#even though that would cause a time paradox

[museincarnate]

Tater's ears twitching drew the intrigue of the violet-haired Saiyaness, while her shy smile made the illegitimate heiress chortle rather softly, as she was learning more about the mannerisms of the only non-Saiyan person in her present company. A return to professionalism, however, quickly gave the girl the impression that casual, friendly banter wasn't something that could be made priority, which would earn the faintest of sighs from her.

For the Little Rabbit's sake, as well as her Saiyan companions, the Saiyaness was too busy explaining the views of power and strength in the Empress's sect of the universe, to particularly focus on why such questions were being asked to begin with; the Lagomorph's fidgeting going rather unnoticed for the time being, while Alaria shifted to Scallia's daughter's side. It seemed that the two were close, at least enough to make the iridescent-haired Saiyan seem less secretive or hard to read.

When Torno and Shuen's friend made a further inquiry into power and strength, however, the purple-haired girl would shoot them both almost suspicious glances; the Earth Representative's fixation on the topic only making the heiress feel as though something rather dire had occurred to necessitate her focus on a singular subject. Regardless, she'd bring her gaze back to Tater, as to show an equal level of respect that the Little Rabbit had shown to her. "I'm not really sure, outside of some people believing that the strongest people should have positions of power, instead of those with intelligence and tact. Ruling an empire takes more than brawn, but some people in our culture don't seem to understand that." She'd offer a shrug.

The girl's eyes would widen when she was asked for her name, however, as even Alaria seemed to gaze elsewhere, and rub the back of her neck almost nervously. The heiress, however, cleared her throat before smiling softly at the Lagomorph. "I don't really have one. No one ever asks, and anyone I do get close to doesn't feel right naming me, themselves."

Her answer would cause the Paradox Saiyan and Mighty Saiyan to raise an eyebrow, as something of such a nature was almost unheard of, especially in Saiyan cultures. Given their status, a name from them would likely be seen as an honor, and yet... They didn't offer to remedy the poor girl's odd situation. Perhaps even they felt like it would be an awkward thing to do, despite the Saiyaness looking at Tater, as if she expected her to offer a name.

Unbeknownst to their guide of Scallia's planet, the trio likely had far less confusing visits to Opart and Paragu's sects. The secretive nature of what seemed to be taboo subjects, as well as the briefest of mentioning of what could cause uproar or disarray, such as an illegitimate heir, only lent validity to the idea that, as an empire, things were conducted and kept rather close to the vest, while life on the planet, itself, was busy and uniform.

Regardless of the notions, however, the violet-haired girl would carefully observe each move that Tater made once their interaction began, as a shifting gaze and respectful, quiet nature only served to leave the daughter of the Empress even more curious than before. Torno and Shuen's own slight smiles towards her, even, seemed to draw some sort of quiet chortle from her, as they weren't sure how else they should really respond to someone else already knowing them. It wasn't quite like they cared for their reputations.

The petite, dainty Little Rabbit was likely just a few inches shorter than the secret heiress, while the Saiyaness was also a bit thicker and more defined in musculature, but the look on her face seemed to convey that she cared more for a name, and her unique ears. "Tater, huh? It's a pretty name!" Offering a sincere smile of her own, the Saiyan woman nodded along as the Lagomorph answered her questions rather nicely.

"Power and strength? Can't imagine why a visitor would need to investigate something like that, but... If Alaria or the Empress didn't tell you, if you'd asked..." She interrupted herself, as she gazed back to Alaria, who was still smiling rather sweetly since the purple-haired woman left her home; otherwise stretching slightly, until she continued her train of thought. "If you're not strong from birth, you're trained to become stronger. Everyone in our culture knows how to defend themselves, officials, the Empress, and so on. Weakness isn't exactly frowned upon or seen as a sign of social status, either. Yeah, it's a strict way of life, but that's just how things are for our culture."

Oddly enough, however, when Tater had given her a name, the same wasn't offered in return. Tater hadn't asked, but the way she complimented the Little Rabbit's own name was... Almost as if she adored it more than how nice it sounded. Still, before Tater could likely speak again, the Saiyaness seemed to have more to say. "What else do you need for this investigation of yours, though? Maybe I can help a little, since Alaria isn't really that talkative or easy for strangers to handle."

[cloudcountry]

sometimes i remember when all hope was lost and people wouldn't stop bothering me about secretly being in love with idia shroud when i hated it and it made me hate him more. im glad the two of us overcame that because holy shit that SUCKED.

[driaswrld]

city boys! — gojo satoru and geto suguru.

wc : 1.4k

summary : you go grocery shopping with satoru and suguru and they're just idiots tbvh (gn! reader)

part of : the star paradox collection.

notes : i have shamelessly brought my calculator to a kfc drive thru and yes i do it at the grocery store bcus i have dyscalculia math sucks don't @ me. also i have so much satosugu brainrot i can't breathe. yay to the satoru themed era of the blog :))

other : this can be read as platonic or poly just however you wanna see it! (like three curse words i think - mentions of cunnilingus) I SWEAR ITS NOT WHAT U THINK

current casette : city boys - burna boy

There’s something about summer that makes Satoru and Suguru hang off your shoulders more than they ought to. In the most mundane situations too.

“—and it’s not even that serious!” Satoru groans, dragging his feet on the floor, reluctantly marching behind where you’re pushing the trolley. “Who cares what kind of curry it is? Curry is curry.” He reasons with a huff.

Suguru nudges you in the middle of the supermarket aisle from time to time, pointing out things you usually buy, brands you usually prefer over most, and you grab whatever you find remotely necessary and toss in the cart, both of you collectively ignoring Satoru’s whines.

“C’monnn… Listen to me!”

You pick up a can of diced pineapple and look at Suguru. “Nah, that one’s too sour,” he murmurs and you put it back instantly. Afterall, Suguru’s the best taste tester you could ever ask for. Satoru just scarfs down everything in a forty mile radius.

“The design on the can was pretty though, ‘s a shame.” You sigh.

Satoru’s groans fall on deaf ears.

You turn a corner and head into the fruit aisle. Suguru’s eyes flick to something over your head and his steps falter for a moment. While you’re pushing the trolley ahead, a soft smack! noise comes from behind you and before you can turn your head—

“No! I wanted the other one—”

“This one’s better—”

You ignore them, albeit barely with all the commotion both boys are causing in the supermarket. Leaning over an array of cherries on display, you hum to yourself, carefully picking the pretty ones to add to the cart, perusing at the other assortment of fruit and if even possible, Satoru and Suguru’s bickering gets louder.

“That tastes like shit—” “You look like shit—”

“You kiss your mom with that mouth?”

“You eat pussy with that mouth?”

You strain your head forward as an old lady strolls past, her eyes a little wide and eyebrows knitted with a look of utter shock and you shrink. With a stiff, humorless giggle you turn your back to her, suddenly finding a bunch of grapes oddly interesting.

Embarrassing.

And when you breathe a breath of relief as the old lady passes by, Satoru swings his arm over your shoulder, pouting. “Suguru’s a dumbass—” He’s cut off by a smack to the back of his head, and despite yourself you can’t help but laugh a little.

“Will you two just behave and,” you shift out of Satoru’s hold to take the mini package of ridiculously sweet m&m infused rice krispies he has in his other hand.

You toss it into the cart. “—help me pick some stuff for my fruit salad?” Satoru shrugs with a sigh, he hates shopping. It’s so boring—

You laugh and pull up the list you typed up on your phone : Raspberries, check. Kiwi, check. Watermelon, check. Grapes…

“What else do you need?” Suguru asks, and he sidesteps Satoru, leaning casually on the trolley, one foot pushing it forward and backward as you look through the fruits. “Grapes—” you murmur, suddenly feeling indecisive as you look through the different bunches. Green or Purple. Purple or Green.

Satoru pushes his sunglasses down to the curve of his nose. “Green, ‘s prettier,” he says and you turn to grab a bunch of the green grapes as Suguru straightens his body, pretending to look over your shoulder as he sneakily drops a package of plain marshmallow rice krispies into the cart. “Yeah, green would make it look way more appealing, wouldn’t it?” You whisper to yourself.

“I saw that—” Satoru begins to say.

“Purple’s better, healthier than the green ones.” Suguru says with a straight face. Behind your back he flips Satoru off.

You shrug your shoulders and grab a small bunch of both. If anything, it’ll be shared well between you and Shoko in the bentos you make. Hopefully she appreciates the struggle.

Sliding your phone unlocked, you glance at the list again as you step off. Grapes, check. Suguru pushes the trolley, following close behind you as Satoru trudges behind him. “Wait—” You halt immediately, and Suguru has to steer the trolley left so he doesn’t run into you, but Satoru steps on the back of Suguru's shoes, and looks away with a bashful whistle.

“Other aisle, we need to turn around.” You say, sliding your phone back into your back pocket. Canned Pineapples. You forgot you put back the last one. “How many damn aisles are there?” Satoru mumbles as you turn and make a beeline for the next corner, going back where the three of you came. Suguru chuckles.

Kneeling, you grab the canned pineapples opposite to the ones Suguru said were sour. Hopefully that much distance in the store is enough of a difference between the two brands.

You check the list one more time. Pineapples, check.

“Right, that should be it.” You mumble and both boys internally celebrate — well, Satoru makes a show of letting out a long dramatic sigh of relief while Suguru nods.

Taking a look into the cart, Satoru pettily moves his package of rice krispies on the other side of the cart, away from Suguru’s and when Suguru looks at him incredulously, he sticks a tongue out, “Your flavor’s trash.”

Suguru rolls his eyes and is about to push the trolley forward to run him over when he sees you pull out a scientific calculator from your tote.

A scientific calculator. The same one you use for school. “The fu—” Satoru is about to say, and Suguru glances at him, both of them trying to at least read each other’s minds about what the hell is going on.

You however, are so hyper focused on your little task, pushing the buttons of your calculator, tongue poking the inside of your cheek. Satoru and Suguru watch you for all of two minutes. One minute spent with expressions morphing from confused, to even more confused, to utterly amused. The second minute spent snickering quietly and snapping silent pictures for the groupchat.

“Huh, I went over a little.” You hum and though they haven’t wiped the sheer amusement off their faces, they both find themselves intrigued. “By how much?” Suguru asks, quickly sending off the pictures to the groupchat.

“Seven hundred yen.” You reply as you step forward to peer into the cart, willing and ready to discard one unnecessary item to drop the price.

Three of your phones chime. Satoru checks his own notification.

[Gojo Fanclub]

Nanaminn <3 : who added me to this???

Nanaminn <3 : delete my number gojo.

“Bet it’s the curry.” Satoru mumbles absentmindedly, typing at his phone screen. “The curry’s like—” he pauses, shoves his phone in his hoodie pocket and counts silently on his fingers. “A thousand yen or something — they must’ve put the god of curry in there or something.”

“It’s not the curry,” you reason scouring the cart for any discrepancies. And there’s quite a few of them. Including but not limited to some Sakura tarts, sour candies, an extra package of rice krispies—

“The curry powder we picked is five hundred yen, it’s not the curry.” Suguru shrugs, and Satoru leans against one of the shelves of seasoning, letting out a quiet sneeze.

“Bless you— I need to recheck these.” The calculator comes out again as you murmur to yourself, the click clacking of the buttons drowning out your own thoughts.

“I’m just saying— maybe it was the rice krispie Suguru snuck into the cart—” Satoru mumbles, all while he bends his body at the end of the aisle, reaching blindly around to the shelves on the other side.

“You put one in, I was only balancing the trolley weight.” Suguru interrupts, and he turns his head away when you look up from your calculator at him accusingly.

“See?” Satoru grins, almost victoriously as he grasps a package of baumkuchen, wheeling his hand back as he sidesteps Suguru, moving to slide the pastry into the trolley. “Who knows what else’ll just drop into the cart?” And your calculator is forgotten as you snatch the pastry from Satoru’s hand. “Nothing else is dropping into the cart—”

But something else catches your attention as you’re about to scold him.

Two bright green bags, hidden at the bottom of the cart, stuffed under the packaging of Sakura tarts.

“Who the hell put Kenpi chips in here?”

Satoru and Suguru both freeze, and suddenly their accusing fingers are pointed at each other. But instead of scolding them like they expect—

“Should’ve at least put one for me.”

You're never going to the grocery store with them again.

Bonus :

“Satoru’s paying for the extra snacks—”

“Not fair! Suguru shouldn’t get to just stuff his face—”

“Only two of those snacks are mine. Two. Out of ten.”

A notification sounds on the three of your phones.

[Gojo Fanclub]

Nanaminn <3 : is that my calculator that you borrowed???

@todorokies gets the privilege tag cs i told knives ab this first😭

[fioiswriting]

Reunion | Sequel

[Part 1]

Summary : After the Battle Above the Gods Eye, Daemon returned victorious. Aemond was presumed dead, though his body was never found. Three years later, you've mourned your former husband and are ready to move on. But it seems that some ghosts from your past have come back to haunt you, and that the dead aren't really dead after all...

Rating : Explicit 18+, MDNI

Pairing : Aemond x Velaryon/Strong!niece!Reader

TW : unprotected sex, breeding kink, mention of characters death, angst, possessiveness, p in v sex, oral f receiving, dom/sub undertones, mention of war, AU where the Blacks won the war, anxiety, Reader has a child, grief, fluff, pregnancy, not proofread. 

Reader is Rhaenyra and Harwin’s daughter so I imagined her with dark hair like Jace, Luke and Joffrey but feel free to imagine her as you want of course <3

Words count : 9150

Author's note : Hello everyone!! Sorry for the wait, I've been very busy, but here's part two of Reunion (or at least the first part two, let's call it part 2.1 hehe). Thank you again for all you kind comments and the love you've given my fanfic omg!! Spoiler alert: this is the happy alternate ending! But I've got another bittersweet alternative ending planned 😈 If you think the first part was good enough on its own and the sequel may break the vibe, don't force yourself to read!! But if you need a happy ending, here it is <3 The plot still doesn't make any sense, but hey, we're here to have fun so enjoy ❤️

English is still not my first (or second) language, so sorry for the grammar mistakes <3

When you wake up, the first thing you feel is the reassuring embrace of his arms around you. You don't want to move, not even when the sunlight tickles your face through the opening between the wooden shutters, trying to make the moment last endlessly. But the growing anxiety in your stomach chases away the illusion of your fleeting happiness. 

You close your eyes a little tighter. Perhaps if you try again, perhaps if you try harder, the world around you can fade away.

Perhaps you can wake up again, in a different reality.

But it's inevitable. You know that now you're awake, it's only a matter of time before the two of you have to say goodbye forever. Your breathing becomes heavier, and you have to fight the tingling sensation at the corners of your eyes.

Why have the gods decided to be so cruel to you? They grant you one last taste of his skin on your lips before taking it from you, again. 

Haven't you given enough? 

Could they not show you mercy? 

You who had forgotten him, you who had begun to turn a new page, to seek comfort in the arms of the cold, far away from the fire and the ashes, why did you have to touch the poison that would once again stain your soul?

Behind you, Aemond buries his long nose in your hair. His hand absently caresses the skin of your thigh, just where the edge of the linen tunic you put on sometime during the night when you were cold ends. The fabric is pulled up, revealing the outline of your bottom, and you can already feel your uncle hardening between his thighs, but you don't move.

If you move, you'll make everything more real. Tangible.

You'll speed up the process of losing him, of him slipping through your fingers. 

How can you let him go, now that your heart is full again, now that you feel complete in a way you haven't felt for over three years?

How can you let him go, now that your body has retrieve the extension of itself in the arms of the man who was the cause of your torment, your moments of joy, your pain and, paradoxically, your happiness?

"I know you're awake."

You hold your breath and Aemond inhales into your hair. His hand moves down the inside of your thigh, along the hollow that joins it to your groin. He doesn't venture any further. 

His thumb rests there and brushes your skin, trying to arouse the desire in you with gentleness.

Subtly.

 He doesn't want to hurry, he doesn't want to rush you.

Not when he's been harbouring the impossible fantasy of waking up with you in his arms since the day he nearly died.

He presses harder against you, as if he doesn't want to let you go, as if he wants to be one with you again, and you feel him pulsing against your buttocks, under the linen cloth that has been pulled up a little higher. He says nothing, but he is pleading, needy, in his gestures, which is rare for him.

Something has changed, after all, and perhaps something has changed in him too. 

"I am awake, indeed, " you whisper in a voice that is still half asleep. The lump in your throat betrays the feeling of anxiety gradually creeping into your body, and Aemond seems to notice. Under your tunic, his hand moves up along your belly until it nestles against your chest, close to your heart. His thumb draws small circles, once again trying to bring you back to him.

Trying to calm your mind.

"Let us forget for a little longer," he whispers, his clenched jaw resting over your head. "Please." 

And you know he never begs. 

Aemond takes and doesn't ask.

Aemond believes he is owed everything and never gives in return.

Hearing him beg breaks something inside you, because this is the first time he does so.

Usually it was you, it was always you, begging for peace, begging for more, begging him not to leave you.

Part of him is as desperate as you are; part of him also dreads the moment when you will have to part again. Forever. It's comforting to know that his feelings are sincere, just like yours.

" Make me forget, then." You reply, moving your lower loins back against him, giving him tacit permission to explore your body once more. His fingers move down to your breasts, which he covers softly with his hand, his thumb skimming over a nipple to make it hard. You let out a gasp between your parted lips.

His hand slides lower, his palm flat against your lower belly, his fingertips brushing the light patch of hair at the top of your mound. You feel the familiar warmth growing between your thighs, in your core.

He sighs against the back of your skull, his head tilted forward. His lips search the skin at the nape of your neck, behind the long hair that has become tangled during the night, while his fingers intimately explore the secrets of your body that he knows all too well. The remnants of last night's lovemaking still smear the insides of your thighs and folds, but it doesn't matter; his fingers easily find the little bundle of nerves that they tease until you close your eyes, until your hand grips the damp, shabby sheet that covers the ragged mattress in the inn where you've spent the night.

Just the both of you, in the comfort of anonymity. 

"Let me taste you". His voice, still husky, tickles the back of your neck and you feel him shift behind you. When you feel the warmth of his bare chest, against which you're nestled, leave your back, your body automatically tries to move back against him. You still need him. You still need him to chase away the lump of anxiety in the pit of your stomach and the voices that keep reminding you that you're only postponing the fateful moment. Your hand slips under your white tunic and wraps around his wrist to force him to stay there, to hold his fingers against the source of heat spreading from your core. Your hips are demanding, grinding against his hand. "On your back," he insists, and stands up on his forearms.

With reluctance you turn over. You obey, lying on your back, your hair spilled around your head on the flat, uncomfortable pillow on which you slept badly. The white tunic that serves as your nightgown is pulled up, crumpled, just above your crotch, which it barely conceals. 

Aemond has swung over your body, silvery strands loosening from the braid that holds his hair behind his head and sliding down his shoulders, falling in loose loops on either side of his face, tickling your cheeks.

His lilac-tinted blue eye glows with a predatory gaze, a ray of light catching in the sapphire he hasn't removed from his socket. 

He captures your lips with his own, begging for access. Aemond marks your jaw and throat with light kisses, sucking at your collarbone to make the violets of possessiveness with which he likes to adorn your body bloom. His lips travel down your chest, playing with one of the two small nipples raised by the cool air and by desire, and continue their journey past your navel. 

Your heartbeat quickens as he settles between your legs, spreading your thighs to admire the part of you he covets so eagerly. At the same time you bend your legs, your gaze falling on him, on his unravelled hair, on his eye that locks with yours. He is so close to you, so close to your warm centre, and you know that between your folds the sweet nectar that your uncle longs to taste is already flowing.

But his lips trace the inside of your thighs instead, where the skin is soft and tender, and gradually they reach the hollow that connects them to your most intimate part. He takes a malicious pleasure in building up the tension, in savouring every millimetre of you like a fine delicacy, with only the tip of his lips brushing against your skin.

His thumbs spread the tender flesh of your womanhood and then he places a chaste kiss on the very centre of you. His tongue is shy at first, tracing the slit that connects your entrance to your little knob, collecting the evidence of your desire.

As his tongue wraps around your nub, your hands grip the sheets, knuckles white. 

Aemond drinks from your essence like a thirsty man, his nose buried between your folds, rubbing your pearl.

The tip of his tongue catches what drips from your opening, and then the flat of his tongue tastes your slit, working its way up to the little nub gorged with desire. 

He maintains the same rhythm, revelling in the moans that escape from your half-open lips. Soon his middle finger begins to draw circles against your entrance, the first knuckle sliding inside, then the whole finger. Your head is thrown back and immediately your hand buries itself in his silvery hair, gripping his braid in a messy bun behind the top of his head. Forcing his face against the most intimate part of your body, forcing his lips to work on your wet warmth, you seek more contact. 

Aemond adds a second finger. He can feel you tighten around him as he searches for that particular spot, as his tongue continues to play with your bundle of nerves.

As he devours what is his, utterly his.

His fingers, the ones that aren't buried inside you, close around the flesh of your hip in a possessive grip. "Come for me," he whispers against your womanhood, his eyes lifted to you. "I know you can do it."

Your breathing becomes more erratic, faster too. You tighten the grip of your fingers in his hair, your thighs pressing either side of his face, and he collects the sweet taste of your release on his tongue with a hum. 

You feel like you're floating. The waves of warmth still wash over you, less and less intense, your breast rising and falling as you catch your breath. 

Your hand tucks a lock of his hair back behind his ear as Aemond lifts his face towards you, and you rest your hand against his cheek. His parted lips still glisten with your desire smeared across the lower part of his face. He stares at you without moving, his deep, regular breathing the only sound to break the silence that has followed your release. You stay like that for a moment, his gaze burning into yours. At any moment he might pounce on you. At any moment he might close the tiny distance separating your mouths and press his lips against yours like the starving man he is.

It's you who makes the first move. You taste yourself on his lips and your tongue entwines with his in a fiery, demanding kiss.

Straightening up, Aemond creeps between your legs, his hand on the underside of your thighs, holding them apart. He is still completely naked from the night before, he has not bothered to get dressed after your lovemaking, so you can catch a glimpse of his erect manhood, slightly curved. He wraps his hand around to guide it towards your still sensitive wet entrance.

He slides into you easily, in one slow movement. The haste of the night before, the urgency of the reunion, has given way to the tenderness and laziness of the early morning, and Aemond rocks inside you slowly. His hips undulate, punctuated by long, deep thrusts, in an illusion of domesticity. 

But the damp sheets, rough against your skin, the discomfort of the hard mattress beneath your back, remind you that your lovemaking is anything but domestic.

For Aemond is still the enemy, for Aemond is supposed to be dead.

For your family is probably looking for you at this very moment, worried that you have not returned home for the night.

But you push those thoughts away. The weight of your uncle's body on top of yours soothes the knot that forms in the pit of your stomach at the thought of time slipping away, at the thought of having to leave him again, at the thought of this being the last time you will taste his lips, his skin.

Aemond is gentle, and that is rare enough to be worth mentioning. He has never been so gentle, so soft, in the limited time that you have been married.

Between you, there had been the devouring, consuming passion, the power play that in your submission had granted you dominance.

Between you it had been raw and devastating more than gentle and tender.

His fingers run the length of your body to your core, combining his slow, deep thrusts with the movement of his fingers against your clit.

There are only few words exchanged between you, as if you were both afraid to break the grace of the moment.

His panting, noisy breath echoes in the silence, skimming the skin of your throat, then mingling with yours as the shadow of his lips brushes against yours. He rests his forehead against yours, your hand cupping his cheek, sliding behind his neck, and you are transported into a cocoon of intimacy where nothing else exists around you.

There is only his body against yours, warm and reassuring.

There is only him inside you and the slow movement of his hips.

There is only your breathing, blending in the space that separates your mouths.

"Do you know how much I've missed you?" He whispers against your lips as you close your thighs around him. "How much I dreamed of this tight little cunt?" You swallow his words. Your hips meet his as he pushes against you. He is reaching deep inside you. Despite the intimacy of the moment, his body oozes power and darkness, and you can't help but be drawn to that side of him that complements yours so well. 

You can't stop your body from aching for him. 

"You could have been my queen," he says as his movements grow stronger. He won't last long, but neither will you. He's inside you, where you like to feel him, and your walls clench around his member. "And I would have set the whole world on fire for you." He thrusts. "Burned it to the ground" He thrusts again. "All for you." And again.

The old wood of the bed creaks with each of his movements.

You seek out his lips, just to brush them against yours. 

Without sealing the kiss.

"And I would have accepted," you answer with a whimper. "I would have been your queen, qybor." In another life, you think you would.

In another life, in another universe, you would have been his queen.

A grunt escapes his lips and lands in the hollow of your ear. Aemond straightens on his bent elbow, right next to your head, and he plunges into you one last time, with more power, more vigour, just as his new position allows.

You close your eyes. 

A second wave of warmth is about to engulf your body.

And you wait for it, you welcome it.

"Look at me when I come inside you," he growls hoarsely as his seed pours deep inside you, into the most intimate part of your body. "Look at me as I fill you up."

Your eyes lock with his, fiery as ever. A final moan escapes between your lips and you seal them to your uncle's in a feverish, wet kiss. You hold him in your arms for a moment longer, as if to allow yourself the luxury of illusion for a brief instant. 

You delay the fateful moment a little longer, fighting the minutes that inevitably slip through your fingers.

"Stay inside me just a little longer," you whisper, burying your head in the hollow of his neck where you can feel the rapid rhythm of his pulse. His arms close around you, holding you tight against him, and you hear him purr against the hair on the crown of your head. He rocks you gently.

The silence welcomes you both into its embrace and you savour it like a treasure. Your body aches in the sweetest way, your insides throbbing around his softening manhood. 

And around you, nothing exists anymore.

*** *** *** *** *** *** *** 

"I've changed, you know." His hoarse voice vibrates against you, but you refuse to meet his eyes. You keep them closed. 

You're not sure if Aemond has really changed. Aemond is ruthless, cold, brutal, calculating, merciless. Cruel. You're not sure if Aemond can ever change, but he shows unusual tenderness, and maybe, just maybe, you allow yourself to doubt. You indulge in the illusion. 

Perhaps Vhagar's death has broken something in him. 

Perhaps it's true, perhaps he's not the same man anymore.

He's not sorry for what he has done. He never will be. He's too proud, even if you can catch the glimmer of remorse that colours his icy eyes when he is not looking at you.

Does he think of your little brother? Is he haunted by the memory of him, as you have been for so many years?

Does he think of the innocents he killed without flinching, the blood he spilled in the Riverlands that now stains the burned grass? 

Is his sanity slowly being eaten away by the atrocities he has committed with his own hands? 

He has changed. You are not sure if he's changed for the better or for the worse, but he has indeed.

Daemon has changed too. So has Rhaenyra. So has Jace.

You too have changed.

For war changes people, war makes them weary and wary, it shatters something in the body that will never be the same again. It hollows out the roundness of the cheeks, it deepens the dark circles under the eyes, it fades the sparkle of childhood that remains in the eyes.

Aemond seems to be waiting for an answer, but the words remain stuck in your throat. I know, you want to whisper, I know, but suddenly you've forgotten how to speak. His thumb draws the soft line of the underside of your breast.

The future terrifies you more than ever. You had made peace with your past, you had come to a conclusion that, even if it pained you, had given you some respite. 

Seeing your uncle alive had reawakened your demons. 

Spending the night in the embrace of his arms had revived everything you had buried deep, deep down. 

The past had returned, creeping towards you, gnawing at the corners of your heart and at what remained of your sense of stability and certainty. 

Now you are plunged into doubt. 

Just as you were a little over three years ago, when you were informed of his death, when you had to learn to live with the choice that had never really been given to you.

Just as three years ago, when you noticed a familiar lilac-tinged blue in Rhaegar's eyes.

Like when you had to live with the memories that haunted you, that were slowly eating away at what little sanity you had left.

Like when you finally decided to leave for the North.

Aemond seems to sense your anguish, because his fingers get lost in your hair. 

"What are we going to do now?" 

Finally, you dare to utter the inevitable words that have been hanging on the tip of your tongue since you woke up, words you've swallowed so many times this morning. You immediately blame yourself. 

Saying them only makes them more real.

They tear at something in the imaginary cocoon you've built for yourselves. You bury your face against his skin, breathe in his scent, as if you never want to forget him.

For you know how fleeting memories can be.

You remember how his face faded with each passing day.

You don't know if you'll ever be able to experience it a second time.

"We could leave," Aemond replies, as his fingers venture to your jaw, caressing the line of your cheeks with the back of his knuckles. 

He's so pragmatic, as always.

Even in this situation.

Even now.

It makes you want to shake him.

"We could run away," he says again. His gaze, fixed in the distance, falls on you at the same moment. "To Essos. Pentos. No one would know who we are." You close your eyes, and let his hoarse voice lull you into silence. "To start our own family, the three of us."

You know he is not serious. Even though he looks at you with such insistence, with that flame that flickers in the centre of his iris.

You relish his fantasy, this impossible dream. 

But you can't leave your family; Essos is not Winterfell. There, they knew where to find you. They knew you were safe. They knew you were sheltered between the walls of the northern castle, under the heavy furs, under the protection of Cregan Stark.

Essos is the unknown.

You cannot let your mother lose her only daughter, not after everything she has already lost. 

The itch is familiar, tickling at the corners of your eyes. There was a time when you thought you'd lost that sensitivity. When you thought the war had left you cold, incapable of feeling anything. Incapable of crying.

"You know I can't." Your nose rubs against his milky skin, made clammy by sweat. You keep your eyes closed because you feel the weight of his cold gaze on you, his furrowed eyebrows as he stares at you blankly, his lips pursed in a long, thin line. You don't have the courage to meet his accusing gaze, let alone the wounded look on his face as you crush all his illusory dreams into dust. 

When did you become the more pragmatic of the two? 

When did you become the one responsible for bringing Aemond back to reality?

It used to be you, the one who filled your mind with unrealistic dreams, the one who dreamed of stories and fairy tales, back when you could still dream. "They need me, you know that."

A sneer stretches across your uncle's lips as he swallows a chuckle that sounds more like an ironic growl. You feel his whole body tense against yours, a sign that he's holding back his annoyance. 

A sign that he has something to say, that he's upset, but doesn't quite know how to put it into words. 

"Like they needed you back then?" he replies scathingly, bitterness on the tip of his tongue. "When they used you as a bargaining chip to achieve their ends, hm?"  

Your red cheeks burn with shame, as if he'd slapped you. You don't move, merely swallow hard. You know there's something right about what he is saying, but you don't want to admit it. 

You've done your duty.

You've done what is expected of you as a daughter.

It was not a question of them using you. It never was. 

It was your duty, only your duty, what you were always meant to perform, wasn't it?

And yet a small voice in the back of your head had already given you a similar speech, a few years ago, but you had tried to silence it.

You refused to let Aemond admit it. You refuse to allow him to do it. He had no idea, no right to criticise your family when he'd acted like that.

When he has done what he has done.

He has no idea what it is like to be a daughter.

You don't answer, and silence falls between you again.

You wish so desperately that he could go home with you; that he could tell them that he's sorry.

You wish it were easier. 

There is no one left to wait for Aemond but you, but his son, you know that. His family has been decimated, as has yours in some ways, though you still have your parents and your older brother.

For your uncle, there's nothing left but the shadow of his existence, the shadow of who he once was, long ago.

You let your hand trace the side of his throat, your nose buried against it, your lips hovering over his skin. You lean against him, your body on top of his, pressed together as if you were afraid to let him go.

"You could come with me instead," you whisper, but you refuse to meet his gaze. There's something shameful in the words you've just spoken aloud, something naive, and your burning cheeks are proof of your embarrassment.

Almost imperceptibly, he clenches beneath you, holding his breath. This is a bad idea and you feel stupid. Naive to have dared to suggest something like this.

His voice purrs in a hm that vibrates against you. He's about to say something. He searches for words. "You know that -"

"I know." You cut him off sharply - a little more than you would have liked, your eyes raised to silence him.

You know what he thinks.

He thinks that Rhaenyra will never be his queen. He thinks he will never bend the knee to his eldest sister and her authority, which he doesn't recognise.

He thinks that with the death of Aegon, with the death of the children his brother fathered with Helaena, the throne belongs to him.

And you are aware of his ambitions. You know how perfectly the conqueror's crown fits his head. You know how it sets off the sapphire embedded in his eye socket. You remember the look of greed in his eyes every time he stared at the Iron Throne, you remember the look of pride on his face every time he scorned anyone who dared to question his decisions as Prince Regent.

You know how mercilessly he made the soldiers at Harrenhal kneel, forcing them to contemplate their impending deaths. You know the terror he has sown throughout the Riverlands.

Even in the Seven Hells you could have found more mercy than at the hands of Aemond Targaryen.

Aemond may have changed, but you're not sure he's changed enough to put aside the pride that is consuming him from within.

You take a deep breath. "You don't really have a choice, qybor." 

Fearing his reaction, you curl into a fetal position, your back to him, your knees drawn up to you. You close your eyes. You wait for his frustration.

You wait for his sentence.

You know that he is aware that he has no choice. 

He has only two options: swallow his pride or sink back into the abyss, disappear into the dark meanders of oblivion.

Rhaegar needed his father, of course, but you found him a father in Cregan Stark. 

That was a sacrifice you were willing to make.

There was no way you would give up what family you had left.

For Rhaegar needed his grandparents and his uncle even more.

Behind you, you feel your uncle's hand slip under your tunic and around your body, pulling you against him. He presses his bare chest against your back, tucking your head under his chin. His hand caresses your stomach, then his fingers brush the base of your breast.

"You know she will never be my queen. You know the throne belongs to -" But he lets the words drop without finishing the sentence, the knowledge of what he was about to say hanging in the air between you. 

As long as he remains alive, will the embers of war never truly be extinguished? 

You don't know, but you accept the risk. 

You close your eyes, as if you're about to jump into the icy depths with both feet.

"The rest is up to you, Aemond," you whisper, barely audible. "And if you have truly changed, then you will know how to make the right choice."

He says nothing. 

You savour the last few minutes of illusion you have left.

*** *** *** *** *** *** *** 

The fear of making the wrong choice never really leaves you, but your mother chases your fears away, as she so often did when you were a child, tucking one of your dark curls behind your ear. She has her distinctive little smirk on her lips, the one that pulls the corner of her lips up towards her nose.  

The same one Lucerys had, you think sadly. 

You still miss him, even after all this time, and sometimes you wonder what kind of young man he would have become.

"You're a clever girl, my sweet clever girl," she whispers against your forehead as she cradles you in her arms. She's as beautiful as ever, as gentle with you as ever, despite the years, despite the wear and tear of war that has hardened her features and hollowed her cheeks. "And I know you have made the right decision." She lifts your chin with her forefinger to look into your eyes, and you feel like you're turning back into that shy, insecure girl who disappeared somewhere in the violence of the war all those years ago.

 "And if it should turn out that you were wrong... Daemon will be there to intervene. You know he is just waiting for that." You roll your eyes at her attempt at humour, and she plants a kiss on your forehead. 

For a split second, you truly are that carefree little girl again.

But behind your mother's humour lie fragments of reality that make your laughter bitter.

The news of your husband's survival remains a hazy blur in your mind. Sometimes you're not sure if this conversation really occurred or if you're dreaming.

You're not sure if what's around you, if the night you spent in Aemond's arms, is real or an invention of your sick mind.

Sometimes you're not really conscious of the events or how long they lasted, the lump in your stomach grows back, and once again you're destined to carve half-moons marks in the palms of your hands to soothe the tension in your body.

You told your mother first because you knew she'd be more understanding. As a mother, as a woman, she knows the meaning behind certain silences, the weight of words, the unspoken words that float between sentences. 

You know she can understand your pain and your doubts, but also your love and your compassion.

She was shocked when you told her that her younger brother was still alive. She smoothed her dress, paced back and forth, then took the time to sit down, her eyebrows furrowed, her eyes riveted to your face, looking for clues that would betray what you were thinking, what you might be hiding. She was afraid that he had hurt you. She was afraid that he would rip you away from her, just as he had once ripped your little brother away from her.

Her fingers had gently taken your hand and her thumb had drawn little circles on the back of your hand to comfort you. She listened to you first as you confessed everything. 

Where you were that night when you didn't come home. 

Who you were with.

And then she took you in her arms. She reassured you. Soothed you. 

You had been so afraid of disappointing her, of disappointing all of them, that the tension paralysing your body had finally loosened and you burst into tears.

Things had proved more complicated with Daemon. When he learned that his nephew was alive, that he wasn't forgotten forever in the deep waters of the lake near Harrenhal, he refused to believe you. He was furious. He said he had seen him fall, that he was the one who had taken his life, tearing the sky apart.

You didn't know where to look, and it was in your mother's eyes that you sought support, comfort, anything in the face of your stepfather's rage. You could feel on you the look of disappointment of your brother, Jace, as he held his shoulders up and his chin high. He wanted to prove that one day he would be a good king. With his jaw clenched, he said nothing, looking at you as if you were suddenly so foreign to him. He probably didn't know what to say, for fear of being clumsy, for fear of unintentionally hurting you, even more than by his lack of support. 

You know it wasn't his fault. 

He simply couldn't understand.

The words stuck in your throat and you found yourself unable to speak, pearls glittering in the corners of your eyes while you waited impatiently for the final blow.

The final death knell that would seal your disgrace in everyone's eyes.

After all you'd endured.

Daemon stood before you, his eyebrows furrowed, his eyes hard. He was staring at you as if you'd committed the ultimate treason, and you knew he was controlling himself to keep his anger from exploding. "You're going to bring him to me," he had hissed, his hand closing over your shoulder. 

" You will lure him here and he will be put to the sword." His tone left no room for argument. With the tension growing in your stomach, you sought your mother's compassionate look to calm you. You could see the fury in your stepfather's eyes, and also a mixture of fear and feelings of betrayal. You knew that, deep down, he was afraid for you because he considers you his daughter. Because Baela and Rhaena are like sisters to you. 

It was his reaction you feared most, not your mother's. His fingers dug into your skin, the floor slipping out from under you, the room swaying dangerously, and your mother had come to your rescue, trying to calm things down with her usual diplomacy.

You can't quite remember the words your stepfather said; in anger he muttered something that sounded like are you really thinking of becoming his whore again? and the words hurt like hell, but you tried to swallow the pain.

 Endure, hold your head high. That was what you had learned.

Your mother had suggested you go back to your room or spend some time with Rhaegar, her fingers gently stroking your dark locks, and as soon as you left the throne room you could hear their voices echoing through the door. 

They were arguing.

Over you.

Because of you, again.

You took a deep breath and returned to the gardens, where your two stepsisters were making your son laugh by playing with him. They had fun running around in the damp grass to the applause of Baela's little daughter, who clapped her little hands in delight.

Your fingers were still trembling when you joined them.

In the end a solution was found, for your mother feared losing you a second time. 

She remembered what had happened to Laenor, your father, when he had grown tired of the court.

She remembered what had happened to Helaena, your sweet aunt, when she could no longer bear to suffer.

It was her worst nightmare to see you torn from her again, now that she had the chance to hold you in her arms every day, to protect you again, to see you grow again.

It was her worst nightmare to see her only daughter, her only daughter and the second of her only surviving children, taken from her. 

You and Jace were all she had left of her own blood.

After long negotiations with Daemon, you had managed to bargain for your husband's life in exchange for strict conditions; increased surveillance, no bonding with a new dragon, no carrying of weapons, and the assurance that he would be executed if there was the slightest doubt about him. You proposed that you and he leave the capital, with your son as well. To return to Dragonstone. To start over on a new, blank page in a book that was already too damaged.

For you, it was also a way to ease the tensions between your family and Aemond, and perhaps find a more intimate life with your husband and son.

Rhaenyra had declared that this was the best solution: a guarantee for her to have you by her side again, a guarantee for her that you would be there.

You had been afraid of Aemond's reaction, afraid that his ego would not bear it; that he would refuse, that he would rather sentence himself to his own death than to an existence as a prisoner within his own family, condemned to live as a shadow of the man he had once been in exchange for seeing his son grow up. 

But in the end, wasn't he doomed to live as a shadow of the man he had once been, anyway?

He would never be the rider of Vhagar again.

He would never be the ruthless Prince Regent again.

He would never again be the second in line to the throne, the second son greedily waiting for fate to turn in his favour.

He hadn't been all of that for a good three years, lurking in the cold, gloomy corridors of Harrenhal like a lonely monster.

And if he went back, if he rejected your proposal, he would have condemned himself to eternal solitude at the side of a witch you would rather forget.

He had no choice, for he would never be that Aemond again. 

When you joined your husband at the meeting place, you were relieved to see him swallow his pride and accept. It was difficult, but you convinced him. 

For Rhaegar, for his son.

Aemond had suggested that you run away, far away from everything, and you almost hesitated. Running away would have allowed you to forget, of course. 

But your deepest wounds had begun to heal. You had begun to be able to face the ghosts that haunted King's Landing, the ghosts that haunted Dragonstone.

To stop there was tempting, and yet so frightening at the same time. 

The unknown terrified you. You needed familiarity now, something to fall back on, for you were so tired. 

Now you can't help bringing your thumb to your lips, nibbling the skin at the corner of your fingernail with the tip of your teeth as you walk away from Rhaenyra. A handmaiden brings you Rhaegar, and you struggle to breathe. 

You inhale.

You exhale.

The thick tuft of brown hair makes you smile. The sight of your son is enough to give you the courage to walk with a more confident stride. It's as if you were filled with new strength, for you know that he needs you more than anyone else. And for him, you've promised yourself to stay strong.

As soon as you reach him, you kneel and plant a kiss on his plump cheeks. 

He's growing up so fast that sometimes you wish you could stop time.

"There's someone who'd like to meet you, sweet boy," you explain, and you can recognise your mother's inflection in your own voice. Sweet boy. Rhaegar looks at you with big, round, questioning eyes, and you wonder if he senses your anxiety, because he takes your hand between his tiny fingers.

"Who, muña ?" he babbles, striding down the cobbled path in the middle of the gardens, hopping on his clumsy little legs, and you smile at his carefree attitude. He stops to watch the bees foraging, bends down to pick up a flower and gives it to you. He's always so curious, so full of life. He's a ray of sunshine that brightens your dull days. You finally understand your mother, the agonising fear she has of losing you. You finally understand the horror she experienced when she lost her four other children.

You also finally understand why Helena threw herself from Maegor's Holdfast.

The thought of what Daemon did still revolts you, and you can't imagine anyone hurting your boy like that.

You turn around. Rhaenyra is still there, in the distance, her crown on her head, her hands crossed in front of her on the heavy fabric of her dress, watching over you. She won't move, a comforting, discreet presence.

A stone bench awaits you by the fountain, on which two cushions have been arranged. A dessert buffet has been set up under the gazebo and you immediately spot your favourite cakes, the strawberry one, the blackberry jam one, and you look down at your son. He hasn't noticed them yet, or he would have already run over, dipped his finger in the whipped cream and stolen a blueberry from one of the tarts, his innocent expression on his face. 

He is definitely a lot like you. Mischievous and clever. An angelic air. He is an easy-going child who never throws a tantrum.

Who understands quickly, too. 

"I love you. I love you more than anything, you know that, don't you, young boy?" your tone is soft, and you kneel down in front of him, your hands on his small shoulders to emphasise the seriousness of your discussion. You search for your words, hesitating. How do you tell a three-year-old that his father, his dead father, is back from the dead and about to meet him?

Of course, Rhaegar knows that his birthfather was valiant, that his birthfather rode the greatest dragon in the world, that his birthfather died in battle.

But there is so much he doesn't know, so much he will inevitably learn as he grows up, and it is precisely that future that frightens you. You hug him as if you're afraid of losing him.

"Princess."

The deep voice of your sworn protector echoes behind you, and you straighten your skirt. 

You know he is there. 

You know you will see him the moment you turn around.

Your heartbeat quickens.

Aemond Targaryen stands behind your sworn protector, surrounded by two guards. His hands are bound in front of him. 

It is so strange to see your uncle in this vulnerable position. He who for so long has been on the other side, he who for so long has been the one who bent others to his will. He looks at you harshly, and you almost feel the need to apologise.

But you know it is a matter of caution.

You know that Daemon, you know that Jace and even your mother would never have agreed to bring him in if such precautions hadn't been taken.

You admire his resilience, his determination. You admire his ability to hold his head high, to be confident, despite the fact that he is being treated like a common prisoner, about to be sentenced to death.

You struggle to swallow the lump that has formed in your throat. 

"Who's that, muña?" Aemond's eyes leave you and immediately drop to the small figure that has appeared beside you, reaching for your hand, huddling against your leg, shy and worried. 

Immediately, your husband's icy gaze, his lilac-coloured eyes, soften.

"Thank you, Sir Rowan. You may leave us."

Despite the worry on his face, your sworn protector nods, unties his prisoner's hands and walks back to your mother, accompanied by the other two guards. You watch them leave, and a strange silence fills the space between you and your uncle.

He doesn't look at you; his eyes are riveted to your son, whom he observes with wonder. He looks as if he is admiring the most beautiful and fascinating discovery he has ever seen. You look down to see Rhaegar's reaction, and he seems as intimidated as he is hypnotised by that gaze, by that blue and purple eye so similar to his owns, by this man looking at him as if he were one of the most marvellous things in the world. 

"Gods, he's perfect," Aemond murmurs as he looks up at you, emerging from his trance. He comes closer to embrace you. And for once, there is something other than his usual brutal possessiveness and ferocity when his arms close around you.

*** *** *** *** *** *** *** 

Aemond is shy at first. Awkward. 

He's shy and amazed as he follows your son's every move with his good eye. From time to time, his gaze rests on you, as if to make sure he's not dreaming. As if to make sure he is doing right, seeking your approval.

Rhaegar is shy too, at first.

When he sits on your lap, he snuggles up to you, buries his face in your neck, one of your locks curled in his chubby little hand and he rubs it against his nose. From time to time, he turns to give his father a curious look, recognising his own eyes in the unfamiliar face before him. 

Aemond's expression grows gentler, a softness never seen in his features before.

Once he has tamed the stranger, the little boy pecks at the blueberries in the tart in front of him. He shakes his legs, hitting your knees in painful little jabs, and your arm wraps around his body to hold him down.

Rhaegar loves cake, and the sugar may be coaxing him, for he's regaining his appetite for talking.

"He really does have my eyes," Aemond whispers incredulously, and his voice, still foreign to his son's ears, causes the little boy to lift his head.

" It is definitely the only thing he has inherited from you," you reply, teasing him with a small smile at the corner of your lips.

Soon Rhaegar finishes the blueberry tart, the cream smeared over the bottom of his face and the tip of his nose.

"He inherited that from you, that is certain." Aemond grins, pointing with his long chin at the boy's voracious appetite for cakes and pastries.

You have to pinch yourself to make sure you're not dreaming. That your husband is really standing in front of you, with your son, like a normal family. 

That he was truly trying to tell a joke.

This form of domesticity is so alien to your relationship, and yet so pleasant, that you find yourself thinking that perhaps you have made the right decision, indeed, if every day can be like this. 

"Your muña deserves some cake too, what do you say, little one?"

Rhaegar giggles. Aemond cuts a slice of your favourite cake, the one with the strawberries, and puts it on your plate. 

You blush. After all these years, he hasn't forgotten which one is your favourite.

You can't even really whisper a thank you because this apparent domesticity, this feeling of completeness, this interlude of happiness makes you uneasy. Anxious.

You have the feeling that at any moment you'll be plunged back into the horror of what you went through all those years ago. 

You have the feeling that at any moment the Gods will be cruel and snatch away this happiness that you've barely been able to taste, leaving only the memory of its sweet taste on your lips.

You breathe in and out, as you often do when you feel your palpitations rising in your chest.

"Do you... do you want to take him on your lap?" you ask your uncle with shyness, your hand stroking Rhaegar's thick brown curls. Aemond looks at you as if you have spoken in a foreign language. Lips parted, he is about to say something, but not a sound escapes his lips. His lonely eye travels from you to your son, from your son to you, in silence.

"I don't know if -"

You can hear the doubt in his voice, and it's almost touching to see him lose his confidence in front of his own son, to see him so nervous and unsure of himself.

You let out a little laugh, not in mockery, obviously, just full of tenderness.

You know what he's thinking.

He's afraid of frightening him.

He's afraid of harming him.

"You won't hurt him, Aemond."

He answers nothing. He still doesn't like to look vulnerable, unsure, and you know it has to do with his childhood. With all he has kept bottled up inside him all these years. He will need time.

Your eyes fall back to the little boy sitting in your lap, and you draw his attention to yourself by stroking the curls on his forehead.

"Do you want to go to Aemond for a while? To kepus?" 

you correct yourself immediately, and Rhaegar nods in agreement.

You are amazed at how easily he slips off your legs to run to his father, to pull himself onto his lap, when only a few hours ago he was so intimidated by the presence of this stranger with the eyepatch.

Your uncle automatically puts his arm around his waist to make him feel comfortable, his new role taking root in him. His fingers reach for the cloth on the table, and he wipes Rhaegar's face, who can't help but burst out laughing at his father's clumsy gestures.

For a split second you are lost in contemplating the horizon, the stillness of the sea. You taste the sea breeze on your face.

And then you turn your head towards the cobbled path where the guards and your sworn protector are still stationed. 

Your mother is no longer there, and you notice that you have not at any time felt the need to seek comfort in her presence. 

You smile, for in the end you know you've made the right decision.

*** *** *** *** *** *** *** 

Dragonstone, 6 months later.

When you walk the corridors of the place that saw you grow up, you are no longer haunted by the ghosts and their incessant cries. A kind of peace has settled over you, a return to the pleasant familiarity you've waited so long for.

You still think of Luke, of course. Of Luke and Joff and little Aegon and Viserys, your brothers you will never see grow old. 

But you no longer feel their disapproving glances at every step you take. You are no longer kept awake by their cries, by their tears, by the remorse that twists your stomach. 

You no longer blame yourself. 

Perhaps you've finally learnt to make peace with yourself.

The heavy door of the bedroom you share with Aemond is half open, and you slip your head into the doorway, piqued by curiosity.

Snuggled on your husband's lap, Rhaegar is staring at the pages of a large book, the corners of which you can guess are horned, the cover worn, from being carried everywhere. You can imagine the jam stains that mark the paper with children's fingerprints. You know exactly which page is missing, the one you and Aemond accidentally tore out and hid so the Septa wouldn't notice, so many years ago. 

It is a book about dragons, the very one the two of you used to read hidden under the table when you were so young and innocent, long before the torment of war.

Without a sound, you lean against the doorframe and contemplate for a moment the perfect vision before you.

You don't have the cruelty to disturb them.

 "This one is Vhaegar!" shouts Rhaegar, and you hold your breath, searching Aemond's face for any hint that might betray his reaction. The mention of his former dragon is still a sensitive subject for him, you know it.

"Yes, that's Vhagar." he pauses. "She was brave."

From the corner of his eye, Aemond spots your silhouette in the faint glow of the corridor, and his attention lingers on you for a moment. He's almost embarrassed to be caught in such a vulnerable, intimate moment, but you smile tenderly to encourage him.

"And big!" the little boy adds, energetically raising his arms to the sky to emphasise his words.

"Yes, and big." There's a suspended moment of silence where the words hang in the air, and then your husband gently ruffles his son's hair. It's a tender sight to see them bond like this, and your heart fills with happiness.

Taking a step forward, you step into the light of the room and Rhaegar expresses his joy at seeing you. You smile back at him and approach the chair where Aemond sits, your son on his lap.

Your uncle's hand instantly rests on the curve of your belly, which he still stares at with the same protective instinct, the same fascination, as the day you told him the news. His eyes sparkle.

"Your daughter is restless today."

He looks up at you, not without lingering for a moment on your breasts and their new shape.

"My daughter?" he asks, one eyebrow raised inquisitively.

"I'm convinced it's a girl. You reply, smiling wryly, and take a seat in the armchair next to the one where Aemond and your son are sitting, facing the fireplace. "And she took after her father, given her temper," you tease him, your hand on the top of your rounded belly to soothe the baby growing there. 

Rhaegar's eyes close slowly. Nestled against the chest of the man who, just a few months ago, was still a stranger, he fights sleep, he fights to stay awake, but tiredness quickly overcomes him. And then he falls asleep, his mouth half open, the movements of his breath making his chest rise and fall rhythmically.

Aemond finally gets up. You follow his movements with your eyes as he approaches you, the child in his arms, and he plants a kiss on the top of his head.

"I'm going to put him to bed. I'll be right back." He straightens and lowers his voice.

"I wouldn't fail in my duty and neglect my wife." The heat rises to your cheeks, turning them red at the implication of what awaits you tonight. You're already wet between your thighs at the thought. 

But you nod in agreement and watch him walk away. 

You are left alone in the silence of the room. The only sound around you is the steady crackling of the fire.

It's strange, you think, to be back on Dragonstone, in the familiarity of the stones you've spent most of your life between, after getting used to the idea of not surviving the war.

To the idea of dying from a broken heart.

To the idea of dying, the umpteenth victim of the vicious spiral of conflict that has torn your family apart.

And yet here you are.

With your own family.

For once you have hope for the future. You hear the cries of your little brother, lost in the storm so long ago, but they are quickly replaced by the laughter of a happy memory. 

And finally, you have the absolute confirmation that you have made the right decision.

*** *** *** *** ***

Thank you so much for reading!! <3

Tag list : @minttea07 @queenofshinigamis (I'm tagging you since you asked for it ❤️)

[ghysry]

You're asking for requests and what about a reader (who wasn't adopted by Reginald ofc) with the powers of clairvoyance who sees what's gonna happen in season 4 all of it the Lila x five arc and everything and is just like no 😃 and stops it and fixes it (somehow five is the same age physically and mentally as them) so it's a reader x five fic it can be an established relationship to make it more angsty or not up to you!!

angst....I can't!!! I can't do it! I'm sorry guys but this story will not be angsty😭

Tags:

Fluff, comfort, unestablished relationship, five Hargreeves, reader, tua x reader, five x reader, Five is a little bitch

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

"Emotion."

What are you doing?

You'd be shocked with how much you can do because you have the power of clairvoyance. You, yes you, had single handedly warned the others of the imminent danger their sibling, Viktor, would impose. You saw it when you closed your eyes, the world ending, a paradox. Had Five not gone here, had you not followed him, had he not created this, had he not created that.. That's not to say clairvoyance doesn't have its downsides, though. The memories keep on repeating, when Five jumps forward in time, when Five goes back in time, when Five...when Five..

Oh, don't you know?

It was driving you fucking insane. Every time you blinked that picture of Lila and Five kissing surrounded by strawberries in this safe haven of intricate wood painted white to look cutesy, her throwing strawberries at him, he, smiling. He smiled for god's sake - not in the sadistic homicidal way that you were so used to, but he smiled because he fell in love, in love with a woman he spent maybe seven years with, while he could barely muster a hello towards your way when you spent roughly forty years together in a shitty apocalypse?

Don't you know you'll be my ruin?

But, what could you do? They were already speaking, Lila was already a part of the family, you, not so much. You almost felt bad for Diego, no, you did feel bad for Diego, in all of the scenarios your power could have put you in, it decided to put you in this one. Choosing between telling your feelings (of which you can barely do) to a man who you're not even sure likes you back to fix this mess, or biting your tongue and letting it happen.

You got me crying,

For now though, while you're stuck in this shitty hotel you know will cause the reset of the universe, you have no choice but to keep your mouth shut until the right time approaches for you to strike. See, clairvoyance is a balance, it should always be a balance. It's why your mother always told you never to tell people what you can really do, because if you had, most if not everyone would have been surrounding you now asking you what happens next. It was the peace that kept you quiet about your power, even if it meant lying about it.

Crying again..

Thankfully though, now was the right time. Ben, the sparrow, had been alone for quite a while, sitting by himself while everyone else went about their way, Lila and Diego a reflection of Luther and Sloane, who had their wedding just a day ago, it was sweet to see honestly, even sweeter to see drunk Five messing around in the hallways physically, and not just through a mirror in your mind. Carefully, you found yourself sat next to the lonely sparrow, looking at him as he uncomfortably shifted in his seat.

When will you let..

"Ben." You started, your throat weirdly dry ever since you've been seeing into this specific future. Your heart beats rather faster than it usually should, but it always has when you have to mess with the timeline. The results would show in your mind's eye once the dirty work was done. "Yea that's me..Ben." His voice snaps you out of your daze once you realize you've been quiet for longer than a minute now. "Don't trust him." You push, your eyes squinting as if to magnify your point. "Trust who?" "Reginald." Ben gulps, audibly. You could practically hear his blood rush throughout his body once he realizes you know. "How did you..?" He leans in, voice dropping to a whisper. "Don't trust him." Is all you answer, before walking away.

You spend an extended time in your room with a headache you knew was coming. It was always like this after you alter time in your own way, like telling Ben not to trust Reginald, some change, some don't. Unfortunately for you, what doesn't change is Lila and Five kissing it out in that damn strawberry garden. You can't even bring yourself to eat strawberries anymore, it's honestly traumatizing. Thankfully though, because of you telling Ben all this, the outcome has changed once more. From Luther and Klaus dying, only Klaus dies. From Five thinking Allison made a deal to kill Luther, Five now only thinks Allison made a deal..of some sort.

Five..

Okay, this is dumb. Well, you walking to Five and grabbing him by the wrist, huffing out a "we have to talk" is certainly dumb on a whole lot of degrees, even worse when you both find yourselves in a quiet room, you seated on the bed, him pacing around in the room. "Is this about something important? Because the world is ending right outside," You can't help it anymore. "I don't want you around Lila." You blurt out like word vomit, it was vile enough that you actually covered your mouth for a second, and his little chuckle made it even worse. He thinks it's a joke.

"what? Are you jealous? Think she might steal me away-" He almost fully stops dead in his tracks when he realizes you're actually serious about him and Lila, and his eyes soften, finally realizing what you were meaning to say. He clears his throat, causing your soul to jump from your body and bring your attention back, the tips of his ears are awfully red, and he has this look on his face that he's criminally scared to fuck this up. "Well, if that's what you want then I'll always be by your side."

You pause.

"That was a really bad flirt."

"Well excuse me for trying!"

[jejelovescats]

My analysis on spy x family chapter 110

well, this was certainly one heck of a chapter

I have LOADS to yap about so get ready

As stated in my previous analysis, that Melinda was most probably a victim of abuse, I stated that it was VERY likely to be canon, around 90% or so, after this chapter, the likelihood drops to 20% but we still have psychological abuse to keep in mind. (This does NOT mean that Donovan doesn't physically abuse her)

Now let's recap on what we said last chapter (pulls out last analysis bc I genuinely don't remember anything)

Of course, we still don't know why she has some sort of hatred towards her husband, it's pretty much been debunked that Donovan physically abuses her BUT psychological abuse is still an option on the table. She could also feel that her privacy is being invaded. It's also very likely that her hatred towards him started right after she mentioned him "becoming a completely different man" that I assume is when he got his telepathy.

Now this is one of the MOST important things I would like to discuss today which, once again, is Melinda's relationship with her family, in the last analysis, it was stated that Melinda has a VERY complex relationship towards Damian, in which she calls him "my treasure, my curse" which creates a paradox since, how can Damian be a treasure AND a curse at the same time? which leads us to think, 'well, of course Damian's her treasure, he's her son. but why does she call him her curse?'

Didn't Melinda say that he became a different man when Damian was born?

what if..

Melinda blames Damian for the change in Donovan?

What if she thinks that the reason Donovan suddenly changed, is because of her son's birth? she said it herself "shortly after my first child was born, or was it the second?"

As I said previously, I still do believe that Donovan and Melinda were previously in love, we can see how he used to treat Demetirus.

and also, it would make more sense, she doesn't want to believe someone she loved so much became someone so distant.

So that leads us to ask, if Donovan REALLY DID become a telepath, why is he so distant? I don't have an answer for that I'm sorry.

Something else I wanted to speak about is Melinda's reaction when Loid asked her if Donovan harmed her, that is a HUGE cause for concern, I lowkey cried for the poor woman. At first glance, I thought that she was lying, since sudden and insisting outbursts are a sign that someone is lying, but if you dig deeper, this might just show the extent of how much Melinda really does love Donovan, she's putting her mental and physical health on the line for him. she's scared for her husband and she's throwing any explanation, even if it's far fetched, just to justify her husband's actions. That's what love does to someone. She is suffering.

She feels trapped in her relationship with Donovan, she wants to protect both Damian and Demitrus when she can hardly protect herself. She thinks her current status with Donovan is a facade since, according to her, he's an alien. So all she can do, in an attempt to manage her life, is just go with it. whatever her husband decides to do, she falls victim to. (this proves the psychological manipulation/neglect)

The second most important thing I wanted to talk about is the fact that it's technically confirmed that Donovan can read minds, so ummm, chat. Loid is COOKED. My guy just HAD to spill ALL his plan ideas in his mind when they decided to meet. you can tell Donovan was PISSED.

but seriously though, apart from the fact that loid is screwed, what does this mean for Anya? I'm sure she does NOT want to meet the 'evil super boss anymore' in order to preserve her secret. I do wonder though, were their powers made in the same lab? (People theorize its project apple and I'm one of them) that would make a lot of sense since Melinda said that Donovan started acting differently after damiana was born, which was also around the time Anya was born. Maybe that's the time they BOTH got their powers.

conclusion: Melinda REALLY needs a new therapist bc her therapist is essentially screwed.

See you in 2 weeks guys!!

[strawberriesandhotmen]

Forbidden

a/n: Greetings, babygirls. I’ve been really into angst recently so I needed to indulge myself a little; I’m a sucker for this man in any and all scenarios, but fuck me if angst isn’t a topper on my list. 

pairing: rival!Punisher!Frank x fem!vigilante!reader

CW +18 smut: swearing, angst, hickeys (mention), fingering, begging, reader is a heartless little shit (but also horny so we love her)

word count: 3.5k

Forbidden.

You knew it was, you both did. And yet, somehow, neither of you seemed to give a damn.

It was only supposed to be one time; a one night stand, if you will, but you both knew that was bullshit the moment the agreement had been made.

Things had started off pretty casual; a quickie here, a blowjob there, nothing serious. Just fucking. You had intended to keep things that way; distant, far-removed (emotionally, that is). However, as most people are well aware, intentions often do not come to fruition. This situation would be no different.

You had first come into contact with the infamous Punisher on a mission of your own, attempting to extract some intel from the Russians that had recently made themselves known in the realm of ‘black market activity.’ Unfortunately for you both, Frank had had the same idea. You held your own, no doubt, feeling proud of yourself to even cut his lip in the slightest. But most people can’t take one punch from the Punisher, let alone five. Let’s just say, your jaw was very sore the next day.

You crossed paths one or two more times, each encounter holding more of the same, until a certain mission where the two of you were forced to work together. You couldn’t help that every time he cocked his gun your eyes snapped straight to his forearms. You couldn’t help the shiver that ran straight down your spine every time he uttered a word in that raspy voice of his. And, hell, who could be expected to help themselves with Frank Castle lying on top of them, shielding them from the barrage of bullets flying from the opposition? It was unbidden madness, but you found yourself welcoming it.

You could tell he felt the same, stealing side-long glances at you whenever you walked beside him, unnecessarily shielding you from incoming punches even though he could clearly see you handling it, his hand accidentally brushing against your hip at any available opportunity.

During that same mission, you began to realize the way your heart rate would pick up with each word that left his lips, and you started to understand what it is you were feeling. Well, you were feeling many things, truthfully; annoyance, exhilaration, hunger, but most of all…

Lust.

And that is how you ended up in your bed with Frank Castle. After all, you always got what you wanted, and it helped that he wanted it too. It didn’t end after the first time, with you ignoring the guilt you felt for compromising your morals in such a way. The reward, in your mind, far out won the risk. 

You couldn’t help but notice that nagging feeling, however, that you should put a stop to it, to all of it. It was dangerous, it was stupid, it was reckless. And yet, you found yourself once again falling asleep next to your antithesis, your paradox.

Frank woke up before you this time, a rare occurrence since he wasn’t really a morning person. The sunlight peeking through the blinds agitated his subconscious enough to awaken him, causing him to tiredly roll towards you. His eyelids slowly parted, his sleepy gaze landing on your angelic form.

Covered by only the thin white sheet, the silhouette of your body on full display to Frank, your hair creating a perfect halo around your head. You looked so peaceful, he thought, quite the contrast to your usual snarky attitude. 

Frank's gaze wandered down your body, taking in every single curve you had. His eyes continued to wander downward, pausing when his gaze landed on your hair. For some reason unbeknownst to him, seeing it spread out like that was extremely satisfying to him. Hell, even when it wasn’t spread out all over, it still looked good to him. His hand slowly reached out, gently grabbing a strand of your hair as he carded his fingers through. It was soft, full, and that was even after previous activities that had left you quite messy a few hours ago.

He moved a little closer to get a better look at your sleeping face. You looked really beautiful, he thought, when you weren't yelling at him or arguing about something. A small, uncharacteristic smile appeared on his lips before it slowly faded. They were supposed to be enemies…but why did you have to look so damn good?

You stirred softly in your sleep; not enough to wake, just to subtly turn your body towards him with a subconscious hum. Watching you turn towards him made something in his chest clench, but he pushed it away. He was supposed to be at war with you, not in your bed.

Despite his better judgement, he allowed his callused hand to continue running through your hair, slowly moving down to gently rest on your jawline as he quietly admired you. When he started to really feel like a creep, he decided it was time to wake you. He braced himself for you to lash out from exhausted frustration, gingerly shaking your shoulder. You must have already been on the precipice of consciousness, your eyes almost immediately fluttering open as your gazes connected. Looking down at you as your eyes opened, Frank couldn’t help but notice the way you looked at him. It was probably nothing, but he felt a tinge in his chest all the same. God, you had ruined him.

“Mornin’, princess.” he teased. You fought the urge to roll your eyes at the nickname, not appreciating it. You allowed your gaze to momentarily flit across his features, taking in the bruises and scars gleaned from his most recent mission.

“Morning.” You mumbled quietly, covering your mouth as a yawn overtook you. He chuckled softly at your tired response, watching as you yawned. You looked so cute and adorable like this, he thought, but he quickly shut himself down. Why was he getting so damn attached?

“You look a mess.” He teased again, his hand moving from your jaw to gently brush some of your locks away from your face.

“Well, I wasn’t the one who made the mess.” I shot back suggestively, sending him a look before averting my eyes to the ceiling. His face darkened slightly as a hint of a smirk appeared on his face, the memories of last night returning.

“And who was it begging for more, hm?” You rolled my eyes at his pompous reply, not dignifying his comment with a response. He chuckled, his hand trailing down and gently grabbing your chin, forcing you to look at him.

“Don’t even try it, princess. We both know you enjoyed it just as much as I did.” You uninterestedly mhm’d in response, continuing to shield yourself from experiencing any actual emotions. Letting go of your chin, he smirked again before leaning down to your neck, his lips gently brushing over a spot he’d left a mark on the night before.

“If I remember correctly, you seemed to enjoy it even more when I did this…” He paused for a moment before gently pressing his lips to the exposed skin of your neck, his hands running down your body before settling on your hips. He knew he shouldn’t be doing something like this, especially when he wasn’t supposed to be within ten feet of you, but the moment he was touching you again, all rational thoughts faded from his mind. He felt himself getting lost in you, just like he had hours ago. A small, yet all-too-influential part of him selfishly wanted more.

As your brain finally caught up to what was happening, your breath hitched at the intimacy before you pulled away, sitting up against the headboard with the sheet clutched protectively over your bare chest. He watched as you sat up, his mind still hazy with desire. He pushed it away, though, realizing that you were clearly not in the mood for anything. He rather presumptively assumed to himself that you were just tired from last night, that he must be just that good. Without a word, he sat up, his back leaning against the headboard to match you. It was silent for a few moments before he spoke again.

“You alright?” He knew you weren’t, but he knew he should ask all the same. You merely nodded in silence, not so convincingly. He studied you for a moment, noticing the way you held the sheet up, almost trying to hide yourself. Normally, he’d comment on it out of concern, but a rare voice of reason advised him to keep his mouth shut. Instead, he looked down at his lap, rubbing the back of his neck. The awkward silence nearly consumed the room before he spoke up again.

“Listen… about last night-“

“Don’t.” You rudely interrupted. You didn’t mean to be so harsh, but you had also assumed he was smart enough not to bring up the situation. You had agreed not to, after all. He paused for a moment, a bit surprised by the immediate cut-off.

“What, I’m not allowed to speak about it?” You sighed, looking straight ahead.

“It’s just better if we don’t. It was a mistake; we can recognize it like adults and move on.” Now that felt like a knife to his fucking heart. A mistake?

“...A mistake?” Frank felt a foreign sensation in his chest when you referred to it so dismissively. It wasn’t supposed to be a mistake; hell, it wasn’t supposed to be anything…so why did last night still feel so good to him?

“What, you don’t agree?” You finally looked over at him, your tone inconsiderate and rough. He was quiet for a moment before speaking again, seeming to consider his response.

“I think…” he paused, trying to figure out how to word what he wanted to say. “I think I enjoyed it way too much to call it a mistake.” You had to scoff at that, if for no other reason than to maintain your nonchalant facade.

“It's called sex, Frank, it's meant to be pleasurable.” You stated matter-of-factly, swallowing your desire to cover your naked body as you disappeared into your closet. He leaned forward, a part of him wanting to get up and stop you from walking away. At the same time, his eyes didn’t leave your body, taking in the view for a moment before you shut the door. He swallowed the lump in his throat before leaning back against the headboard, his eyes trained on the closet door as he spoke again.

“It’s not just that, and you know it.” You sighed heavily, having tried to avoid this very conversation for so long.

“Oh, do I?” Your tone was incredulous, haughty. You were desperately trying to push him away, not all that subconsciously. He was beginning to feel agitated. Why were you trying so hard to deny it? He thought you were past that point after last night, and now it was like you were trying to run away from him all over again.

“Yes, you do. and you’re trying to deny it because you don’t want to admit how much you enjoyed it.” He snapped back. His voice had wavered slightly at the end, almost not wanting to argue with you this time.

“The sex was great, Frank, but that’s all it was.” You thought you had him there, not picking up on the ‘just sex’ he had muttered bitterly under his breath. That sentence made him feel like he got punched in the chest. He knew he wasn’t supposed to feel like this, and yet the thought of it being just sex and nothing else made him feel… strange. He couldn’t tell if it was anger or sadness or disappointment or… all three. He didn’t respond for a few moments, his hands grasping the sheets tightly as he clenched his jaw.

“You’re full of shit, you know that?” He cursed himself, knowing he could’ve come up with something better if you weren’t such a damn mind-fuck. You chuckled darkly at that, finally emerging from the closet in panties and an oversized t-shirt that had been lying on the floor.

“Got me good there, Frank.” You patronized, not waiting for a response before walking into the kitchen. You didn’t have to tell Frank you were making breakfast; You always did, no matter if you argued or not. It was strangely domestic, but you chose to ignore the implications each time, and each time you kicked yourself for it. Frank grumbled under his breath at your attitude, making gibberish comments about your unnecessary stubbornness. He was one to fucking talk. 

After a moment or two of wallowing in his disdain of you, he decided to take a shower and clean himself off. He didn’t think himself very persuasive when smelling like fish. After drying himself off, he didn’t even bother putting on a shirt, only pulling on boxers and a pair of sweatpants he had left here a week or two ago. When he stepped out of the bathroom, the smell of bacon immediately found its way into his nose, improving his mood in the slightest. The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, after all. 

He stepped out of the bedroom to find you at the stove, lightly swaying your hips from side to side while humming a tune he didn’t recognize. He thought you looked like a fucking goddess, messy hair and all. There was no way in which he preferred to see you more than right now, in just a t-shirt looking uncharacteristically domestic. He was fucking enthralled by you. Tearing himself from the doorframe, he padded up behind you and snaked his arms around your waist, his chin finding your shoulder. Your muscles tensed at the unexpected contact, but you forced yourself to relax as you heaved out a sigh.

“It’s almost done, you can sit.” You said without turning to look at him. He bit back a smirk, the smell of bacon and your obstinance filling him with a new determination. He was going to have you, and you were going to enjoy it.

“That’s alright, I’ll wait.” He declined, his breath fanning over your neck. You silently cursed your body for even registering the sensation, closing your eyes just long enough to regain complete control over yourself. Flipping a slice of bacon with tongs, you inhaled as you recognized one of Frank’s hands was beginning to move downward. The thought entered your mind to refuse him, but you were so painfully conflicted that you couldn’t bear to make the hard decision. You allowed his calloused and bruised hand to snake under your tattered shirt, smoothing down the skin of your stomach before pausing at the waistband of your panties. He wanted you, but not enough to forego consent. You turned off the burner, moving the bacon pan to the back and allowing your hands to grip the edge of the counter, silently giving him permission.

You heard him let out a sigh of, what was it, relief? And with that, his fingers edged under the lace, stretching dangerously close to your subtly pulsing clit. Damn him and his coercive tactics. He turned you on more than you cared to admit (at all times), but you had moved past being embarrassed about his affect on you, and he had moved past making childish comments about it. That is, he had moved past making childish comments about it. Emphasis is important.

“I’ve barely even touched you and you’re already so wet, princess.” You rolled your eyes, not appreciating his pridefulness (not that it wasn’t completely valid).

“Bullshit, you haven’t even touched my-” You cut yourself off with an involuntary gasped as Frank’s middle finger slipped in between your folds, your body immediately betraying your previous protest. Shit.

“Fuckin’ soaked.” He huffed, sounding almost shocked at the truth behind those words. Yeah, it was shameful. You were much too turned on to even consider uttering a word, apprehensive as to whether or not your body would force a moan out of you instead.

“Not much to say now, huh?” He chided as he brushed against your clit, causing your grip on the counter to tighten in both annoyance and arousal. “What’s wrong, princess?” His lips grazed over the shell of your ear, nipping lightly before that husky voice spoke again. “Cat got your tongue?” He was a fucking menace. He was pissing you off to no end, and yet all you wanted him to do at this very moment was fuck the actual life out of you.

“Shut up, F-Frank.” Pitiful. Anyone could see through that stuttered facade. At this point, you had accepted the fact that he knew how much your body wanted this, even if your mind was screaming fifty different ways to kick him out and never be in this situation again.

“Oh, so she speaks.” What a little shit. He knew exactly what he was doing, and he was only doing it to give you a taste of your own, heartless medicine. He must’ve gotten bored, slipping his finger through your folds, because he was now teasing at your dripping entrance, clearly planning to invite himself in.

“She’s so ready for me, princess. Feel that?” He whispered huskily in your ear, not waiting for a response before shoving his finger inside you up to the knuckle. Your mouth dropped open and your breath caught in your throat as he immediately found that spongy heaven inside of you, your grip on the counter so tight you thought you might break it. Frank let out a groan of satisfaction, soon beginning to pump his finger in and out of you at a torturous pace. You could see what he was doing now. He wanted you to beg.

But you wouldn’t. No fucking way.

Frank pressed his chest against your back, his bulge poking into your thinly covered ass from behind. He knew what he was doing, increasing his pace just enough to make you want more…a lot more. It was growing difficult for you to swallow back moans, to hide the gasps that caught in the back of your throat with each pump of his long finger. And just when you had felt like you had reigned in your breathing once again, he shoved a second finger into your tight, dripping hole.

Okay, so maybe you would beg.

“Fuck, Frank.” You gasp out, your hands starting to cramp as you continue to hold onto the counter. You can practically hear the smirk that spreads across his lips at your exclamation, but you were far from bothered by it at that moment.

“What’s that, darling? Something you need?” You squeezed your eyes shut at his cocky taunt, involuntarily clenching around his fingers as they ravaged you.

“F-Frank-” The plea caught on your tongue like a stale taste, foreign on your lips. You didn’t want to beg, you were sure you didn’t, except the thought of doing so sparked a fire so deep inside you that you weren’t so sure at all.

“You can do it, sweetheart, let go.” The way his breath fanned over your ear sent tingles down your spine; you wanted to let go. With a deep breath and a whimper escaping your lips, you did.

“Frank, please.” You had expected a patronizing reply, more taunting even than before. However, the response you got boiled down to a deep groan rumbling from his chest, his lips latching onto your neck as if he were holding on for dear life. His pace increased to an inhuman speed, punching your g-spot with each thrust with expert ability. His palm smacked against your puffy clit, your thoughts clouded by pleasure alone, that impending high just within reach. Your moans echoed across the walls, coupled with Frank’s groans of satisfaction. When you finally came, you didn’t think you’d ever felt so good in your life. Maybe it was the suspense, maybe it was how taboo it all was…or maybe Frank was just that good. But you didn’t care, after this you knew all you wanted was him. You had denied yourself for so long, and you didn’t want to anymore. He was yours.

After you came down from your high, Frank gingerly turned you around and pulled you into his chest, breathing heavily himself. He allowed his lips to ghost over the skin of your neck, placing light kisses here and there.

“So beautiful, baby.” The words were tender, meant. You had never heard such sincerity from him, and you felt as though you wanted to hear it again and again.

“Frank?” You whispered, tilting your head upward to meet his gaze. He looked down at you, bringing your foreheads together.

“Yeah?” Wrapping your arms around his neck, you sighed.

“What is this?” You felt terribly stupid for even asking that question; it was childish, cliche, but in this situation, all too necessary. An unexpected smirk spread across his face, and he placed a chaste kiss on your lips before rasping out his reply.

“Forbidden.”

[jozor-johai]

Ned has this small speech in AGOT Bran I about why he must behead Gared, and I think there's some really interesting takeaways. Not about why he must do it, the part he focuses on; the part Ned doesn't focus on: why it's legal, and what that means for Gared.

"Do you understand why I did it?" "He was a wildling," Bran said. "They carry off women and sell them to the Others." His lord father smiled. "Old Nan has been telling you stories again. In truth, the man was an oathbreaker, a deserter from the Night's Watch. No man is more dangerous. The deserter knows his life is forfeit if he is taken, so he will not flinch from any crime, no matter how vile.

Ned moves our attention along to why Ned had to be his own headsman, but in just a few sentences here, we've been introduced to the paradox of law that makes this system so fundamentally unjust and broken.

We're told that "no man is more dangerous" than this deserter, so we might think, for a split second, that Ned feels he must kill the man because he is dangerous. But as Ned points out, the logic is actually the reverse: "he knows his life is forfeit if he is taken, so he will not flinch from any crime" (emphasis mine). It is not the prevalence of crime that is creating the demand for law, here, it's the existence of this extreme law that is generating the crime. Not wanting to be killed, the deserter would do anything to survive.

For Ned, the epitome of law in the North, who literally acts as judge, jury, and executioner, the tautology of the reasoning is irrelevant. The man is dangerous, now, whatever the situation. Of course, for Ned it's also really about an adherence to the laws of the Night's Watch, which is an institution as old as his house. It's their death sentence to declare, his to pass.

This time reading it, though, I was struck by how Ned's words here are an inversion to Septon Meribald's broken man speech, which is too long to relay here but ends with this:

"He turns and runs, or crawls off afterward over the corpses of the slain, or steals away in the black of night, and he finds someplace to hide. All thought of home is gone by then, and kings and lords and gods mean less to him than a haunch of spoiled meat that will let him live another day, or a skin of bad wine that might drown his fear for a few hours. The broken man lives from day to day, from meal to meal, more beast than man. Lady Brienne is not wrong. In times like these, the traveler must beware of broken men, and fear them . . . but he should pity them as well."

Septon Meribald is describing Gared here, just as much as he's describing the men at war. There isn't a mention here directly of the threat of punishment for desertion, which is more extreme with the Night's Watch than elsewhere, but the reality is the same. Here, though, Meribald's approach is entirely different than Ned's—Meribald, who walks among the smallfolk and gives away what good he can offer, has a much more understanding and empathetic view of these men.

Ned has the capacity for this understanding, but his role is simply not to have kindness here. All of the goodness and kindness Ned has otherwise just doesn't matter here, because here Ned is the law, and Ned is a lord still.

With the fact that even Ned is given this treatment, we see how rigid and unjust the laws and class structures are here. Even a "good person" is not good in Ned's position.

I think this highlights the cause behind the growing smallfolk unrest throughout the books and especially in Feast/Dance. Even the good lords, the ones who can see the problems at work here, are still lords, and still hold themselves to the status quo that keeps them in power above all else. And it takes a very different perspective—like the kind Arya has gotten, for example—to see it the way Meribald does. (Though Arya has gone the opposite route away from forgiveness... that's interesting too.)

[sohnric]

paris – l. juyeon

pairing: lee juyeon x fem! reader

genre: exchange student! juyeon in paris (ft. his erasmus friends). friends to ???, angst, fluff. actually, the genre is longing. halloween party au but the halloween part plays like,, 0 part in the fic, basically. idk the paris pics did something to me he is so european coded. paris by the 1975 without the drugs in a fic, essentially

warnings: cheating from yn's side, swearing, alcohol, smoking. the reader is canonically french im sorry 💀

word count: 6k

There’s quite a few reasons why Juyeon never told his friends from home about you- the girl he met on his student exchange trip. Some were the cause of Juyeon’s insecurities in himself, some the cause of your relationship status, all the cause of his unrequited love and the way you broke his heart, making Juyeon’s whole memory of Paris a bit hazy and bittersweet and the leave, paradoxically, that much harder. But still– and maybe you’re the reason for it– oh, how he’d love to go to Paris again.

a/n: do NOT cancel me for being a casual matty healy enjoyer i am a 2014 tumblr girlie at heart

“And where are my gifts? Where are the souvenirs?” Hyunjae calls after the boy that’s still kind of jet lagged from the flight (even though it’s been 3 days since his landing and he slept the whole day after his brother picked him up from the airport), the latter looking at him with tired eyes. 

“That’s all you want from me after not seeing me for 6 months?”

“Yes. Where’s my baguette?” Hyunjae glares, making the younger boy whine at the request.

“I didn’t know you wanted a hard rock baguette from me. If I had known, I would’ve taken one with me and smashed it against your head the moment I arrived here.”

“Well, if it’s authentic,” Hyunjae shrugs, laughing. “I’m just joking… I know we’ve been calling and texting like, every other day, but let me ask again. How was it?”

Juyeon finally smiles at his friend’s question. This is what one expects after coming home from studying abroad for 10 months– not a souvenir request. And trust me, Juyeon did bring gifts, out of the warmth of his own heart, but after being asked for them, he kind of doesn’t want to play Santa anymore. Kind of like when you decide to wash the dishes, but your mum tells you to do it at the same time of your decision– the motivation fades away the mere second you’re requested to do the thing.

“Well, it was good,” he shrugs, “it was… something,” Juyeon says– because how does one fit 10 months of their life into a few sentences without stammering– and before he gets a chance to say anything, Hyunjae catches him off guard with another inquiry.

“Is it true, by the way? Are European girls really prettier?” he grins, wiggling his eyebrows at the boy as if to suggest something– but all it does is make Juyeon shrug, acting not really bothered with the question. 

“Dunno,” he hums, “I think it’s equal to here.”

“So you’re telling me you went 10 months without getting laid in France?” Hyunjae gasps, making Juyeon furrow his brows in utter disbelief.

“When did I say that? Or anything that would even suggest that?” 

Now, this was a trap. Juyeon is too gullible. See, Juyeon was pretty transparent with everything during his calls with Hyunjae back when he was in Paris. He told his friends back home all about the European food, the rock-hard french baguettes, the weird looks and annoyed sighs he got when speaking English to the clarks in the shops, the cold showers in his accommodation and the pretty park in front of his university building. They also know all about his friends from Paris– the international students he met in his course like Shotaro from Japan, Bence from Hungary and Marco from Italy– but when the question of girls came around, specifically in the romantic light of things, Juyeon went awfully quiet. You can’t blame Hyunjae for getting into suspicions.

“So you did?” Hyunjae gasps, grasping at the straws.

Juyeon sighs, reaching for his bag. His awfully big hand slips inside of the black backpack, fingers touching various things before he brings out a bunch of gifts: a keychain with the Eiffel tower, some magnets, postcards, a fashionable beret he found in one of the souvenir stores but never saw anyone actually wear in the whole 10 months in the streets of Paris, some perfume and high quality chocolate. Hyunjae’s eyes go wide, making satisfaction swim through Juyeon’s veins at the sight– he managed to deflect the attack.

Sometimes, having materialistic friends is a plus.

As he watches Hyunjae touch all the things on the table, fingers trailing over metal and the shiny wrapping of the dark chocolate with an acknowledging nod, Juyeon takes out another thing out of his bag– his digital camera that he brought along for the ride. He sent his friends a lot of pictures when he was in Paris, and he also posted quite a few on Instagram for everyone to see, but the camera held more memories and more moments than anyone’s ever seen before– it’s a source of treasure for himself as well, but he figures it wouldn’t hurt to share a glimpse with his best friend.

“Wanna see? I took tons of pictures, but you can look through only the interesting ones, if you want to,” Juyeon hums, offering the camera to the male, the display already shining at him from the gallery, small icons of all pictures on the SD card in a 3x3 row on the small thing. 

A few pictures of the town are on preview right now, but if you scroll through the gallery, moments of his friend Marco’s birthday party that his friends threw for him, or the snapshots of his friend’s faces come into sight– Juyeon’s sure Hyunjae’s eager to see how all of the people he’s been talking to him about look like.

Hyunjae nods, taking the camera from him and squinting at the little icons. His fingers move along the touch screen and scroll through the gallery, eyes zooming on the interesting ones and grinning as he shows them to Juyeon, awaiting the backstory of a certain image. 

Everything goes well, until Hyunjae gets to the latest pictures on the SD card– well, apart from the ones Juyeon took from the window on his flight home. And Juyeon really doesn’t know what he was thinking, but hey– sometimes he doesn’t think things through as much as he should– and that’s why when a particular photo comes into his best friend’s sight, turning the camera towards Juyeon with a shiteating grin on his face, the question ‘Who’s that?’ makes the poor boy a bit shaken.

His tall figure, standing alongside someone shorter– you, in your vampire costume, fake blood running down the side of your mouth, a hand thrown over his shoulders and your side pressed into his a bit too close as he stares down onto you with an obviously star-struck face, suit covering his body in a poor attempt at Joker’s costume– the moment stares back at him like a haunted memory.

He clears his throat. “That’s… that’s just Y/N.”

Hyunjae hums, having a staring contest with the picture on the screen. The date on the bottom reads 31/10/23, the last day of Juyeon’s stay before he had to go home. “How come I’ve never heard about Y/N?”

“There wasn’t much to say, I guess,” Juyeon shrugs, taking a sip from the bottle of beer on the table.

“Sure…” Hyunjae doubtingly nods, scrunching up his nose in disbelief.

“I’m serious. She’s just a friend I met there,” Juyeon offers, licking his lips in nerves. 

And it’s the truth– you were just a friend and there really wasn’t much to say about you two– so why does Juyeon’s heart hurt a bit as he recognizes the events of the night as if it happened yesterday? Why does he feel nostalgic, maybe a little bitter about the way you two left off? 

Hyunjae doesn’t know, but there’s quite a few reasons why he never heard about you in the first place. Some were the cause of Juyeon’s insecurities in himself, some the cause of your relationship status, all the cause of his unrequited love and the way you broke his heart, making the whole memory of Paris a bit hazy and bittersweet and the leave, paradoxically, that much harder. 

But still– and maybe you’re the reason for it–

oh, how he’d love to go to Paris again.

31/10/2023

The buzzing of the room makes Juyeon’s already thumping head ache in its crevices, the smell of alcohol in the breath of everyone talking to him only making his stomach twist and turn with acid. He’s had his fair amount of drinks himself, but there is a very faint line between the amount that’s just enough to keep him going through the night and the amount that makes him puke and have a two-week hangover, and with the flight home he has to take tomorrow afternoon, he doesn’t think drinking more would be a good idea.

“Don’t break it!” Juyeon tiredly hurries out as he sees his friend Marco handle his camera, the device almost falling out of the foreign friend’s hands. 

“I won’t! Hold on, let me just–” the Italian mutters, the coating of vodka shots and the cheap red wine (made to look like blood to keep things festive) making his words slur together as he speaks. 

Juyeon reaches towards his drunk friend (while also questioning how he’s going to take a plane back to Italy tomorrow in a very hungover state) and tries to pray the prized possession out of his hands, but comes to a fail as the tall man waves him off with a theatral arm wave, shoving the poor boy towards the white wall and putting the camera up against his own face. “I’ll take your picture! So you can– you only take pictures of us, Juyo,” he rambles on, “I’ll take your picture so you can show it at home to your friends!” Marco grins, having Juyeon aimlessly sigh and stretch out his lips into a fake smile, waiting for his friend to take the picture so he can get his camera back to safety.

“Me too! Me too!” he suddenly hears from somewhere to his right, and before he has the chance to decipher the owner of the female voice, a weight on his shoulder tells him you just jumped at his side– almost topping him over and into the spooky decorations to his right– as you giggle into his ear. “Have it?”

“Aaaalmost!” Marco stretches out as he squints at the camera– and in the spare few seconds before the shutter goes off, Juyeon allows himself to stare down at your figure glued to his side. You’re wearing a dark lipstick on your smile, a drip of fake blood rolling down the side of your mouth. There’s a corset top enveloping your middle and a flowy black skirt only pulling the whole look together even with the absence of fangs– and while you don’t suck out his blood, Lee Juyeon can physically feel how you sucked out all oxygen out of his lungs in your sexy vampire costume. 

He’s seen you around tonight, but he never got the courage to walk up to you. Something about this being his last night in Paris might be the reason why. 

He was simply too bummed out about how things between you and him never went further than fits of laughter in class as you helped him with his French, or friendly hugs when you bid him goodbye at the corner of his street. Maybe it was his own fault for falling for someone so out of his reach. He always knew his stay in France was temporary– hell, he was an exchange student, he was aware of what he was getting himself into– but still, he couldn’t help but recognize the familiar warmth in his stomach whenever you were around and the strange racing of his heart whenever you were close enough for him to smell your shampoo for what it was. He was completely, utterly smitten with you– a french local that would be erased out of his lifestyle as soon as he lands back home in Korea.

The shutter of the camera is all it takes to break his train of thought, making him snap his head back to his Italian friend. A sigh of relief is heard in the room as Juyeon finally reunites with his digital camera (he was surprised to see Marco let go of it so easily), and before he has the chance to think of a conversation topic to indulge in with you, you have his words catching in his throat at your own pace of speech.

“Have you been here for long?” you ask, flattering your eyelashes at him. Juyeon gasps before he presses his lips together into a tight line, shrugging.

“A bit.”

“Why haven’t you said hi?” you frown. “You said it’s your last night! You wouldn’t leave without a goodbye, would you?” you shake your head at him, playfully poking his shoulder with your pointer finger.

He was going to. Not anymore, he guesses.

“No,” he disagrees instead, “I was gonna look for you when it was my turn to leave,” he quickly comes up with an explanation, having your features relax as a warm smile overtakes your pretty features again.

Even with your face all bloody and your eyes having dark circles under them from eyeshadow (and mascara that weared off a little, which you were completely unaware of), Juyeon finds you absolutely, utterly and fascinatingly beautiful. He’s glad no one is able to read his inner monologue– or else he’d be the one with blood running down the side of his face. If the punch to seal the cut would be coming from you or your boyfriend, he’s not quite sure. 

Maybe both. The main thing is, you’re taken and his feelings aren’t reciprocated. 

Which is why his silly crush on you that maybe, just maybe, turned into something more meaningful was that much damaging to his poor soul. 

Because Juyeon swears he never loved anyone before, but after spending the night with you drinking cheap wine in his empty dorm room on his birthday completely alone– since it fell on a Sunday this year and he didn’t have that many friends yet to celebrate with, only having spending 2 weeks in Paris at the time– during which you taught him French swear words and kissed his cheek goodbye (which he thought may be a cultural thing, although he wasn’t sure); after all of this, he felt like you’re the person he’ll think of when someone asks him about his first love when he's old.

And even if he had the balls to do anything about it (which he didn’t), he simply couldn’t. You were out of reach.

“You’d better,” you hum, “or else I’d hitchhike a plane and come over to Korea just to kick your ass.”

“You can’t hitchhike a plane, you weirdo.” 

You sigh, shaking your head. “Of course I can. Watch me.”

Juyeon finds himself grinning at the adorable determination in your voice. It makes him feel a certain type of way that he knows he shouldn’t– but after spending 10 months with the feelings (5 of which you were single, 5 of which you’ve spent dating your boyfriend) and absorbing the idea of leaving you and everything behind tomorrow, Juyeon no longer feels as guilty about the act of loving you. Not anymore– not tonight.

“I like your costume,” Juyeon comments, pointing to the attire you’ve dressed yourself in.

“Really?” your eyes light up. “Look, I even wore the bow my idiot of a boyfriend said looks tacky,” you say, making a little twirl for the man. Your skirt flows nicely in the air and you stumble a bit due to the alcohol in your system, but when Juyeon catches you by your forearms and steadies you, there’s a content smile sitting on your lips despite your previous sentence.

“It looks pretty on you,” Juyeon hums, nodding. “It’s not tacky at all.”

“I always knew you had more taste than him,” you sigh dramatically, making Juyeon question your actions. 

Oh? 

“Anyways, I like your costume as well,” you comment. 

“Thanks,” he says, although his half-assed attempt at a Joker’s costume wasn’t anywhere near your level of preciseness, “Shotaro was supposed to go as Harley to match with me, but he pulled out of it at the last minute,” Juyeon pouts.

“Gosh! That would’ve been fucking amazing,” you laugh, swatting your friend in the arm playfully– the way you always do when you laugh– but as you come down from it, there’s a bitter tone in your voice. “I asked my boyfriend to wear a couple’s costume too, but he said all my costume ideas were lame.”

“Y/N–” Juyeon starts, wanting to speak up about the matter very obviously present in the conversation, wanting to console you, say anything, but you cut him off again– your courtesy– with a shrug and a grin on your face made to mask your true emotions (didn't work. Juyeon knows you too well).

“It’s okay. That’s why I dressed up as a slutty vampire just to spite him,” you say. 

“What’s his costume?” Juyeon asks.

“Not sure. I think he just bought the Scream mask, or something,” you mutter, rolling your eyes at the male.

And now, Juyeon was never big on gossip. But if gossiping meant poking fun at your boyfriend, the last night before his plane back home takes off is not the time he’s passing on a snarky comment. “Lame.”

“I’m so glad we are on the same page, Juyo.”

His heart leaps at the nickname– a lot of people call him that, but the tone you say it in, the sweet melody of your voice as you throw it at him like a promise (of everything and nothing at all– you’re fond of him, but never fond enough), only you have this effect on him when you call him that. He wishes he had you saying his name recorded, documented somewhere on his phone, your accent and all, so he could hear you say it when he foolishly misses you in the middle of the night, like he knows he will when he lays awake at home, in his tiny, silent room.

“Do you want to get out for a bit? It’s getting too hot in here,” you say as you wave yourself, hoping to cool off, but failing miserably with the heat created from the bodies swimming through the house, and Juyeon finds himself nodding at your question.

Your feet drag you outside of the house, the cold breeze instantly cooling down your sweaty bodies. You two stand on the front porch together, watching the world around you revolve in a fast, yet slow manner– there are couples making out in the corner of the yard, one of them pressed up against the tree, and friends chasing each other down in zombie costumes, passing by bottles of alcohol between each other. 

Juyeon hears you hum, making him turn his head towards you and see you offering a cigarette to him. He'd never been much of a smoker before, but Europe taught him to never turn down a cigarette when offered, and so he only takes out one out of the pack, watching you mirror his movements. You fish for your lighter in your bra (and Juyeon finds himself too mesmerized to look away during the action), clicking it and putting the flame against the cigarette trapped between his lips.

He doesn’t know what it is about the action that makes his eyes hooded as he watches you– noticing the forgotten speck of glitter from some step of your makeup routine under your eye, making him want to swipe his thumb over it and take it off for you– but he can’t get his gaze off you as he breaths in the smoke, his head going more fuzzy than it has been only a few minutes prior.

When Juyeon’s cigarette is lit, you move to light your own, all while the male watches you with almost a dreamy look on his face. Somehow, he’s glad no one’s watching you. He doesn’t think he would be able to conceal his feelings for you tonight.

“Are you gonna miss this?” you suddenly ask, looking up at him from his right.

You? Absolutely. 

“I think so,” he nods, “it’s a lot different to home, but I made a lot of memories here.”

He watches a hint of smile spreading over your features. “Do you remember when you accidentally told our professor you were horny instead of excited?” you laugh.

“Oh, shut up,” Juyeon laughs at the memory. His French never really got to a perfect level– that’s why most of you settled on speaking English between each other– but the first few weeks were a living hell of a language barrier for Lee Juyeon. “The more concerning part is that this is what made you approach me,” he notes.

“Well, I recognised that you needed help, and I was willing to provide it,” you say, taking a drag out of the cigarette and blowing the smoke into his face.

Juyeon looks at you through the smoke cloud, snickering. “I’m kinda grateful, though. You were the first friend I made here.”

You look at him with a tender look– something so full of care Juyeon swears he feels his stomach doing somersaults– before you press your lips into a solemn smile. “Well, I’m honored, Juyeon Lee,” you drag out in a posh accent, making the boy break out into a laugh.

He takes another drag off the cigarette, inviting the nicotine into his system. Mixed with the alcohol in his veins and your aura surrounding him, he almost feels on cloud 9, like he’s flowing in space and he can’t get down. He watches as you lean over the railing of the porch, forearms meeting with the metal in a set of goosebumps. Breeze flies through the air, making your barely-clothed figure shiver.

He knows he probably shouldn’t. Your boyfriend is somewhere inside, and although you two are seemingly in a weird sort of fight, it’s not his place to act as a gentleman. 

Still, Juyeon finds he has nothing to lose. He shrugs off the suit jacket he’s been wearing and drapes it over your shoulders wordlessly, noticing the way you look back at him over your shoulder with a soft smile on your lips. 

A comforting silence overtakes you two. Juyeon takes the last drag off the cigarette and puts it out on the iron railing, enjoying the effect your sheer presence has on him. The music coming out of inside is only a mere background noise now, providing him an occasional distraction to the buzzing of his own thoughts.

“Say, Juyo,” you start, “do you know where Dorothy lives?” you ask.

Juyeon hums in disagreement. “Don’t think I do. Why?”

“I’m sleeping over at hers tonight,” you mumble, mentioning your best friend– the girl Juyeon’s met plenty of times in the 10 months of knowing you. “I was supposed to stay at Andre’s, but I’m not talking to him right now.”

“Oh,” is all Juyeon says. The mention of your boyfriend always throws him off the track a little.

“I dunno where Dorothy went, but I’m getting kind of sleepy.”

“Why can’t you just go home?” he asks.

“Juyo,” you laugh, “my parents would kill me if I got home tipsy and smelling like cigarette smoke. Don’t you know how they are?” you joke, shaking your head in disbelief.

He doesn’t. He kind of wishes he had the chance to know, though– because if he knew your parents, maybe it would imply something. Signify something more.

“Do you want me to walk you to Dorothy’s?” 

“Yeah,” you nod, lids heavy. Juyeon doesn’t know what time it is, but the last time he checked, it was well past midnight– he doesn’t think he’d stay around much longer himself.

“Okay,” he nods, watching as you slowly peel yourself off the railing and wear his suit jacket properly, the fabric drowning you, but keeping you warm. The sight, the sentiment of it, makes Juyeon’s hands shake and his throat go dry. You’re so close, yet so out of his reach.

Your feet are slow as you march towards the direction of your best friend’s house. Juyeon doesn’t know how far it is, but he wishes for you to take the long way home– if those are the last moments he has with you, he wants to drag the evening out the best he can.

The night is quiet. The only thing ringing in your ears is the sound of your own footsteps, when Juyeon surprises himself with the question that noisily cuts out of his throat.

“Why don’t you break up with him?” he asks.

He expects you to go mad at the question– you were known to have quite the fierce temper. You and Andre have had a few problems in the past: he was known to be reckless with his snarky comments that somehow hurt your pride, his nasty behavior when he got drunk, and the not-so-happy opinion your parents had of him. You were known to blow things out of proportion, screaming, crying and making a scene whenever you could if you thought it was appropriate, known to talk about your conflicts with your friends and digging out opinions out of them on the matter.

Juyeon always made sure to give you lukewarm arguments whenever you asked him about your boyfriend. Never too heated to make himself seem suspicious. Your relationship was none of his business.

Again– tonight, though, he has nothing to lose.

“I dunno,” you shrug, your steps a little uneven on the pavement, “it’s… a matter of habit, maybe? It’s weird,” you say. 

The explanation gives Juyeon just about nothing. A matter of habit? Is it a habit to stay with someone? Was there not more needed for a relationship?

Juyeon doesn’t find it in him to reply. Instead, he lets you talk.

“I think I might love him, or something. I’m not really sure…” you mumble, the sentences breaking Juyeon’s heart a little by little, shattering it right in front of you on the pavement, “because if I didn’t, why else would I put up with all of this?” you ask, not really expecting an answer.

“All the shaming, the spiteful remarks. The pettiness, the silent treatment… tell me, Juyo, do I have any dignity?” you laugh, shaking your head in disbelief.

“Y/N…”

The snicker that escapes out of you quickly turns bitter. Your body grows impossibly closer to his, your hands sneaking around his bicep. You walk with linked arms, your head falling to his shoulder. “I don’t think I really love him, though,” you suddenly rebuttal, “‘cause like… I wouldn’t- I wouldn’t tell my grandkids about Andre, y’know? I think that’s the way you know. If you can imagine thinking so fondly about someone that you… that you’d mention them even in 50 years, ‘cause the memories still feel fresh and you’re delighted you once knew them, then…” you trail off, voice fading.

“Do you know what I mean?” you hum, pouting.

He does know.

“Sorry, I’m rambling–”

“No, I get you,” he reassures you, nodding to himself. 

“You always do,” you sigh, breaking Juyeon’s heart into a million pieces, “anyways, with that being said… I think I’m with him only because breaking up is too much of a hassle. And, I think I like the attention,” you splutter, laughing at yourself, “that’s… so desperate of me, I know. I’m starting to doubt if it’s even worth it.”

“He’s not,” Juyeon finds himself saying as you two cross the corner.

“You’re only saying that as my friend.”

“No, I’m saying that as your– as someone who cares…?” he stutters, mentally kicking himself for sounding so readable. Surely, you must’ve already noticed. If not from his current statement, then from the way he looked at you the whole night. You are a smart girl– you were always quick to point out the men that would soon hit on you when you were at the club. You have a good eye when it comes to others.

You only laugh, though. Oh, how Juyeon loves the sound.

“Thank you,” you hum.

You two fall silent for a while. Juyeon finds himself enjoying it. It feels comfortable– to walk with you through the emptied Paris, accompanied by the yellow lampposts and soulless streets. Only you two, your linked arms and his suit jacket around your shoulders.

“We’re at Dorothy’s,” you muse when your steps come to a halt, gesturing towards the silent, dark house on the other side of the street, “I think she’s not home yet, though. Her light would be on.”

Chewing on the inside of his cheek, Juyeon looks from the house and back at you, then back at the seemingly empty house again. “And now what?”

“I have to wait for her,” you shrug, “will you… keep me company?”

You don’t even have to ask. He’d always keep you company. 

“Well, I’m not just gonna let you stand alone in the street in the middle of the night, am I?” he playfully shakes his head in disbelief, but secretly enjoys the fact that he has more time with you before you have to pay each other goodbye.

“Always knew you were a gentleman.”

“Pretty sure that was my middle name,” he notes.

“I thought you said that was ‘handsome’ once?”

“I have two,” he laughs.

“Is that possible?” you tease.

“Of course! Look it up,” he says, turning to you as he talks. “My name’s actually Lee Handsome Gentleman Juyeon, it’s on my ID and everything,” he jokes, watching as your eyes turn into moon crescents and your throat lets out a fit of amused giggles.

Another playful punch to his shoulder. A happy sigh. A shake of your head, full of disbelief. 

“Damn, Juyo. I’ll miss you like crazy, you know?” you suddenly utter, making the boy’s heart fall down into his stomach. The implication of your words sounds a lot like a goodbye, and although he was aware of the fact that he was leaving before, he doesn’t think he really let the reality down on him until now. 

This time tomorrow, there will be no Paris. No Marco. No Shotaro. No Bence. No French locals, no bagels for breakfast, no shitty ass dorm room.

No you.

“I’ll miss you more,” he says. He thinks he’s right.

You’ll miss him like a friend. He’ll miss you like his first love.

You stare at him for a heartbeat. One, two– before you latch onto him, much like when you first met tonight. Your arms wrap around his neck, pulling him close, head resting on his shoulder only when you notice his hands wrapping around your middle. Breathing in your scent, Juyeon focuses very hard to keep his heart rate in check– it’s hard to not falter under your touch when your nose buries itself into his neck, cold skin nuzzling into his hot one, hands squeezing him tighter.

Juyeon doesn’t think you’ve ever hugged him like this before. 

And now, you won’t ever again.

You break away from him only enough to still be in his hold, your forehead resting against his. The new intimacy between the two of you makes him gulp, eyes focused into yours– watching the silver and gold swirl around your irises, counting your eyelashes. Noticing the faint mole on the top of your nose bridge. 

Foolishly letting his eyes dip lower. Memorizing the shape of your lips with his gaze. Taking in a shaky breath when he feels your fingers playing with the hair on his nape.

“Will you tell your grandkids about Paris?” you ask, voice barely louder than a whisper. Juyeon would almost think you’re suggesting something with your question, but when you speak up again, the suspicion is proved correct. “Will you tell them about me?”

The boy drags his eyes up back to yours. He examines the intention. He finalizes that he has nothing left to lose. 

Tomorrow, this will all be a memory. A moment out of his reach– much like you, all this time. A moment of time he experienced and won’t ever get back.

“I will,” he nods, swallowing. “Will you?”

You smile at the boy, the curve of your lips capturing his attention again. If anyone asked, he’d tell them it’s pure biology– the way his eyes zoomed in on your mouth the moment your expression changed. That’s how attention fluctuates– he learned about it in class somewhere, he’s fairly certain.

Why he’s unable to look back into your eyes after the question is a matter of something else, though.

“I think I might,” you breathe out.

There’s buzzing in his fingertips as he relishes the moment. The sentiment makes his knees weak, his brain fuzzy, his sight blurry and a little hazed. When he finally catches a glimpse of your gaze, he finds it glued to his mouth. 

He could take it as an invitation. 

He won’t, though.

“Kiss me?” you ask, whispering.

He shakes his head in disapproval. “I can’t.” 

Not when you’re taken. Not when he’s aware. Not when he knows you might regret this in the morning.

“Can I kiss you, then?” you ask. 

That, however, is a whole other situation. 

You asked to. You're making the first step. He doesn't have to feel guilty– who cares whether either of you might regret this decision tomorrow.

A simple nod–

that’s all it takes before you lock your lips with his. Your mouths move against each other with a passion he’s contained for his whole stay. You taste like vodka and orange juice, the slickness of your lip gloss making Juyeon’s lips slide against yours with more ease. He kisses you like you’d kiss your first love– with everything in him, with everything he is. 

He kisses you in a way that shows he wants to remember this forever. In a way that makes you lean even closer, pressing up firmly against him as you angle your head to make the kiss deeper. One of your hands moves from behind his head to twist itself deeper into his hair, tugging a little at the root to make the boy gasp under your actions. That has you inviting your tongue into his mouth, eager to taste him, to explore.

Juyeon doesn’t think he’s ever been kissed like this. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt so vulnerable, so open while kissing someone. This is him with his heart on a plate, naked and ready to be stabbed, squished by the weight of circumstances breathing onto his back.

His cold fingers move along your sides. Your hands settle on his shoulders to steady yourself, head pulling away to gasp for oxygen.

You look so pretty when he opens his eyes. Lipstick smudged and eyes blown out, hair a little messy from the October wind. He’s like an addict presented with his favorite drug– he can’t get enough, he can’t resist as he chases after you, leaving kisses along your jaw and the corner of your mouth, where the blood is, slowly meeting your lips again in another lock.

Everything else disappears. In this moment, there’s just you, you, you…

No flights. No weight of his own conscience. No boyfriends, no unsaid feelings. 

No regret.

And Juyeon thought he had nothing to lose, but suddenly, with you in his arms, he feels as if he’s being stripped of everything he never even had, only got the glimpse of last minute, a few hours before he’s gone.

You lean away again. Juyeon watches you with big eyes. A smile appears on your face as you move a finger up to his face, cleaning up the side of his mouth off the dark lipstick you’ve imprinted on him. He feels fragile under your touch. One bad move and he breaks, falls apart under you.

“You have to come back to visit one day,” you whisper, cradling the side of his face.

Juyeon nods. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever get the chance.

But as you stand on your tippy toes and press a kiss to his forehead, making a million different fireworks erupt in his stomach, he doesn’t let himself think of that (im)possibility. He watches as you smile at him, locking your eyes in a gaze tender and soft, yet electrifying, holding something special.

Before you take off to meet your best friend walking up the other side of the street, you hug him one last time and whisper into his ear.

“Goodbye, Juyo.”

Seeing as you lock your arms with Dorothy, walking up into the silent house and never looking back, Juyeon lets himself feel the last hint of longing for someone he always knew would never be his. And it’s strange, because he hasn’t even left yet, 

but oh, how he’d love to go to Paris again.

[orbital-inclination]

Moltendreams - Error Sans Alias - Static Pronouns: he/him, they/them Personality: Petty, holds a mean grudge, Big Tsundere, Complete Shut-in, Quick Tempered and Moody, fanatic with his interests, externally aggressive when in actuality he is quite shy. An absolute troll. His favorite passtime is messing with others. Paradoxically touch starved and suffers from haphephobia. Reckless with his own well being.

This variant of Error is capable of both love and compassion, he just hides it under a grumpy exterior and several layers of denial and self-destructive dogma. Other Notes:

Reluctant to harm Papyrus directly, though Static can't articulate why, and will generally avoid encounters Papyrus in any given AU.

Had a good relationship with his dad/W.D Gaster, actually.

Relates to "pest" pets; rats, mice, snakes, spiders, beetles, he loves them all.

Would have a pet rat of his own if he wasn't afraid of it shocking itself by chewing on his wires.

His favorite kind of chocolate is mixed with a hazelnut filling.

Views Frisk as a younger sibling.

Into Parkour.

-More Info undercut! -

Abilities: Static uses wire instead of string. Wire and summoned attacks can and do hold an electric charge. His presence alone messes with electronic devices. Residents of a particular AU may get a few minutes or seconds of warning as sweaters get staticy, computer screens glitch out, and anything with a battery spontaneously dies or gets super charged. By creating a circle of alternating RED and CYAN bones, Static creates a sort of reverse faraday cage. While Static can produce electricity, he can't directly control the voltage. He can only hope to direct it. The voltage of a charge is directly influenced by his emotional state. If you touch him, you will find his clothes zappy with static. Do NOT attempt to fight him in humid or watery environments for, hopefully, obvious reasons.

About: Static originates from a pre-Pacifist timeline that was followed by a looping Genocide Route. Through repetitive iterations, and an escalating instability in the timeline, the monsters of the underground began to recall events they didn't witness and memories they shouldn't recall.

Working together, Static, at that point still Sans, and Alphys were able to pin point the root cause of their timeline's instability. They made a plan to save the underground and separate Frisk from the Anomaly but when it came time to execute their plan something went catastrophically wrong. As a result Sans was torn from reality, and caught in the space in-between. Eventually, he escaped but not unscathed. Static has vague conflicting memories of his past, and to this day, questions if any of it was real. He can't find his original AU and secretly fears it may have been the first world he destroyed. He is still looking for it.

Outcode Politics: Static views all outcodes the same way he views every iteration of the original timeline that even slightly deviates: as glitches to be terminated. Bugs in the code he needs to hammer out before it all goes to hell. Static believes that by destroying deviating timelines and AUs, he is preserving the stability of the original. He is “saving’’ it from corruption by trimming the branches back. Despite his position as the self proclaimed Destroyer, Static is not above biases and making exceptions. 

Static includes himself on his long list of glitches in the code to be terminated. Static has a different view on the Spirits of Creation that Fable/Ink does. (Spirits of Creation are the in-universe term and stand-in for the creator of an AU). He calls them eldritch parasites. Abominations that should be avoided at all costs. And absolutely should not be encouraged or interacted with. Though he won't admit it out loud, Static is terrified of them. OG Error @.LoverofPiggies/CrayonQueen) Moltendreams @.me Edit: he has been named! Edit 2: revised his profile a bit

[inkspiredwriting]

Timeless Encounters

Five Hargreeves x Fem!reader

Warnings: none

As a member of the Umbrella Academy and later as a hitman for the commission, Five has seen more than his fair share of temporal anomalies and paradoxes. Yet, nothing could prepare him for the peculiar pattern of his encounters with a woman named Y/N.

Their first meeting was in the 1920s, in a small bookstore where Five was hiding out, blending in among the dusty shelves. Y/N walked in, looking for a rare book. Their eyes met, and though the conversation was brief, Five felt an inexplicable connection.

Years later, in the 1950s, Five was in New Orleans, working undercover. One night, in a dimly lit jazz club, he saw her again, singing on stage. Her voice was hauntingly beautiful, and once more, Five felt that strange pull. After her performance, they spoke, sharing a drink and stories. Despite the passage of time, there was a familiarity that neither could explain.

Their paths crossed repeatedly: at a peace rally in the 1970s, a scientific conference in the 1980s, and an art festival in the early 2000s. Each time, they were inexplicably drawn to each other, and each time, they left with the feeling that they had met before.

It wasn't until their latest encounter in the 2020s that the pieces began to fall into place. Five had been tracking anomalies in the timeline, trying to prevent yet another catastrophe. Y/N, now a historian researching temporal disturbances, was attending the same conference where Five was gathering information.

After an intense day of lectures and debates, they found themselves alone in a quiet corner of the venue. As they talked, their fragmented memories started to align. They began to realize that these weren't just chance meetings. Their encounters were too precise, too consistent across the decades.

"Five, this isn't a coincidence," Y/N said, her eyes wide with realization. "We keep meeting for a reason. It's like we're... meant to be together."

Five nodded slowly, his mind racing. "I've seen a lot of strange things in my time, but this... it's different. It's like time is trying to tell us something."

Y/N leaned closer, her voice almost a whisper. "What if we could be together permanently? Use your abilities to manipulate time so we can stay in the same period?"

The idea was tempting, but Five knew the risks. Time manipulation was dangerous, and altering their destinies could have unforeseen consequences. "Y/N, you don't understand. Playing with time like that could be catastrophic. We could cause a paradox or worse."

Y/N's expression softened. "Five, we've spent lifetimes missing each other. If there's even a chance that we can be together, don't you think it's worth the risk?"

Five looked into her eyes, seeing the same yearning that he felt. The possibility of a life together, free from the constraints of time, was incredibly alluring. But the dangers were real.

After days of contemplation and planning, they devised a way to synchronize their timelines, to anchor themselves in a single period. The process was complex, requiring precise calculations and a leap of faith.

Finally, the day came. In a secluded spot, far from prying eyes, Five activated the device they'd created. As the energy surged around them, they held onto each other, hoping against hope that this would work.

The world around them blurred, colors and shapes blending into a whirlwind. When the chaos subsided, they found themselves standing in the same spot, but everything felt... right. Time had settled, and they were together.

Five looked at Y/N, his heart pounding. "We did it."

Y/N smiled, tears of joy in her eyes. "We're finally together."

But even in their joy, they knew the future was uncertain. They had taken a monumental risk, and the repercussions were unknown. But for now, they had each other, and that was enough.

As they walked hand in hand into their new life, Five felt a weight lift off his shoulders. They had defied the odds and the constraints of time itself. Whatever came next, they would face it together, timeless and united.

[hitoshitoshi]

Aegritudo [Zayne x Reader]

Summary:

When a cardiac surgeon can't diagnose his own feelings, he turns to the ultimate source of reliable information: Google. What could possibly go wrong?

Tags: Angst, Hurt no comfort, Fate & Destiny, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Emotional Hurt, Pining, Unrequited love, Acceptance. Word Count: 1.4k Words

Click.

Click.

Click.

Zayne's eyes darted across the glowing screen of his computer — his eyebrows furrowed as he searched for answers; answers to a particular problem that he had anticipated, yet somehow failed to prepare for. Perhaps it was the flicker of hope nestled deep within his soul, begging to believe that the Gods might answer his prayers and change his fate; or perhaps it was the audacious intensity of his emotions that made him believe he possessed a strength greater than the Gods that bound him to his fate — that he could hold a rose without getting pricked by the thorns that adorn it. For he was a man that had been punished for partaking in a sin — the greatest sin known to mankind; love.

Zayne took off his glasses and placed them on his desk as he pinched the bridge of his nose, contemplating how this dilemma even started. He found himself bewildered by the fact that a single person — out of the eight billion that currently existed — was the one that caused him such a profound feeling of distress. It wasn't merely a passing inconvenience or a problem that lasted days, weeks, or even years; this problem had haunted him not for centuries, but for a millennium. An enigmatic woman whose quest for answers became the catalyst for Zayne's own dilemma — a paradox of fate and free will.

Click.

Click.

Ding!

Zayne's concentration was interrupted by a familiar chime from his phone, a sound that never failed to quicken his pulse ever so slightly. His eyes, weary from hours of staring at the computer screen, immediately brightened with a warmth reserved solely for one person. Zayne reached for his glasses and placed them back on his face. With a controlled eagerness that belied his inner anticipation, he reached for the device, his fingers brushing against it almost reverently. The name on the screen confirmed what his heart already knew — it was a message from the woman. Zayne's typically stoic expression softened, the corners of his mouth lifting in a subtle smile that he allowed himself only in private moments like these. As he opened the message, a mix of curiosity and fondness welled up within him, carefully contained but undeniably present. What thoughts had she chosen to share with him this time? A horribly written out joke? A witty observation? A picture of food she had ordered from the newest café that just opened recently near Akso Hospital? Or perhaps just a simple hello that would inexplicably brighten his entire day? Zayne's thumb hovered over the screen, savoring the moment of subtle anticipation before diving into the woman’s text message. But as Zayne's eyes scanned the words on the screen of his phone, it was like everything he had dealt with for the past millennium was coming back to haunt him — the smile on his face faltered as his heart dropped, a sudden vagal response causing his pulse to plummet.

Oh.

Oh.

Zayne sat frozen in his chair; he didn't quite know how to feel as his phone suddenly felt heavier in his grasp. He felt numb — no; he felt everything all at once, his nervous system flooding with a cocktail of stress hormones. It was like his entire soul was going haywire. His eyes remained fixed on his screen, yet the words blurred into an incomprehensible haze; it was as though his mind and vision were betraying him — taking away his ability to see as he had his glasses on, yet he couldn't comprehend what he was looking at. It was like reality was being distorted into a whirl of colors and shadows; every atom of his being was being set ablaze in a fire of emotions and feelings that he couldn't even begin to comprehend — a somatic manifestation of his psychological distress. His heartbeat was rapid and thundering in his ears, tachycardia setting in as his breaths became shallow gasps; the air around him felt thick and sickening to breathe in, bordering on hyperventilation. His chest was heaving in and out as none of the air in his lungs felt like air — like it was sludge and his body was yearning for that sweet sensation of fresh air in his lungs that he could not satisfy no matter what, his diaphragm spasming with each labored breath. It felt as though there was an anchor weighing him down and sinking him to the bottom of an ocean; a dryness settled in his mouth, his salivary glands seemingly paralyzed as his tongue instinctively sought moisture, licking the back of his teeth. Zayne found himself teetering on the line of consciousness and unconsciousness, his autonomic nervous system in overdrive, as his eyes were locked onto a particular picture —

A picture of the woman kissing a man who was not him. 

What a sick joke that fate had played upon Zayne; truly, a sick joke. The sacrifices he had made for her, the promises they'd held, the plans, the late-night talks, the passionate lovemaking, dancing in the kitchen while cooking together - all of it now seemed as hollow as an empty promise. Time and time again, Zayne had always done his best for her; and time and time again, it seemed as though fate and time had come for their revenge, as relentless and unforgiving as a force of nature. In every lifetime, Zayne was destined to meet her, yet in every lifetime, he was given a merciless fate of having her swept away; either by illness, death, or something completely different. And this time, the scenario differed - it was another man, an unwelcome intruder in the once-sacred space of their relationship. Zayne let out a sardonic chuckle as he looked away from his phone screen; the sound was hollow, echoing in the emptiness of his chest where his heart should be. He felt numb, as if his very soul had been anesthetized, yet there was another sensation deep within him — a visceral ache that threatened to consume him from the inside out. It was a pain more acute than any physical wound he'd ever treated, a suffering that no medical textbook could ever fully describe.

Like all the other instances, it was an outside force causing their separation, but one thing differed this time — a variant in the usual pattern of their souls meeting and diverging. She did not want him this time, she would never search for him again. She left him for another man. He was not good enough for her. No matter what he did; his efforts were as futile as treating a terminal illness with palliative care. What a cruel joke from fate indeed — a diagnosis without hope for remission. Ding!

And it was as if the gods had administered one final, lethal dose of cruelty to Zayne, or perhaps, it was a remedy. But knowing the games that the gods usually play, it was more so the former, rather than the latter.

Zayne's eyes, bloodshot from hours of staring, returned to the monitor of his computer as the next page finished loading; he had found the diagnosis for the void consuming him. Aegritudo.

Definitions:

affliction, anxiety

melancholy

sickness, disease, grief, sorrow

That was what Zayne had felt through his entire being; Aegritudo. A malignant emptiness that seemed to spread through every synapse, every nerve ending, leaving nothing but a numbing ache in its wake. As if triggered by this realization, the engagement ring Zayne had crafted for his beloved —  his beloved who no longer wanted him — made of his Ice Evol that should have been as eternal as his devotion, shattered on his desk. The sound of its breaking was as soft as a flatline on an EKG, yet it reverberated through Zayne's hollow chest like a death knell.

It didn't matter anymore; Zayne had no use for it, just as his heart now seemed to have no purpose. She wouldn't want it anyway; she did not want him. The ring, like his hopes and dreams, lay in fragments - a physical representation of the void that had opened within him, consuming everything he once held dear. It was all as meaningless as trying to grasp at shadows in a world devoid of light.

Just as this lifetime had ended differently than the rest, Zayne too came to an acceptance that he should act differently. This time, Zayne was done with trying. Acceptance settled over him like a suffocating shroud; he had finally succumbed to fate. The cycle of hope and heartbreak that had defined his existence for so long now has come to a halt, leaving him in a catatonic state of numb resignation. In this moment, Zayne felt himself slipping into an emotional coma, one from which he wasn't sure he wanted to wake; but alas, his soul was set free. 

Click! Zayne turned off his computer.

A/N: No thoughts, head empty. I just like pain and sharing is caring, right? Right.

[soap-ify]

GLADIOLUS | simon 'ghost' riley x reader

cw — angst, heavy suicidal tendencies, simon is NOT okay, he is depressed, mentions of death, hurt/no comfort but there's comfort too if that makes sense, bittersweet ending. [1.4k]

italic paragraphs mean flashback!

Cold and stale, the tea in Simon’s hand had long lost its heat. Almost like a cruel mockery of his own life, slowly losing the warmth that made him a human, reducing him to nothing but a breathing corpse.

A waste.

“I think my life’s too short for our love.”

His words caused you to look at him with confusion, trying to mask the inner turmoil brewing in your head at his sickeningly vague words.

“Sorry?” Though you had heard him well, you still wanted him to repeat it, to hear his voice once more.

Simon sighed and put the tea cup aside, having no energy left within him to drink anything, or even do anything. Trapped by the chains he couldn’t see, maybe just simply forged by his own brain. Brown irises soon looked over at you, still holding the same fondness as all the other times.

“I…” He paused momentarily, the thoughts in his head too loud yet distant. “My life. S’too short to love you properly in the way you deserve.”

“Don’t say that, Si. It’s more than enough.” You smiled and placed a gentle, comforting hand on his shoulder. Your words were like a sweet lullaby, calming him a bit. A bit.

So he stayed quiet and nodded, pretending that he was fine now, letting you stay in this false bubble he had made up for you both — tranquil and domestic. A paradox to his actual life.

Simon had been overly fascinated by knives lately. Even guns. Not by their beauty, but by the damage they could inflict. He’d let his gloved thumb caress the sharp edge of his knife sometimes, wondering what it’d be like to just stab it into his neck at this very moment.

Some poor unfortunate soldier would find him lying in his own blood, completely oblivious to how contentful he’d be.

Other times, Simon would fiddle with one of his guns, awful intrusive thoughts invading his head, making him feel overly sick. What if he just presses the barrel against his forehead, his finger on the trigger. One click and he’d be gone for good.

Was it selfish to want to die? Simon couldn’t even point out why he feels this way, or since when. All he knows is that nothing helps anymore. Well, you do, sometimes. Though he’d rather have you not see this damaged man rotting himself away more and more. He loves you too much for that.

Was it really selfish to want to die? All he wanted was to leave behind everything, leave behind the blood on his hands and the deaths he had seen, leave behind the memories and just fly away, finally free from the chains suffocating him.

He wanted to become the air, and you’d be his sunlight then — both of you dancing around each other everyday, together once again.

Maybe he could be better for you that way.

“Si.” You poked Simon’s arm, momentarily interrupting his quiet reading. Not that he minded though.

“Yeah?”

“I want to ask you something.” The mild shyness adorning your face sparked his curiousity, causing him to put his book aside and turn all of his attention onto you.

“Go on.” He urged softly.

“Um… Do you think we’d be together in every universe?” You felt silly for asking a question like that, blood rushing to your cheeks while your eyes looked away.

Simon paused for a second, brown eyes softening up as he studied your expression. Together in every universe? God, he’d do anything for that. Anything to love you in every life of his.

“Yeah.” He grumbled softly after a while, a poor attempt to appear nonchalant, though it failed as soon as you hugged his arm happily, making him chuckle under his breath.

“I’ll find you in every universe.”

Gladiolus. It’s a pretty flower, though Simon doesn’t like it just for its beauty. He feels oddly connected to it, uncomfortably exposed — even though he didn’t know why. Could flowers even speak to you?

Which is why he decided not to pick them, turning away to look at some other options. It was his little routine to bring you flowers whenever he could. Though this time, it was different.

A mission — a suicide mission. He was dreading the moment he would have to announce it to you, knowing that he couldn’t back out from it anymore. That was his job. All the dirty stuff.

It was hard, too hard. Watching you collapse in his arms while sobbing in pure devastation absolutely tore his heart, his arms holding you tightly while your fingers hardly dug into his arms, trying to touch him whole.

“M’sorry, love. It was just… supposed to happen one day.”

He couldn’t really recognise the words coming out of his mouth anymore, not really knowing what to say. He couldn’t give you false promises, especially when you both knew the severity of this situation.

Laying on the ground, drenched in blood, wasn’t that bad. He felt a sickening relief that made him feel nauseous yet happy at the same time. His hand was pressed against the severe bleeding wound on his stomach, fatal coughs leaving his mouth while he weakly stared at the sky, the sounds of shouts and gunshots too distant and blurry. It was as if he was slowly slipping away into a bubble that carried him away from this battleground and into somewhere calmer.

At least I didn’t kill myself with that damn gun, he thought to himself, smiling weakly. At least there wouldn’t be any nightmare anymore, no more sleepless nights and random outbursts. Peace. The beauty of death slowly engulfed him, wrapping her arms around him and slowly taking him away from this damned life.

You. He lost consciousness thinking about you — about how he left you back at home, about how he wasn’t strong enough to just retire from the military once you moved into his place.

I’m sorry, words he could desperately say, I’m sorry for not being strong for you.

Though right before dying, he made an oath to himself that if there was even a tiny chance of him living another life after this, he’d find you.

It was another one of those sunny days where you wished you had enough funds to fix the damn air conditioner. Your fingers silently put the last gladiolus into the bouquet one of the old ladies around the town had requested, the sweet scent of flowers soothing your senses.

The soft jingle of the door opening averted your gaze from the bouquet, your eyes falling onto your new customer walking into the flower shop. The sheer size of this mine caught you off guard, though you were quick to scold yourself for being so invested into someone’s height.

“Welcome. How can I help you?” You smiled politely and put the bouquet aside. Once those brown eyes of his met yours, both of you went dead silent for a split second, a strange spark igniting somewhere in between you.

He seemed… familiar. You were sure that you haven't seen him ever in your life, but something about him made you feel as if you knew him. Your fingers twitch involuntarily, feeling as if they had run through those dirty blonde hair off his.

He stared at you with, internally equally bewildered. His lips were slightly agape behind the black surgical mask he wore, for which he was glad for since you couldn’t see the soft shade of red slowly spreading on his cheeks. Why were you so familiar? He felt an odd pang in his chest, making him momentarily forget about why he was even here.

Oh yes, flowers.

“Can I have some roses?” He grumbled under his breath, quickly looking away as he reached for his wallet. “S’my mom’s birthday today.”

“That’s sweet. Happy birthday to her.” You looked away alongside him, a soft bashful smile creeping up on your lips as you began grabbing some newly fresh roses.

It was silent for a while between you both before he eventually broke the thickening silence, clearing his throat, his hand rubbing the back of his neck.

“Thanks. Um… My name’s Simon, by the way.” God, he was awkward at this.

You stared at him for a second before letting out a soft giggle, introducing yourself. “Here are your flowers, Simon.”

He felt as if he had been searching for you his whole life.

[roxxie-spirt]

As I said in my last post, I was going to draw laurances all hot n bothered but I also just wanted an excuse to draw void!laurmau because DAWG THEYRE KINDA CUTE 😭😭 Void!aph n Laurances dynamic was so cute and funny like UGH AND THE FACT LAURANCE PROTECTS HER AS IF SHES HIS OWN APHMAU LIKE BRO LOVES AND PROTECTS HER IN ANY UNIVERSE I love Laurances character as much as any aphblr user , that’s all, I love my son anywho lemme keep talking about void paradox the series I wish continued.

I loved the mini series it was a nice break from the post Jess was making at the time ( a lot of myst content ) but also it was just super cool?? Seeing the mod mod world again I do wish she brought back Reese n marsh just cause I loved those two brothers as a kid but not the point. It was just super cool seeing an MCD character in modern times?? Especially with an Aphmau who didn’t know ANYTHING of this character like if it was mystreet Aphmau she would’ve made fun or poked at Laurance since she knew him but this Aphmau hadn’t a clue who he was?? Which omg opened to so much character for Laurance n void! Aphmau!! It didn’t show Casanova Laurance it just showed a guard who thought void!Aph was his and even after the fact he wanted to stay by her , ALSO JUST I KNOW I KEEP BRINGING IT UP BUT THEIR DYNAMICSSS AHHH ITS SO FUNNY !! Laurance being the more serious one out of the two is so unlike him especially where his character development was at?? Ok imma get to some lil hc(?)

Btw! I did draw the two slightly in different styles more of line work n shading IM NOT BEING INCONSISTENT IM BEING SPIDER-MAN

Laurance n void!aph explored eachothers bodies laurance still thinks it was a dream and so when he kisses MCD! Aph he says that was his first kiss, it was in fact not

I’d like to think void!Aph doesn’t just forget about Laurance , but she does look back at the weird medieval guard who kept her safe for those few knights a lot and often chats to Tommy about him

Void Aphmau does talk to Laurance about MCD!Aphmau and she out right tells him to take his chance on her, ofc Laurance tells her he’s waiting for Garroth to tell his feelings but void Aphmau laughs at him straight up and teases if he even likes her if he’s waiting for another man to confess. Laurances get fed up with her comment but he does think about that comment a lot even though he knows she knows nothing about his life .

Laurance when he talks to Tommy can’t help but see Malachi weirdly enough

Laurance out of habit moves void Aphmaus hair out of her face as he does to MCD Aphmau but voidaph is purposely outing her hair in her face

Once when Laurance was watching over void Aph as she slept he lightly grazed his hand on her cheek where MCD!aphmaus mark would be. Tommy called him out for being weird

ok that’s all bye 😇😇

[cafejulii]

I was scrolling through instagram and came across that one scene of Kurapika repeatedly punching Chrollo while on route to make the trade off with the phantom troupe, a scene that though is not canon in the manga nor 2011 anime, is in hxh 1999. I went to the comments to see what others had to say on this addition, and was disheartened to find many fans unanimously coming to the agreement, especially because of this particular scene, that the main difference between Kurapika's characterization in 1999 vs. 2011 is that he's fundamentally "more childish" or "isn't able to keep his anger repressed as well"; rhetoric that I personally couldn’t disagree with more, respectfully.

I must say, they are correct about one thing though, in my opinion; Kurapika in the 1999 version is indeed characterized differently. All of the main four are. Its actually one of the main reasons why I prefer hxh 1999 despite not it not being fully accurate to cannon with the addition of several non-canonical scenes and dialogues. Such scenarios looked upon the original narrative given, estimated what would be the missing pieces in between in order to get to the current picture, and then used a combination of both the filler and original cannon to create characters who are consequently much more dynamic than their original counterparts. All the creators have done was really just set off on a proper set of chain of events in the plot to follow their development.

(In short, hxh 1999 is akin to a very well written, cannon compliant, fanficton with a very specific focus on character study through its additional scenes)

This is one of the many reasons why I find this scene particularly meaningful, as it serves as a direct expansion on Kurapika's characterization. Kurapika is the sort to scrutinize every action he makes based on his self imposed moral structure. We see this aspect of him made clear in the hunter exam, in which Leorio asks him if he's really willing to go to the depths it would take to become a blacklist hunter, knowing this fact about him just simply from the way he talked about hunters, and why, he found becoming a hunter just for the money, unjust. Kurapika, in response, assures him, that he will do anything, no matter if he deems it morally impermissible, if it meant to find and enact his revenge on the Spiders. However, when it came time to follow through with his statement, there is an inherent hesitation made or a flat out failure to act upon it. The very first instance of this is seen when it came time for him to kill the prisoner in trick tower so that he may advance past the third phase of the exam, resulting in a further advancement to his goal as quickly as possible.

He flat out refused to do so, despite it being the easiest most logical thing to do. The man was knocked out unconscious after all. And of course, Kurapika did state that he'd be willing to do anything. So then, why didn't he do it?

Because to him, killing in any circumstance is wrong. He creates a moral paradox for himself:

Cause of Revenge= morality->guilt-> duty

Execution of revenge= duty-> abandonment of morality-> guilt

And moreover, he is horribly self aware of this fact. He knows that discarding pieces of morality for the sake of his mission will fundamentally change him. His duty will never bring him peace and he knows it. In fact, it is the opposite, for he knows it will torment him relentlessly to the point in which he either breaks, or instead, he will become apathetic to it all. The later is the result he strives for though, as to follow through with his mission, he needs to be complicit in the face of evil.

But throughout the narrative, time and time again, it is evident that such moral sentiments never leave him. Sure, he works as a body guard for some of the most notorious criminals in the underworld, so rotten that Melody even goes as far to describe them as "devils", but fails to abandon his paradox. For Christ's sake, he even said in this particular version, that he found the sounds of pain Uvogin made while dying to be so abhorrent to the point, he couldn’t fathom how Uvo does it does it at; nonetheless without feeling any form of remorse. Kurapika loathes violence so greatly that he feels revolted in partaking in it, even if it is towards the person in which inflicted violence on him first. This displays that, to an extent, he held pity for Uvo, not in the sense that he regrets his actions but in the sense they had to be done at all, yet bares this sin for the sake of his brethren. But at the heart of it, especially since so little was gained for his overall mission, he falls to the gripping weight of his actions due to the breach of morality and it overtakes him for a brief moment.

But afterwards, he must carry on regardless if he likes it or not. He must continue up until the point in which he feels indifference to every morally abhorrent thing he has to do for the sake of his mission. Yet of course, he is not there yet, and because of this it only rightfully expected that his anger would boil over due to his moral turmoil, only for him to retreat in a sort of shame directly after doing so, realizing this part of the cycle he signed up for.

And this is why he rages at Chrollo. It's simply a part of this said cycle.

He punches him repeatedly, not only for the murder of his people, but the choices that he had to make as a result of the slaughter; that he was forced to create this paradox and resort to vengeful duty in which can only be fulfilled by measures of violence. The repeated punches, to me, are not done for the sake of incapacitation or for killing Chrollo (after all he couldn't have as that would mean that Gon and Killua's lives would be lost and it's apparent he'd never allow that) but as to give the biggest "fuck you for being so senselessly violent and cruel that in order for me to enact a properly weighted vengeance for my people that I must become just as senselessly violent, just as senselessly cruel, as you are."

Utilizing violence to mourn against the use of violence; this act is the pinnacle of it. A genius, visual representation of his profound moral conflict created for the audience. This is why this scene was so impactful. This is why this scene was needed.

[offshore-brinicle]

Thinking about the three characters we've met who had already found and claimed the Golden Bough before the Sinners, Kromer, Dongbaek and now Ahab it's very interesting to me that they all have in common being women leaders of groups where they are seen as messiahs of sorts, much like how Carmen herself who is the origin of The Light was the one who united the original LobCorp team and had such supernatural charisma that she could convince anyone she wanted to join her cause of "saving humanity".

Kromer is the most blantant and cartoonish example, she's worshipped as a messiah and goddess by her followers to the point they consider basking in her grace a priviledge to the point of genuine insanity beyond what any regular person could comprehend, pure religious fanatism for their savior they believe in who will bring them a "pure, untainted" world, so much that they have cast away their individuality in their adoration, inquisitors being indistinguishable from one another.

Ahab who is a more realistic example of this kind of person even if not as infallible as the seemingly perfect Carmen; she's strong, confident, passionate, revered as a hero and makes convincing cases for herself while having the unnatural ability to appeal to people's desires and cut through them, and in her case the way the Pequod Town have come to bend to her isn't unfounded given their situation. I think that's what makes her significantly scarier and more effective as a villain and character in general; she's not just a comically evil woman in a position of power, you can very easily see why some people would fall for her words and bend to her will. She is paradoxically both the savior of the Pequod and the one who doomed them to the hell inside The Pallid Whale, yet after being isolated from society for so long with no other choices or escape and having their sense of self degraded by the Pallidfication the Pequod crew only came to see the first part.

Dongbaek is an interesting case, unlike the two women described before who are undeniably villains and egomaniacal, she's portrayed as much more sympathetic and even an outright tragic figure, however at the same time unlike them we never directly see the relationship she has with her followers. They never talk about Dongbaek herself and not even mention her in any way, only the ideology she gave them: destroy the current order to create an ideal world free from the shackles of The Wings and technological advancement, and unlike the two before who are always aided by their lackeys, Dongbaek was always seen alone, less like a hero or a goddess but more like a ghost that haunted everyone, much like Carmen's role in LobCorp. This "ghost" motif is doubly emphasized by her sickly dying appearance and how she contantly dissapeared and appeared without a trace, never letting those around her forget about all they have lost or sacrificed trapped in her vendetta.

But ultimately Dongrang, herself and even Yi Sang come to admit her motives were just as self-centered and she was just as manipulative, yet rather from a place of hubris it came from a place of deep despair and yearning.

Like Kromer, the TLA believed she would make a better world, but like Ahab, she was ultimately someone taking advantage of people in despair and giving them false hopes, all while deluding herself further, and much like Carmen, she's associated with trees and vegetation, both expressing the wish to be like one and having a disdain for The Wings, though in Dongbaek's case, she only represents half of Carmen's wish; being the plant blooming across the land, while Yi Sang is the one who would reach the sky.

In the end, all three of these women were false saviors, much like how Carmen's idea of bringing salvation to humanity led to all of the suffering within Lobotomy Corporation, the unleashing of chaos upon The City even her own endless torture as The Well giving birth to Abnormalities...it makes me wonder if all of this was intentional, as a way to parallel Carmen herself. Yet all three of them appear to us clearly untrustworthy while Carmen does not.

Kromer, Dongbaek and Ahab are immediately stablished as dangerous presences; Ahab and Kromer being the sources of Ishmael and Sinclair's suffering and tormenters they have to overcome --the source of their nightmares, and Dongbaek is introduced stabbing Yi Sang and being called "dangerous" yet Carmen is introduced as her best self and all the best memories everyone has of her, it isn't until Ruina, away from Ayin's perspective that she's questioned, it makes me wonder if they will continue to bring these characters contrasting Carmen in further chapters.