#aging is beautiful not something to be feared or resented

[eatsless]

"aging is awful, you're going to hate how you look when you're older" do you know how many of my childhood friends are dead? how many people i know that didnt live long enough to get a wrinkle, let alone grey hair? im excited to get older and have my survival shown in my appearance. don't wish misery on me for surviving

[pretty-little-mind33]

Friedrich Harding x wife!fem!reader

Summary: The letter with the news of your cousin's death comes with something more sinister; a marriage proposal. (7k words)

Genre: SMUT (mdni)

Warnings: age gap (35/22), porn with heavy plot, reader is Anna's younger cousin (no physical descriptions), enemies to lovers, virgin!reader, innocent!reader, arranged marriage, dubious consent in the beginning, oral sex (f receiving), p in v, unprotected sex, breeding kink, manhandling, aftercare

As a child, you remember dreaming of your wedding day, your hand clutching linen sheets, hidden under woolen blankets, cheeks burning, hair a mess, as you laughed with your sisters in the darkness. You would talk of gourmet four-layered cakes, blooming lilies, and of whose lips yours would kiss at the altar.

You can vividly remember how important Anna's wedding day was to your Aunt and Uncle, how much they fussed over their oldest daughter, your Aunt brushing out her blond curls as you and your three sisters watched from the doorway. Anna's marrying the son of a wealthy shipman, your mother had said, explaining all the happy commotion. You couldn't understand why that could possibly matter so much, especially because Anna had told you months earlier that she was madly in love with her future husband. 

That is what seemed so important to you. Love. 

Anna's wedding was beautiful. She looked like an angel in her white-lace gown, the color almost matching the white in the blond of her hair, and she looked up at her husband with so much adoration.

You were always Anna's favorite, perhaps because you only had six years difference in age, so she insisted you be her flower girl (even if you had just turned fourteen and many of your younger sisters sobbed for such an important role). 

Anna had kissed your hairline in the halls of the cathedral, squeezing your hand in hers as she promised someone would love you as Friedrich did her. Her words, albeit reassuring, must have confused your young mind because all during the ceremony, your gaze was stuck on her future husband and on the way he cupped her cheek so delicately as he kissed her.

A new, unfamiliar, feeling blossomed up in your stomach. 

However, as soon as the happy couple was wed, they'd sailed away, leaving you heartbroken and without hearing from Anna, apart from the occasional birthday letter, for eight years: eight long years, four of those you spent in America, working as a governess.

You hadn't married as your family wished. You had no interest in any man once you'd made up your mind you would only marry for love for there was no man you did love. So your father had sent you away to make money instead. As the oldest daughter in a family of only girls, that was your duty and you never once resented your role or that Anna's love set unfulfilled expectations for you. 

Not until you received news of her death, along with a marriage proposal. 

Friedrich Harding wanted to marry you? 

You'd almost burned the letter in fear it was some sick trick, but the more you stared at the cursive and read his words, the more the memories from the one time you had seen him came to mind, and with them the burning in your stomach you still do not understand even in adulthood. 

He gave no explanation, just that he needed another wife, that Anna loved you the most, and that he wanted you on the next ship to Germany as soon as possible. 

You read the letter again and again. How could he ask you to make such an important decision so quickly? How could you marry Anna's husband? Your poor, innocently sweet, beautiful cousin, who was now dead. Grief washed over you.

How could you take her life? Replace her?

You had wept yourself to sleep that evening and still, you had quit your job, sent a letter to your parents, and taken the first ship out—not exactly understanding why you had.

~ * ~

"Aunt Y/n!" you hear the small shrill cry of a girl as you lift the hem of your dress and gently press your boot into the gravel. The sky is bleak and cloudy, convenient for a graveyard. You strain a smile, making a small huff as a small girl wraps her arms around your knees. "Oh, you did come! Papa promised you would."��

Your hug envelops the small girl's back, your hand skimming her long blond curls, which remind you so much of Anna's. Your lip trembles. "I am here, darling," you murmur, holding her close. You lift your head and look up from behind your bonnet, the black lace ribbon digging into the skin of your neck. You see a person in the distance, a man who is reluctantly closing the doors to what you assume is the mausoleum. 

Bile rises in your throat but you hold it in as you stroke Clara's head. 

"Is that your Papa?" you ask her hesitantly. 

Clara nods, turning her head and holding you even closer at the distant sound of thunder. "Mhm. He is just saying goodnight to Mama and Louise. He brings them flowers every day." 

You nod solemnly, watching Friedrich approach and Clara moves to your side, her small hands still clutching the skirt of your dress. You press your palm over your stomach, suddenly wishing your corset was ten times looser than it is as you hold your breath.  

Once Friedrich is closer, Clara runs to him and he doesn't hesitate to pick her up. Her small black dress bunches up around her ankles, her legs against his hip, as she hangs from his neck, nuzzling her head under his chin. Friedrich looks at you and you inhale, shame burning in your cheeks at the way his gaze lingers over you. 

It is as if he looks past you.

"Herr Harding," you greet, moving closer, but pause when you realize the motion is clearly unwanted. 

Friedrich clears his throat, no hint of a smile on his face. "Thank you for coming so quickly," he pauses and looks to the side, adjusting his hold on Clara. Your journey had taken around three months, which is hardly quick, but you simply nod, unable to find your words. "I see that Sylvester informed you where you could find us upon your arrival."

He looks at his coach, where the man who had driven you stands by the door and tilts his hat. You turn and meet his gaze, your eyebrows scrunching up in confusion and you turn to Friedrich and shake your head.

"Actually, Herr Harding, I did not know you nor Clara would be here. I- well, I wanted to visit my cousin." You leave a solemn pause before continuing. "Sylvester kindly recommended the ride upon my request. Please, do not be cross with him. I told him I would have walked anyway—" 

"Walked? This late? And unaccompanied?" Friedrich sounds horrified. Clara, hearing his tone, hides herself further into his neck, her tiny hands clutching at the collar of his fur coat. He smoothes a hand up her back and sends you a disapproving look. "I am pleased Sylvester offered his services. I will not have my bride out alone at this time of night. It is simply inappropriate." 

You tense, sensing his irritation with you already. As punishment for your foolishness, you assume, he has you take Slyvester's coach home, alone, while he and Clara are in the other just behind yours. 

He had explained it was too painful for him to open the mausoleum again, but promised you could visit Anna another time. You try your hardest not to cry so soon as you sit in the coach, your body jostling around as the wheels travel across the cobblestone. You hold onto hope that the situation will improve. It had only been half a year since Anna and Louise's death. 

You knew to give Friedrich time. 

Your wedding day approached quicker than you had wished, your family sending their approval for a small ceremony with only you, Friedrich, and God. They couldn't make the journey so soon, and Friedrich didn't care to listen to your request to have, at least, your mother with you. So the ceremony happened in his local church, with only Clara (upon her insistance which Friedrich did not deny) and the priest as witnesses. 

As a simple courtesy, and what you liked to think was an apology, Friedrich had left a gorgeous white satin dress in your bedroom as the morning of the wedding approached. Next to the dress lay a veil, the same one Anna had worn. 

You felt like an imposter, staring at yourself in the mirror, the intricate lace of the accessory covering your face and shoulders. The dress was new. You assumed Friedrich didn't want you in Anna's dress. The veil was tradition, naturally it would be passed on. As Anna's cousin, it was only fair. 

You adjust the puffed sleeves near your shoulders as your mind wanders. Friedrich clouds your mind involuntarily, images of his lips on yours and his hands squeezing your hips. You remember Anna's whispering, all those years ago, about what happened on a woman's wedding night, and you can't help but feel warm. Guilt gnaws at your stomach, realizing you're fantasizing about Anna's husband. You shut your eyes but you can still picture Friedrich's hands; those long, strong fingers threading themselves in your hair as he kisses you and tells you he loves you.

Your eyes snap open as you stare at your reflection. Because he must love you? Or want to love you? Why else would he have asked you to marry him? 

Your corset feels tight once again, the wedding dress feels itchy, and your heels hurt as you stand at the altar listening to the priest's questions. Your future husband's face is concealed and blurred behind your veil but you can imagine his sharp blue eyes piercing through you. 

"On behalf of God, you may kiss the bride."

Slowly, Friedrich's hand lifts your veil over your head, wisps of hair fall into your face and he pushes them away as his thumb presses against the apple of your cheek, for only a moment. You lift your arms, hesitant to touch him, and you barely have the chance because as soon as his lips press against yours, he's dropping the veil over you again and pulling himself away, his breath shaky.

Your vision goes blurry again and you aren't sure if it's from the veil or the tears that threaten to fall down your cheeks. Your stomach is in knots as you convince yourself that it is a mistake. That he hadn't meant to kiss you so coldly. That he still wants you here and that he'll hold you in his arms tonight like a husband is supposed to. 

"Go upstairs," Friedrich demands calmly, hanging his hat near the front door. He reaches for a cigar in his pocket and mutters for Clara to go with her governess. 

He doesn't look your way but you listen to his request anyway, creeping up the stairs like a ghost; all dressed in white. You enter the main bedchamber and sit on the end of the bed, simply waiting. 

You aren't sure what to do as you wait for him to join you. For him to bed you like you had been taught to expect on your wedding night. But the sky soon grows darker and the door doesn't open. You hear no movement from out in the hall, no indication that Friedrich is near, and you don't even realize you have fallen asleep until you hear the birds chirp from outside and at the first indication of morning, you rip off your veil and throw it at the vanity in the corner.

You don't bother to remove your wedding dress as you hurry down the stairs, hands gliding down the mahogany railing, anger and hurt coursing through your veins. You search around the house, finally finding Friedrich in his study, sitting on his armchair while he has his breakfast.

You don't think as you storm inside. "You did not join me," you state, your voice strained as you stand in front of him. 

Friedrich lifts his gaze, mustache twitching when he sees you still in your dress. He doesn't look pleased but he doesn't answer and that only hurts more. 

"Ah, so you have nothing to say?!" you hiss angrily, walking closer to him. This time, he stands and you pause in your advancing. 

"Why should I have joined you?" Friedrich asks calmly.

You look horrified. "Because I am your wife!?" 

Friedrich chuckles darkly, shaking his head as he runs a hand over his jaw. "You are not my wife, Y/n. Anna is my wife. In every way that matters to me, she is my wife." He stares at you, his expression hard and unforgiven, and your heart shatters.

"I- I do not understand," you whisper, your eyes becoming glossy. You show him your wedding ring as if that proves something. "Then what is this? What does this mean, Friedrich?" 

Your gaze drops to his hand as you finish the question and you see that he hadn't removed his previous ring. His ring from his marriage with Anna.

He had taken off yours as soon as he had gotten home.

You lift your eyes to lock onto his, your eyes stormy with hurt and fury—which only worsens once he continues, "On paper, you are Frau Harding now. Which means, you will take care of my estate, you will help care for Clara as a mother would, and you will keep up appearances for the sake of my business and our families, but we shall never consummate the marriage. We shall never share a bed, do you understand me?"

Every word he speaks hurts you and you suddenly feel so humiliated. How could you have been so foolish? You clench your hands into the skirt of your wedding dress, the tears finally slipping down your cheeks. Your head hurts. All your efforts to have love have just led you into a loveless marriage, with a man who was never yours to love.

You turn your head away, his words sinking in as you frantically wipe at your tears, desperately erasing them from existence. You look up at him and see he hasn't moved, his expression still unreadable and his stance tense. 

"As you wish. Then I shall never be yours, and I shall hate you till my last breath," you spit, your voice unwavering.

~ * ~

Being Frau Harding proved much easier than you imagined. Clara is a sweet girl and she's an obedient child who learns quickly. The servants are friendly and the estate is grand. And your husband, although he does not spare you a second glance, isn't cruel. He doesn't lay a hand on you nor does he force you into his bed whenever he feels like it, which you learned from some of your high society friends is worse than a man who won't kiss you. 

You are incredibly lonely, all alone in the huge house, but you've learned to live with the feeling. Friedrich is away on business most days, which mostly leaves you and Clara on your own. 

Once more, on a sunny afternoon, you find yourself sitting on the carpet in her playroom, your dresses, the black color replaced by light pastel creams, splayed across your legs as she shows you the new porcelain dolls Friedrich had bought for her from his latest travels. He'd return in the early hours of the morning.

"This one looks like Mama," Clara says and brushes the blond hair of one of her dolls, framing the doll's pale skin, andhumming happily. 

You smile. "Ah, yes, well, she looks like you." You pretend to move around the little china tea set Clara loves so much, pouring some invisible tea for her. Memories of Anna's face cloud your mind, causing a familiar gnawing in your chest.

"Tell me more about Mama," Clara whispers and crawls over to you. She climbs into your lap, not caring when the skirts of your dresses become cumbersome as you chuckle. Clara tucks herself into your arms, still holding her doll. Lately, she's been asking you to tell stories about you and Anna as children, and as much as the memories cause an undeniable hurt, you always indulge her.

Just as you finish the story, one of Clara's favorites, you hear the creak of the playroom door closing and you turn your head. You see the faint remnants of smoke from Friedrich's cigar where he had been standing and your stomach twists.

"May we climb up an apple tree, like you and Mama did?" Clara asks innocently. 

You look at her again, a faint crease in your eyebrows. You aren't sure if you have any apple trees to climb in the gardens, but you don't want to deny Clara something that may make her feel closer to her mother so you simply nod. You stand and hold out your hand. 

"Well, go on, go find Edith and ask her for your coat. There is a slight chill outside." You squeeze Clara's hand and watch her hurry out to find one of the maids.  

You sigh, holding a hand over your stomach to calm your nerves. Just as you walk out into the hall to find your shawl and shoes, you see Friedrich standing in the opposite doorway. His gaze is hard and you gasp, "Oh!" 

"I pray Clara is mistaken when she tells me you plan to take her climbing," he says, holding his cigar between his index and middle finger, pressing it to his lips momentarily. He looks at you with what you can only describe is pure disdain. You feel nauseous.

"I was simply taking her outside, for some fresh air," you say, keeping your distance from him. 

"Without my permission?"

Your jaw tightens and you narrow your gaze. "My apologies, I did not realize I had to ask your permission to take my child out into my gardens." Your tone is curt and harsh. Friedrich narrows his eyes in return. 

"Do not take that tone with me," he states firmly. You almost wish he'd scream at you. Instead, he's always so controlled and restrained. It's almost more infuriating than if he would lose his temper. It is as if he is unfeeling. "Clara is not your child." 

Hurt swarms your chest. You know she is not yours, but the reminder hurts after all the months you spent with her. "Oh? Is she not? Then what, pray, is my role here, dear husband? This is what you asked of me. To care for your daughter. It isn't like I will have any children of my own, now is it?" you retort, venom in your words and Friedrich's jaw clenches.

"No. Because that would require a husband willing to touch me." 

"Stop," Friedrich growls, looking away and taking an inhale of his cigar. "Stop acting like a petulant child for once, Y/n." 

Your cheeks burn in embarrassment. "Oh! I am the one being childish?"

"Neither you nor Clara are to go outside at this hour. It is cold and dangerous and ladies do not climb trees. It is unbecoming."

"It is September! And hardly—"

Clara runs up, pulling on her father's trousers. "Can Y/n and I play in the gardens?" You stare at her, then your gaze flickers to Friedrich. He twirls his hand in Clara's ringlets, careful not to mess them up too much, and smiles at her with a softness he's never awarded to you.

"No. It is dangerous. Plus, you need to finish your French studies, Schatzi (Treasure)," he explains plainly and you juststand there, unable to speak up even when a look of disappointment crosses her features. She just nods, listening to her father. Once Edith takes her upstairs to her room, you glare at Friedrich. 

"You cannot keep her locked up in here! She's a little girl who craves adventure!" 

Friedrich looks more and more agitated. "You are a horrible influence on her. She needs stability, routine, not vapid stories that will put foolish ideas into her little head!" 

"Vapid? I was telling her of how Anna and I—"

"She does not need to hear stories that will make her sad—" Friedrich says sternly. 

You walk closer, clenching your hand in your dress. You're much closer to him now. "Make her, or you, sad?" you challenge and that seems to be the last straw for him because he slams his palm into the doorframe, causing you to flinch as ashes from his cigar fall. Friedrich lets out a shaky exhale and glares at you.

His eyes flicker from your face and then downwards for a moment and something burns inside them that you haven't seen from him in the months you've lived here. You open your mouth to make another comment but decide against it when shuts his eyes, his lip trembling with hurt. He doesn't speak either and instead, he leaves you standing alone in the hall.

~ * ~

Rain drums against the window as you lace up your boots. Clara stands by the door, looking outside as she watches the sky turn orange and pink. She turns to look at you and smiles, but there is also a hint of hesitation behind her icy-blueeyes. "Will Papa be angry with us?" She asks you, her voice small. 

You smile at her, putting on your coat and bonnet. You kneel and adjust the buttons on her coat as you wink. "That is the fun of it, pumpkin," you pause and think, plus he's an arrogant prick so who cares.

Clara nods and she looks outside at the rain and mud. She grins. "Okay."

All her worries seemed to melt away as soon as the raindrops hit her bonnet with a soft splat. She's a giggling mess as you lead her further into the gardens, the damp grass wetting her shoes. You take her small hands in yours as you dance in the rain. 

"Mama would not have allowed this," she says breathlessly, grinning as she dances with you happily and kicks more mud with her shoes. "But, I am glad we can do this. I am glad you are here," Clara adds in a whisper and happiness spreads inside your chest. You laugh and laugh and twirl so hard your expensive bonnet falls into the mud, rain drenching your hair as it continues to pour over you. 

Thunder claps, the rain falling harder and harder, and eventually, the sky turns dark, chasing you both back inside the house as you slam the grand front door, leaning against it and laughing.

You drop your wet fur coat onto the carpet as Clara does the same. The little girl keeps giggling. You kneel next to her to undo her shoes and run your hands over her arms to warm her up. Clara wipes at the soaked fabric of her dress, holding it up as it drips, and she keeps giggling. 

However, the sound of someone clearing their throat startles you both. 

Clara tenses. She drops her dress, turning around to stare at her father. "Papa," she whispers. Your heart is pounding as you stay on your knees, dropping your hand from Clara's arms. Your wet dress is clinging to your corset, the cream color of your dress turning half-translucent from the water. You don't dare look up at your husband as you bite down on your lip, tasting blood in your mouth. 

He wasn't supposed to be home until tomorrow.

"Edith," Friedrich's voice cuts the tension as he calls over the maid. He doesn't sound more angry than he usually does and Clara's hand finds yours, squeezing. You hear the faint sound of Edith entering the hall and then Friedrich continues, his voice unemotional. "Bring Clara upstairs. Run her a warm bath, clean her up, and then put her to bed, thank you. It is past her bedtime." 

"Y/n," Clara whispers your name as her shoes, coat, and then herself, are hurried upstairs without a word. You keep your head low as goosebumps explode across your exposed skin. Your wet hair sticks to your cheeks and you realize you've left your bonnet outside and the curls in your hair have flattened. Your dress, the one you assume must have been Anna's dress is ruined—the expensive satin completely covered in sticky mud.

"Stand up," Friedrich demands, his voice strained. You do as he says, holding your breath. You hesitate to look up at him, but when you do you feel heat rush up to flame your cheeks. Your husband doesn't look upset, not in the same way you have seen him look before. Instead of contempt, his eyes are dark and intense with a feeling you can't quite discern. His gaze drops to the collar of your dress, where the sleeves hang and expose more of the skin of your collarbone.

"I can explain," you whisper, knowing that whilst he truly hadn't been cruel to you up to now, your behavior tonight was unacceptable and warranted any punishment he deemed suitable. 

Friedrich stalks closer, his jaw clenched. You back away a little, gasping as your back presses against the wood of the door again. "Please. I am sorry," you mutter, hands and body shaking. You aren't sure if it's out of fear or from how cold you are. "Please do not be angry," your voice trembles. Friedrich is still walking closer and what's worse is he hasn't said a word. 

You squeeze your eyes shut, preparing for a blow of any kind. He would be in the right to scream at you—strike you even. You had deliberately disobeyed him. None come. Instead, you feel his hand on your cheek, gently caressing your cold skin and you tense. This is the first time he's touched you since your wedding.

"You're shaking," Friedrich points out, looking over your frame. His eyes meet yours. "Do I scare you?" 

Your stomach twists at his words and your eyes snap open. You're breathing heavily now and his touch feels so foreign on your skin. You don't quite know what to do. "N-no–" you whisper. It's the truth, he's never scared you. What you're feeling now feels completely different than fear. It's a feeling you don't quite understand. You feel the dampness between your thighs, something that only happens when you are around him. 

Friedrich quirks a small smile, the first one you've seen directed at you. His hand slides down from your cheek and trails down your arm until his fingers curl around your wrist quite tightly. "Come. You will catch a cold," he says, pulling you closer and down the hallway into an open door. 

You don't move at first, eyes wide, but when he looks back at you and sends you a nod, you follow him into the parlor. "Friedrich, I- I must go upstairs. I need to clean up, please. What are you doing?" 

He leads you into the room, gently guiding you into his armchair. Your dress soaks the fabric and you feel out of place and cold. You watch him as he kneels by the fire, beginning to make it for you. To warm you up. You've never seen him make his own fire, the servants have always done that but he doesn't call them in. Plus, it seems like he knows what he's doing. The flame sparks and warmth slowly spreads across your skin. 

Once the fire is going, your husband turns to you. You're still shivering, but the warmth helps. Friedrich is still down on his knees, looking up at you with an unreadable expression.

"Is it working?" he asks, kneeling closer.

You feel dizzy and you whisper, straining a smile. "Ah, the fire? Yes, it is working. Thank you, Friedrich." You can barely focus on his question as his fingers start delicately unlacing your boots. He's being so intimate. You open your mouth to question him, but he speaks before you do. 

"No. Not that. Your little outbursts," Your husband chuckles, smiling. His hand slides up your calf now and hooks into your stocking, peeling the drenched fabric from your skin. You gasp, shifting against the chair and sitting up.

You open your mouth to protest but he does the same with your other leg. The flames from the fire cast a glow on his features as he sends you a warning look not to question him and your stomach burns. 

"My outbursts?"

"You think I have not realized how hard you try for my attention? How you do anything for even a sliver of my time. Have I been neglecting you, hm? Is that it? Do you crave me that much, Mein Liebling (my darling)?" His voice is sharp, almost mocking. 

Your eyebrows crease and your lip trembles. "You know what you have done. You have kept me, chained to you forever, without so much as the solace of your liking. I am an accessory, not a wife—you have said as much—nothing more so please, Friedrich, do not mock me." 

Friedrich looks up, his gaze dark, and he hums. Then, he lifts your skirt and disappears underneath the fabric. You sit up, your skin shivering as you feel his lips slowly inching up your thigh but you cannot see him. Fear strikes you. "Friedrich? What is—What are you—oh—" 

He's still underneath your skirt and he hooks his hand under your undergarment, his palm splayed upon your hips as you slouch in the armchair. 

Your face is burning warm and you gasp, covering your mouth with your hand, as he pulls down your undergarments and exposes you. You squeeze your thighs instinctively, attempting to hide yourself from his gaze. You wish to kick him away, but something inside you stops you. Almost like a desire you do not understand. Friedrich clicks his tongue, pushing them apart as he continues to kiss your inner thighs, near your most intimate place. 

"S-stop—" you whine behind your hand. A burst of unfamiliar sensations explode in your stomach. It feels good, but you're also scared of what this means. Friedrich continues for a moment until he feels you shaking and then he emerges from underneath your skirt. He pushes the fabric down, his hair is a little messy and his face is flushed. He wets his lips.

"It is alright, let me," he tries convincing you, gliding his hand up your legs and bunching up your skirt near your waist. You whimper, knowing he can see you bare and needy for him. You can see him now, see what he wants to do, and your fear eases a little. Your mind is spinning as you begin to understand. He wants to take you.

What had changed?

You shake your head, scrambling to sit up, and frantically push your skirt down. "You shall not touch me. I am not your wife," you say, your voice shaking. He has no right to touch you after what he had said and done.

Friedrich chuckles, his hand still splayed on your thighs. "But, you are, aren't you? My wife. Now, I am only doing what you want so let me show you what a good wife does with her husband." 

He grabs your ankle and lifts your leg onto the arm of the armchair, opening you up and you gasp. However, his lips find your slick hole, kissing and licking like a starved man.

He's rough and clearly a little angry. You tremble, tears in your eyes as you focus on the new sensations. You're whispering his name, your voice hoarse as you let out small whimpers. "I have been good to you," Friedrich grunts, tasting you some more and he moans into your folds. "I have kept my distance, I have let you stay pure, but you consistently disobey me. You put my daughter in danger and why? For my attention?" 

Your legs shake and you push up your skirt, finding his hair to hold onto as his tongue explores inside you in ways you didn't even know were possible. Tear stains fall down your cheeks as you accidentally tug on his hair harder than you'd meant to, whimpering. Your leg falls from the arm of the armchair and Friedrich leans back on his heels. 

"Stop being so damn difficult," he reprimands and lifts you up into his arms. You gasp. He's surprisingly strong and it doesn't take long for him to practically throw you onto the maroon, plush, loveseat near the window. 

The rain still hits the window and you gasp again, choking on a sob as Friedrich reaches behind you and with a grunt, half-rips your dress and corset. The materials fall over your shoulder, exposing your breasts to the cool air. You look up through teary eyelashes at your husband and your stomach twists in anticipation. Friedrich's blue eyes are dark and he licks his lips once more. 

He stands and begins to undress as your chest heaves. You sit uncomfortably on the loveseat, half hanging on the end, simply waiting for Friedrich to touch you again. Your mind screams at you that you should be scared, but you aren't. You're almost excited.

His hands are back on you, tearing more of the dress as his hands grip your hips and pull you flush against him. "I shall buy you a new one," he whispers in your ear as the dress, which was already covered in mud, falls from you—torn and ruined. Friedrich promises this as if he has noticed this dress was one of your favorite dresses. As if he's noticed you would wear it more than the others.

Which is impossible. Friedrich doesn't notice you.

You feel something hard press against your core and you gasp, hands grasping the cushions as you look down between your naked bodies. Friedrich looks different than you do between his legs and it looks hard and angry. You whimper, hand grasping for something more to hold than some cushions. You try moving away, but Friedrich's hands tighten on your hips as he keeps you close. 

His lips attach to your nipple, causing a small cry from your mouth that he quickly muffles with his lips. Your eyes widen as he kisses you, one of his hands leaving your hip to rest against your cheek, his thumb pressing under your chin. You melt into his kiss, your mind going fuzzy as he finally gives you what you've been craving all these months. Friedrich grins against your lips, positioning your hips as he begins to press inside you. 

You gasp, pulling your mouth away. "Shh, little dove," Friedrich's voice in your ear causes you to freeze and you realize his movement has paused as well. "It will not hurt you much. Your body is made for this. It will open up for me."

You're breathing heavily and anticipating some horrible pain. When you feel him fill you up, your body moving against the loveseat with the thrust, a tear escapes your eyes from the sting and the intrusion. Your skin bursts with goosebumps and Friedrich's hand caresses your cheek, his lips kissing your neck. 

You feel him slide out and you can breathe again, until he thrusts back in a little harder and you squeeze your eyes shut as you let out a small whimper. Tears threaten to spill from the pain but when Friedrich's hand comes to the back of your head against the cushions, holding you as he leans in and lets you cry into his shoulder. "Only a little while longer," he coos, his hips not faltering his movements as he groans into your hair, pulling on the strands. 

The pain slowly subsides, turning into pleasure, as his movements continue. You lose track of time and place as Friedrich makes love to you, kissing and biting your skin as he whispers mocking praises in your ear. As his thrusts become less rhythmic, you clench around him as his words become more pointed. 

"You're nothing like her. You don't act like her, nor do you feel like her," he mutters in your ear and your stomach twists as he compares you to Anna. "But, I cannot resist you either. Look at you, taking me so well. You are so beautiful. I am going to make sure you carry my child. Isn't that what you wanted, mm? To be mine?" Friedrich groans and you feel something inside you snap as warmth explodes in your stomach and a strange liquid fills you up, the substance smeared across your thighs.

Your body feels heavy as you let your head rest on the plush cushions. You blink, your eyes are unfocused and tired, and you barely register Friedrich shifting around and pulling out of you until he's leaning over you, his hand gently tapping your cheek. Your eyes flitter open and he's smiling.

A real smile. 

"Come. Up. You need rest," he says and drapes a woolen quilt over your naked, sweat-shimmering form and then lifts you into his arms once more. He's half-dressed again, just in case he runs into any servants, but you only fully come to when you feel a warm cloth pressed in between your legs, wiping away the white liquid and streaks of blood. Exhausted, you whimper and then some time must have passed because you feel the bed dip and strong arms pull you in against him. 

You blink, eyes tired, but you no longer feel sticky on the inside of your thighs. "Friedrich?" you mutter into the darkness as the figure next to you turns out the oil lamp. 

"I am here," he whispers, his hand playing with your hair. You can't see him in the darkness but his voice doesn't have the anger or firmness it always does. Instead, he sounds almost guilty. 

You let out a shaky breath. "Please do not be upset with me," you whisper, lips dry as you lean your head against his shoulder. You're savoring his presence, almost afraid he'll disappear. "I am sorry. I shall try harder to be like Anna. Please, I promise I shall try. I do not like it when we argue. I do not like it when you are away. I am lonely—" Your confessions are interrupted by shifting and then you feel Friedrich's nose press against yours and his warm breath fans over your lips. 

"You do not need to change anything. It is all my fault. I have been selfish and weak. I have been so consumed in my grief I have ignored what was right in front of me. Sleep now, all will be well. I am here with you, and I shall be here when you wake," Friedrich says it like a promise and he seals his words with a gentle kiss on your lips. And when the morning light shines into the room, you're both still tangled under the sheets; skin to skin. 

~ * ~

"Papa!" Clara shrieks, jumping into his arms as he steps down from his Coach, removing his tall hat. He grins at his daughter and scoops her up in his arms, resting her a little more uncomfortably on his hip. She’s grown up quite a bit since the last time he did this.

You walk down the steps, your movements slow, as you cradle your son in your arms. When Friedrich looks up and sees you, his smile only widens and he drops Clara onto her feet again as he walks over and hesitates by his son, instead cupping your cheek. 

"Good evening, my dove," he whispers. 

It had taken weeks for you to trust Friedrich's change in behavior. After all he had gone from distant and cold, to loving and warm in the span of mere hours.

Friedrich had explained everything that morning: how he'd rushed into a marriage, forced by his business and family, when he wasn't ready to move on, and how your presence—so similar and yet so different from Anna—had only made things worse.

He had apologized profusely for neglecting you for months, but what truly earned his place in your bed was his patience. He did not force you to forgive him, instead, he waited until you eventually did. 

Not long after your forgiveness everything had changed for the better when the doctors told you were expecting a child. Friedrich was over the moon. He was turned upside down, becoming nothing like the husband you had known for the last few months, instead, he was present and doting and it was as if he'd finally decided to court you. 

To love you. 

"I am sorry I was away when it happened," Friedrich whispers, gently moving the blanket that covers little Friedrich's face as the sleeping baby simply rests against your breast. Friedrich's hand moves up to push away some curls from your forehead. After all, it has only been two weeks since little Friedrich's birth and you were still exhausted. "Why you insist on nursing him when we have help for that, I do not understand."

You send your husband a pointed look. "He is mine. I will care for him." 

Friedrich smile simply grows and he cups his hand around your nape, pulling you in gently and kissing your hairline. He feels Clara's hand pulling on his tailcoat and he lifts her up into his arms again. "Do you like your brother, Schatzi (Treasure)?"

Clara hums and hides her face in his neck again, causing a low chuckle from his chest. You smile at her and then look back down at your son. He's so beautiful. You lift your gaze and see a look in Friedrich's eyes. One that isn't happy nor sad. Your stomach twists and you catch his gaze. "Are you okay?" you whisper, your voice low. 

Friedrich looks at you and for the first time since you'd fist met him all those months ago at the graveyard, he looks right through you. You inhale. You know where his mind is. Anna and Louise. You hold your breath, afraid you'll lose him again, but that cloudy look in his eyes soon disappears after a moment and a soft smile curls his lips. He leans in and kisses you, keeping your son hidden and safe between both your chests as Clara's feet sway against your dress and she rests her head against his shoulder. 

"I am. I will be, Mein Liebling (my darling)," your husband promises and leans his forehead onto yours and after a breath he says,

"I love you."

~ 🤍 ~

^ this is how I imagined the dresses reader wears (left: during the graveyard but in all black. middle: wedding dress. right: her favorite dress)

[moonmaiden1996]

Can i get any like thrist for jinshi(apothecary diaries) jinshi content is very much needed for me to stay alive

I understand completely and I got you.

Been sitting on this one for ages. If you want anything specific please let me know!

You weren’t anything remarkable at first glance—at least, that’s what everyone assumed. A court lady, a scribe, a servant—your role was one that kept you in the background, far from the dazzling light that surrounded Jinshi. You were from a good family, but as the fourth daughter, you held little importance. Your future had already been decided: a life of quiet duty as a court secretary, unglamorous and devoid of prospects, unless some ambitious noble sought favor with your father or the Emperor by marrying you.

But Jinshi noticed you. He always noticed you.

It began with fleeting interactions—passing documents, delivering messages, stolen glances across the grand halls of the palace. He should not have given you a second thought. And yet, he did.

At first, he kept his interest in check, treating you as he did any other member of the court. But Jinshi was a man accustomed to admiration, fear, and envy. Women fawned over his beauty, nobles schemed for his favor, and men either resented or revered him. You, however, were different. You were polite, but never simpered. You did your duties without seeking attention. You met his gaze without faltering, and when you spoke, it was with a sharp wit that left him disarmed.

And that—that was what unraveled him.

Jinshi knew better than to act on his emotions. He had a duty, a place as a potential heir, and an entire court watching his every move. But the more he spoke with you, the harder it became to suppress his feelings. It was no longer mere admiration—it was something far more dangerous.

He longed for you.

He wanted to talk to you without pretense. To see you smile—only for him. To touch you without restraint. But he couldn't. Not yet.

There were moments when his resolve almost wavered—when his fingers would brush against yours as he took a document, when his voice softened just a little too much as he said your name. He saw the way others began to notice, the lingering glances from envious court ladies, the whispers in shadowed corridors. If he acted on his feelings now, he would condemn you to a life of scrutiny, of danger. He could not—would not—do that to you.

And so, he endured.

Then one night, under the cover of darkness, he found you in the quietest corner of the palace gardens. You noticed the distant look in his eyes, the tension in his jaw. When you asked what troubled him, Jinshi—for the first time—allowed himself to be selfish.

"I wish I could be just a man," he murmured. "Then I could stand by your side without hesitation."

His words left you confused, unsettled. And then—his hand, cool and delicate as always, brushed against your cheek. It was the gentlest touch, but it sent ripples through your heart. You stiffened, uncertain. The court ladies would kill—literally kill—for even a glance from him, let alone a touch. You thought him drunk. Or worse, playing a game.

But Jinshi was not a man who acted on impulse.

And so, he waited.

The day he was officially disinherited—cast aside from the imperial line—was the happiest day of his life. He was free. No longer a threat. No longer a pawn in the empire’s grand game. And for his loyalty, his brother granted him a single favour—the right to choose his own bride.

He wanted, no needed you.

Not as a calculated move, not as an obligation, but as the man who had loved you all along. Not as Jinshi, the former prince, the untouchable noble, but as Zuigetsu, a man no longer bound by the weight of the throne and could love you freely and completely.

The moment he was free, he sought you out. No more barriers. No more waiting. His hands trembled as they cupped your face, his eyes burning with years of suppressed devotion.

"I have waited long enough," he whispered, his voice raw with emotion. "I won’t wait anymore."

And with that, he kissed you—desperately, fiercely, like a man who had been starving for years.

[jerryandersonsdaughterinlaw]

an analysis on how abby growing up without a mom shaped who she is and her perception of femininity:

─────────────────────────

Growing up without a mother meant her understanding of femininity, softness, and nurture came from absence. Without a maternal influence, she didn't have a guiding figure for emotional softness, or a role model for how to navigate vulnerability, especially in relationships. There was no one to show her how to be girly, no mother-daughter traditions, no one to teach her about motherhood. She probably doesn't even know her mother's favorite color or the sound of her laugh.

I don’t think it was something she resented, but it left an emptiness that Abby didn't quite know how to fill. She didn't have the maternal warmth or lessons that could help shape her understanding of her femininity or intimacy. Instead, her father's presence was both comforting and limiting, keeping her grounded but also confining her to a role she took on with no real guidance beyond her own instincts. Jerry did his best, but he wasn't necessarily equipped to teach her how to be delicate or to guide her through a nuanced understanding of herself as a woman.

Her dad was a gentle man, but also a bit carefree, often embarking on spontaneous adventures, leaving Abby to pick up the pieces and keep things running smoothly. She had to be responsible, mature beyond her years, and quickly became someone her father could rely on in ways that were far more profound than the typical parent-child dynamic. Abby had to grow into a caretaker role at a young age, though it came naturally to her, given that she was so deeply tied to her father's wellbeing. She still carried the weight of managing the practicalities of life in a way he didn't always feel compelled to. Because it was just the two of them, Abby's dad became her entire world - her role model, her compass, her constant. She inherited his pragmatism, his quiet humor, his hands-on way of showing love. But being raised by a single father meant Abby had to figure out her emotional world on her own. He was present, and loving, but not always expressive.

✮ This shaped how Abby expresses love: quietly, through action. Through showing up. Through fixing things, carrying the heavy load, remembering how you take your tea. Not because it was taught— but because it's how she learned to care.

Her relationship with femininity is self-defined. Without a maternal influence, Abby had to define her identity as a woman on her own terms. She doesn't perform femininity in conventional ways — and never felt pressured to. There was no one telling her to wear dresses or play with dolls, so she gravitated toward what felt good in her body. Sports. Climbing trees. Strength training.

Now, she finds beauty in the unexpected. She's not traditionally "girly," but she notices the details. She admires curves, softness, the kind of woman who owns her space — not because Abby feels lacking, but because she values what she didn't grow up around. It also makes her protective — of people who move through the world vulnerably, who offer gentleness without armor. She has a quiet reverence for that, like it's sacred. It made her pay close attention to the women around her. It's why she has so much respect for quiet strength, for softness that's chosen and not expected. She notices the small ways women hold space for each other — in friendship, in tenderness, in care — and sometimes finds herself wondering: Would my mom have done that? Would she have held my face in her hands when I cried?

Abby had to figure out a lot on her own, and she learned to keep most of her struggles to herself, fearing that her vulnerability might be too much for others to handle. There are parts of Abby she struggles to articulate because she never had the words growing up. It's why she turns to writing sometimes, and gets quiet when conversations shift too emotional too fast. Her grief isn't loud— it's woven into the fabric of who she is.

And yet, with the right person, she'd slowly find ways to let someone in. To speak about the silence. To share that old photograph. To admit, one night under the stars, "I don't know much about her... but I think you would've liked her. And I think she would've liked you, too."

In a partner, Abby would find someone who could teach her things her father couldn't, someone to balance out her tendencies to be over responsible and always holding things together. Offering Abby a softer, more emotionally open way to be, showing her that it was okay to sometimes not have all the answers, to let go of the burden of always being the one in control. A way for Abby to experience and understand the tenderness she had missed out on from her mother, forcing Abby to confront aspects of herself she had always kept at arm's length. Abby could begin to see herself differently, not just as the strong, reliable one, but as someone worthy of emotional care and tenderness, too once she allows herself to trust someone enough to soften.

[puzzled-pegasus]

Do you ever just think about how awful it is to be a demigod before you know about it?

I've been thinking about it a lot lately. How much demigod kids and teenagers don't fit in with mortal society. Their mortal parents don't know what to do with them, even if they do care for them immensely. They are labeled as troublemakers, as bad kids, as mentally ill, as freaks and monsters who see things they shouldn't see and have an aversion to authority that they shouldn't have and a strong sense of justice and an inability to sit still, read, play, act, feel normally. Percy got in trouble for getting into fights, for speaking impulsively, he was mocked and spoken down to and expelled from lots of schools who couldn't handle him and he didn't know why until he was twelve years old. Sally wasn't able to tell him why.

Annabeth was the product of her father's relationship with a goddess, and he loved her for a while, but she wasn't a normal kid. When he fell in love with a mortal and Annabeth didn't get along with her or her kids, he chose the mortal side. How could he understand Annabeth's side? She was just a badly behaved kid, while his new wife and children were the normal good ones.

Jason always knew he was a demigod, he was accepted and praised and tons of expectations were placed on him from a frighteningly young age. Part of the reason the others resent him and see him as a sort of golden child is because he was placed on a pedestal and he will never, ever know what it was like for all of his friends to be looked down on as children, to be scolded for things they didn't understand and told that the things they saw and experienced constantly were not real.

Piper was always loved by her father but I think he loved the idea of her, he loved that she reminded him of the beautiful woman he met years ago. He was always kind to her and usually gave her things she wanted, but he couldn't always spend time with her as his job got busier. Piper sensed that her father's attention was occupied by something else, and as he got busier, she felt less supported and stole things and got in fights and her dad didn't know what to do with her after the BMW so she was sent to a troubled teen program where she was bullied for her disabilities and her race.

Leo feared his power because it killed the person he loved the most, and after that, everything in his life was hell. He didn't feel safe anywhere, he didn't have anyone he could trust, and adults saw him as a troublemaker who would never amount to anything.

The books don't emphasize these things as much with any of the other demigods, or maybe Annabeth, Percy, Piper, and Leo are the best examples we have. I just. They're so tragic. They're all my children all of them. I love them and I feel so sad for them

[btswit7]

The bodyguard (2)

Pairing: bodyguard Jungkook/ rich reader

Wc: 3.3k

Genre: slow burn, slight 18+ content, age gap, bodyguard au

Summary: A wealthy heiress and her newly assigned bodyguard—two opposites forced into each other’s orbit. She resents the intrusion; he’s just doing his job. But as tensions rise and secrets unfold, protection starts to feel a lot like something more.

Note: thank you Ava ( @jincapableoflove ) for the beautiful banner, I appreciate your hard work. And here I tagged you @busanbby-jjk

Part 1

It's the end of the class days in the university with regular classes and a regular stone-faced Jungkook by your side. Every morning even before you would wake up he would be in the house waiting for you.

Even after your constant push he never bugged from his so-called ideals that come because of his job. Coming before 7 in the morning he would leave nowhere before 10 pm in the evening just in case you would need anything even after coming back home from your university or the other extra curricular classes you attend.

This is the last class day of the week, Saturday. You are at the dining table having breakfast served to you. Ever since Jungkook has made an entry in your life not even once he would miss knocking at your door exactly at 7:15 am which he did today too.

You don't want to go with him. It's because of him you have to sneak away from your friends and come to the car to drive back home with him or your friends will not leave a single chance to tease you.

You turn to look at Jungkook, he is on the couch with his usual coffee in his hands. This is your chance to sneak to the car. You don't want to go to the university with Jungkook today.

With the last bite of your breakfast, you quitely pick up the tissue and clean your hands with it, you grumble at the feeling of not washing your hands. The butler comes and takes the dishes. Now you are alone on the table, you look back again. Okay he is still busy with a newspaper in his hand and coffee mug in the other hand. This is the right time to sneak.

You skulk through the corridor that leads to the back door of the house joining the backyard. You have managed to steal the key from the key holder too. With a few tiny steps you sneak out of the house and let out a low squeal as you practically jump in happiness as you look at the Mercedes Benz parked.

Finally, after a full week of trouble with your so-called bodyguard you are here ready to drive to your college alone with none with you. You open the door of the car as you get in only to let out a loud shriek in surprise and fear.

How come he is here?

“ Could have told you were driving today” he says with his calmest voice as he focuses on putting on his seatbelt.

There he sits with the calmest expression a man can have after scaring the shit out of a woman. His black suit blending with the black interior of the car made it hard for you to even understand he was sitting inside.

You gulp as you pat your chest to calm your racing heart. You groan as you fix your position on the seat later keeping your head on the steering wheel on top of your hands.

“ It's already 8:26” he says as he looks at his wrist watch later focusing his gaze ahead.

“ You got to be kidding me” you say with a fed up face as you look at him by turning your head towards his sitting figure.

His silence says he wasn't kidding. He never does. You heave out a sigh as you start the engine of the car. Your dream of driving the car did get completed but not the dream of going to the university alone.

Jungkook sneaks a glance at you just to see your bag fallen down below the steering wheel and your water bottle rolling with the moving car in the small space.

He doesn't say anything, rather moves to pick up the bag and the water bottle. Picking up the bag swiftly he puts it on his lap and then moves to pick up the water bottle. Jungkook makes sure he ain't touching you as he tries to put his hand deeper in space. A low groan leaves his mouth when he still can't reach the bottle.

You being a viewer of everything don't make any move to help him. You instead smirk as you watch him struggle and focus on the road.

Jungkook groans again in frustration. He gets back on his seat as he holds the bag tightly in his grip. He looks at you just to see you with a small smile on your lips which you are trying your best to suppress and hide from him. You are not helping him until he doesn't ask for it himself.

Jungkook puts the bag on the dashboard and this time he again tries to reach the water bottle and fortunately the rolling bottle reaches the tip of his finger but still he can't get a hold of it. Jungkook can't ask you for help and lower his self-respect, mind it ego, down. With a sudden jerk of the car Jungkook gets a hold of the bottle but soon groans when he gets pressed against the car his hand soon getting up as he takes support of your thighs. Another low groan leaves his mouth when your bag falls down on his body from the dashboard.

“ Fuck this” he says as he gets up and sits on the seat with a disheveld hair and bottle in his hand.

“ Why would you d—” he stops when he realises the car is stopped at the traffic.

“ Yeah red light” you almost sing trying to trouble him more.

He stays quiet for a moment while you glance at him just to say.

“ You know people won't like to see such a handsome bodyguard with a disheveled hairstyle,” you giggle, pointing at his hair. You turn the car inside the university’s campus.

Jungkook groans looking at his reflection in the mirror and proceeds to fix his hair muttering a “ don't call me handsome”

“Handsome people should be called handsome” you again giggle.

It takes you a moment to realise what you just let out. You gulp as you try to play it all cool “ I mean, there's no problem admiring beauty,” you say, trying to mask your embarrassment.

Jungkook just nods with a small smile on his lips as you stop the car in the parking lot. He passes you the bag while you get out of the car.

Walking a few steps ahead you turn around when you realise you have left the water bottle in the car only to see his hands out of the window from the passenger seat with the water bottle. Some tattoos visible to you on his wrist.

Taking the bottle from his hand you are about to walk back to the university but turn back to give him some information.

“ I'll be back by 3pm today” you say as you lean on the window looking at him.

“ I'll be waiting” that's what he mutters. Never once he has said a bye to you and after your first interaction you don't even expect one from him.

—-

The day comes to an end soon as you quickly make your way out of the university. This entire week your goal has been curt and clear — to leave the lecture hall after the ending of the class as soon as possible and to get to Jungkook so that you can drive home without getting much attention from your peers.

You look towards the car in the same place as it was parked in the morning. As always Jungkook must be in the car. You unknowingly smile when you see him get out of the car with a phone pressed against his ear. Finally you can rest in the car with no rush.

Something about Jungkook's presence in the car by your side gives your serenity. You don't have to worry about talking or even not talking because Jungkook never initiates conversation. Mostly it's just him driving while you rest on the seat, the night sky another medium of your warmth with some soft music playing. There is no rush or heavy traffic like it is in the morning. So you let your body and mind rest without having to worry about keeping your guards up.

You have to study business because there is no heir apart from you to take over your dad's business— as stated by your dear father. Not like you hated studying business but it was more like things in your final year have just got hectic for you. The huge syllabus along with the mandatory university attendance. Coming to university these days is just a way for you to make attendance, otherwise you can study at home too without much fuss.

Talking about today, you had continuous lectures throughout the day, one after another. The only break you got was at lunch time. Your brain needs rest and your body needs sleep. You can already imagine peace in the car so you happily climb down the last few stairs until your hand is held in someone's grip and you are pulled back. The person you see makes your breath hitch.

“ you are coming, right doll?” Jae whispers near your face with a glint in his eyes.

You are quick to get your senses back as you try to free your hands from his grip. To your surprise he leaves your hand without much effort. You scan his face just to see him give you one of his mischievous smiles.

“ You are coming, right?” He asks again after not getting a reply the first time.

“ I have classes to at–” you try to come up with an excuse. The truth is after going back home all you have planned is to get a good shower, complete your studies and get a good night's sleep.

“ Y/n, let's not lie hmm? I know you have no classes on Saturday” he says as he tries to tuck in the strand of hair falling on your face. You dodge his hands away within seconds of his touch lingering on your face.

“ I do have classes” you say with a tone that gives confidence so that he believes your lie which he does.

“ Ah y/n! Sometimes you should let yourself be cool, okay?” He continues, “ let's have some fun”

“ I do have fun, I don't need you to tell me when to have fun” you reply in an instant standing your ground.

“ Nah, don't be angry. See if you don't come to the party I'll ask uncle for help” he says with a playful smile on his lips.

You grit your teeth at his absurdity. The situation is stupid. You know if he asks your dad, your dad will definitely force you to go to his party and you will eventually be left with no chance but to go, you would not like to say no to your dad.

Your father and his father have been friends for a long time. You both have seen each other since childhood. It was in your middle school that you changed schools and got rid of him but unfortunately you met him again in the university. Now, just for a guy you can't change your university but definitely fight against his tactics for your peace.

You waste no more time and with a fierce look in your eyes you pull your wrist from his grip to go to your car, mind him guy can't keep his hands to himself. The thoughts of peace leaving your mind as bitter thoughts make their way to your mind.

Jungkook, who was a silent viewer of the scenario within minutes, understood that the guy gave an off-kilter vibe. You gave him a quick glance as he stayed standing in front of the passenger door as you got in the car.

Jungkook makes a strong eye contact with the guy as he moves to sit in the driver's seat.

You sigh as you look out of the window. You don't want to start your ranting session in front of Jungkook. You wish to rant without judgement, without feeling unheard, without people making you feel that your feelings are invalid but to your dismay you don't have that close someone.

Jungkook was silent all the while as always, he was observing you waiting for you to say but you didn't. It was until he heard you groan.

“ I am hungry” you pause before continuing, “let's go to this restaurant” you look at him with eyes that need permission because you are not sure what he has been advised by your dad. Your dad doesn't allow you to go to old class restaurants, he prefers those opulent restaurants with an excuse that those not only serve good food but are also hygienic unlike the others.

Will he take you there? Your mind questions.

With a slight nod, he puts the location in the car gps. You grin, whispering a thanks.

—-

There haven't been many times you have come to this restaurant but whenever you have you have gotten that homely vibe. Not rich, not luxurious, just cozy.

You sit at your favourite spot, near the glass windows that give a view of the busy city. It's late in the afternoon. The sky looks beautiful. It's calming. Nature calms you down.

Jungkook was shocked to see the restaurant you have chosen. He expected one of those lavish restaurants rich people always visit, not this. He stands beside your seat not sitting down in the seat in front of you.

“ Will you keep standing?” You ask frustrated. Holding his wrist from the place you are sitting you push him towards the other seat while waiting for him to sit. He is left with no option but to sit so he does and somewhere he doesn't want you to have the meal all alone while he stands at your head.

“ What would you like Ms. Y/n?” An old man asks as he forwards the menu to you.

You place your order as you ask Jungkook if he would like something more but he has his own plans, “ I have had my lunch. I don't need anything” so you say to the old man with a forced smile, “ two servings please”

As you dig into the tasty food Jungkook can't seem to resist the food so he digs in the food himself. The food is actually tasty. None of you talk as you are busy with your food.

“ Did you like the food?” You ask as you both climb down the stairs to go to the streets. The car is parked quite far away as there is no space provided by the restaurant to park cars.

“ It was tasty” he says as you both walk side by side just surrounded by the hassle of the market.

“ The sky looks beautiful” you say until your mind clicks with the thought of taking a picture so you quickly fish your phone out of your pockets and take a picture of the sky. You grin looking at the picture. You look up towards him just to see him looking down at the pictures in your phone. Jungkook looks away from your phone when he finds you looking at him.

“ We are taking pictures” you say as you hold his wrist to stop him, raising the camera, you say, “ smile” as you click the picture. There was no chance for Jungkook to disagree.

Taking the picture you slide your phone in your pockets as you start walking faster towards the car since it is now in your view.

" come fast Mr. Bodyguard" you giggle looking back at him as you walk towards the car.

A small smile plays on his lips. Your random tactics make something inside him lively.

—---

You groan as you walk down the stairs, it's past 8pm at night. Not a single cell in your body wants to go to his party but at the same point you don't want your dad to be calling you and asking you to go. That's the thing your dad never saw anything bad in Jae but you do. Your gut instincts say something is up the way he looks at you, he touches you unknowingly or maybe knowingly and with his presence beside you.

“ Let's go,” you say as you stand beside Jungkook's sitting figure on the couch. He looks up at you before nodding.

“ Put on your seatbelt” he reminds you when he sees you just sitting there with slouched shoulders. You lazily put your seatbelt on.

“ Why are you going if you don't want to?” Jungkook finally asks to be done with seeing you with a lethargic face.

“ I don't want to but ugh I have to because that idiot might ask dad to urge me to go and eventually I'll have to listen to dad” you explain.

“ Let's go and come back quick” he tries to reassure you as you nod.

Reaching the venue you are not surprised to see the chaos. Is he celebrating his birthday or is he having some grand club opening?

The number of people, the reeking smell of booze and colourful lights, it's all too annoying. Jungkook keeps walking while being close to you, his hand preventing drunk bodies from hitting yours, his gaze fierce as he examines everyone and everything harmful for you.

You go and stand near the food stalls. Tasty starters are present there but you are in no mood to have anything the sweet taste of coffee from earlier still present on your tongue. Jungkook stands beside you quietly as a matter of fact he too wishes to get over this party. The venue doesn't give too safe of a vibe as intoxicated dudes and girls are all around the place. Some grinding, some making out or some almost naked.

You look towards the dance floor where Jae is busy dancing with a girl, a glass of wine in his hand, his hips moving sensually with the girl's hips. You did tell your dad about the invitation and he wastes no time sending a gift for Jae.

Thank God, he saved so much of your energy.

“ Let's have a drink” you say as you look towards Jungkook. You turn around ordering a single mojito while he orders a juice.

You are surprised when suddenly you are turned around by your other hand. You barely manage to stabilize your drink as some of it spills on your hands. Jungkook is quick to take actions as he pulls his hands away from your wrist, his fierce eyes being an invitation for a fight.

You as always hate these tactics of Jae but not wanting to create a scene at his birthday party you try to pull Jungkook's hand back. You whisper a ‘ I can handle’ in his ears when he doesn't seem to lose his grip, making Jae’s face twist in pain.

You pull his hands back as his fierce eyes leave Jae’s figure who awkwardly smiles at him. Jungkook continues drinking his juice.

“ So you finally came! I knew you wouldn't ignore my request” he squeals with what you assume is some fake happiness cause there's no reason.

“ Unfortunately you left me no chance” you say making sure he knows his tactics are worse and that you aren't interested in being here even a bit. Jae just smiles as he tries to get closer to you to get you in a hug but is pushed back when Jungkook holds your fist around the strings of the gift bag and slams the gift bag which you were holding on his chest in a way pushing his intoxicated body back.

Jungkook's stare is cold and deadly, his jaw locked as he murmured “ your gift” to jae.

You sigh, knowing jungkook will stand his guards.

A/n: finally it's posted. We have to hit the small goal of 80 notes then the next chapter will be posted. The next chapter will pull them closer. And and and! There's a oneshot I am working on so stay tuned.

(yes, I increased the goal cause I am yet not done with the fic and will need some more time)

[gossippool]

it's after their first mission together that wade and logan share their first kiss.

the fight leading up to the time ripper took place right outside their apartment with barely any witnesses around, so the journey back home was short and quiet with no prying eyes. after that, it took a while for logan to get out of the house on the regular, but when he eventually did, it was just to walk or carry out errands, and in civilian clothes, he blended in with everyone else. it's different when they get called on a mission for the first time.

it's not a hard mission by any means, but it's brutal. he and wade subdue a dozen men on the streets, chase a final one down to the underground, and turn him over to the police. by the end of it all, the sun is going down, and people are travelling home from work. logan's suit is torn, and his bare arms are caked with dirt and dried blood.

a cab would be the typical mode of transport for them after a mission, but they're already at the station, anyway, so they decide to take the train. a busker sings at the platform with a guitar, a lulling, bittersweet thing, like the soundtrack to a life not deserving of such a melody. in the exhaustion and setting sun, it makes logan long for something he can't name. but they'll be home soon.

they board the train. he leans against one of the poles, feels the cool of the metal seep through his suit and into his spine. the music fades out, and what fades in in its place is the conversation and laughter of the others in the train car. a group of teenagers out having fun, businessmen in suits off work, older people with their grandkids or their shopping bags. wade's warmth opposite him, mask moving as he chatters.

he tries to listen, he really does, but as the train speeds through the tunnel, he feels stares turn slowly towards him from all sides. he smells their slight fear, their judgement, over the odour of him and wade. he realises all at once what he must look like, dirty and covered in blood that can't be his for his lack of open wounds. his exposed knuckles a darker red than the rest of his hands. he covers one hand with the other, unclenches his fists.

he's not one to care about what others think. not before, at least. he's used to glares of resentment and pity for what he did, eyes following him everywhere he went like the phantoms of those he killed. but these people don't know what he's done, and they stare at him all the same. it's almost worse.

for a brief moment, just a moment, he feels a stab of hopelessness. coming to this world felt like a second chance, a chance to start over without the world having to bear the knowledge of his inadequacies. but what if that isn't possible? what if this is all this world ever sees of him? the aftermath, the bloodstained hands, the aged lines of his face that tell them what they want to know. he's no one here, except when people remember him like this.

"peanut?"

wade's voice snaps him out of it, and when he looks up, wade has pulled his mask off. he's about to apologise for not listening when wade smiles slightly at him. it's enough to take the words out of his mouth. wade doesn't ask if logan's okay, but his eyes flicker almost imperceptibly over the other occupants of the train car. then he places a delicate hand on logan's waist and steps closer to him, until he can feel his breath ghosting his lips.

logan just looks up at him, breath caught in his throat. what? he thinks of asking. he doesn't.

wade's other hand trails up to cup his cheek. "let them stare," he says. "they don't know anything."

then he leans down and presses his lips to logan's. the train emerges out of the tunnel and bathes the car in golden light, and all the rest of it fades away.

wade steps back eventually, and logan wants to chase his lips, but instead watches as the shadows of his scars dance across his face with the path of the dying sun. he's so beautiful, logan thinks. he's home.

wade is right; let them stare. all he wants is to find his way home, just like everyone else. that's all anyone wants. and they're all on the same train home.

[finalgtrl]

To Love a Dragon’s Shadow (Chapter One)

Fandom: House of the Dragon / A Song of Ice and Fire

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen × Original Female Character

Genre: Slow burn, angst, forbidden love, political tension, family drama, coming of age

Warnings: Canon divergence, emotional themes, mature content later

“They say Targaryens are born to rule — so why was I made to watch?”

Living in someone else’s shadow isn’t always the best way to go through life — especially when you’re a Targaryen. But I had no choice. I was born with hair as black as coal and, to make things worse, three minutes after my brother, the future king.

Not that I believe being born first would’ve made any difference to my sweet mother — the future queen. It’s her I mean when I speak of living in someone’s shadow.

Lucerys and Jace never matched the power or beauty I possess, and still, I love them. Especially my dear brother Jacaerys. I hold no resentment over him being chosen by our mother to be king. It was obvious. I know it wouldn’t have been fair, and I never had any desire to be queen anyway.

The truth is, I believe two queens in a row would be too much for the Seven Kingdoms to accept.

My dragon hatched the same day I turned four.

She was small — fragile even — with scales that shimmered like onyx in the sunlight. They said she wouldn’t last a moon’s turn. They were wrong. I named her Vhaelyx, after a lost Valyrian tale my mother used to tell us before bed. No one thought I’d bond with a dragon at all, not with hair like mine and blood that some dared to question. But Vhaelyx chose me.

And with her, I found a piece of myself no one could take away.

While my brothers trained with wooden swords and dreamed of glory, I spent hours with Vhaelyx near the cliffs, feeling the sea wind in my face and the fire in her breath. I wasn’t like them. I didn’t want to be.

Still, I watched. I listened. I learned.

That’s what shadows do. They observe — and they remember.

I was turning eleven — though technically, Jace turned eleven three minutes before me, and he never let me forget it.

The Great Hall at Dragonstone was filled with laughter, music, and the scent of spiced wine and roasted meats. But I wasn’t really paying attention to any of it. My eyes kept drifting to the corner of the room, where Aemond stood like a misplaced shadow, arms crossed, eyes sharp. He hadn’t spoken to anyone all evening, not even to his mother.

He always looked at me like that — like he wanted to say something but didn’t trust the words to come out right. And maybe I looked at him the same way.

There was something in him I recognized. A stillness. A hunger to be seen, but a fear of what being seen truly meant.

So I slipped away from the crowd, past the tables and servants and the prying eyes of the court, and ducked behind one of the stone pillars near the back — where the platters of lemon cakes and sweet tarts had been placed, mostly forgotten.

“Are you coming or not?” I called softly, not looking back.

I heard the shuffle of boots against stone. Then silence. And then, slowly, Aemond appeared beside me.

“We’ll get in trouble,” he muttered, though his hand was already reaching for a cake.

“Only if we get caught.” I smirked, handing him the softest one.

He took it without meeting my gaze, but I caught the faintest hint of a smile pulling at the corner of his lips. Just barely there — but enough.

We sat there in silence, the music of the hall muffled by stone and distance. I didn’t ask why he came. He didn’t ask why I invited him.

But I knew. And I think… so did he.

We didn’t speak again after that day.

It was strange — how easily silence settled between us. We looked at each other one last time, then turned and walked in opposite directions, as if the moment had never happened. But I remembered it. I remembered the warmth of the stolen cakes, the flicker of a smile, and how, for a brief second, I didn’t feel like a shadow.

Then came Joffrey.

Our mother, Rhaenyra, gave birth in the early morning, and by midday, the halls of Dragonstone were thick with whispers. The birth of a prince always stirred talk — but this time, it felt heavier, sharper. We knew what people were saying. Even at our age, we understood the looks.

Jace, Luke, and I walked together to our mother’s chambers. I remember the weight of the silence between us, broken only by the soft shuffle of our steps. Jace kept close to me, our shoulders brushing, and even though he tried to act brave, I could feel his hand twitch slightly, like he wanted to hold mine but wasn’t sure he should.

When we entered, the room was warm and dim. The scent of blood and lavender clung to the air. Mother was lying in bed, pale but radiant, cradling the newborn against her chest. Laenor stood nearby, a proud yet distant smile on his lips. He looked like a man doing his best to play the role expected of him.

And then there was Harwin.

He was at the edge of the room, arms crossed, eyes soft — the only man who ever looked at me like I was made of something more than duty or bloodlines.

“There she is,” he said when he saw me, his voice quiet but warm. “My little flame.”

I never asked why he called me that. I just liked the way it sounded — like I was something bright. Like I was his.

I hurried to Mother’s side, climbing onto the bed as gently as I could. She smiled at me, tired but glowing, and reached out with her free arm to pull me close. I leaned against her, careful not to disturb the baby. He was so small — red-faced and wrinkled, like a bundle of fire wrapped in soft cloth.

“Meet your brother,” she whispered to us, and I remember thinking he looked like a secret. One the realm would try to tear apart before he even had a name.

But in that moment, none of it mattered.

Back then, I still believed Mother could protect us from anything. That as long as we stayed close, no one could touch us.

The afternoon sun spilled through the stone windows, warming the cold floor of the smaller hall in Dragonstone. Jace, Luke, and I were sitting on the ground, surrounded by cushions, bits of bread, and fruits we had “borrowed” from the kitchens.

“You should’ve seen his face!” Jace was laughing so hard he could barely get the words out. “He looked like a soaked little mouse!”

“I did not!” Luke snapped, cheeks flushing red. “The dragon only sneezed in my direction, that’s all!”

“You were covered in goo, Luke,” I said, trying to keep a straight face — and failing miserably. “It looked like someone dumped an entire soup on you.”

Jace fell back from laughing, nearly knocking over one of the bowls. Luke crossed his arms and tried to look angry, but with his hair still messy from the morning’s dragon training, it was hard to take him seriously.

“One day my dragon will breathe real fire,” he muttered, trying to sound dignified. “And then you’ll see.”

“Of course, of course,” Jace said, rolling his eyes. “First it spits slime, then fire. It’s in the growth phase.”

“You’re both insufferable,” Luke grumbled, though a smile was already tugging at the corner of his lips.

I laid down between them, staring up at the tall stone ceiling. Sometimes I forgot how good it felt to just be with my brothers like this — away from the judging eyes, from the whispers about blood and names, away even from the shadow of a war we didn’t yet know was coming.

In those moments, it was just us. Children laughing, teasing, and sharing stolen fruit as if the world outside didn’t exist.

After Jace and Luke had fallen asleep in the hall, tangled in cushions and crooked blankets, I slipped away in silence. I wandered through the stone corridors, guided only by the torches flickering on the walls. It was late, but I knew where he’d be.

Harwin always stayed a little longer, watching, guarding — as if protecting us was something that came naturally to him.

I found him in the courtyard, sitting on the stone steps with his sword resting at his side and his elbows on his knees. He turned his head the moment he heard my footsteps. He didn’t look surprised. Somehow, I think he always knew when I needed him.

“Can’t sleep?” he asked.

I shook my head and sat beside him, hugging my knees to my chest. We stayed quiet for a while, listening to the sea crashing against the rocks below the castle.

“Do you think I’m different?” I asked suddenly, not looking at him. “Different from Jace and Luke.”

He took a moment to answer.

“You’re all different,” he said finally, his voice soft. “But not in the way you think.”

I turned to him, and Harwin was looking at me with that calm, steady gaze — the same one he used when teaching me to ride or when breaking up fights between the boys.

“There’s a fire in you that you don’t understand yet,” he continued. “And that’s alright. You’ll understand when it’s time. But don’t ever think that makes you less. Never.”

My eyes stung, and for a second, I thought I might cry. But then he wrapped a strong arm around my shoulders and pulled me close, just like he used to when I was smaller. I rested my head on his shoulder and closed my eyes.

Lying in my bed, I stared at the ceiling for a long time, thinking about the “fire” Harwin spoke of. Sometimes I feel like he sees something in me that even I can’t understand. I feel comfortable around him. Safe. Something I never felt with Laenor.

Officially, he’s my father. But I’m not stupid. I’ve always known the truth.

I remember the day I caught my mother kissing Harwin. I was young, but I knew exactly what was happening. After that, she told me I wasn’t allowed to enter her chambers without knocking — “for decorum,” she said. But I knew better. From then on, I never needed further confirmation.

I like Harwin — he’s kind, warm, fun… but sometimes I wonder: didn’t my mother have other options? Someone, I don’t know, with white hair like hers? Not that hair defines everything, but with all the filthy things Aegon keeps saying, the city seems full of pale-haired bastards. If she wanted to hide something, she could’ve at least tried harder.

Like it or not, we’re marked. Everyone knows what we are. Aegon’s mocking looks, Aemond’s twisted little smirks, and most of all, Alicent’s cold gaze… they say it all.

She doesn’t like me. And believe me — the feeling is mutual.

She was the one who forbade me from training with the boys.

I remember the conversation well. I must’ve been nine.

“Princess,” she said, without even looking at me, her hands folded as she stood by the window offering a quiet prayer to the Mother. “Your place is not among swords and armor. A lady, especially one born a princess, must carry herself with grace. You should spend more time with Helaena. I’m sure she would enjoy sharing her readings with you.”

“But I don’t like just reading…” I dared to mumble.

That’s when she looked at me. Truly looked at me. Her eyes were sharp, as if every word that left my mouth offended her sensibilities.

“Whether you like it or not is irrelevant. You have duties. And your duty is to represent your mother with dignity. Imagine what they’d say, seeing you covered in dirt and bruises like some ordinary boy…” She paused, her voice sharper than ever. “There are already too many whispers surrounding you.”

She didn’t have to say anything else. I understood perfectly.

I even tried asking the king. I wanted so badly to train… But of course, Alicent spoke first and said he was far too fragile to waste time on “childish nonsense.” Nonsense. That’s what she thinks of anything that comes from me.

I had already asked my mother too, though deep down, I knew she would never allow it. “My daughter, my sweet and pure little girl, so beautiful…” I roll my eyes just remembering her voice, sweet and fake. As if she hadn’t gone through similar things when she was younger.

When I once questioned her about it, she simply said, “I wanted to be queen, not a warrior.”

But I am not her.

I wanted to be like Visenya. A true warrior — strong, feared, respected.

Why is it that everything I want always seems to be wrong?

I want to fly far away with my dragoness, protect her, defend my family, fight if I must. But my mother’s plans for me are quite different. She wants to turn me into a proper lady, a breeder of half a dozen children for some nobleman she’ll choose.

That’s what’s expected of me — to smile, wave, get married, and fade into the shadow of a name that won’t even be mine.

But I’m a Targaryen. And I was made for more.

Every morning, before the sun has fully risen, I walk toward the caves behind the Keep. That’s where Vhaelyx waits for me. Even though I’m now allowed to fly, I’ve never forgotten the first time.

It wasn’t long ago that we flew together for the first time. Vhaelyx grew quickly — much faster than Aegon’s or even Jace’s dragons. Even as a youngling, she was larger than the others her age. Wild. Powerful.

That day, no one knew. I felt it — every part of me knew it was time.

She looked at me.

It wasn’t just a look — it was like she called to me without a single word. Her eyes met mine, and suddenly, I knew. I knew Vhaelyx was born to be mine. And I was hers. The sky was waiting for us.

I climbed onto her back, my heart pounding so loud I could barely hear my own thoughts. When she spread her wings and took off, the world vanished beneath me. The wind on my face, the endless sky around us, her roar tearing through the clouds… I had never felt so alive.

I ran away that day. Left everyone in a panic, searching for me as if I had vanished. And in a way, I had — vanished from everything that held me down. In that flight, I found who I truly was.

Now, with everyone’s permission, I can fly. But I still dream of feeling that again — that absolute freedom. That joy that only exists far from the walls of the kingdom, far from judgment, far from the roles they try to force on me.

When we landed on the warm rocks near the Keep, one of my mother’s handmaids was already waiting, breathless.

“Princess, your mother wishes to see you in her chambers.”

I tried to hide my smile. I still felt the wind on my skin. My feet barely touched the ground.

I rushed toward Rhaenyra’s quarters. She was seated by the window, as if she already knew I’d come in smiling.

“Mother?”

She turned to me with that familiar look — equal parts tired and loving.

“I asked them to fetch you because… well, the king has granted permission for you to watch the boys’ training,” she said, pausing to watch my reaction.

“Really?!” I couldn’t hold back the joy. I ran to her and hugged her tightly. “Thank you!”

She brushed her hand through my hair and sighed.

“It was your grandfather’s request. The king believes it will be good for you… even if only as an observer. No swords, for now.”

I nodded, still holding her, my heart warm.

It wasn’t much — but it was a beginning.

The training yard echoed with the sound of clashing swords, shouts of encouragement, and the clink of armor. I sat in the shade of a stone gallery, hands folded in my lap, trying not to show how fast my heart was beating. It was my first time officially watching the training, with permission — and even if I couldn’t participate, just being there felt special.

Jace and Luke were sparring with wooden swords, laughing as if it were all a game. Aegon, a little farther off, showed off against another squire, overdoing his movements like he had an invisible audience to impress.

And then I saw Aemond.

He wasn’t laughing. He wasn’t seeking attention. His strikes were precise, focused — he moved with purpose, like each training session was a real battle. His silver hair fell over his eyes as he twisted his sword with practiced ease. It was impossible not to notice him.

Our eyes met for a brief moment. I couldn’t tell if he was looking for me, or if it just happened by chance — but his gaze locked onto mine. And for a second, the world around us went completely still.

He didn’t smile. Neither did I.

But something was there.

It wasn’t like the day with the hidden cakes. Now there was distance between us. A certain hesitation. Or maybe just too many unspoken memories of that innocent moment we never talked about again.

Still, he looked at me. And I looked back.

But then he turned away, returned to his training, pretending like nothing had happened.

And I did the same.

A few days before, Luke had told me what happened between the boys. About that so-called “gift” — a pig with paper wings tied to its back. A “dragon” for Aemond.

I thought it was awful.

Cruel.

Since I learned about it, I’d started seeing Aemond differently. Not with pity — he would never allow that. But with… respect. He had no dragon, yet still trained harder than any of them, fought with more determination.

Maybe that’s why I couldn’t look away.

The sun was already high when the mood of the training began to shift. What had once been laughter and light sparring turned into something… cruel.

Criston Cole walked among the boys like a king in his own court, his voice sharp, his gaze full of judgment. But not toward everyone. With Aegon, his words carried a sense of pride. With Aemond, encouragement. But when he addressed Jace and Luke, there was disdain. Subtle, almost invisible — but clear to anyone truly watching.

Like me.

“Advance with more strength, Prince Aegon,” Criston said with a smirk. “Show your cousin how to wield a sword properly.”

I looked at Jace, struggling to hold his stance as Aegon came at him with strikes far too harsh for a mere practice. I saw Luke tense beside me, his fists clenched, wanting to step in but unsure if he should.

And no one did anything.

“This isn’t training,” I muttered, turning to the king beside me. “They’re mocking him. They’re trying to hurt Jace.”

Viserys sighed, as if too tired to face any of it.

“They’re just boys playing,” he said weakly, the way he always did when avoiding ghosts of his own making.

I clenched my fists, my stomach twisting with anger.

Playing? This?

I felt the heat rise through me like fire in my veins. Jace stumbled from one of Aegon’s blows, and Criston didn’t even try to hide the satisfied look on his face. My brother got up quickly, trying not to show how embarrassed he was.

That’s when Harwin stepped forward.

“This has gone too far,” he said, voice firm, eyes blazing.

“Too far… why?” Criston asked, his tone dripping with mockery. “Because you’re concerned for the Prince? Or for your son?”

Silence sliced through the yard like a blade.

I held my breath. Everyone froze. All eyes turned to Harwin, who stood still for a second.

And then, he exploded.

The sound of the punch was sharp and brutal. Criston staggered, but struck back just as hard. Chaos erupted — guards rushing to separate them, the boys watching wide-eyed.

But me… I only looked at Jace. And at Luke.

They stood there, in the middle of it all, like they were to blame for something they never chose to be.

And in that moment, I made a silent promise: no one would ever hurt my brothers again. Not while I was around.

And then, almost without meaning to, my eyes drifted toward Aemond.

He hadn’t joined the laughter. He hadn’t mocked anyone. He stood still, watching the chaos, jaw clenched, a storm in his eyes.

And I wondered — what did he see when he looked at me?

[twilightkitkat]

Ok two things

1) I genuinely can't remember if I've asked this before but I would LOVE your take of the lingering after effects of the rant in the Honda Odyssey. Mainly because I'm going to talk about it again because it means a lot to me (Hugh Jackman my beloved you beautiful beautiful actor)

2) If you can make a tag specifically for the asks It would make navigation 10 times easier because I don't have an easy way of checking what I have and haven't asked (also sometimes I just want to read through everything you've said in response to stuff)

I've said a few things about the Odyssey before but I don't think I've ever answered an ask specifically about it. I have a short fanfic about this topic, actually. (Also good idea, I hadn't thought of adding a tag. I decided to tag my posts with #asks if you want to filter through them.)

The thing about Wade is that he tries to sweep his feelings under the rug. All the time. No matter how hurt he is. He tries to bottle up his feelings because he thinks they're stupid and that they make him vulnerable but they get to be too much and eventually, he bursts. So he holds all of his resentment and pain and fear inside of him, acting composed and unaffected, until he finally reaches a breaking point. And when he breaks, he breaks hard.

The issue with this is that because he's so good at acting fine, other people think he's fine. Or, well, as "fine" as Wade normally was. Everyone knew Wade had a few screws loose and that he was prone to impulsive behavior, but that was just common knowledge by now. He's insane but that's just how he is. But Wade is exceptionally good at masking genuine hurt as insanity and recklessness, so when his true emotions spill over it shocks those around him. He doesn't give any visible indication he feels upset until he suddenly snaps.

The Honda Odyssey is the same. Things are going shockingly smooth between Logan and Wade at first. They focus on doing missions for the TVA and through mercenary organizations together and manage to scrap together something resembling a routine. Wade distracts himself with the thrill of his new life so he doesn't have enough time to ponder or dissect his own emotions. Nothing good ever comes of that, anyway.

But Logan's words stick with Wade. Of course they do, how could they not? He took apart everything he shared with him and used it against him. He dug into every fucking pressure point, rubbing all his insecurities raw. And so naturally, they boil over.

It doesn't have to be a big event. They can just be washing the dishes and Logan makes a joke, or watching a show together. But suddenly it's all rushing back to Wade and the emotions are overwhelming in their intensity and he's breaking down and snapping at Logan, who's confused about what's wrong.

And Wade... doesn't know what to say. Because how can he explain that he's still hung up on a stupid speech Logan gave ages ago? It's embarrassing and childish, especially when he knows it's all true.

And he knows it is. Wade's turned it over in his head when he couldn't sleep, rolled the syllables over his own tongue, and replayed Logan's expressions as he spat the words out. Logan meant it. And he was right, Wade is pathetic. He's fucked up and isn't cut out to be anyone's hero and he's so unlovable that he couldn't keep the only girl who loved him despite his disfigured avocado face.

He knows and yet it still hurt for Logan to say it. For his hero, someone he looked up to and admired, to look and see him in all his glory only to spit in his face. To hear it confirmed by someone whose opinion mattered to him.

It sticks with him. It festers and grows and gnaws at him. He watches Logan for any signs of disappointment or contempt, is especially careful to bring up his past relationships, and remains on edge. He doesn't let himself fully relax or get comfortable. He keeps an eye on the door, waiting for Logan to walk out.

But he's fine. He's managing. Until suddenly it boils over and he isn't and he has to look Logan in the face and explain why he flinched when Logan yelled at him over something stupid.

[palesweetscherryblossom]

King Naga Shigaraki x Royalty Reader

-Naga & Humans have been beefing for years, thanks to competing for the same resources and of course, AFO stoking the flames of that -Eventually, the two simply decided to stay in their own lanes respectively. Only interacting when it came to trade or economic matters. -There was a golden rule, never EVER start anything on either side. To do so would result in a shitstorm. -Shigaraki was crowned prince after being adopted by AFO. He was feared, respected and beloved by his subjects. Tomura crowned himself king after murdering AFO in a battle for power. -Your family is a modestly sized royal family, powerful but not too big. You are the youngest of your brother and sister, aged 20. -Whilst your brothers harbored a resentment towards the naga, you stayed in your own lane. -Then, one of them did something stupid, dreadfully stupid. You eldest brother had made the horrible decision to attempt to raid one of Shigaraki’s villages, only to be met with Tomura’s furious royal court. -Your brother had attempted to steal valuable jewelry and even tried to abduct Lady Himiko as ransom. If it wasn’t for Jin then Toga would’ve probably made minced meat out of his face. -Tomura was outraged that puny arrogant Prince had the audacity to try and attack his people. So, he was going to be a little shit right back -Your parents were swiftly met with an invite to Tomura’s royal court as to discuss this matter. And they were instructed to bring their family. -“What have you done to my land and people is unforgivable. But I’m willing to forgive if you give me something of value in exchange for your pathetic son.” -Your parents were shaken, no doubt that Tomura wouldn’t hesitate to send his angry court after them. -Then, your eldest sister got an idea. The girl had never liked you, for your elegance, beauty and the fact that you were blossoming into a beautiful person made her rage with jealousy. -So, why not pawn you off to the Naga beast and not only get you out of the way but gain some other benefits. Like more land, materials, food and extra military service?

“I have an idea your majesty!” The court turned to your scheming sister, Tomura seemed rather unimpressed. “I humbly offer you my sibling in exchange for our brother.”

-Everyone was shocked, including you. How dare she try to pawn you off?! You opened your mouth to object but were swiftly glared at by your parents and siblings. -Tomura and his court contemplated it, a murmur of intrigued hissing swept across the room before Tomura answered. He would take you as his mate, perhaps they could repair tensions and Kurogiri was nagging him about finding a mate. -Thus, your new life began

[randomuser678]

I love how most Batman villains have a genderbend version of them, specially bc as a trans woman I want to read into them being trans

Like, the Ventriloquist's design is of a mild mannered boring looking man who contrasts with his puppet Scarface who's much more rude and greedy, it feels like Scarface is a way for his ventriloquist to express his more rude side while distancing himself from them.

Now on my read where she's a trans woman there would be two layers of repression here, Ventriloquist personified her "masculine" side into the puppet who acts like a stereotypical tough guy, a rude bossy mafia leader, and she became a sexy trophy wife for him, this way she separates herself from the undesirable masculine traits, as well as becoming a love interest to a man who makes all the decisions for her, she only exists to support him, she finally made it to cisnormative and heteronormative ideals of femininity! It comes off as a tragic clinging to idealized femininity and male approval on a way I really relate to.

Clayface also has a really good portrayal of Dysphoria since in the versions I've seen they're an actor who hates their own face and got into a drug that would make their face easy to remold, then it went horribly wrong and now their entire body is moldable, Lady Clayface didn't have to change that general backstory for it to work at all, and the theme of beauty is common on female villains, but tbh I love this one specifically because of the trans read being more obvious, and this is the one case where a character didn't have to change backstories at all for the female version, she can still be a former actor with dysphoria that later gains shapeshifting powers, it's almost a happy ending for her now that she can change her shapes even if it's still tragic.

Calendar girl has a similar theme (Although she's both a version of Calendar man but also The Manikin) where she's a former celebrity who's horrified by her appearance under the mask and is "aging out" of her career, her attacking themed on holidays is both a mockery of her job as a model and needing to keep up with trends and also to show her resentment towards the passage of time, it's a really fun mix of characters and my trans read of her would be similar to Clayface. Also how youth and beauty is valued in society as a whole and older trans people in general are ignored on the mainstream.

And because the comic book world is really hostile towards genderbends (see Oswald from the newest Batman cartoon) a lot of them have instead characters who co-exist with their male counterparts, that was the case for the Ventriolquist since she just took the role from the previous one, but sometimes they do what they did here:

Madame Crow is part of the Victim Syndicate, a group of people who were victims of different villains and now resent Batman for not saving them, their powers are now ironic mirrors to the characters they were victimized by, and on Madame Crow's case, where she was a victim of the fear toxins from the Scarecrow, she made toxins that completely rid a person of any fear or self-preservation. And idk the fact that she wants to create something that gets rid of fears and repression just comes off as queer to me even though it was obviously not intentional, it's just that on a version where she IS the Scarecrow I would love how thematically fitting it all is.

I've seen pieces about how Batman is inherently queer bc super heroes and villains as a whole empower themselves through creating an alternative persona on an over the top camp way that's basically drag.

Some male villains have female sidekicks, Sugar and Spice, Query and Echo, and I guess those are harder to read as female personas of the same character like how I've been doing, but idk, you can rewrite the stories however you like to make these work, maybe twoface is bigender and flips a coin to decide which gender they're going with, that would be on theme. You can do anything ever with these characters.

Also I never understood why ppl were mad about Oswalda, every version of Batman changes backstories around, why is changing a character's gender or whatever completely out of line with that they've already been doing for decades? Anyways I'm trans and this is all.

[canis4christ]

i have 2 christen dis blawg with plf shigaraki but i forgot how 2 put thoughts into txt after tumblr sabbatical buhhh give me a minute -_-;

yes, ok—

Shigaraki and his harem of beautiful little lambs who worship the ground he walks on because their grand commander is so brave, so smart; so handsome, so kind.

Following him around the mountain villa, hands intertwined, nervously mouthing locks of their hair and shushing each other’s giggle fits and excited whispers just to scamper off like skittish foals when he turns to see them all watching him from behind fluted columns and newly-erected statues that have been chiseled in his likeness.

Sitting together at assemblies (that feel to them closer to sermons), writing his name in their journals and sealing it with penciled hearts, doodling his noble features and tired eyes while they eagerly await what scant wisdom he’ll provide that day.

Embroidered emblems and flowers from the garden. Trinkets and cards that wish for him to ‘Get Well Soon’ and letters of reverence and gratitude that read more like billets-doux all neatly arranged in a small shrine outside his bedroom door.

'You’ve touched our hearts, and soon, very soon, we all hope to be wholly liberated, just as you are and always will be.'

Sometimes—not often, but certainly sometimes—one of them will muster up enough courage to approach him, trembling and stumbling over her words, offering clumsy praise or a hesitant question while the others look on nervously, jealously, from across the dining hall.

What remains of the now-defunct League of Villains finds their fixation on him amusing, if not entirely bewildering. Some find it so, though not all. Others find it uncomfortable, and when discussed at length and in confidence, they might even find it worrisome.

It’s a strangely warm welcome to give to a new age conqueror—an overnight man who doubles as the murderer of their foolhardy friends and family who tried to put an end to him and his. The blood on his hands hasn't even dried, and yet, he's revered as their champion, their savior. It's all grossly unnecessary, he thinks, but…

“—the girls have taken a shine to you especially.”

“Yeah, well… whatever. As long as they stay out of my way.”

not unappreciated.

He tried to brush it off at first, dismissing their devotion as naive. Pathetic, even.

What do they take me for? he wonders. Their savior? Some kind of second-rate messiah?

But the word he's looking for, the word he knows very well, is far less righteous, though it seems to stir something far greater in him than any spiritual designation ever could. That word is hero. And to him, to his soul—if such a thing exists—that word has always felt right.

Fear is something he understands, something he’s comfortable with. But being feared is a fleeting kind of control. With enough time and exposure, anyone, yes, even the weak, can rise above their paranoias and phobias, shake it off like stressed dogs after a tangle, and go about their miserable little lives in a kind of pseudo-peace—a kind of willful ignorance.

And that's what he wants is it not? To feel in control? Is that not what it means to be wholly liberated?

The word for what he wants doesn't come as easily as the word for what he is. Can't. Because what he wants is to be loved for reasons other than personal gain and psychological warfare, and you just don't know what you don't know. Can't.

He takes to the girls like a shepherd to his flock.

And they swarm him like flies.

Because it isn’t enough to just have his attention, not when any girl with lashes long enough to bat can get that much from him. And his hesitant smiles and awkward thank-yous feel closer to bread crumbs when you're starving for his touch and his grace.

There has to be more. You have to be more.

Special. Singular.

A sort of... cold war begins. The girls, still unified by their devotion to him, grow to resent one another. After all, does anybody really want to share? If it upsets your tummy to picture another girl holding his hand, and it breaks your heart to watch another lean too close and press her soft, pliant body against his firm one, can that be considered fair? Or is it just another line drawn in the sand? Separating the enslaved from the liberated.

How quickly chaste pecks on the cheek become desperate tongue kisses when emboldened by jealousy and competition.

Why present him with gifts when you yourself can be presented—expose your body to him, sell your soul, proffer your maidenhood to be claimed and conquered.

His inexperience with attention of this nature is evident in his hesitancy. The behavior isn't reciprocated, but… it isn't discouraged, not anymore, anyway. If anything, he's noticeably more submissive, paralyzed by what’s familiar—phantom touches, wanted-unwanted advances—succumbing to the whims of his nymphettes as they suckle his tongue and pet the tension from his muscles—neck to groin, chest and back, groin again. And again. And again.

Petting, rubbing, squeezing. Greedy for approval and exception. Greedy for him, for the pulse of his cock in hand, on tongue, down a painfully small throat that feels as good as it does wrong. Lusting for a glimpse of his sharp, princely face squished between plush thighs, his tongue and lips, without practice, dog-bowling whatever makes you squeal the loudest and suffocate him silent.

Brutish in approach. Fucking too quick and too hard. Sweating and humping, awkward and insistent. Groaning with every “I love you!” and tug at his powder-white roots, climaxing with promises of total destruction and salvation from false idols and hollowness.

And so, the former leader—now exalted as Grand Commander, as God—spends what little time he has left on this earth, indulging in what he's never had. Allowing himself to be swept up in affection and praise, believing it to be an exercise in control, when all he's done is all he's ever done—

given himself up.

[ciciyup]

Control.

cw: brainwashing, slight yandere, manipulation, obsession, abuse of power, non-con, dark themes, moral ambiguity.

━━━━━━✧ 🦢 ✧━━━━━━

Darkness doesn't arrive suddenly; it seeps in, little by little, between the folds of a mind that once knew what light was. Shinso Hitoshi knew this. He knew that what he had done was beyond redemption, that he didn't even deserve his own forgiveness.

He had learned to smile. Not like the others, not with joy. But as a reflex, like a gesture learned over time to feign normality. Shinso Hitoshi knew how to behave, he knew how to look without seeming to look, he knew how to coexist without being noticed. And, above all, He knew when to keep quiet. He always had. At U.A., earned respect didn't entirely erase the echoes of old laughter. He had learned from a young age that not all quirks were welcome. His quirk, feared and misunderstood, put him in a different category than the rest. They regarded him with suspicion, distrusted his presence, and although he said he didn't care, a part of him did. It hurt him. It ached. The echo of those words continued to throb like a wound that never fully healed. “His quirk is dangerous.” “How do we know if he doesn’t control us when he wants to?” “He could be a villain with that power…” They said it quietly. Sometimes, they meant it more strongly than they said it. He knew it. He felt it.

But then you appeared. Powerful, charming, distant, disciplined. But not with him. With him, you were different from the start. You weren’t close at the sports festival. You hadn’t even met. But when he lost to Midoriya, when he found himself standing there, shoulders tense, pride shattered, it was you who approached him. There was no pity in your words, no false compassion. “Your quirk can be heroic if you are.” That day, you ignited something in him, something he couldn’t name. It wasn’t love, not at first. It was a spark. A need to be seen. To be recognized as something more than a dangerous tool. It was something subtler, deeper. A slow longing, cultivated with every gesture you made. Your calm voice. Your quiet strength. Your ability to see him as an equal. From then on, Shinso would watch you, not out of obsession back then, but out of admiration. They would cross paths in training, in the hallways, and even occasionally shared long silences sitting on the terrace, without needing to speak. You included him. You didn't need to tell him you were friends; he simply felt it. As the years passed, life at U.A. became more complex. Shinso managed to get into the hero class and gained everyone's respect... but the emptiness in his chest was never fully filled. You were still there, beautiful, distant, calm... with your measured way of speaking, your undeniable power, your unwavering presence. You were like a star to him: unattainable.

Then came Monoma. He didn't know when it started. You were always discreet to the bone, but Hitoshi was no fool. Not with you. He knew it long before they confirmed it with glances, absences, and details. They touched each other differently. They searched for each other in silence. Their fingers sometimes brushed against each other when they thought they were alone. He knew it from the way you changed. You became softer, more cheerful in Monoma's presence. The darkness Shinso had kept at bay began to grow. It wasn't anger at Monoma, not even resentment toward you. It was a storm in his chest, a need that bordered on desperation. He knew it. He knew he had no right to feel the way he felt. That he couldn't blame you. But the more he tried to shut down what he felt, the more that sick thought grew, that gnawing need: "Why wasn't it me?"

It was his last year at U.A. The sky was overcast. Gray, as if someone had covered the world with a wet blanket. The city was silent in the distance. The atmosphere was quieter than usual. You walked alone after leaving the practice room. Shinso saw you from afar, your calm steps, your hair stirred by a light breeze. He approached. He wasn't planning on doing it... or maybe he was. Maybe he'd been thinking about it for days. Maybe his mind had been breaking down in silence for too long.

—Hey —he greeted, with perfectly studied calm. As if he didn't just greet you like any other day. As if it were any other day.

—Hitoshi —you replied, nodding your head. You didn't see it coming. You trusted him. You considered him a close friend. Someone you could trust. And yet, it was everything he needed. You had no chance to sense it. No one did. No one would have imagined it. Not his friends. Not Aizawa. Not you.

—Follow me.

You were led effortlessly, in silence, to the secluded bathroom in one of the older blocks on campus. The one that almost no one used at that time of day. Where no one would see. Where no one would hear. You obeyed, without emotion, without judgment. Only the echo of an order in your mind, stuck like an invisible hook. Shinso closed the door behind him. You were still, without will, without awareness. Your gaze was empty.

—Kiss me.

You moved. You didn't hesitate. You didn't question. You clung to him, obedient. Your lips met his without desire, without passion, without meaning. But Shinso... Shinso felt every second like divine punishment. He kissed you as if it could fill the emptiness in his chest. As if he could erase Monoma's name from your lips. As if he could become that "someone" you had once chosen.

Shinso knew it was wrong; he knew it from the moment his quirk was used out of desire and not need. He simply didn't feel like himself. Not when your lips tasted like this. Not when their tongues intertwined like this. He took hold of the back of your neck, pulling you closer. He buried his face in your neck, kissed it. He breathed in your perfume, running his nose over your skin like a soft caress. He observed the small details on your neck, those intimate details that only a few would have the privilege of seeing. He touched and caressed your hips with a mixture of need and guilt. Shinso's hands trembled, not from fear, but from hunger. Hunger for something that would never belong to him. His heart pounded. But his mind… his mind screamed. He drew you even closer, if that were even possible. He kept touching you. With anxiety. With anger. With love. With admiration. With guilt. At one point, his head rested on your shoulder, and the silence fell; yet, Shinso didn't cry. He didn't reflect for a moment on what he'd done. He just stayed that way. He didn't quite destroy you, but he did steal something he shouldn't have.

And when he had had enough, when he felt on the verge of breaking, he let go of you with a mixture of bitter satisfaction and self-loathing. He looked up to meet your dull, cold, expressionless eyes. As if they could see right through him without you even seeing it in his actions. Ordering you to return to the starting point, you left the bathroom, and as he deactivated his quirk to free you, he looked at you silently, leaving only the echo of an empty conversation in your memory. You only blinked once. Your brow furrowed slightly, as if something didn't add up, and you continued to stare at him, with the same, detached look as always. You gave him a slight nod before walking away with firm steps, moving further and further away until your silhouette disappeared.

Shinso watched you walk away, feeling cold and hollow. A monster. He was the only one who had stayed there with the memory, with the crime. He didn't punish himself with words, he only felt. He felt his soul bend under the weight of his own betrayal. Because you trusted him. Because you were his friend. Because you were the only clean thing he thought he had, and he had soiled it. No one knew. Not even he wanted to fully acknowledge what he had done. Was there redemption? Could he make up for it by being a hero? Could he silence the echo in his head that reminded him that, in the end, he was exactly what everyone feared? A villain with the face of a hero. Perhaps his heroic actions made up for what he did, he told himself. Perhaps if he saved enough lives, if he became exemplary, he could redeem himself. Could a single sin bury all the good he had done? Could he bury such a dark truth under the guise of virtue?

He never spoke of it again. Not even to himself. But at night, when the world slept, his mind replayed the scene over and over again. Your name. Your eyes. Your body against his. And then silence. Because perhaps, that afternoon, in that gray cloud suspended between heaven and earth, he ceased to be the Hitoshi you thought you knew and became someone even he couldn't forgive. But he kept walking. Because only he knew what had happened, and he would never be able to confess it to anyone. What you didn't remember couldn't hurt you. But it did for him, and it slowly destroyed him. And sometimes, the guilt was so overwhelming that he wished someone would find out. To punish him. To tell him he didn't deserve to be a hero. Because Shinso didn't know if he was one anymore.

━━━━━━✧ 🦢 ✧━━━━━━

[writterracoon]

Hades 2

Lately, I've been a bit obsessed about Hades 2, I've been watching people play the test run , listening to compilations of interactions and scouring theories.

While doing all of that, I noticed something of a pattern, a theme that often came back and I think I may have found out one of the MAIN theme and conflict of the game and I've seen nobody talk about it yet, so here we go.

More under if you're not against being possibly spoiled.

I think one of the major themes of Hades 2 is going to be about Humanity and its complex relationship with the Gods, the way the gods treat mortals and the way mortals treat the gods.

here are my evidences

The interactions

the first thing that put me on this path was this interaction between Melinoe and Nemesis.

In this conversation, Nemesis and Melinoe are talking about Retribution and Justice and how Nemesis believes that Kronos taking over the underworld and challenging the Olympians may be what they deserve. Notice how Nemesis specifically mentions mortals and the Golden Age.

For those who don't know, in greek mythology the Golden Age was the first Era of Humanity and when Chronos was the ruler of the heavens. It was a time of peace and harmony for humanity where there existed no plague or famine, there was no need to work as they could simply pick their food from nature itself. They lived long lives, remaining youthful and died peacefully in their sleep.

Nemesis is I think trying to hint to Melinoe that maybe the situation is not exactly as black and white as it first seems and that humanity may have a bigger role in this than first thought.

A second interaction i want to bring to mind is about Moros and his relationship with mortals.

Here Moros admits that sometimes he because of was simply bored he would knowingly bring doom and pain to Mortals ending their lives painfully.

Archnea's interactions are also the strongest contenders for that theory, as they bring back that theme of divine cruelty, the gods view of mankind and how they callously treat them.

She has been wronged by the gods for the simple reason that she was better than them at something and they naturally couldn't stand it so they cursed her to live as a spider. She is filled with resentment for them and even warns Mel not to trust them. Also, note how she admits she fears the gods more than she fears Chronos.

2. Dora

Now Dora is a bit particular because we don't know much about her, but I have seen a theory and some interaction with Moros seem to be pointing toward it, which is that she might be Pandora, the original sinner of Greek mythology.

the myth of Pandora goes a bit like this: During the Golden Age, after Prometheus stole fire from the gods and gifted it to humanity, the gods decided to punish Prometheus by punishing humanity. They built Pandora, a woman beautiful beyond compare, and gave her a box full of the evils of the world. They then send her to seduce Epimetheus Prometheus's brother, who despite his brother's warning is promptly seduced by Pandora's beauty and welcomes her into his home. She then opened the box and released the evil of the world upon mankind, thus ending the Golden Age. Only hope stays inside the box.

Again if this is indeed true, it would follow the theme of the gods inflicting pain and suffering upon mankind for petty reasons, uncaring about the consequences of those actions.

3. Hades I

During the first game, many interactions points toward the gods general uncaring attitudes about mortals. Demeter thinks it was a mortal who stole her daughter away, so she decides that she will punish them all by starving them with an eternal winter. The other gods make almost mention of it only to say how much it annoys them.

4. Speculation

This part is not so much about evidences and more about speculations about the story of Hades 2 based upon my theory that mankind is going to be central in this tale.

The reason how Chronos is so powerfull, powerfull enough to free himself from Tartarus and claim the Underworld for himself, is that mortal were tired of being the gods' playthings and prayed to him, they prayed for his return, for the return of the golden age, where pain and suffering were unknown to them and the gods weren't using them for their own amusement.

The gods are going to have to deal with the fact that their poor treatment of humanity has consequences and those consequences are the return of Chronos and a second titonomachy.

Melinoe will propably have to face the fact that Chronos is wrong in challenging the gods and that the current status quo cannot be sustained any longer. The Olympian gods will have to change how they treat mankind if they wish to even have a stand a chance against chronos.

(TLDR, The Olympian gods have treated mankind like shit for a long time and now they are dealing with the consequences of those actions when the mortals are praying to Chronos to come back and restore back the golden Age where their lives weren't even half as awful. Melinoe will have to deal with the fact that her family might very well deserve what is happening to them and if she wishes to save them, the gods will have to change.)

[sanguinarysanguinity]

Hornblower Sex Scenes, Part Two: Lord Hornblower

Exhibit two, now with mommy kink! As requested by @verecunda.

New post and behind the cut, not so much because it's too explicit for tumblr, but to preserve the innocence of those who would prefer to first encounter this passage in its natural context:

~

Then the brittle artificial barrier between them broke and vanished as utterly as a punctured soap bubble. His was a temperament that longed for affection, for the proofs of love; but a lifetime of self-discipline in an unrelenting world had made it difficult, almost impossible, for him to let the fact appear. Within him there was always the lurking fear of a rebuff, something too horrible to risk. He always was guarded with himself, guarded with the world. And she, she knew those moods of his, knew them even while her pride resented them. Her stoic English upbringing had schooled her into distrusting emotion and into contempt for any exhibition of emotion. She was as proud as he was; she could resent being dependent on him for her life’s fulfilment just as he could resent feeling incomplete without her love. They were two proud people who had made, for one reason or another, self-centred self-sufficiency a standard of perfection to abandon which called for more sacrifice than they were often prepared to make.

But in these moments, with the shadow of separation looming over them, pride and resentment vanished, and they could be blessedly natural, each stripped of the numbing armour the years had built about them. She was in his arms, and her hands under his cloak could feel the warmth of his body through the thin silk of his doublet. She pressed herself against him as avidly as he grasped at her. In that uncorseted age she was wearing only the slightest whalebone stiffening at the waist of her gown; in his arms he could feel her beautiful body limp and yielding despite the fine muscles (the product of hard riding and long walking) which he had at last educated himself to accept as desirable in woman, whom he had once thought should be soft and feeble. Warm lips were against warm lips, and then eyes smiled into eyes.

“My darling! My sweet!” she said, and then lip to lip again she murmured the endearment of the childless woman to her lover, “My baby. My dear baby!”

The dearest thing she could say to him. When he yielded to her, when he put off his protective armour, he wanted to be her child as well as her husband; unconsciously he wanted the reassurance that, exposed and naked as he was, she would be true and loyal to him like a mother to her child, taking no advantage of his defenceless condition. The last reserve melted; they blended one into the other in that extremity of passion which they could seldom attain. Nothing could mar it now. Hornblower’s powerful fingers tore loose the silken cord that clasped his cloak; the unfamiliar fastenings of his doublet, the ridiculous strings of his trunk hose—it did not break into his mood to have to deal with them. Some time Barbara found herself kissing his hands, the long beautiful fingers whose memory sometimes haunted her nights when they were separated, and it was a gesture of the purest passion without symbolism. They were free for each other, untrammelled, unhindered, in love. They were marvellously one, and one even when it was all over; they were complete and yet not sated. They were one even when he left her lying there, when he glanced into the mirror and saw his scanty hair madly tousled.

[dreadfutures]

Happy DADWC day! How would a bit of Morrigan & Kieran sound with some ❝ If you must blink, do it now ❞ from the Kubo and the Two Strings prompt list?

for @dadrunkwriting

assuming that the old god soul is in fact actually an Evanuris soul lmfao, and assuming that actually means anything lmfao, Kieran grasps the memories of June as he and his mother explore beneath an evil mountain. or something.

Kieran faces what he knows must be a yawning void. The tunnel is dark and deep. There is no light source. More than that -- evil seeps out of the very soil like a miasma, and the air echoes with screams that cannot be heard with mortal ears.

It sickens him that he can see through it so clearly. What power he has inherited is kin to this magic, dark as it is, and his eyes pierce the murk with ease.

Something in him stirs in the shadows. A memory older than memory, almost as old as the earth itself, swims just beyond his reach, but he has learned how to still his mind and invite such lost things to settle and solidify.

He takes a deep breath as the knowledge pools within him.

Ghilan'nain's creatures know their wretchedness well, and they wrap themselves in shadow for shame. They will recognize June looking out from Kieran's eyes and recoil from the gaze of the Craftsman, the God of Beauty himself. But their resentment and despair has built over these long ages, and they await their moment to strike.

"We cannot look away," Kieran says. He wishes he could sound as calm as his father always seemed to in moments like this -- in the face of danger beyond reckoning. His father would look into the Void, and the Void would flinch. Kieran's voice rasps with fear. "A blink might be enough for them to strike."

"'Them'?" Morrigan echoes.

Kieran swallows bile. He has no answer for her that he can stomach.

"Our eyes will protect us, Mother," he says instead. Golden eyes, inherited from the All-Mother herself. The eyes of gods. Eyes he inherited the moment his magic truly awoke.

A blessing and a curse.

It was an awful thing to look at the remnants of Ghilan'nain's playthings with the same eyes that had so jealously watched her work, when Kieran knew he and his mother had more in common with those victims. It was an awful thing to be looked at and to know these poor, twisted creatures saw only their hated jailors reflected back at them.

But Kieran would not look away. Not just to keep himself safe, to watch for treachery in the shadows... but to witness the sordid history that had led these people, and the world, to the brink of ruin long ago.