#but they have to maintain the illusion of normalcy

[embbarnes]

Honey Badger. | Worst L.H.

summary: You use Logan’s mask to keep him close.

warnings: Smut | 18+ MDNI | Slight pining | Masturbation | Orgasm Denial | Cunnilingus | Swearing | Dirty talk

a/n: I haven't written anything for Logan in a couple months, I had an old blog for him but I haven't posted there in a while and won't be posting there anymore. I don't know if I'll write him a lot on here since this is a Bucky focused blog, but I might if it's well received. Unedited, will edit out/fix mistakes later. ;; wc: 5.5k

You weren't sure what it was.

Maybe it was Wade's stupid joke that he kept pressing on. He wouldn't let the comment die, teasing Logan as much as possible about his mask. Those blowjob handles made Logan look like the 'perfect sex toy,' Wade would say.

Then his mouth would get him three adamantium claws through his skull.

It only took him a few minutes to regenerate the damage to his brain, even though Logan was convinced he never healed his stupid mind.

You never teased Logan about it, you just didn't, it wasn't something you felt like riling him up about.

But the thought stuck in the back of your mind.

You wondered how it would feel to have his face buried between your legs, your hands tugging on those wings and pulling him even closer, feeling his tongue and rough stubble scratching your -

"Hey," Logan rose his arm from where it rested on the back of the couch and lightly tapped the back of your head, looking at you from his spot beside you on the couch. You blinked, snapping out of your train of thought and looking over at him, his eyebrow rose slightly as he observed you with an odd expression. "I asked you somethin'."

"Oh...sorry," you apologized, clearing your throat with a slight cough. "I was just...lost in thought." You waved your hand a bit, trying to push those inappropriate thoughts down. You liked him, a lot. But your relationship wasn't romantic, it was more like casual friends. Which hurt, but you didn't have the balls to let him know how you felt. Everything just felt worse when Logan seemed to regard you with a slight fondness that both thrilled and tormented you.

Wade was tolerated in Logan's eyes, even though the pair were pretty close despite Logan's repetitive denial about their relationship. Sometimes, he did what he could to avoid Wade entirely, because he just couldn't handle the man's incessant chatter and irreverent humor. The vulgarity got on his nerves after a while.

You desperately wanted to be with Logan, but the weight of his traumatic past and his obvious wariness towards romantic entanglements held you back from broaching the subject. You wondered if Logan had picked up on your feelings despite your efforts to remain indifferent, but with his enhanced senses and two centuries of life experience, you wouldn't be surprised if he had.

The thought that he might be able to detect your physical responses to his presence - the quickening of your pulse, the flush of your skin, the subtle changes in your scent - was mortifying. But, Logan's silence on the matter provided a small measure of comfort, allowing you to maintain the illusion of normalcy in your interactions.

If he had known, he kept his mouth shut.

You had been helping him in the task of cleaning his suit, you offered after seeing the state it was in. Once pristine and immaculate, the suit had endured a gauntlet of abuse when Wade grabbed him from his world and the duo decided to confront Cassandra. Their ill-advised and unnecessary altercations during their, as Wade would put it ‘bonding trip,’ had inflicted significant damage upon his attire. The suit had been unblemished, but now bore the unmistakable marks of their reckless fighting, riddled with an assortment of unsightly holes and ragged tears.

Your gaze lingered on the vibrant yellow suit sprawled across your lap, Logan remained seated beside you, his brow furrowed. "Ya nearly impaled yourself with that needle," he remarked, gesturing towards your hands with a slight nod of his head. Logan had been observing you intently as you thoroughly stitched a particularly nasty gash in his suit, not out of worry, but he was very particular with the thing and how it looked on him.

Your movements were normally very precise, but they had become increasingly erratic and shaky as you went about fixing his suit. Your steady hand that guided the needle through the fabric now wavered, your focus clearly compromised by the gradual intrusion of less than innocent thoughts of Logan’s tongue buried in your pussy, it had taken over your mind and distracted you completely like an invasive parasite.

"Impaled is an exaggeration..." You mumbled back, continuing to fix the hole in the softer fabric. You desperately tried to ignore the fact that your underwear felt especially damp, but it was getting harder to do that with his musky scent of cigars and auburn alcohol in your nose. It made you throb, you wanted to smell him closer, to breathe in his body as you both laid tangled together, nose pressing against his muscular neck while his arms kept you flush to him.

"Not from what I saw, darlin'." Logan grunted, his eyes averting back to the tv. You swallowed thickly, focusing back on the task at hand to get this done as quickly as possible so you could go take care of yourself in the bedroom. It was driving you crazy, and you kept shifting on the cushion, each little movement sending a jolt through your clit as your poor bud swelled in your panties and commanded attention.

Your work paid off, you had successfully tended to his suit and you held it up to ensure you had gotten each tear fixed and buffed out some parts of the harder armor that were on the suit. It looked as new as it could, navy and yellow shining in the dim lighting of the apartment, and you held it up for Logan's final inspection. He took a swig of the bottle of beer he had been drinking, the sweaty glass dripped onto his lap and his Adam's apple bobbed while he swallowed a mouthful of alcohol.

Logan pulled the bottle from his mouth, his tongue darted out to lick the droplet from his bottom lip while his eyes scrutinized every single inch of his suit. You held it steady, waiting for his incoming verdict.

"S'good." He stated gruffly, which was probably the most you were going to get from him. It was a relief, because you were desperate to get to your bedroom. Your legs trembled as you set his suit down over the arm of the couch. Logan watched your shaky movements, figuring you had only been a little unsteady after holding up his suit. It wasn't light after all, so he didn't think twice about it.

You finally made it to the safety of your bedroom, shutting the door and falling back onto your bed, breathing hard as you tried to fiddle with your pants and underwear. They peeled from your core, hot and wet, your panties were soaked with your embarrassing arousal.

'God damnit Logan...' You had to focus on getting out an orgasm or you were sure you'd go crazy. Your fingers brushed your sensitive clit, a soft moan breathlessly escaped through your parted lips and you fisted the sheets with your other hand. You were so sensitive, but you had been edged and teased just from his fucking presence.

Were you insane?

You laid on your bed, legs shamelessly falling open as your fingers worked your body. You teased your tender pearl, slow circles around her as you imagined it were Logan's tongue, feeling her throb beneath the pad of your index. You took a steady, deep breath, the anticipation building as you carefully aided your body to an impending orgasm.

It wouldn't take much, you could already feel that glorious wave building as your finger carefully massaged your clit. Right up until you felt your body release, you heard a knock on your door that made your body seize up. You let out a frustrated and surprised grunt, your finger tearing away from your core as you listened. Nothing, but another knock.

Frustrated, you sat up and quickly threw on some sweats, not bothering with underwear because as soon as you got rid of whomever was here to bother you, you'd make yourself cum like you had been wanting for the past hour and a half.

"Wade, I swear to god, you always knock at the worst times!" You pulled your door open, meeting a broad chest and an unamused looking honey badger.

"Do I look like that idiot?" Logan asked, his eyes flicking inside your room, then back to your face. They narrowed slightly, his nostrils flared as he took a breath. Oh god. Did he smell you? He could smell the hint of addictive compounds in rubbing alcohol when he's desperate enough for a fix, you were sure he could smell the obvious arousal coating your inner thighs.

"He always...knocks. Weirdly. Guess he got the memo from NTW not to come into a girl's room without knocking first." You crossed your arms, shifting your weight, now a bit flushed that he had come in during your self pleasure and how you had been so sexually frustrated you practically shouted in his face.

"Yeah, well...shoulda known better than to just waltz into their room, huh?" Logan scoffed a little under his breath, then looked at his hand. "I forgot to give this to ya. Mind buffin' it out too?" He handed you his mask, which wasn't nearly as beat up as his suit was. You felt your heart quicken and your core continue to throb from the edging and denial you had faced. Despite your frustration, you couldn't say no to him, especially when he looked a little apologetic for asking you to clean something else of his.

Or maybe that was just wishful thinking.

You took the mask from his hands, inspecting it before turning to sit back on your bed. "You can come in...this won't take very long. I just have to buff it out, like you said." You grabbed a cloth from your bedside table and some compound you used on your own suit and sat crisscrossed. You had the mask in your lap as you began to carefully buff the scratches from it.

Logan stepped in slowly, like he were entering a new domain or stepping through a portal to a world he hadn't seen before. His foot gently nudged the door and closed it behind him, his eyes began a careful exploration of your bedroom, drinking in every detail with an almost reverent curiosity.

As he advanced towards you, his eyes began a careful exploration of your bedroom, drinking in every detail with an almost reverent curiosity. His gaze swept over the collection of trinkets adorning your shelves, each one a tiny glimpse into your personality and interests. He noted the color palette that dominated the room, absorbing the hues that you had chosen to surround yourself with daily.

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as his attention was caught by a rather grumpy-looking stuffed turtle, nestled comfortably among the pillows on your bed. The juxtaposition of its stern expression against the softness of its surroundings amused him, the frown etched onto its little face stood out amongst its soft body.

Logan's eyes inevitably fell down on the lace underwear you had hastily discarded on the floor earlier. The delicate fabric stood out against the carpet, and he couldn't help but notice the very obvious patch that stained them.

Your room was enveloped in a delicate blend of lavender and cinnamon, the scents wafted through the air, intertwining with the undeniable scent of your obvious arousal. The combination was intoxicating, causing Logan's nose to twitch involuntarily as his body reacted instinctively to your scent, his cock stirring to life within the confines of his pants as he processed the sensory information.

Logan was not dumb. He knew what you were doing before he knocked on the door, hell he could smell your cunt from down the hall. Part of him hadn’t wanted to barge in and make you clean his mask, but there was a deeper desire that wanted to see if you’d actually do it. Clearing his throat, he offered you an out, his voice slightly husky as he spoke. "I can come back if you need a break." His eyes, dark with barely concealed want, locked onto your form as you continued to work diligently on his mask.

Your hands moved back and forth, buffing one of the intricate wings with practiced precision, your breasts swaying in your tank top and making things so much harder for him to keep his composure. At the sound of his voice, your gaze lifted from his mask, meeting his intense stare. A small shrug of your shoulders accompanied your reply, your tone casual despite the charged atmosphere. "It's okay, I'm almost done with this." Your fingers never ceased their movements, but the slight tremor in your hands betrayed your affected nonchalance.

"There," you handed him the mask with a satisfied smile, "All done and ready for action." Logan carefully took the mask from your outstretched hands and examined it, his eyes scanning every detail. As always it was perfect, meeting his high standards. He slipped it on briefly, testing its vision and functionality. The mask settled perfectly on his face, as if it were a second skin.

"You know," you commented as you began tidying up your workspace, setting the polishing rag and compound away in their designated spots in the bedside drawer, "The wings on that mask are actually pretty durable. I assumed they’d be more finicky with how they’re structured." You paused, a thought crossing your mind, and added with a hint of exasperation, "Is that why Wade constantly makes that joke about blowjobs?"

The comment elicited a deep, prolonged groan from Logan, his face contorting into a pronounced scowl. "He's a goddamn idiot," he muttered, his voice tinged with a combination of annoyance and resignation. "Always finding ways to turn everything into some kind of ridiculous joke."

"I have to admit, though," you replied with a casual shrug of your shoulders, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of your mouth, "His jokes do have a certain charm to them. And the one about your mask was pretty funny." You paused briefly, considering your words carefully before continuing, "I mean, I don't personally have the anatomy to fully appreciate the joke from that perspective, but...you know. I can certainly see the appeal on a conceptual level." You hadn't expected Logan to react to your comment, assuming he'd brush it off as he often did with such topics.

To your surprise, however, he did respond. He turned his gaze towards you, his eyes narrowing slightly as he huffed, briefly averting before fixing back on you with an intense stare once more.

"Is that the real reason behind you about soakin’ the couch earlier?" Logan asked, his voice low and husky, something darker dominated his tone. “You were dripping on the way back here, weren’t you? I could smell ya loud and clear the entire time those pretty hands of yours scrubbed away at my suit.”

You were taken aback and shocked when he spoke up, your eyes widening in disbelief as you struggled to process his words. With each syllable that fell from his lips, you felt an intense warmth creeping up your neck and spreading across your cheeks, painting them a vibrant shade of crimson. Your ears felt hot as your heart picked up rapidly.

His deep, resonant tone reverberated through your body, sending delicious shivers down your spine and intensifying the ache between your thighs, where your already sensitized clit throbbed with an urgent, almost painful need. The poor, neglected bud pulsed eagerly, silently pleading for the sweet relief of touch, desperate for even the slightest caress to ease its torment.

Logan approached the edge of your bed, his piercing gaze fixed upon you as he drew nearer. The mask he wore only served to heighten his already intimidating appearance, the deadly smirk appearing as his lips upturned and exposed his teeth. Sometimes you were certain he had sharper canines than normal, but you never really studied his teeth for long to notice a prominent difference.

You drank in the sight of him as his larger body loomed over you, your imagination running wild with filthy images and thoughts. His muscular form holding your legs open as his face nestled snugly between your soft, inviting thighs as he completely ravaged your body...

"Am I right?" He asked, his voice a husky whisper with a hint of playfulness, a subtle tease that made your heart race. His knee slowly rose up onto the bed, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight as he leaned his entire body over yours. The warmth radiating from him was intoxicating, drawing you in like a moth to a flame.

Instinctively, you found yourself laying back, your head sinking into the soft pillow beneath you, his body commanding you without the need of words. Logan's figure loomed above, his presence both thrilling and intimidating as he stared down at you through his mask. His powerful arms moved to plant themselves on either side of your head, effectively trapping you. The defined muscles in his forearms flexed as he supported his weight, so much bigger than yours, you wanted to bite his bicep so badly.

His head tilted slightly to the side, eyes roaming over your form with an intensity that made you feel utterly exposed. The way he looked at you, it was as if he was committing every detail to memory, savoring this moment of having you beneath him. "What do you want, darlin'..." he drawled, his voice thick with desire, the question hanging in the air between you.

You swallowed thickly, feeling your throat constrict as if all the air had been sucked out of the room. Words have abandoned you, leaving you unable to speak with the turmoil of emotions swirling within. Logan's proximity was overwhelming, his masculine scent enveloping you, clouding your senses. That scent that made you so, utterly horny earlier that you had to come to your room and shamelessly play with yourself.

You have never been this close to him, at least not in this context. Sitting on the couch beside him, him standing close to you during missions or shielding you from harm, that was different from this…

The air between you crackled with an electric charge, years of unspoken desire finally bubbling to the surface. Your breath came in short, shallow gasps as Logan made his advance, his movements slow and deliberate, giving you ample opportunity to voice any reservations.

Logan's calloused hands found their way to the waistband of your sweatpants with a gentleness that belied his rugged exterior. His fingers hooked into the fabric, the slight pressure against your skin sending jolts of anticipation through your body. He paused, giving you plenty of time to voice any hesitation or desire not to continue this, if you had any. When no protest came, he took it as tacit approval.

Slowly, he began to remove your sweatpants. The fabric whispered against your skin as he dragged them down your legs, the cool air causing goosebumps to rise along your thighs.

Logan grinned slightly as the sweatpants came down far enough to reveal your bare sex, your pussy swollen and slightly reddened from your previous self-pleasure, your hand had rubbed her so teasingly that your clit was as swollen as a ripe berry. A low, appreciative chuckle escaped his lips as he took in the sight before him. "No underwear, huh?" he remarked, his voice a mix of amusement and desire. "That desperate? I must've interrupted you rubbin' yourself..." His words trailed off as his gaze roamed over your body, a hint of pride in his tone as he added, "You're that horny for me, hm?"

With a final tug, he removed the sweats completely from your legs, carelessly tossing them behind him. Logan's lips curled into a teasing smirk as he leaned in closer, his breath warm against your skin. "Y'know," he murmured, his voice dropping to a husky whisper, "You could've just...asked for my help."

"S-shut up, don't act like you would've actually helped me with this," you stammered out, your voice quivering with embarrassment and obvious doubt at his words. The deep blush that crept across your cheeks darkened as you averted your gaze, unable to meet his intense stare. You felt a wave of vulnerability wash over you, almost bordering on humiliation, as he unabashedly gazed at your most intimate area. Your cunt was visibly swollen as blood continued to rush into the blushed, delicate folds.

He let out a low, knowing chuckle that made you want to grab him and shove him into your pussy already. "Oh, but I would have," he replied, his voice husky with desire. "I smell this pretty thing all the time, you know. It takes every ounce of self-control I have not to grab you and take you right where you stand." He leaned over you just a bit more to make you squirm un the comforter, "I've wanted to taste you for even longer."

Logan gently spread you open, his touch sending electric jolts through your body. His eyes darkened with lust as he gazed upon your ripe bud, practically begging for his attention. He couldn't help but notice how increasingly damp you became as he leaned closer, his warm breath ghosting over your sensitive skin.

"If you could...smell me...then why didn't you do something before, huh?" you whined quietly, your voice barely above a whisper but held a hint of a challenge. You bit your lower lip, frustration building within you. Your breath hitched involuntarily in your throat as he hovered so close, his face mere inches from your core. You could feel his bot breath warming your pussy, so, so close…

"I wanted to see how long you could resist." He reasoned simply, a hint of amusement playing at the corners of his mouth. His gaze swept over your form, taking in your desperation. "A game of chicken. See which one of us breaks down first." His words struck a chord deep within you, causing your stomach to clench uncomfortably. You felt annoyance at his tone, which seemed to border on condescension. Logan was clearly entertained with your current state, and considering you had already been pushing yourself to the brink through self-imposed edging and denial, you weren't in the mood for his attitude.

Fuck. You've lost.

Without warning, you reached out and grasped the back of his head and pushed downward, forcing his face towards your aching core. The sudden action caught him off guard, so his neck muscles were weak and moldable to your gesture. Initially his lips and tongue fumbled, searching for that elusive sweet spot that would send sparks of pleasure coursing through your body.

However, Logan was nothing if not adaptable.

He quickly regained his composure, adjusting his position to better accommodate your forceful guidance. His lips parted, and his tongue emerged, warm and eager. He dragged it along your sensitive flesh, tracing a long, deliberately slow stripe up your slit, sending a jolt of sensation through your already overstimulated nerves.

A soft, yearning moan escaped your lips as his tongue finally drew over your sensitive clit. The sensation shot electric waves of pleasure through you, causing your head to sink deeper into the plush pillow you laid on. Your fingers instinctively sought out the wings of his mask, gripping them tightly as you pulled him closer, desperate for more of his touch.

Logan's mouth pressed firmly against your cunt, eliciting a deep chuckle from him at your obvious enthusiasm. He quickly interpreted your obvious desires, his lips enveloping that needy, throbbing bud with practiced ease.

Logan's ministrations began with a gentle suction, his lips creating a pulsing rhythm that sent waves of pleasure coursing through your body. His skilled tongue danced inside his mouth, teasing and caressing your clit with expert precision. He alternated between swirling motions and intricate figure eights, the tip of his oral muscle exploring every sensitive nerve ending. Your hips responded of their own accord, bucking and thrusting against his face without any reservations.

Each movement he made only encouraged your body's instinctive response, creating a feedback loop of escalating pleasure. He continued to draw out movements from you. Between your ragged breaths and delicate whimpers, you managed to find your voice, "Logan...oh my god...just like that." Your parted lips released a symphony of soft moans and desperate cries as he continued his relentless, delicious assault on your sweet, aching clit, his mouth playing you like an instrument he knew by heart.

His tongue delved deeper, gliding between your folds and discovering your entrance, which was already weeping with glistening arousal for him. His tongue penetrated you without another second, his nose gently nudged your swollen, thoroughly suckled clit with each deliberate thrust of his skilled tongue.

Logan savored your essence on his palate, emitting a low, appreciative groan as he tasted your arousal, fully aware of just how desperately you had yearned for him during the few hours you had spent together earlier that day. His large hands grabbed your thighs, squeezing them and holding your legs farther open as he gained better access to you. "You taste like honey darlin'..." He groaned, muffled inside your puffy lips. "All for me. This is mine, you hear me?"

Your fingers remained firmly entwined in his mask, tugging at the wings with increasing urgency as you began grinding yourself against his face, seeking more of that delicious friction. "Stop talking and suck!" You demanded, your voice shaky as your body visibly shook with frustration at his teasing words, giving your clit just enough stimulation, but not nearly pushing you close to climax. The rough texture of his stubble against your inner thighs provided extra sensory stimulation, adding more stimulation to your body and mind. Your moans were pornographic as mewls filled the air while you tugged and bucked against him with growing fervor.

Logan growled against you, knowing you were needy, otherwise he would have teased you much more than this and wouldn't have let you get away with talking like such a brat. His face and chin became thoroughly coated in your flowing juices, your much-needed and long-awaited climax rapidly approaching. You could feel that tight knot forming in your gut, the warmth spreading through your legs and to your toes as the heat in your belly began to grow.

"Eager fuckin' thing..." Logan growled against your heated flesh, his voice a low rumble of desire. He punctuated his words with a searing kiss to your slick folds before once again attaching himself to your clit with the intensity and determination of a man possessed, his mouth working tirelessly to bring you to your orgasm.

"Lo...Logan," you warned breathlessly, your voice quivering with anticipation. Greedily, even with your feeble protest, you had no intention of allowing him to retreat. Your leg wrapped tightly around his broad shoulder, effectively anchoring him in place. You used him with unbridled passion, your body responding to his ministrations like a finely tuned instrument.

Logan seemed to revel in your assertiveness and wasn’t bothered by your increasing roughness whatsoever. You could feel the curve of his lips against your sensitive skin, a smirk that spoke volumes about his enjoyment of your pleasure. He willingly let you have control, allowing you to dictate the pace and pressure that you so desperately craved.

"I'm close!" You gasped your words, barely coherent as waves of pleasure threatened to overwhelm you and pull you under like sirens calling you to the edge of ecstasy. "Oh god, I'm going to..." The sentence hung unfinished in the air, your ability to form coherent thoughts rapidly diminishing.

Your head fell back once more, an eager, satisfying, almost pained cry escaping your lips as your climax finally crashed over you. It felt as though every nerve ending in your body had suddenly come alive. Your muscles tensed rapidly, your back arching dramatically off the surface beneath you. Your hips, acting on pure instinct, drove forward, pressing urgently against Logan's face as if trying to prolong the pleasure for as long as possible.

The intensity of your orgasm was overwhelming, having ruined your incoming one prior, this one felt much more intense. It felt as though liquid fire was coursing through your veins, setting every cell in your body ablaze with pleasure that seemed to short-circuit your brain.

You were in complete, blissful disorientation.

Your leg fell limply to the side and off his shoulder as he slowly withdrew from your cunt with a sloppy popping sound. His lips glistened with the evidence of your orgasm, they curved into a satisfied smile as he savored the taste of you. Logan slowly crawled over your body, dragging himself to hover once again, his eyes drinking in every inch of your flushed skin and disheveled appearance.

"Pretty girl," he murmured, his voice a low, husky whisper in a now quieted room, no longer filled with your audible filth and desperation. He lowered himself closer, his face now hovering mere inches above yours. You could feel the warmth of his breath ghosting across your lips, heightening your anticipation. He grazed his lips against yours before pressing them down more firmly, sealing them together.

The kiss was a bit hesitant on his end, not because he didn't want to kiss you, but his face was still pretty much slick with your essence. His body thrummed with the urge to flip you over, to bury himself deep within you, railing his cock in and out of that slick cunt he just tasted and chase the heights of ecstasy together.

But there was that flicker of doubt in his mind that had been holding him back from forming a stronger bond with you, and he wondered if you felt the same way. The possibility of forming a deeper connection with you both thrilled and terrified him, causing him to hesitate as he tried to gauge your intentions and reactions to him. There was so much to be said, memories flashing across his mind of loss and heartache, the overwhelming pain of losing those he loved in the past almost overwhelmed him before he was brought back down to earth.

Your hand gently came up, reaching for his mask with a tender touch. You carefully pulled it off, revealing the rest of his face beneath. Your fingers immediately sought out his short hair, tangling themselves in the soft strands. You leaned in, kissing him back with a mixture of passion and gratitude. Your eyes fluttered closed, savoring the moment. A soft hum escaped your lips, vibrating against his as you tasted the unique combination of yourself and him. The kiss lingered, neither of you wanting to break the connection once it was made.

After several seconds, you reluctantly pulled back with a soft smile playing on your lips, your expression still dazed from the intensity of the moment. Your hands glided over the top of his head, your fingers playfully toying with the little tufts of hair that stood up, slightly mussed from the mask. The tiny kitty ears were adorable to you, and you carefully formed them to their little points once again.

Your eyes met his in the comfortable quiet of the room, conveying more than any verbal exchange could hope to capture. The look you shared was filled with soft, gentle expressions, relief and giddiness, tired happiness.

Logan let the tip of his nose trace a delicate path over the curve of your own, his breath warm against your skin. His trailed his nose slowly, deliberately, to the spot between your eyes, where he paused for a moment, as if savoring the closeness.

His lips then replaced his nose, placing another kiss, this one soft and lingering against your skin. It was a gentle action, one that took you by surprise with its tenderness, but filled you with a comforting warmth that spread from the point of contact throughout your body. Your heightened emotional state felt so tender as he showed you a side of himself that few others ever got to see. Logan’s rough exterior and guarded nature fading for the moment to allow himself this, putting all his wariness away to savor you.

While you were busy basking in the glow, his eyes were drawn to what laid beside your head. That stuffed turtle, its shell a soft, soothing pine green and its body a gentle, earthy slate brown, adorned with intricate, unique stitching and delicate embroidery that lovingly traced the contours of its body and defined its endearing facial features.

Prominent, exaggerated eyebrows were stitched in a comically furrowed manner, giving the toy an air of perpetual concern or deep thought. Below them, a carefully sewn black frown curved downwards, completing the turtle's amusingly grumpy expression. Its face seemed to lock eyes with him, its unwavering stare intense as Logan remained on top of your half naked body.

Slowly, he reached out with his free hand and turned the turtle around, no longer feeling watched by its grumpy stare and judged by its frown.

Thanks for reading - em 🌿

Dividers by @/strangergraphics | Images found on Pinterest

[cornenhapovs]

♡゙  :  𝑳𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝑪𝒂𝒎 𓈒      📹  ？

⤷ 𝑖n which you being a little miss tease to jay ¡!¡!

「pairing 」 : boyfriend! Park Jongseong x fem!reader

Jay was doing live on weverse , chatting and interacting with engenes and sharing his time with them. However, behind the camera, you're not just sitting quietly watching. Instead, you're behind the camera, secretly planning to tease and distract Jay in front of the live audience.He is speaking to the camera, answering questions and interacting with fans, when suddenly he feels your hands on his shoulders. He tries to concentrate on the chat and the fans, but your touch is distracting. He can feel your hands slowly start to move, gliding over his shoulders, down his chest. His breath hitches as he tries to keep his composure, knowing that the fans are watching. You continue your gentle touches, your hands moving lower, your fingers tracing along the edge of his clothing. Jay's voice falters, his concentration wavering as he tries to control his reactions. He feels your presence behind the camera, the warmth of your body inches away from his, as your touch becomes bolder and more deliberate . As your touches become more intimate and distracting, Jay's voice becomes slightly strained and shaky. He's trying to maintain his composure, but it's becoming increasingly difficult with you behind the camera, toying with him.

The fans start to notice the change in his voice and the way he stumbles over his words. They begin commenting, asking if he's okay or if something's wrong.

𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐚𝐝𝐯𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐜𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐚 𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐟𝐟 𝐬𝐨 𝐟𝐚𝐧𝐬 𝐜𝐚𝐧'𝐭 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐚𝐝𝐯𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐚𝐧𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐩𝐚𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐯𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐲 .

Jay's mind is torn between keeping up the chat with the fans and the distracting presence behind him. He tries to respond casually, disguising the fact that he's being driven crazy by your presence.

Jay : "Y-yeah, I'm fine. Just... just a bit tired, that's all."

"Tired you say love huh " ??? you whispered ever so quietly to not let your voice pickup in the live chuckling in his ear as you continued your ministrations . Jay's body stiffens at your whispered words, the heat of your breath in his ear sending a shiver down his spine. He struggles to keep his voice steady as he responds to the fans, his words coming out a bit breathless.

Jay: "Yeah, j-just tired... from all the, um, work... we've been... doing. umm practice ...."

His voice falters as your touches continue, the effort of staying composed in front of the fans starting to wear him down.

The fans continue commenting, some expressing concern for Jay's well-being, while others pick up on the strange undercurrent in his words.

𝒆𝒏𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒓𝒓𝒓𝒓 = "Dude, you sound pretty wiped out. Maybe you should take a break?"

𝒔𝒖𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒔𝒐𝒖𝒑 = "Jay, you seem off. Are you sure you're not coming down with something?"

𝒏𝒊𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒎𝒖𝒓𝒂5 = "Take care of yourself, man. You don't want to burn yourself out."

𝒉𝒆𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓 = "Jay, seriously, you sound kinda bad. Maybe you should end the chat and rest for a bit."

"Aww the fans are so sweet but naive aren't they baby ? So clueless their fav bias is getting a bit loving from his private girlfriend" Jay's breath hitches as your words sink in. He knows you're right, and that the fans have no idea what's really happening behind the camera. His mind is a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. The thrill of your touch mixed with the pressure of keeping up the chat with the fans. He can feel the heat of your body so close to his, the desire to turn around and pull you into his lap growing stronger and stronger. But he's torn, knowing that he has to maintain the illusion of normalcy in front of the fans. He tries to focus on the chat again, but your touch is making it increasingly difficult. After a few more minutes of the excruciating, torturous teasing, Jay can no longer take it. He abruptly ends the live, a hint of annoyance mixed with desire in his eyes as he turns to face you.

He pins you with a dominant, intent gaze, his body taut with frustration and lust. There's no hiding the fact that he's on edge, and you've pushed him to his limit. His voice is low, a hint of warning in his tone as he speaks.

"You naughty little tease. You shouldn't have pushed me like that in front of all those fans." " They didn't see your face , the camera was off " you said back nonchalantly. Jay's annoyance softens a bit at your response, his frustration giving way to a hint of amusement.

He steps closer to you, his dominant energy still crackling in the air between you as he spoke "I know they didn't. But damn, you made it so hard to focus. I was struggling to keep composed with you behind me like that ." " It was funny " you said chuckling. A small, amused smile tugs at the corners of Jay's lips. Despite his initial irritation, he can't deny the allure of your daring behavior.

"Yeah, it was kinda funny. But you know you're going to pay for that, don't you? You pushed me to my limit, and I don't like being teased like that in front of everyone. I need to show you who's in charge here, darling."

" Did I fucked up " ? You asked biting your lips slightly nervous..

A mix of amusement and possessiveness glimmers in Jay's eyes as he watches you, sensing your growing nervousness. He steps even closer to you, his body mere inches from yours, his presence dominating and intense. Jay's voice is a low, possessive growl "Oh, don't you worry, darling. You're going to remember the consequences of your tease for a long time. You messed with me in front of everyone, and now it's time for me to remind you who's in charge here. There's no escaping my control now, darling. You're mine, and I'm going to show you just what that means. Get ready for some intense, unforgettable payback ."

Few hrs later ---

You picked up the phone and messaged Jake ( one of Jay's friend )

© @cornenhapovs ── all rights reserved. do not copy, translate, alter, or repost my work.

🏷️ @okwonyo @021894s @teddyseong @lovelypham @strawberrynull @boyfhee

[fanficapologist]

Of Dragons and Maelstroms

Themes and Warnings: slow burn, enemies to lovers, blood, violence, explicit language, sexual violence, period-typical misogyny, sexual themes, smut, tension, marriage, jealousy, pregnancy, childbirth, miscarriage, attempted sexual assault, breastfeeding, major character death, divergent timelines

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

Chapter One Hundred

Despite the turmoil swirling around the realm, the days on Dragonstone seemed almost deceptively calm. The once heavy grey clouds that had hung over the island for weeks began to thin, allowing the sun to break through and bathe the volcanic rock in rare warmth. The sea that surrounded the fortress shimmered under the soft sunlight, casting fleeting illusions of peace. It was as if nature itself offered a brief respite from the tension of the looming war.

Maera felt that shift as well, both in her surroundings and within herself. The wound on her arm had completely healed, the scar barely visible now. The pain had faded, replaced by a newfound energy. She was no longer bound by recovery and was eager to return to the skies on dragonback, contributing to the war effort and finding time for herself.

Since Prince Daeron had flown south to the Stormlands, Maera had been assigned a new route—across the western side of the Narrow Sea. Her task was crucial: she needed to ensure the fleet of Morne was prepared and positioned for the eventual attack on the Capital when the time came.

Yet even though she embraced the odd tranquility, the betrayal of the Dragonseeds loomed over every decision. Hugh Hammer and Ulf the White’s defection had thrown their carefully laid plans into disarray. There was no longer a definitive timeline for the invasion. The uncertainty gnawed at the Green Council, but they were not without recourse.

A newly formed faction of nobles, led by the cunning Lord Unwin Peake, now called themselves the Caltrops. Their singular goal: to assassinate Hugh and Ulf and restore order. It was a delicate operation, one they carefully plotted, keeping the Green Council informed but biding their time until the perfect moment to strike.

Despite the complications caused by the rogue Dragonseeds, not all plans had been derailed. The Hand, Ser Criston Cole, had already departed for the Riverlands, where he was gathering and readying the ground troops. For now, all Maera and the other players in this intricate game of power could do was wait. It was a tense lull, the kind that stretched nerves thin and made every small action feel laden with weight amongst the remaining members of the Green Council.

In the meantime, Maera turned her attention to her other duties, filling her days with tasks that would otherwise have been mundane but now served as distractions. Her Ladies were a constant presence, helping her maintain some semblance of normalcy amidst the chaos. Lady Fossoway, ever diligent, had already begun making small preparations for the formal ceremony to name Prince Daeron as the official Prince of Dragonstone.

Though the event was still some time away, there was much to consider: the banners, the guests, the feast. Each detail needed careful planning, and Lady Fossoway took to the task with a seriousness that reflected the gravity of the moment. The announcement would solidify Daeron’s place within the Targaryen dynasty, an acknowledgment of his role should Aemond not have a son.

Lady Swyft, on the other hand, busied herself with Maera’s wardrobe. Having noticed that many of the Queen’s dresses had become uncomfortably tight around her hips and bust, she took it upon herself to remedy the situation. Seamstresses were summoned, and fabrics were examined, discussed, and chosen with care. The women muttered and measured, their deft fingers working to let out seams and add panels where needed. The changes were subtle yet necessary, for Maera’s figure had grown fuller once more.

The Queen’s lady assured her that it was normal, for a woman’s body to change after childbirth, and that noblewomen often found their figures altered even moons after they had given birth. Tiredness created hunger, she explained kindly, which led to eating more, and in turn, a little weight gain. It was nothing to be ashamed of, Lady Swyft insisted, even hinting that it could be healthy.

Maera tried to take comfort in her words, telling herself that it did not bother her. After all, she had given birth to Aemara, a child of dragon’s blood and royal lineage. Such changes were a small price to pay for the continuation of their house. Yet, each time Lady Swyft brought in a newly altered gown, panels and extra stitching added to accommodate her changing shape, Maera couldn’t help but feel a pang of self-consciousness. She saw it in the way the fabric hugged her now fuller hips, the way the bodices strained slightly against her enlarged bust.

In the quiet moments, when she was alone in her chambers, Maera found herself scrutinizing her reflection. The mirror offered an unflinching gaze at the woman she had become, a Queen in the midst of war, a rider of a gigantic and fearsome dragon, a mother to a Targaryen princess, and a wife to a king. She traced her fingers along the seams of her altered gowns, feeling every added inch as though it marked some personal failing.

Lady Vance, the elderly and old-fashioned courtier, took it upon herself to lecture the Queen on the matter of vanity and self-acceptance. In her stern and matronly manner, she insisted that such conceit should not be acknowledged, reminding Maera that women were as the Mother had made them, and it was a woman’s duty to accept her form with grace. Lady Vance’s words were filled with an unwavering certainty that came from years of strict adherence to tradition and piety, but they did little to comfort Maera.

One person who did understand Maera’s struggles on a personal level was Lady Tarth, who had become known by given name, Serenne. In the last few months, the young lady had become more than just the Queen’s secretary. She had become a confidante, a friend in the truest sense. The two women found solace in each other’s company, often spending time together when the other Ladies were busy with their duties.

Most of their time was spent in the large nursery of Dragonstone, a haven away from the prying eyes and expectations of the court. Here, they would sit on the plush rugs and thick blankets, surrounded by the soft sounds of their children at play. Aemara, now nearing eight months old, was beginning to explore the world on her hands and knees. The little princess crawled around on the carpet, her tiny fingers reaching out to grasp at the colorful toys that lay scattered around her. Her laughter filled the room, a sweet and innocent sound that brought a warmth to Maera’s heart.

Lady Serenne’s son, affectionately called ‘little Bryn’ by Maera, was just as happy to play amidst the abundance of toys that had been provided for them. He was a curious child, with eyes that seemed to take in everything around him with a quiet intelligence. While Aemara explored her surroundings with the wide-eyed wonder of a child discovering the world for the first time, Bryn was content to sit amidst his treasures, stacking blocks and inspecting each toy with a focused determination.

As their children played, Maera and Lady Serenne would engage in hours of conversation. They would sit together, sipping tea and sharing the latest gossip from court, their voices kept low so as not to disturb the children, who were diligently being watched by a nursemaid.

In these moments, the Queen felt a sense of normalcy, a fleeting escape from the weight of her crown. The discussions would range from lighthearted anecdotes about the children’s latest antics to more serious matters, such as the subtle undercurrents of political maneuvering that never seemed to rest, even in times of supposed peace.

Lady Serenne, with her kind blue eyes and empathetic nature, offered Maera a comfort that no one else could. She understood, perhaps better than anyone, the struggles that came with balancing the roles of mother, wife, and noblewoman. There was no judgment in her gaze, no lectures or admonishments about vanity or duty. Just a shared understanding that in this ever-changing world, they were both doing their best to navigate the expectations placed upon them.

In the nursery, amidst the laughter and soft babble of their children, the world outside seemed a little less daunting. For a few hours each day, the war, the politics, and the constant scrutiny faded into the background, leaving only the simple joys of motherhood and friendship.

“I cannot believe Bryn will be two years old this year,” Lady Serenne commented, her eyes crinkling with a smile as she picked up a small sandwich from the tray between them, taking a delicate bite.

The Queen nodded in agreement. “I know. Time seems so go quicker when you become a mother I think.”

As Maera spoke, her thoughts drifted inward, silently reflecting on just how much time had passed and yet how little it felt. It wasn’t that long ago, in her memory at least, when she had sat with Helaena, watching over Jaehaerys, Jaehaera and Maelor as they played together in the nursery of King’s Landing. Those moments, filled with laughter and innocent joy, were so vivid in her mind that they felt like they had happened just yesterday. It was a simpler time, before the war, before the loss and betrayal that had shattered their world.

The memory of Helaena, her old friend, and the soft peace they had found in those stolen moments, made Maera’s heart ache with longing. Those tender memories were like fragile glass, precious and breakable, and the reality that such moments could never happen again weighed heavily on her. Even if they did rescue Helaena, things could never return to how they once were.

Her reverie was abruptly interrupted by a high-pitched shriek of frustration. Maera’s eyes snapped to the scene before her as Bryn, determined and quick, toddled over to where Aemara was playing. Without hesitation, he snatched a toy from the little princess’s grasp. Aemara responded immediately, her face scrunching up in a mix of surprise and indignation before she let out an angry wail. The sound echoed through the nursery, drawing the attention of both mothers.

Lady Serenne was on her feet in an instant, moving to sit beside her son and scold him. “Bryndemere,” she chided in a firm yet gentle voice, pulling the toy from his hand and returning it to Aemara, who grasped it tightly, still pouting but quieting down under her mother’s comforting gaze. The Lady turned back to Maera, her cheeks flushed with a mixture of embarrassment and amusement.

“I apologize, Your Grace,” she said with a light laugh, trying to diffuse the situation with humor. “Clearly, my son has yet to learn the proper courtly etiquette when interacting with a princess.”

Maera chuckled softly, shaking her head. “No harm done,” she replied, her gaze softening as she watched the two children. Aemara, for her part, had already moved on from the slight, her attention now fixed on the toy in her hands, seemingly satisfied with its return.

Lady Serenne sighed, settling back down beside Maera. “In truth,” she mused, “I think his older sisters are happy to be rid of him at the moment.”

Maera giggled at the comment, shaking her head in amusement. “I think all brothers, older or younger, have an innate talent for being incredibly annoying,” she replied, her tone light and teasing as she pictured all of her brothers, some she loved with all her heart, others she was content with being away from.

Just as they shared a laugh, Maera felt a small tug on her skirts. She glanced down to see little Bryn gazing up at her with wide, earnest eyes, his tiny finger pointing eagerly toward the table where the food lay just out of his reach. Maera grinned, unable to resist the boy’s charm. She reached down to ruffle his golden curls affectionately before handing him a small sandwich. Bryn accepted the offering with a delighted smile, toddling away to return to his toys with his prize clutched tightly in his small hand.

“Well,” Maera began, turning her attention back to Lady Serenne, “do you and Lord Edmure plan on having more children?” Her question was curious, genuine interest in her voice.

Lady Serenne laughed, shaking her head with a mixture of amusement and relief. “Thankfully, the Gods have spared me from such a fate,” she replied, a hint of irony in her tone.

Maera tilted her head in confusion, not quite understanding. “What do you mean?” she asked, her brow furrowed slightly.

With a soft sigh, Lady Serenne explained, “I already have four older daughters, all so close in age. And when Bryn was born, it was… difficult.” Her eyes clouded briefly with the memory, but her voice remained steady. “The Maester said that due to the birth, it’s highly unlikely I’ll have any more children.”

Maera watched her face closely, expecting to see sorrow or regret, but to her surprise, Lady Serenne seemed content, perhaps even a little relieved. There was a peace in her expression, a quiet acceptance of her circumstances.

“And you, Your Grace?” The Queen was snapped out of her contemplations by the sound of Lady Serenne’s voice, cutting through the quiet with a playful lilt.

“How goes…making an heir for the King?” She giggled, her golden curls bouncing with the motion, and there was an unmistakable teasing light in her expression.

Maera rolled her eyes, unable to suppress a smile at her Lady’s cheeky inquiry. “The King and I are quite set on performing our duties,” she replied with mock seriousness, though the corners of her lips quirked upwards, betraying her amusement.

As they shared in the lighthearted banter, Maera found her thoughts drifting inwardly. Since Aemond had recommitted himself to her in the ways of Old Valyria, reaffirming their bond in that ancient and sacred tradition, it seemed as though their relationship had been forged anew in the fire of their shared trials and tribulations.

Their time together had become precious, a refuge amidst the storm. They cherished the moments spent with Aemara, watching their daughter grow and change with each passing day. And then there were the nights, the intimacy between them more intense and consuming than it had been in months. Aemond’s touch was both demanding and tender, their passion igniting like wildfire each time they came together. It was surprising, really, that she wasn’t with child again already, considering how often they indulged in their desires.

“Yet my moons blood has not come since I have given birth,” the Queen explained to her companion. While this was something that could worry some, she felt a sense of relief about it. The monthly bleeding was not something she missed. “And I’ve read that it returning means you are fit to breed again,” Maera added with a small, nonchalant shrug.

“I see “ Lady Serenne acknowledged quietly, but something in her tone made Maera glance at her. The Lady’s expression had changed, a frown marring her usually cheerful face. Her brows knitted together, and she looked as though she was deep in thought, her gaze fixed on the floor.

“What is it?” Maera asked gently, noticing the sudden shift in her demeanor. Lady Serenne continued to avoid her gaze, nervously biting her lip. It was as if she was holding something back, struggling with whether or not to say what was on her mind. Maera reached out, placing a reassuring hand on her arm. “You can speak freely, Serenne,” she encouraged softly.

The Lady-in-waiting took a deep breath, gathering her thoughts before finally speaking. “Your Grace, it’s just… what you said about the moonsblood,” she began cautiously. “It happened to me, as well, after I gave birth to Bryn.” Her voice was quiet, almost hesitant. “It was how the Maester knew we could no longer conceive.”

“Oh,” was all the Queen could manage in response, her thoughts suddenly reeling. The information was startling, and she hadn’t considered the possibility before. The lack of her moonsblood had been a convenience in her mind, a reprieve from the physical toll of motherhood so soon after Aemara’s birth. But now, hearing Serenne’s story, it took on a different significance.

Sensing the Maera’s concern, Lady Serenne quickly waved her hands in a defensive yet reassuring manner. "No, no, Your Grace, please don’t worry," she said earnestly. "It may not be the case for you. After all, you are nobly feeding your daughter yourself, and I gave Bryn to our wet nurse as soon as he was born. That can make a difference, or so I’ve been told."

Despite her friend's attempt to soothe her fears, Maera couldn't help the worry that settled into the pit of her stomach. If Aemara was to be her only child, how would Aemond react? He adored their daughter, that much was certain, but a king needed a son to carry on his legacy, to secure the future of his reign. The thought of Aemond’s disappointment made Maera's heart clench. His desire for an heir, like all noble men, was strong, and though their bond had grown, the pressure of producing a son had always been an unspoken expectation.

The Queen chewed her lip nervously, the small, anxious habit surfacing as her mind churned with these possibilities. What if this was it? What if she was unable to provide the heir Aemond—and the realm—expected of her? The idea of failing in this duty gnawed at her. She imagined the whispers that would spread through court, the scrutiny that would follow her every move, the shadow of her own inadequacy haunting her steps. Would Aemond’s affection for her endure if she couldn’t fulfill this one crucial role? The thought sent a chill down her spine.

Lost in these worries, she suddenly felt a gentle hand on her shoulder, grounding her back in the present. Maera looked up to see Lady Serenne’s concerned yet supportive gaze. "If you’re truly worried, my Queen," she said softly, her voice filled with genuine care, "you should speak to the Maester. He might be able to give you some answers, or at least some reassurance."

Maera nodded, the tightness in her chest easing just slightly at the reminder that she didn’t have to navigate this uncertainty alone. "Thank you, Lady Serenne," she replied quietly, offering her friend a small, grateful smile. "I think I will."

A sudden, wild squealing echoed from the carpet, drawing the women's attention away from their conversation. Maera and Lady Serenne looked down in surprise. Aemara had crawled over to Bryn, her chubby little fingers wrapped around the boy’s golden curls in a surprisingly firm grip. She pulled harshly, her tiny mouth open in a giggle of delight. Bryn, caught off guard, screamed in distress, his arms flailing as he tried to escape the unexpected assault. The nursemaid was quickly at their side, attempting to pry the children apart, but between Aemara’s strong grip and Bryn’s thrashing, she was having no such luck.

The Queen and her Lady exchanged a knowing glance and a smile before both gracefully slid off their chairs to sit on the carpet. With a practiced ease, Maera gently grasped her daughter's tiny hand, loosening her grip on Bryn’s curls. Lady Serenne reached for her son, pulling him safely into her lap and smoothing down his tousled hair. Aemara let out a disgruntled little sound as she was lifted away from her playmate, her violet eyes wide with innocent curiosity about why her new toy had been taken from her.

Both women comforted their children after the ordeal, laughing softly at the small drama that had unfolded. Maera bounced Aemara on her knee, whispering soothing words as she smoothed down the girl’s silver hair, while Lady Serenne rubbed Bryn’s back, murmuring reassurances into his ear.

Maera chuckled as she gestured to Bryn, who was now snuggled against his mother, looking slightly sulky but otherwise unharmed. "It seems your son will have his hands full with his future wife," she said with a grin, her eyes twinkling with amusement. Lady Serenne laughed in agreement, a sparkle of mirth in her gaze as she glanced between the two children, imagining the future where this fierce little princess and the gentle golden-haired boy would one day be something more than playmates.

"Indeed," Serenne replied with a playful sigh. "It appears he may need to grow accustomed to a strong-willed lady at his side." They shared a warm laugh, the brief chaos on the carpet serving as a charming reminder of the small joys and trials of motherhood amidst the surrounding storm of the war.

“What has your feathers ruffled, my Queen?”

It was late afternoon, and the halls of Dragonstone had fallen into a hushed calm. After a long morning of play and a satisfying feed, Aemara had finally been put down for her nap. The Queen had watched her daughter’s eyes flutter shut, a peaceful smile gracing the little girl’s face as she drifted into sleep. With her duties as a mother momentarily set aside, Maera now had other matters to attend to.

The corridors of Dragonstone were dimly lit, the grey stone walls lined with ancient tapestries depicting the history of House Targaryen. The heavy scent of sea salt hung in the air, mingling with the faint scent of burning wood from the hearths that warmed the castle’s interior. Shadows danced across the walls as the sunlight filtered through narrow windows, casting a warm golden hue over the cold stone floors.

Servants moved quietly about their tasks, the rustle of their garments and the soft patter of their footsteps echoing softly in the stillness. Maera acknowledged them with brief nods as they respectfully greeted her, her mind elsewhere, her thoughts spinning in a whirlwind of uncertainty. She walked beside her sworn guard and brother, Faran, whose vigilant eyes scanned the corridor ahead. His presence, usually a comfort, seemed to chafe at her now, only adding to the turmoil within her.

“Leave it alone, brother.”

Her earlier conversation with Lady Serenne had left her unnerved, stirring up fears she hadn’t fully realized she was harboring. The idea that she might not be able to bear another child had lodged itself into her thoughts like a splinter, small but impossible to ignore. Aemond’s expectations, the needs of the realm, and her own desires clashed within her, leaving her feeling trapped and restless.

Instead of confiding in someone about her growing concerns, Maera had chosen a different way to deal with the storm of emotions swirling within her. She had decided to work out her stress the only way she knew how to channel it—through physical exertion.

The Queen had donned her leathers, a comforting second skin that had seen her through many battles and training sessions. She pinned back her brown and silver curls with practiced ease, preparing for a sparring session with her brother. It was something they had not done since she was shot in the collarbone, but now with the wound healed, and the anxiety simmering within her turning into a boiling anger, she was determined to win this bout.

“Gods, there is a bug up your arse,” he chuckled, trying to provoke a response. “You better pray I don’t beat you today.”

But Maera was in no mood for his banter. Without looking at him, she firmly told him. “Faran, please, just shut up.” Her tone was icy, brooking no argument, and the sharpness of her words cut through the air between them.

Faran got the hint, his playful demeanor fading into a more serious silence. He respected her boundaries, for now, falling quiet for the rest of the walk to the courtyard. The silence between them was heavy, but Maera preferred it this way. She couldn’t talk about what was on her mind with him. He wouldn’t understand. He couldn’t. This was not a matter of battle strategy or court politics, but of something far more personal and profound—her worth as a queen, a wife, and a mother.

Turning a corner, Maera’s mind raced with thoughts of who else she could confide in. Her Ladies were supportive, but this was not a matter for idle gossip or comforting words. It required knowledge and discretion, and she was not yet ready to face the possibility of hearing something she wasn’t prepared to accept. The Maesters could give her answers, perhaps, but she was not ready to deal with possible bad news.

And besides, the walls had ears. She was certain Larys’s spies were scattered throughout the castle, their eyes and ears ever vigilant. If any whisper of possible infertility reached the court, it would be like blood in the water to sharks, weakening her position as Queen. It would give her enemies leverage, an opening they would not hesitate to exploit.

The siblings continued their walk through the corridors of Dragonstone in a heavy silence, the only sounds being the soft scuffs of their boots against the stone floor and the occasional distant murmur of servants. Maera was lost in her thoughts, mulling over the troubling possibilities swirling in her mind. Finally, they reached the courtyard, a familiar space where she could at least momentarily escape the chaos of her mind.

They began to warm up in silence, moving with the practiced ease of seasoned fighters. As Maera practiced her movements, her blade slicing through the air with practiced precision, she could feel her body falling into the familiar rhythm. Each swing, each pivot, was a reminder of her strength, of the control she still held over some aspects of her life. She lost herself in the movements, focusing on the feel of the sword in her hand and the way her muscles responded to each command.

But the silence was soon interrupted by Faran’s voice, cutting through her concentration. “Luthor wrote to me,” he revealed, his tone casual but with an edge of something else she couldn’t quite place. Maera’s brow furrowed, her rhythm faltering for just a heartbeat before she resumed her practice.

Their brother, married to one of Lord Borros Baratheon’s daughters, had not written in a month, despite Maera reaching out. She had assumed he was preoccupied with his duties at Storm’s End, busy with the ongoing preparations and politics. Yet he had found the time to write to Faran, but not to her? It made her pause, her mind now split between the movements of her sword and the curiosity mixed with irritation rising within her.

The Queen hummed in response, her sword cutting through the air with a sharp, decisive swing. “Is he well?” she asked, a hint of annoyance slipping into her voice despite her attempt to sound indifferent. The idea that their brother had written to Faran, choosing him as a confidant rather than her, grated on her nerves. She did not enjoy being kept in the dark, especially when it came to family matters.

She heard Faran clear his throat, a hesitation that made her sigh inwardly. Pausing in her routine, she turned her head to face him, her green eyes narrowing in scrutiny. His expression was pained, lines of discomfort etching across his usually composed face. The sight of it only deepened her confusion. “He’s not in a good place, Maera,” the Kingsguard finally spoke, his voice low and careful. His words made her pause, lowering her sword as she tilted her head, frowning.

Faran hesitated again before speaking, as if weighing the impact of his next words. “Lady Cassandra… she became with child,” he began, watching her closely. “But she miscarried a few weeks later.”

The Queen’s frown deepened, her chest tightening at the news. The weight of his words sank in slowly, a wave of empathy and sorrow washing over her. Luthor and Cassandra had been married for some time now, and she knew they had hoped for a child, one that would be the heir to Storms End as Lord Borros still did not have a son.

The loss of that hope was a heavy blow. Luthor had doted on Aemara when he was at Dragonstone, and Maera knew he had always wanted to be a father. She could almost feel the pain her brother must be enduring, the grief and disappointment, the unfulfilled promise of a future that had been cruelly snatched away. It was an experience she could barely fathom, and yet it resonated deeply with her own recent fears.

If Maera herself were to become pregnant again, if she even could, there was always the risk of losing the child, a risk many women faced. She had read in the medical tomes that repeated miscarriages could be a sign of deeper damage to the womb, an idea that sent a shiver of dread down her spine. Her mind raced with possibilities, each one darker than the last, amplifying the uncertainty that had already taken root in her heart.

She shook her head, forcing herself to pull away from the spiral of her own fears. Guilt tugged at her, reminding her that now was not the time to dwell on her selfish concerns. This was about Luthor, about the sorrow he must be feeling. She took a deep breath and focused on her brother standing before her, reminding herself to be present for him, for their family. “How is he coping?” she asked, her voice softer now, tinged with the genuine concern that lay beneath her own anxieties.

Faran’s expression darkened further. “Not well,” he admitted, his gaze dropping to the ground as if searching for the right words. “He’s taken himself off to the war front in the Stormlands.” The heaviness in his voice conveyed more than just worry—it was a mix of frustration and helplessness, emotions Maera understood all too well.

“War front?!” Her eyes widened in alarm, her heart skipping a beat. “He has no actual battle experience,” she said, her tone sharper than intended, a note of panic threading through her words. The thought of her brother throwing himself into the chaos of war, unprepared and driven by grief, was almost too much to bear.

“And yet that is where he wanted to be,” Faran replied with a tone of defeat. The weight of her brother’s grief pressed down on the Queen’s shoulders. This war was taking its toll on all of them, fracturing their family in ways she hadn’t anticipated. And now, with Luthor seeking refuge in the only way he knew how, the cost of their struggle became even more personal.

Her shoulders sagged, a heaviness settling into her bones. "Why didn’t he tell me?" she murmured, a mix of hurt and confusion in her voice. She and Luthor had always been close. Along with Faran, they had been the close knit trio of the large number of siblings, inseparable through childhood and beyond. The thought that Luthor was now facing something so devastating, and hadn’t reached out to her, cut deeper than she cared to admit.

A gentle hand rested on her shoulder, drawing her from her thoughts. She glanced up at Faran, whose eyes were filled with understanding. "He didn’t want to worry you," he said softly. His words were meant to comfort, but they only stirred her frustration.

Maera scoffed, rubbing her face with both hands. "But now I'm more worried than ever," she exclaimed, her voice rising in exasperation. "He’s run off to battle, for gods’ sake!" The idea of Luthor, untested and grieving, throwing himself into the fray made her stomach twist with anxiety. She imagined him amidst the blood and violence, his sorrow pushing him toward reckless decisions.

She sighed heavily, trying to release some of the tension coiling inside her. Gently, she placed her hand over Faran’s, squeezing it in a silent gesture of thanks. "Thank you for telling me," she said, her voice steadier now, though the concern lingered in her eyes. "I’ll write to him soon, once things have settled a bit." She knew words on a page wouldn’t be enough to reach him in his current state, but it was something, a thread of connection that she could offer.

Faran nodded, his gaze lingering on her for a moment before he stepped back, a familiar, cheeky grin slowly spreading across his face. "So," he said, unsheathing his sword with a flourish, "do you still plan on kicking my arse, or has all this talk dampened your fighting spirit?"

Maera couldn't help the laugh that bubbled up, a brief respite from the storm of emotions swirling within her. She unsheathed her own sword, the familiar weight of it grounding her. "Oh, I still plan on it," she declared, a glint of determination in her eyes. She positioned herself opposite her brother, ready to let the movement and focus of their sparring match drive away the worries, if only for a little while.

Notes: so we’ve got two or three more parts of Part Two left until we jump forward in time a lil bit. And it’s gunna get a hell of a lot darker 👀

Tags: @0eessirk8 @magicseahorse @blue-serendipity @abecerra611 @saltedcaramelpretzel @marvelescvpe @watercolorskyy @shesjustanothergeek @thelastemzy @kckt88 @darylandbethfanforever9

Thank you so much for reading! Comments, feedback, likes, and reblogs are greatly appreciated 🖤

[melonisopod]

When people compare Spy x Family to Buddy Daddies I think they miss the very crucial detail that the Forger family dynamic works because everyone involved is so committed to the bit they end up doing it for real, while Kazuki, Rei and Miri have little to no outside incentive to maintain the illusion of normalcy.

Loid adopted Anya in order to enroll her in a prestigious school so he could get close to a general to prevent a war from breaking out, and then has a marriage of convenience with Yor to further maintain the image of a family. It’s just that in the process of upholding the illusion the two accidentally become a real couple raising a daughter together. Even Anya is maintaining a cover as a regular five-year-old child and not an esper who is in on both her parents’ plans while actively trying to keep them together so she can have a real family.

Kazuki and Rei are roommates (romantic? Platonic? Don’t worry about it!) and accidentally get a toddler mixed up in the middle of a hit, and then said toddler turns out to be the illegitimate daughter of one of their marks and they don’t know who the mother is. Neither of them is qualified to raise a child, and Miri has no superpowers giving her a better sense of awareness of her situation than any four-year-old would have. If anything, neither of these men benefit from co-parenting a child, they are doing so because it’s the right thing to do.

I love both shows to pieces but Spy x Family is a little more fantastical with its setup, a kind of “everything just falls into place” sort of wish fulfillment while Buddy Daddies is a little more grounded in reality regarding its ‘found family’ aspects. Neither is wrong for presenting that way but it’s something to keep in mind when comparing the two shows.

[commonsensecommentary]

“I suspect the real problem with an open Democratic Convention—for the Democrats, at least—is that it will strip away the illusion of normalcy the Democrats are desperate to maintain. The last thing they need going forward is to provide a nationally televised platform for the illegal immigrant loving, America-hating, free-spending, gender-bending, climate-panicking, pedophile-welcoming, race-baiting, military-disparaging, criminal-coddling, police-protesting base of their Party.”

[coochiequeens]

Men being the worst to women in war zones

Even as missiles pound Ukrainian cities and soldiers guard trenches, the war in Ukraine has maintained a stubbornly online element, as supporters from all around the world clash with Russian trolls and fascists. As someone who has refused to leave Kyiv amid the air raid alarms and kamikaze drone attacks and is chronically online, I find being Ukrainian in the age of social media simultaneously infuriating, uplifting, and just emotionally exhausting.

One of the oddest aspects of this is the focus on Ukrainian women’s looks. There has been a vigorous debate among Ukrainian supporters about why people tend to fixate on Ukrainian women’s physical appearances. That includes claims like “Ukrainian women are hot and good at cooking.” Personally, I haven’t found these remarks terribly offensive—although, perhaps, I’ve just got bigger issues to worry about at the moment. But the stereotypes concerning Ukrainian women (and Eastern European women in general) are troubling and potentially harmful—and they point to issues of gender and national identity that a postwar country will have to reckon with.

As in the case of any grassroots movement, the informal community of Ukraine supporters is prone to disagreements and internal debate. Discussions tend to be civil, even when the topics themselves are hugely complicated, such as whether Ukraine should have exchanged a Wagner Group mercenary for Ukrainian prisoners of war. Most of these discussions are purely theoretical: Ethical issues are discussed, military strategies are dissected in minuscule detail, and short clips of Russian President Vladimir Putin posing for the cameras are studied for clues on the state of the Russian president’s allegedly deteriorating health. But arguments over the descriptions of Ukrainian women are a little more personal.

Statements online range from well-intended but questionable generalizations to outright objectifying compliments comparing “naturally attractive” or “well-groomed” Ukrainian women to their “Western counterparts” (usually with the implication that Western women have somehow been ruined by feminism). The weirdest interaction I’ve experienced was a foreigner angrily reacting to my celebration of McDonald’s return to the Ukrainian market. He was adamant that Ukrainian women are good-looking because we live off a steady diet of fresh produce and simple, healthy, and home-cooked meals, and he even tried scolding me for enjoying the cheeseburger (and the brief illusion of normalcy) I had been dreaming of for months.

Users posting opinions such as these are also fond of sharing and reposting images of what a stereotypical Ukrainian woman apparently looks like—and although the traditional beauty standard for Ukrainian women has historically called for deep brown eyes, dark eyebrows, and tan skin, these images tend to portray buxom blonde and blue-eyed girls wearing heavy makeup. The men posting these compliments claim that they are simply appreciating Ukrainian women while supporting Ukraine’s struggle, but critics (many of whom are, coincidentally, Ukrainian women) call it creepy and perhaps even fetishistic. Complicating all this is that the most vocal foreign supporters of Ukraine online are mostly men.

Fetishizing women from other countries is common, of course, but behind all this is that the burden of lookism for Ukrainian women is one of the heaviest in the world—a reality rooted in the country’s post-Soviet history. Although vocal so-called appreciators of Ukrainian women claim they find Ukrainian women attractive because of their natural good looks, what they actually appreciate is the amount of effort Ukrainian women have learned to put into their appearances.

The fall of the Soviet Union brought along turbulent changes in both society and ideology—including gender expression. Although the Soviet idea of femininity demanded that women be flawless, resilient, and (in some ways) androgynous and asexual builders of the socialist utopia while remaining supportive wives and loving mothers, the 1990s brought along two new models of female gender expression. Hugely influential Ukrainian anthropologist and feminist historian Oksana Kis describes these two polar identities as the Berehynia (the hearth goddess, a pseudo-traditional model of femininity rooted in nostalgic nationalism and conservative ideas) and the Barbie.

As the name indicates, the Barbie identity adopted by women in young post-Soviet countries grew from a sudden influx of Western media and consumerism. It was also an identity borne out of sudden social change and an uncertain future. Millions of women, who had been an integral part of the Soviet workforce and who had at least been able to rely on state-provided child care and social support, ended up jobless in a largely lawless society where ruthless men were abruptly climbing to the top.

Although the Soviet ideology had convinced women that they had to carry the dual duty of being both comrades and mothers, the 1990s taught them that the surest way to build the life of their dreams (heavily influenced by suddenly available Western television and magazines) was to attach themselves to tough, aggressively masculine men on the rise to riches.

Looks became a widely accepted social currency—and, for a while, one of the only types of influence and power available to ambitious young women in Ukraine. Beauty salons rapidly opened up on every street while magazines—including the local versions of Elle and Cosmopolitan, which reached the Ukrainian market in the early 2000s—aggressively preached the importance of following the latest fads and keeping yourself thin and youthful-looking, pleasing your husband, and chasing away any real or imaginary rival. As women from Russia’s ex-colonies (and Russia itself) started traveling abroad more often and Western tourists discovered a new market, Slavic women became associated with sex work and a willingness to marry relatively well-off foreigners without asking too many questions.

Thankfully, the recent popularity of feminism (along with a general movement toward stability, democracy, and gender equality) has convinced Ukrainian women that they don’t have to limit themselves by choosing to be a traditional housewife or a glamorous gold digger constantly on the prowl for a husband.

Instead of telling their readers how to dress to find the man of their dreams, Ukrainian magazines have begun addressing matters such as politics, domestic abuse, sexual identity, personal finances, and wellness—although today, they are also forced to write about staying safe in the midst of a war or dealing with power outages. In turn, the women themselves are building impressive careers without having to bat their eyelashes at a perpetually horny boss. In fact, about 15 percent of the Ukrainian army is made up of women, as is more than 20 percent of Ukraine’s parliament.

Yet even this doesn’t deter people from objectifying Ukrainian women—just take a look at the comments under photos of Ukrainian servicewomen published online. The stereotypes are persistent—whether it’s in the relatively harmless form of Western supporters going googly-eyed or the far more disturbing language out of Russia. Online comments from “pro-Z” Russians on social media are packed with fetishistic sadism (for example, rape fantasies, queries about where to find a forcibly deported “Ukrainian refugee wife,” and just general leering comments) aimed at Ukrainian women and girls.

For Ukrainian women, this is hardly new: As with any colonial power, Russia has a long history of treating Ukrainian women as attractive but uncouth and naive provincials to be reeducated at best or exotic objects to be leered at in the worst-case scenarios. While 19th and 20th-century Russian poets treated Ukraine (or, as it was known to them back in the day, “Little Russia”) as an inspiring exotic locale populated by primitive but kind-hearted locals prone to superstition, not much changed after the dissolution of the Soviet Union.

In the early 2000s, a Russian remake of The Nanny aired and instantly became a massive hit. The main difference between the American original and the Russian remake? In the remake, Fran (who was stereotypically American-Jewish and street smart in the original) became Vicka, a Mariupol-born Ukrainian migrant worker who found employment with a sophisticated Moscow family. Throughout the series’ seven-season run, Vicka was the butt of the joke because of her heavy accent, lack of education, gold-digging tendencies, and vulgar behavior. (This included stealing small items, which one of the characters on the show openly compared to “Ukrainians stealing Russian gas.”) But she was ultimately portrayed as attractive enough to marry the rich, intelligent male protagonist. Even in 2022, this colonialist mindset hasn’t changed much—just last summer, Kremlin propagandist Margarita Simonyan fantasized about “Russians visiting Kyiv after the war and enjoying the local cuisine and fresh produce from Ukrainian farms just like in the good old days,” adding that “Russian husbands would be once again breaking their necks to stare at the dark-browed Oksanas (a general term Russians occasionally use to signify Ukrainian women).”

But even pro-Ukrainian admiration for Ukrainian women’s looks comes with a potential price. Seeing Ukrainians as so-called perfect victims who are owed sympathy purely because they’re good-looking, predominantly white, and symbolize a certain type of femininity isn’t helpful. What happens if someone decides that Ukrainian women, as a whole, are not as pretty or docile as they thought they were? Would that be a reason to support Ukraine any less? And in the context of a war where the invader is using brutal sexual violence, fetishizing women seems particularly uncomfortable.

Of course, everyone is free to voice their opinions—and I’m definitely not saying you shouldn’t compliment a Ukrainian woman you find attractive or that you’re some kind of monster for saying Ukrainians are a good-looking bunch. But in a country where good looks have been, in part, a survival tactic, maybe find something else to praise.

Oleksandra Povoroznyk is a Kyiv-based journalist and translator.

[arthur-kilgore]

Today’s Incoherent Red Dead Ramble is brought to you by the fact that the one and only time arthur openly named his illness and acknowledged his impending mortality in front of the gang was when milton was literally holding a gun to his head

And it took the whole gang falling apart, his brother presumed to be dead, his best friend (one of the few people he had acknowledged his illness to, albeit somewhat vaguely) fleeing the country, his sister-in-law being abducted and abandoned by dutch while sadie and arthur undertake a desperate rescue mission and coming damn near close to failing. It took all of that bleakness, and a GUN to his HEAD, to finally say ‘I have tuberculosis and I’m dying’ in front of any of the people that would have actually tried to help him

AND it wasn’t even that he finally broke down in a moment of vulnerability, that he could no longer go on and finally needed to ask for help, oh no. He only said it out of defiance, out of spite, to tell milton that killing him here would scarcely change his fate. Doing his best to spit in the pinkertons’ eye one last time, to distract him, to stall, to say ‘I may die here but that’s hardly to your credit, I’m headed out the door anyway’ before attempting to fight the man hand to hand one last time

And somehow, he survived that act of defiance and lived long enough to make his way to commit one more act of defiance, to try to warn a man who certainly didn’t deserve it of the treachery within his ranks. Barely surviving that to commit one more act of defiance against his brother, sending him away, alone, rejecting any possibility of his own survival because it meant john might be able to make it out.

Had things never gotten so dire, they would likely have never known what exactly was going on with him - they could see that we was unwell, deeply so, but the last bit of normalcy he clung to was being the gang’s unwavering protector. In the end he couldn’t maintain that illusion for himself any longer, but he let go of it in service of that role.

So many of his final acts were done in defiance, out of love

[stackslip]

cannot praise the build of the last few chapters enough. ive seen people disappointed with the pace of part 2 and denjis seeming inability to make a choice and move but that was the point wasn't it. he's been stripped of everything. and in a way it's makima who did so too, her hand through barem. the irony that barem did not understand her true goals either but he is finishing her work by destroying whatever bolts kept denjis desire to reach for humanity and normalcy into place. barem has made denji chainsaw man, just as makima had wanted. and nayuta–nayuta ! only denji had mattered to her, denji and the pets, to the point of mimicking human childhood for his own desire to give makima what she wanted. a cycle of completely misinterpreting the goals of the person you've idolised/loved and destroying yourself and the world in their name. and now nayuta sees denji laughing and doesnt recognize him! she's scared of him! barem, by pursuing makimas goal, has made nayuta lose what her incarnation had wanted herself.

and in terms of the world-building..... we knew none of this was sustainable or sane. we knew that even without the prophecy, everything was hanging on by a thread, maintained solely through polite platitudes and the structures of fascism, but none of it is enough to repress the underlying suffering that is rising to the surface and choking everyone alive. and the last few chapters showed how fragile all of it was, how little control anybody actually has, and how much suffering people are willing to create in the name of their constructed peace/ideal world. now you've placed that weight on two young people who have been denied humanity and love entirely until the very end, and at least one of them has finally snapped. the illusion is fully shattered. become chainsaw man, denji, and swallow the world and rebirth it. asa, become the instrument of war and of famine and of death, the undeniable truths that have been glossed over in the name of capitalist normalcy and are its very roots. let's go! end of the world baby! it was never going to be any other way in tatsuji fujimotos chainsaw man!

[agent-cupcake]

I dont know if you're still doing the yandere flowers but if you are could you do snapdragon and myrtle for dimitri :)

Snapdragon - What is the darling’s day-to-day life like? Does it depend on how they’ve been acting, or is it always the same?

Most days are the same. Dimitri can't keep track of you at all times, you're pretty much being babysat by palace staff, guards, or his friends whenever the two of you aren't together. He likes to have you near him, obviously. He loves hearing your opinion on policy decisions and getting your perspective, although he's also incredibly distracted while working so it can be quite isolating despite his overbearing need to keep you where he knows you're safe. As long as you stay inside, you have freedom to do what you like. And it's not as if this is entirely unreasonable, right? You are his queen, he is forging a new status quo after a war. Although he is certainly popular to some, he's also the hated enemy of many. Which is funny because he is perfectly willing to put his neck on the line when it comes to tempting fate, but goddess forbid you ever put yourself in even the slightest bit of danger. For the most part, it's better for everyone to create the illusion of normalcy, even if that comes at the expense of a few not-so-veiled threats from his friends to keep you sticking to the status quo.

The exceptions are days he takes breaks for things like hunting/camping trips or traveling for diplomatic reasons. You're always expected to go with him. Outside of the palace, the leash only gets tighter. It's for your own good, right? Another exception is if you insist on being reckless or argumentative. Dimitri is usually willing to give you the benefit of the doubt. No matter what you say about your own feelings or how he treats you, he's ready to misinterpret it in any way that doesn't involve you wanting out of this toxic relationship and then lock you in your room to ensure you can't do anything dangerous for good measure. Better to beg your forgiveness after the fact than risk your safety. But, again, everybody involved has a vested interest in keeping you in line and maintaining the appearance of normalcy to ensure Dimitri can devote himself to his duty without having to worry about you constantly.

Myrtle - Is this yandere consistently the same during the time they spend with their darling, or does their attitude begin to change? If so, what prompts the change?

Dimitri's behavior can vary greatly, his mood shifting with very little discernable rhyme or reason. For the most part he's very sweet and considerate, albeit with varying degrees of stressed, distracted, and exhausted. Sometimes he's very, very loving and affectionate to the point of needful. It's borderline love-bombing, although in equal measure it's his need for love and affection to be returned so it's not as if it's some calculated ploy to manipulate you. Other times he just wants the companionship and conversation. And then there are days where he's barely communicative at all and, although he still has the obsessive need to keep you at his side and safe, he barely acknowledges you or even acts very brusquely. Dimitri doesn't get upset with you directly (that would ruin the whole idolization thing he's got going on) but he's also not above taking out his frustration on you either. If he does get upset with you, he'll focus that on outside factors. You find a way around his security, it's the fault of lacking safety measures. You're angry with him, it must be something else that is making you upset. What you need is to be loved and placated, or the things that are upsetting you need to be removed.

The biggest change would be the intensity of these shifts in mood, as they'd get worse the more obsessive/possessive he became as the paranoia and adoration deepened. The more he loves you, the more agonizing and terrifying the thought of losing you becomes. It's painful, this hellish state of utter bliss and sinking dread. And it doesn't really matter how much you love him back, or how completely you submit to his paranoid security measures, because ultimately he is still aware of how easily you could be taken from him, how vulnerable you are not only to the rest of the world, but to the part within him that has an insatiable thirst for destruction. So, yes, his attitude would change. It only gets worse.

[chryza]

How do I explain why I’m obsessed with Horn and Harmonie

To understand their relationship (though in canon they are kept away from each other deliberately) you must first recognize that they once were other women. They were named Rita and Rosalie and they were young and idealistic and they loved each other as they dreamed of becoming defenders of Victoria like their beloved mentor. To leave behind the world of pointless garden parties and plotting nobility and actually do something worthwhile.

And then their mentor died in disgrace, catalyzing the inexorable destruction not only of their dreams but of Rita and Rosalie themselves.

I think for a while Rosalie tried to hold onto the dream she had of nobly defending her country, but the illusion of grandeur she’d held for her mentor was shattered. If even the person she looked up to the most was motivated by greed, had used her to do so, then what was the fucking point? There was still Rita, incorruptible Rita standing against it all like a fortress, but she was the outlier. By the time the Victorian army began pressuring her to join their intelligence network she already constructed a worldview that everyone, including herself, was merely a pawn in others’ games. She became Harmonie easily—Rosalie had been dead for a long time anyway.

Rita spent ten years, if not more, most likely believing her friend had died or disappeared. Sure Harmonie could have kept in contact with her but it was so difficult as a spy to maintain relationships, and surely Harmonie would never do anything to endanger her best friend. Rita carried on bearing all the weight of their dreams—she wasn’t affected by their mentor’s death after all. She went on believing there were still generals worth looking up to, officers in the Victorian army who were as pure in ideology as she.

The tempest platoon was that dream, I think, for Rita made manifest. She knew the army was corrupt, but she could cut through the rot and defend the people of Victoria against that corruption.

The County Hillock barracks and Dublinn didn’t just kill her friends and comrades—it obliterated her faith in her dream. Rita Skamandros died in County Hillock and all that was left was Horn, the last remaining member of the Second Tempest Platoon. There was no faith, no dream, only a festering rage and a raw guilt that forced her into living for her fallen comrades if nothing else.

The rub of all of it is that Harmonie is both the reason she was imprisoned, and the reason she was alive. It was the joint schemes of both Harmonie and the Elocutionist that brought the Spectre Force to County Hillock. It was Harmonie who coldly assessed that Horn was worth something to Dublinn alive. Perhaps her actions were driven by sentiment anyway. She stuck her neck out for Mandragora too, after all.

And at the end, both safe now at Rhodes Island, what reckoning awaits them? Horn, the shell of a soldier putting on a front of normalcy in a desperate attempt to conceal the fury and sorrow that drives her? Harmonie, running from everything in her life since Horley’s death finally face to face with the past she tried to leave behind?

Perhaps there is some atonement waiting for Harmonie and perhaps there is some comfort waiting for Horn. Horn just wants to protect something and Harmonie finally can be saved. Harmonie isn’t the idealistic girl she once was, she’s a cunning and manipulative schemer who is still so often blinded by sentiment nonetheless. There is still something left perhaps of that old life she tried to kill—her darling Rita. They are enemies now. The list of things Harmonie has done that hurt Horn is long, but there is reconciliation to be had, to be wanted. There is still something to save.

[mjhartwork]

from left to right and top down, all my art of Nixie in order of when it was drawn (i think!). It was a wild 4 years of rping her across 4 discord servers (same world and story, but we had to change servers for Reasons)... though to her, the first and last artwork are set 100 years apart!

below is a very curt (300+ word) summary of her life thus far. this IS the TL;DR.

Nixie was originally an olmfolk crystallographer named Masha who explored the surface during the great olmish reform movement, and then became a golemancer whilst on the surface. She got kidnapped by a crazy tyrant baron and was forced to make a golem that would rule the barony like the baron did. She instead made an altruistic golem, named him DonsKrakos, and escaped, but got seperated from her golem son whilst escaping. 

She hung around in Astrax for a while before befriending the exiled prince of a small autonomous region of Astrax. They have a run-in with a demon lord. The prince took back his throne and put Masha in charge of the ministry for public infrastructure. Masha starts working on a gigantic arena that’s also a golem, because who needs boring static structures? 39 years later, Masha hears that her golem son, Donskrakos, went crazy after killing the insane baron that kidnapped her. She makes a mistake out of greif while writing the arena’s scriptcore. Then she finishes the arena, and on opening day, it goes crazy like DonsKrakos did and killed thousands of spectators. Masha runs away because she knew the prince was too soft of a leader to even exile her, so she had to do it herself. She makes contact with the demon lord and exchanges all her golemantic knowledge for a permanent draconian form. This results in her losing most of her golem-related memories, including DonsKrakos, and she renamed herself Nixie.

Then she wandered to Etharia, joined the Azure Wings guild, fled with them to Askana whent he golden capital was attacked, and started developing technology that would help them defeat cultists, such as explosives, crys-comms, light cannons, and thunder sabers, while funding their operations with her new business providing crystal-based technology to surface folk. After helping the Voidwings guild (combination of Voidwalkers and Azure Wings guilds) defeat the demonic god Zhaitan, she married Slyva Runehart and continued to grow her company into the monolith it is today for the next 50 years.

However, hidden from the public eye by her smiling face and the magic dagger that maintains an illusion of normalcy, cracks are forming in her life. Her busy corporate lifestyle cannot reconcile itself with her wife's adventurous spirit, so their marriage is crumbling. With Zhaitan dead, demonic power was weakened, and so was the spell that gave her her draconian form. She is turning into a being made purely of crystal by her own magic as a result.

[toweringclam]

Godefroy Investigation Part 2: Ancient Dragon Knight Kristoff

Let's look at the actual facts regarding Godefroy the Grafted.

We find him in the Golden Lineage Evergaol on the Altus Plateau.

He took part in the First Defense of Leyndell

He was captured by Ancient Dragon Knight Kristoff.

He carries the Godfrey Icon Talisman.

He is an exact duplicate of Godrick.

That's all we know. Literally, that's it. So, I'm gonna investigate these

Evergaols are pretty self-explanatory, and I'll deal with the First Defense when I get to Godrick, so first I'll start with Kristoff. Who was he?

Well, he was a Leyndell Knight. Really, that's it. Why was he called "Ancient Dragon Knight," then? It's likely that the order changed names at some point after he was interred as Spirit Ash.

This is also suggested by the Dragon-Cult Prayerbook, which Brother Corhyn calls a heresy. The Gravel-Stone Seal has the rather dubious line:

The worship of the ancient dragons does not conflict with belief in the Erdtree. After all, this seal, and lightning itself, are both imbued with gold.

Note for later: Things that have to be insisted this strongly are probably what someone wants you to believe rather than what is actually true.

Now, Kristoff's actual description is the only text mention of Godefroy in the game:

Spirit of Kristoff, an honorable knight of Leyndell who was also a devout worshipper of the ancient dragons. His skills strike down foes with thunderbolts, the dragons' weapon of choice. After the First Defense of Leyndell, Kristoff earned the hero's honor of Erdtree Burial for the feat of capturing Godefroy the Grafted.

Said hero's burial was in the Sainted Hero's Grave, so yeah this was a pretty big fucking deal. Going with my theory that Godefroy was memory holed, it's pretty weird that the man who captured him was given a sainted burial and the whole grave was renamed* in his honor.

He's guarded by an Ancient Hero of Zamor, who shows up as a recurring boss and a basic enemy, once in the Mountaintops of the Giants. The description of their equipment says:

These long-lived warriors, clad in biting, freezing winds, are said to have been the mortal enemies of the Fire Giants since time immemorial.

There are two others in the game, but the one that I think is important is the one on the Weeping Peninsula, trapped in his own Evergaol. That one drops Radagon's Scarseal, which states:

These seals represent the lifelong duty of those chosen by the gods.

So they're long-lived, and have a lifetime duty. Seems like an ideal tomb guardian, but that in and of itself doesn't tell us much. However, the fact one of them is found so far from home, in an area controlled by Godrick, and carrying an item sacred to Radagon (and thus the Golden Order as a whole), suggests that this might be a prisoner of war from the First Defense. So at least the losing side also took...uh...this guy!

It also suggests that the sainted hero was interred before the Zamori retreated to their Mountain and were still cooperating with the Golden Order. The one in the Sainted Hero's Grave might have even thought they were acting on Radagon's orders. To me, this indicates an attempt to maintain an illusion of normalcy in the early days of the Shattering. Most people didn't even realize something had gone horribly wrong yet.

It's likely that Kristoff's heroic actions were used as a means of legitimizing the Dragon Cult. They were tolerated before the First Defense, but afterwards, they were held up as heroes. Whoever was controlling Leyndell at the time (likely Morgott) must have desperately needed a PR win. Yet this victory was erased from history, at least the specifics were. There's no mention of who actually took part in the First Defense, unlike the Second, where Margit the Fell Omen (aka Morgott the Veiled King) is held up as the hero.

To me, that means information about who actually instigated the war must have come out later. The war went from a victory to a great shame, so the deeds of Kristoff were stricken from official records.

*(note: It seems that the Hero's Graves are fairly old and the statues that mark them show signs of defacement, so it's likely they were appropriated from a previous culture).

[mamamittens]

Hi, this is more of an ask than a request, but personally which yandere in one piece do you find the scariest and why? Which one do you think will be the best to be with?

On a personal level, any yandere that has strong connections to the WG are going to wig me out. They're already comfortable on some level to the celestial dragon's treatment of others and it's not a leap to assume they'd do similar things. It was a while ago but I did a broad ranking on who'd be easier to run from and obviously those well connected are going to have an easier time tracking you down if you left.

Folks like Doffy would definitely do some fucky shit like make you walk on your hands and knees or something. Assuming you manage to keep those limbs at all.

I actually don't tend to go into darker yandere stuff cause it's not a very comfy subject to me, but a lot of these characters would be... A little too comfortable liberating you of limbs or vital organs (looking at you Law, just cause they don't die doesn't mean it isn't fucked up you rip out their hearts). So a lot of characters are very unideal unless you get cool really quick about a lot of things.

And best to be with? Wildly depends on how chill you are with restrictions and punishments versus explanations and justifications. As well as general attitude. I wouldn't like sticking around someone that acts like I'm their new dog or a wittle baby who needs help with everything, as an example. I'm pretty chill but I suspect I'd quickly find my no tolerance zone with some characters.

The easiest to get along with would be devious bastards who have an answer for everything and are invested in maintaining an illusion of normalcy. They won't cut off fingers or toes for backtalk but that doesn't mean they wouldn't be assholes in other ways.

Or maybe I just don't like people enough to live with someone who has such control over everything. Also a possibility.

And that's about as much detail as I can fit into my lunch break, hope it's what you were looking for!

[writterings]

How do u feel abt dr gordon becoming an apprentice in uh. Saw 6 or whatever the fuck number 3D was

still working my way through the saw series so i actually haven't seen it yet BUT i know about it. i feel like it somewhat makes sense for larry bc where else is he supposed to go after all that? jigsaw's traps weren't designed to make people appreciate life but were designed to essentially groom people into believing his beliefs -- like, your only way of survival is to believe what he believes or you die violently. his whole manifesto is about controlling the actions of others through physical violence, basically. and those who do survive, he continuously doesn't let them go and takes care of them physically and a bit emotionally after the torture. in their fragile state of mind, this makes them cling to him subconsciously. and then even if they try to return to normal life (because it's their choice, "he's not forcing them" like with the traps themselves) they struggle with their trauma and most likely aren't "grateful" for their lives because that's not how trauma works and that creates an overall cognitive dissonance making them confused and foggy in general. and then they only clarity comes from the guy that traumatized them in the first place, because he wants to control them and take away their autonomy meaning they don't have to make decisions, which gives the illusion of clarity -- whereas someone actually trying to help would help them maintain their autonomy, which can get confusing and worse before it gets better. so to me it makes sense!

also i think in being an apprentice, larry can process his feelings about His Bummer Day In The Bathroom and adam in such a fucked up way that it creates an interesting horror narrative. now here's where i'm getting a bit off track, but i want larry to like be thinking about adam a lot in a fucked up and guilt-ridden obsessive type of way. like the first saw movie could have been more homoerotic tbh but it was just mentally fucky enough for these two dudes that they created a deep trauma bond. i want larry to, like, sleep in bed with adam's rotting corpse or whatever and cry over how he couldn't save him. i think itd also be super sexy for larry to obsess over who adam was out of guilt and like try to learn all he could about him and he equated this obsession with love because he's so torn up with guilt and the idea that he contributed to adam's death. and being an apprentice would just compound this guilt so exponentially and wear away at his morals and sense of normalcy that it would push him to this point! whereas if he returned to normal life, he probably would have processed this all in a somewhat more healthy manner. so the idea him being an apprentice and just obsessing over his guilt of adam's death while directly being responsible for other people's deaths and him feeling nothing for those is just so delicious. if you know what i mean. don't know if that happens in saw 3D (probably doesn't; then i will write the fanfic) but can probably update later this week when i finally watch it!

like you didn't ask about chainshipping here so apologies for the yaoi 😔 but! that's my take on larry becoming an apprentice

[purrincess-chat]

Rare Pair Month 2023: Midnight

Finally got around to writing some Feligami for @mlrarepairmonth, it’s short but most of these prompts will be. Probably won’t do a whole coherent story with them because I don’t have time for that atm, but I do want to write a little something for them. 

This contains Pretension spoilers if you squint, so be warned, but truthfully, if you didn’t know it was a spoiler, you wouldn’t be able to tell. Anyway, I’ll tag it just in case. (also no, I can’t help the TS references, sue me)

Meet me at midnight.

Kagami traced each letter with the tip of her finger, memorizing every stroke of the pen. Her mother strongly disapproved of Felix, wanting her to be with Adrien instead, but it was thanks to him that her mother only maintained the illusion of control over Kagami. All she had to do was keep up the façade during the day, then she could spend her nights with the boy she chose herself. Her mother was none the wiser.

But as magical as being whisked away from her bedroom every night by a handsome prince was, Kagami longed for a sense of normalcy. Magic was only enchanting in scarcity. An overabundance would drive even the sharpest of minds to madness. Her days were long and nights too short. She was growing tired of secrets and sneaking around, tired of keeping her true feelings hidden. Love wasn’t meant to be kept secret. Burning flames could only be contained for so long, and each rooftop rendezvous was like gasoline through Kagami’s veins. Exhilarating but painful.

If only her mother saw things her way. Adrien was a dear friend, and Kagami loved him deeply. But their love hadn’t been as destined as their parents thought. Adrien’s soulmate was Marinette for only she could truly bring out the best in him. Letting go was painful at first, but Kagami finally understood now that she had Felix. Her prince. And he was perfect in every way. Confident, strong, kind. Felix never made her question his feelings. They were perfect together. Perfect only when no one was looking.

Kagami held Felix’s note to her lips and closed her eyes. They’d find a way. Felix taught her that her destiny was in her own hands, and she was free to make that choice herself. So long as she had him, Kagami would never stop fighting to be free.

At the stroke of midnight, Kagami slipped onto her balcony, squinting in the darkness for any sign of movement on the rooftops. It wasn’t long before a flirtatious whistle to the tune of Pretty Woman echoed behind her, and her heart skipped a beat. She stretched up to kiss him as he landed, her stomach fluttering with butterflies.

“Run away with me?” Argos offered her a hand.

Kagami wrapped her arms around his neck. “I thought you’d never ask.”

[muirneach]

have you any idea how hard it is to eat lasagna no knife while sitting next to ur coworker and trying to maintain an illusion of normalcy