the demodogs in the junkyard. Seeing Dustin smiling and laughing with his closest friends on his birthday makes Steve really, really happy.

Still, Steve’s heart aches. You should be here. You should be smiling as Dustin opens his gifts. You should be getting cake frosting on your nose, playing along with the campaign although you have no clue what’s going on.

Ice grips Steve’s chest. He gets a flashback of you lying on the cold ground, unmoving, and—

“You okay?” Robin whispers, brow furrowed. How the hell can she tell that he’s upset? It’s frightening how observant she is.

“Fine,” Steve says, throat tightening. He’s not. But he isn’t going to let his grief ruin Dustin’s big day.

At the end of the night, Dustin asks Steve when he’ll be back to visit again.

“My summer classes end in August,” Steve says. “I’ll come by then. Maybe we can hit the pool?”

Dustin seems disappointed that it’ll be a while before he sees Steve again, but he doesn’t push.

However, Steve ends up coming back to Hawkins much sooner. Three weeks after Dustin’s birthday party, Eleven calls Steve and tells him something that makes his heart stop:

“Steve, it’s about Y/N.” 

🍊🍊🍊

Steve is a frantic mess.

He sits in the Byers-Hopper basement, knee bouncing as he intently watches El try to find you in the Void again.

El had told him that she’d sometimes look for you in the Void, hoping to give him some semblance of closure. However, she claims that a few hours ago, she finally found you for the first time and saw you not as a corpse, but fully alive. It’s a hope that Steve didn’t dare hold onto before, not until now.

As soon as she called, Steve got in his car and drove to Hawkins, going ten over the speed limit the whole time. He picked up Robin and Nancy along the way to El, Will, and Jonathan’s, and (unfortunately) Mike tagged along.

“Do you see her?” Steve asks, voice cracking.

“No talking, please,” El says, tightening her blindfold.

Steve purses his lips. Will gives him an apologetic smile and Robin squeezes his arm to offer a semblance of comfort. Jonathan looks between Steve and El, an uneasy expression on his face.

“I see her,” El whispers after a few minutes.

Nancy gasps. Mike’s eyes widen. Steve staggers to his feet.

“She’s okay?” Steve asks. “Where is she?!”

“I can’t tell,” El says. “But she’s holding a small, white fuzzy animal. Wait, is it dead?”

“Lambchop,” Steve says.

“Come again?” Nancy asks.

“Lambchop is her favorite stuffed animal,” Steve explains. His heart pounds in his chest at the realization that holy shit, you really are alive. “She must be in the Upside Down version of her house.”

“Y/N!” El calls. “Y/N!”

After a few more minutes of calling to you, El pulls off the blindfold and wipes her nosebleed away.

“She can’t hear me,” El says with a sigh.

“Maybe because the gates are closed,” Nancy offers.

“But if you open another gate,” Steve says, “we can get back through and find her. Right?”

“Hold on a minute,” Jonathan says, holding a hand up like a traffic cop. “Is that such a good idea?”

Steve narrows his eyes.

“Is it such a good idea to save my girlfriend’s life? Yeah, I think so, Byers.”

“Steve,” Robin whispers. “It’s okay. Just relax.”

“Relax?” Steve says, voice rising in volume with every word. “Relax?! You want me to relax? What about this fucked-up situation is relaxing! My girlfriend has been stuck in literal hell for over a fucking year! We’re going to rescue her, no matter what!”

“But opening a new gate could have major repercussions!” Mike protests.

“Screw the repercussions,” Steve snaps, glowering. “We can’t just leave Y/N down there to rot!”

“None of us want to do that, Steve,” Nancy says, keeping her voice level and calm. “But what if this is a trick from Vecna?”

“It’s not,” Will says. “If it was, I would feel his presence. I don’t anymore.”

“Boom!” Robin says, snapping her fingers. “If our human monster detector doesn’t sense any bad vibes, then we should be good to proceed.”

“Maybe we should ask El what she wants to do before we make any plans to open new gates,” Jonathan points out.

“Exactly,” Mike says. “El, what do you want to do?”

El looks down at her lap, before looking up. She locks eyes with Steve.

“I’ll do it. I’ll open the gate.”

Relief floods Steve’s whole being. He feels lighter. More hopeful than he has in a long time. But it all comes crashing down when—

“That’s not happening.”

The group turns to see Hopper and Joyce on the basement steps. Joyce looks worried, face twisted into a frown. Hopper looks angry, with his brow furrowed.

“But Dad—” El says.

“No buts,” Hopper says. “You are forbidden to open a new gate. You hear me?”

Joyce places a hand on her husband’s shoulder and says, “Now, Hop…”

Steve interrupts, walking over to the older man with a wild, panicked look in his eyes. “Hopper, please. Y/N is still alive in the Upside Down. We just need one gate so I can go through and bring her back. Please.” Hopper fixes Steve with a sorrowful stare, the smallest bit of guilt etched on his features. Still, he remains steadfast.

“I’m sorry, kid,” Hopper says. “I’m not putting my daughter at risk. She won’t do it.”

El, Robin, and Will all try to convince Hopper otherwise, their arguments overlapping into a cacophony. Nancy, Mike, and Jonathan share uneasy looks.

Steve can’t listen to this anymore. He quietly excuses himself, darting past Hopper up the steps and stepping into the backyard.

He sinks on the porch stoop and stares off into the quiet, cool night. He understands Hopper’s reasoning, but he doesn’t have to like it. He’s spent over a year mourning you, only to discover he might be able to get you back—for that hope to be dashed as quickly as it blossomed.

Steve picks a point in the tree line and focuses on it, putting all his energy into watching it so he doesn’t break down or cause any more of a scene than he already has.

He hears the squeak of the back door and Robin’s tentative, “Hey, how you doing?”

Steve shrugs absentmindedly, continuing to stare. Robin lowers herself onto the stoop next to him.

For a few blissful minutes, she doesn’t speak. She just rests her head on his shoulder and lets him stew in silence.

The spell is broken when she blurts out, “You’re not going to break your sobriety, are you?”

“Jesus Christ, Robin,” Steve grumbles, nudging her slightly so she’ll sit up. “You don’t have to ask that every time I’m in a bad mood.”

“Sorry,” she says. She picks at her fingernails. “Sorry. I just worry about you, you know?”

“I know,” Steve says softly. “I worry about you too.”

“Me?” Robin says. “No, no. I’m fine.”

Steve eyes the way her hands fidget. Before he can say anything, she blurts out, “I just don’t want a repeat of Thanksgiving. I mean, you almost died of alcohol poisoning. They pumped your stomach!”

“I know. I was there.”

“No!” Robin snaps, sounding awfully harsh despite the tears welling in her eyes. It breaks Steve’s heart to see. “You were unconscious! And it was the scariest thing that’s ever happened to me, including all the torture and monsters, because I thought I was going to lose another best friend. I already lost Y/N. I can’t lose you too.”

She sniffles and Steve pulls her in for a hug. He can’t stop a few stray tears from falling down his own face as well.

“You won’t lose me,” Steve says, voice thick. “I promise, Robin. I’m not going to do that again. Okay?”

“Okay,” she mumbles, hugging him tighter. “I love you, dingus.”

“I love you, Rob.”

“That’s not fair,” Robin says, pulling away and wiping her tears on her sleeve. “You have to call me a mean nickname back or I just look like an asshole.”

Steve barks out a laugh and shakes his head.

“You are an asshole.”

“Perfect,” Robin says with a small smile. “Now we’re equally jerks. Just the way I like it.”

The back door opens and Will steps out.

“Hopper changed his mind!” he says with a grin.

Hope pumps like blood through Steve’s cold, shrunken heart. He’s going to see you again. Fuck, he’s going to see you again.

🍊🍊🍊

The next day, the group stands in the basement once more, this time making their plan for a rescue mission. Mike squealed to Eddie, Dustin, Lucas, and Max about what’s going on, and they all showed up wanting to help too.

“Not happening!” Hopper barks, a fierce look on his face. “New rule: you have to be 18 to come along.”

Eddie pumps his fist in victory, thrilled that he gets to come and try to make things right after losing you the first time. The younger teens grumble.

“But El is going!” Dustin complains.

“El is going to stay in the Lab with Joyce,” Hopper says. “She’ll open the gate for us and wait.”

“I can keep the gate open for one hour,” El says.

“That’s plenty of time to find Y/N!” Robin says brightly. “We already know she’s probably at her house.”

“And she lives close to Hawkins Lab,” Jonathan says, pointing to a map of Hawkins. “So we’ll be in and out.”

“It’ll be easy!” Eddie says.

“Don’t jinx it,” Hopper warns.

Nancy turns to Steve and pats his shoulder.

“You feeling good about this?” she asks quietly.

He nods. Although, truthfully, he’s terrified. If they come all this way, only for him to lose you again…he’s not sure he’d be able to handle that.

🍊🍊🍊

The Upside Down is not what Steve remembers.

The alternate dimension used to be dank and cold, like an endless winter’s night. Now with Vecna gone, it’s brighter, with a yellow sky and actual green foliage, not the moldy, dry shit from before. It seems less dangerous than last time.

No matter how much it’s changed, the thought that you’ve been here alone for over a year makes Steve’s blood run ice cold.

“This way!” Hopper barks, tracing his finger on his map of Hawkins and leading the group toward your house.

Jonathan and Nancy walk side-by-side with Hopper, glancing around at the tree lines constantly for any sign of danger. Eddie and Robin hang back, Steve walking slightly in front of them. He hears them whispering about something, but when he turns his head to try and listen, they quiet down.

He’s not an idiot. He knows what they’re worrying about: if they can’t find you, will Steve have another breakdown? Go on another bender? Would Steve even survive it?

Steve’s been wondering the same things himself. But for now, he stays positive, his optimism increasing tenfold when the six of them turn onto your street.

He can’t help but pick up speed, jogging past Hopper and causing the older man to snap, “Hey, stay behind me!”

Steve ignores his protests, shouting your name and pushing through the front door of your house.

He’s been here many, many times. He’s walked the pathway from your front door to your bedroom over and over again. Steve walks that path for the first time in over a year, charging up the steps and tuning out the concerned warnings from his friends.

He bursts into your bedroom, calling your name. He doesn’t see you, but maybe you hid when you heard the front door open. So he checks the closet, the ensuite bathroom, under the bed, to no avail.

Steve’s eyes sweep the space for any clues of your whereabouts. Most of the room seems untouched, except for your bed, where the sheets are rumpled and a grimy Lambchop the Stuffed Lamb sits primly on your pillow with her soft hooves crossed over her lap.

Steve picks up the toy, heart stuttering at the sight. You were sleeping here last night. You must have been. But where are you now?

“Steve!” Robin calls from down the hall, bringing him back to the present. “We found something!”

Steve gently places Lambchop back on the pillow—arranging her the way you always do, because anything else seems disrespectful—and heads back downstairs.

Hopper, Jonathan, Nancy, Eddie, and Robin are crowded around the kitchen table. On it is a sheet of paper with a rudimentary sketch of the town.

“Check it out,” Jonathan says. He traces his finger across the drawn lines. “It’s a record of where the gates originally opened.”

Sure enough, there are big stars drawn over Hawkins Lab, Eddie’s trailer, the road by the trailer park, Lover’s Lake, and the Creel House.

“That’s why she’s not here,” Nancy says. “She’s out searching for an opening.”

“We don’t have long,” Hopper barks, glancing at his watch with a grimace. “El can only keep the gate open for an hour. We have forty-one minutes to get back to the Lab.”

“We could split off into teams,” Nancy says. “Jonathan and I can go to Lover’s Lake.”

“Steve and I will hit the trailer park and the highway,” Robin adds. “Eddie and Hop, you can go to the Creel House.”

“We find Y/N,” Hopper says, “and we head back to the Lab. No wasting time. We move fast, we stay vigilant. Got it?”

The younger adults all nod and agree to stay on their walkies in case anyone needs to get in touch. Then, they split off to their destinations.

As Steve and Robin sprint toward the trailer park, Steve can’t stop panic from enveloping him head to toe. What if they’re too late? What if you’re dead—again? What if you don’t remember him somehow. What if—

“Look!” Robin says, throwing out an arm to stop Steve in his tracks. He skids to a stop and sees where she’s pointing.

Behind the closed curtains of the Munson trailer is the beam of a flashlight moving around. Steve’s heartbeat quickens.

“Okay,” she whispers as the duo slinks toward the trailer. “We need to think about this carefully, and make a plan to—wait, Steve!”

He charges into the trailer.

A figure flinches and whips around, hunting knife raised. Steve almost falls to his knees in shock at the sight. It’s really happening.

“Steve?” you whisper, voice cracking. He stands in front of you, hands raised and eyes flicking between your face and your knife. The corners of his eyes burn, tears starting to form.

He says your name, and the look on your face cracks his heart into seventeen pieces. He starts to step toward you, but—

“You’re not real,” you say quietly. “You can’t be.”

“No, I’m real!” Steve says. “It’s me, Y/N. It’s Steve. We’re here to take you home.”

You step back, still pointing your weapon at him.

“Don’t come any closer!” you shout.

“Okay, okay!” Steve says. He steps back, slowly.

“Steve!” Robin shouts from outside. “What’s going on in—”

“Stay outside, Robin!” Steve yells, voice wavering as he eyes your knife.

“But—”

Steve swiftly locks the trailer door without turning away from you.

The two of you ignore Robin’s knocks and protests. Eventually, she gives up, and Steve hears the crackle of her walkie-talkie.

“You can’t be Steve,” you say, shaking your head frantically.

“I am,” Steve begs. “And I’ve missed you so much—”

“You can’t be Steve because there’s no way into the Upside Down!” you say. He notices your arm start to shake. “Trust me, I’ve checked and checked and checked and there’s no gates anymore. And since my Steve isn’t a corpse at the Creel House, I know Vecna didn’t kill him and he’s back in the real world. If you’re not Steve, who the hell are you?”

Steve swallows hard. The back of his throat tastes acidic and he feels desperation wrench its way through every cell in his body. When he imagined his reunion with you, he didn’t anticipate this conversation.

“El reopened a gate for us,” Steve explains patiently. “We thought you were dead. But El looked for you and saw you were still alive, so we came to rescue you.” He glances at his watch and his brows furrow. “But we don’t have a lot of time. We need to head back to the Lab because she can’t keep it open forever.”

“How can I trust you?” you say. “How do I know you aren’t a trick?!”

“I’m really me, I promise,” Steve says. He hesitates before stepping closer to you once more. This time, you don’t move away. “We’re safe now, because Vecna’s dead.”

“I know. I killed him.”

Steve’s eyes widen a fraction.

“You what?”

“I had to,” you say. You shrug and look a little delirious. How much sleep have you gotten in the last year, Steve wonders. “Vecna brought me back. He would've flayed me and sent me to spy on and kill all of you if I didn’t kill him first.”

Steve almost falls over. The haunting fact that you had to fight Vecna alone makes his stomach turn.

The pained look on Steve’s face seems to shake something deep down in you. Any resolve you had crumbles. You heave out a sob, dropping the knife to the ground. Your knees buckle.

In seconds, Steve wraps you in his arms as you sink to the ground.

You cry, limp in his hold. Steve cries too, choking on encouraging words and apologies and everything he’s wanted to say to you since March 1986, when he thought he’d never speak to you again.

The door rattles. You startle and Steve holds you a little tighter.

“HARRINGTON!” Hopper barks. “Get a move on!”

“We have to go,” Steve says, urgent yet gentle. “We can talk more when we’re home. Okay?”

You nod, standing on unsteady legs.

Steve squeezes your hand before leading you out the door.

The whole rescue squad is out there, and you look wholly overwhelmed at seeing everyone after so long alone.

“No time for pleasantries,” Hopper says. “We’ve got less than twenty minutes to get through that gate.”

“Or it’s a slumber party at Y/N’s,” Eddie jokes. He playfully knocks his shoulder against yours and you gasp at the sudden contact. “Oh, sorry—”

“RUN!” Hopper yells, clapping his hands.

Everyone bolts toward the Lab. Steve and you run side-by-side, hands intertwined.

Shock envelops Steve’s senses, but he keeps running. The one thing racing through his mind is to get you back to safety.

The Lab’s gate is not the gaping maw it once was. It’s about the height of a minivan door, but its width is quite smaller—and slowly but surely shrinking.

El and Joyce stand on the gate’s other side, looking relieved to see everyone.

“Hurry!” Joyce says, waving you forward first. You hesitate, but Steve says, “We’re right behind you. Go on.”

You crawl through the gate and stumble to your feet on the right side of the universe. Steve would normally let everyone else go in front of him, but he wastes no time following behind you. Next comes Robin, then Jonathan and Nancy. Eddie and Hopper bring up the rear.

As soon as Hopper’s crawled through the gate, El drops her hand and it sews itself up—for the final time.

Steve and the others swarm you, all speaking too fast and asking a million questions. Joyce opens a first-aid kid and tries to sit you down and asses your various cuts and bruises. They hurt Steve to see.

“Look at her! She needs more than bandaids and alcohol wipes,” Eddie says, nodding in your direction.

“He’s right,” Jonathan says. “Mom, we need to take her to the hospital—”

“No!” you say. You stumble toward the staircase. “I need to go home. I need to see my parents, let them know I’m alive. How long have I been down there? I’ve been keeping track, and it has to be at least ten weeks, right?”

Steve places a hand on your shoulder. You look at him, eyes wild. “Y/N,” he says softly, “it’s been 15 months.”

That seems to be your final straw. Steve catches you as you pass out.

🍊🍊🍊

SIX HOURS LATER

While you get checked over by Dr. Owens and his people, Steve paces the hospital waiting room. Robin chews her thumbnail and watches the doors to the ER. Nancy and Jonathan bend their heads together and whisper, and Eddie attempts to distract Dustin and the other teenagers by juggling snacks from the vending machine.

After you fainted, Steve didn’t want to leave your side, but Hopper said everyone except himself and Joyce had to go home.

If our entire merry band shows up at Hawkins Mercy Hospital with a presumed-dead girl, it’ll look too damn suspicious, Hopper had said. Go home. Clean up. Wait three hours, and then you can come check on her. We’ll keep you updated.

In exactly 180 minutes, Steve and the others charge into the ER asking the nurse on duty about you.

“She’s still being looked over,” the nurse tells them. “Her parents and the Chief are with her now. You can wait over there and we’ll call you when she’s able to have visitors.”

Another 180 minutes go by. Now, everyone’s getting antsy. Steve has half a mind to charge into the ER and find you himself.

“Simmer down, Steve,” Robin says, noticing the way he’s squeezing the lilac teddy bear he bought you at the gift shop. “You’re choking the life out of that thing.”

“Why haven’t we heard anything from Hopper?” Steve asks. He checks his pager for the fiftieth time. “He said he’d keep us updated.”

“She’s probably going through a psych eval or something,” Max says.

“Or an interrogation,” Mike says darkly. “Maybe they think she had something to do with the murders last year.”

“Shut up, Mike!” Nancy hisses.

Steve curses and pinches his nose. Last year, a cruel man named Colonel Sullivan swept into Hawkins, searching for the real culprit behind Vecna’s kills after Eddie was proven innocent (thanks to a bogus alibi cooked up by Owens’ team). Steve was one of the unlucky few questioned, due to his connection as Jason’s former basketball captain. The thought of you, disoriented from so long in that shithole, handcuffed to a hospital bed while Sullivan grills you makes him see red.

Another sinking realization hits Steve: he’s changed since last year. What if you don’t like him anymore, once you realize how much of a mess he became when he lost you?

Hopper emerges through a set of double doors. Steve’s charging over to him in seconds, the rest of his friends piling behind and all talking at once.

Hopper holds up his hands to silence the group.

“Owens wants to run some more tests,” Hopper says. “They’re checking for contaminants in her bloodstream. You all can see her soon.”

He points at Steve. “Except she’s asking for you right now. You ready?”

Steve nods and squeezes your new teddy bear again. He gives Robin a panicked look, and she gives him a quick hug.

“Go get her,” Robin says with an encouraging smile.

Steve smiles back before following Hopper down the hall. Joyce stands outside your hospital room and smiles when she sees Hopper and Steve approach. Steve freezes.

Through the plane of glass in the door, he sees you with your parents. All three of you are crying.

“I don’t want to interrupt,” Steve says, backing away from the door. Before he can fully chicken out, Hopper bursts in and says, “Hey, look who came by.”

You and your parents look up. At the sight of him, your mother and father beam.

“Hello, Steve!” your mother says, sweeping him into a hug. “Can you believe she’s back?!”

“It’s a goddamn miracle,” your dad says, wiping tears on his sleeve. “We’ve been praying for this for so long.”

“Let’s leave these two alone to catch up,” Joyce says. “Grace, Roger, why don’t we pick up some food for Y/N?”

Your parents agree and step out with Joyce and Hopper. When it’s just you and Steve, all either of you can do is stare at each other with awkward smiles.

You clear your throat and point to the teddy bear.

“Is that little guy for me?”

“Yes!” Steve says. “Uh, sorry.”

He hands it to you. When your fingers brush, it feels electric. Still, after so long apart—no matter how much he’s dreamed of what it would be like if he somehow saw you again—everything feels stiff. You’re the love of his life and he can’t think of one thing to say.

“How have you been?” you ask quietly, seemingly just as uncomfortable as Steve.

Steve can’t help but laugh and says, “Terrible. I mean, shit. I know what you went through is way worse—”

“I don’t want to talk about what I went through,” you say sharply. Steve recoils and you wince. “I’m sorry, Steve. I just—I’ve been through this like five times with Owens’ guys, and over a cover story two more times with the cops. I don’t want to talk about me. I want to hear about you. What’s been going on?”

Steve wants to know more about what happened. About how you killed Vecna. About how you survived. But he doesn’t. He would never push you to discuss anything you didn’t want to, but he hopes that one day you’ll feel ready to open up to him.

Right now, you want to hear about his life. Where to begin. Steve thinks of sugar-coating the truth but doesn’t when he admits: “For starters, I almost died last year.”

You gasp and sit up a little straighter.

“What? Oh my god, what happened?”

“I’m fine now,” Steve says, waving away your concerns.

“Was it Vecna?”

“No, nothing like that. I really missed you, and I was in a bad place.”

You swallow hard, eyes turning glassy.

“Oh, Steve. Please don’t tell me you tried to—”

“No!” he says quickly. “It was alcohol poisoning. I drank too much being too lonely on Thanksgiving. Had to get my stomach pumped. It wasn’t all bad, though. Robin and I watched ‘A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving’ on the hospital room TV and Joyce snuck in some pie for me.”

You ignore his attempts and lightening the mood and wave him even closer to you. He cautiously approaches and intertwines your fingers when you reach for his hand.

“I’m so sorry,” you whisper. “I feel like it’s my fault—”

“Stop it.”

“Steve…”

“No!” Steve says. He shakes his head vehemently. “Don’t think like that. I just…struggled without you. But it’s not your fault that I’m a basket case.”

“You’re not a basket case,” you say. You squeeze his hand. “You’re the hero that crossed dimensions to come rescue me.”

You kiss his palm before scooching over on the hospital bed. You pat the spot next to you.

“What if your parents come back?” Steve asks.

“I’m not trying to hook up right now,” you say with an eye roll. “I just want you to lay with me.”

Steve is happy to oblige. He settles next to you. You rest your head on his shoulder and hug the teddy bear he brought you.

“So, you didn’t move on?” you ask quietly after a few minutes of peaceful silence. “Find a new girlfriend?”

“What?!” Steve asks, looking down at you, jaw dropped. “You really think I found someone else?”

You nod, fidgeting with the bow around your bear’s neck.

“15 months is a long time,” you whisper. “I don’t want to stand in the way if you're with someone else.”

“I couldn’t,” Steve says. He rests a hand on your knee cautiously. When you don’t flinch or move away, he keeps it there. “Y/N, I don’t want anyone else. I only want you, if you’ll still have me.”

You look up at him, noses practically brushing. The close proximity makes Steve’s cheeks flush rosy pink.

“You mean that?” you ask.

Steve nods. It seems to placate you, because in seconds, you’re lifting your chin to kiss him.

It’s a soft, gentle thing. An innocent brush of lips, like the kisses you shared very early in your relationship. Not the passionate “welcome home” kiss that Steve wants to give you, but he understands if you need to take things slow. He’ll move as slow as you need.

For the first time in months, Steve feels hopeful about his future again. Steve’s world is changing once more, in all the right ways.

🍊🍊🍊

EPILOGUE

You and Steve have your futures mapped out: after six months of physical and emotional healing, move in with Steve and join him at U of I in spring of ’88. Get engaged and subsequently married sometime within five years. No kids—at least, not biological ones, because your time in the Upside Down has caused lasting physiological effects that you don’t want to pass on to children. Maybe you’ll adopt a kid, or some dogs.

It's less of a map and more of an amorphous outline of what you two want to happen. All you two know for sure is that you never want to be apart that long ever again.

Steve’s heart and soul have changed, but they belong to you, and yours to him. Always.

🍊🍊🍊

a/n please lmk what you thought 🧡

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