#god what even are the tags for them i have no idea

[jaypelt]

Normally I'm the sorta person that puts things in the tags, but it's difficult to deliver the thoughts I want without it just running on too long. I'm personally not in the position to make sweeping judgements of how *audiences* prefer shows, as I've kinda tapped out of that whole thing and pay less attention to takes on media. Although expecting instant trauma and emotion sounds ridiculous. - In the Fullmetal Alchemist manga they don't even show the big Human Transmutation Moment until like... 23 chapters in. It's just dripfed up to that point. - You don't understand all of the specifics as to why Mr. Harrier Du Bois drunk himself into amnesia until you piece it all together from experience throughout the whole game. Culminating in Dolores Dei on the last day. - Kurapika's ice cold demeanor is as disturbing as it is because you've seen how much kinder he can be, and how far he's fallen since earlier in the story. It's not simply the things that happen to him either, but the actions he DECIDES to take. All of these examples present characters who clearly wear some kind of Big Shit on their sleeves, yet it isn't all given to you immediately. And with proper leadup to their emotional moments. Granted, they come from media outside of strictly western TV shows, but I think the lack of patience from both writers and the audience can represent themselves in any media. The goal is to make you *feel bad*, or feel at least feel *something*. And the idea is that this makes a story or character more compelling. How do you hook an audience? You hit em where it hurts. And sometimes it feels as if there's a certain gut punch feeling they're looking for. But there needs to be something of substance to actually CARE about. You need to build up your characters, your world, your story, before you start making people feel something. Especially in the case of characters, you need to establish who they actually ARE and what they care about. It doesn't always have to be the trauma. And trauma can take many, many forms. Negligence, despondence, listlessness, etc. The way they respond to it is often informed by the kind of person they are, even if that part of them may irrevocably change afterwards. Some may not even realize they've experienced it to begin with and are unaware of how it has shaped them. Characters are the beating heart of any story. Any good one is more than just all the trauma you can load them up with. Your plot can be mid as fuck, yet people cherish it anyway because the characters are good. Which, by god, can take form in more ways placing them in cold drop dramatic moments or delving into their backstory from the get-go. And every story needs a little time to breathe. Space out the big moments, build up to them when appropriate. Too much is emotionally exhausting at best, and feels insulting or manipulative at worst.

Man is it just me or are a lot of TV shows nowadays are written to have big emotional episodes in scenes with very little build up.

[nobodyknowsimalesbian777]

Anderson - Abby (Tlou 2)

NSFW tags - enemies to lovers lowkey, hate sex, masturbation, powerbottom!abby, face-fucking (r!receiving), orgasm denial sorta (a!receiving), 18+

authors note: need to dominate a buff woman so bad oh my goddddddd. hoping to release something for ellie too if i get any requests or ideas 😈😈

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you bolted straight up as you awoke, instinctively reaching for the pistol that sat on the nightstand next to you

you pulled your hand away, noticing the way the cold of the morning seemed to envelope you, making every inch of your skin quiver

sweat gathered on your brow in spite of this, gathering on your palms as you rested your head in your hands

you took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself as you reached over to grab your worn journal

the cover was sturdy, with only a few scruffs and scratches, probably from you throwing it against your wall so often

the inside however, was absolutely filthy, filled with lewd drawings and stories of the woman you adamantly hated, abby anderson.

she was a wlf soldier, who you worked far tot close to. you had been on the same unit for years, which ment years of you enduring abbys hate-flirting

you knew she did it on purpose, because she saw first-hand how it riled you up. you would think the physical fights would be enough to split you two up.

you couldn't help it, the frustration made your face, and cunt, become unbearably warm. and she was just so easy to catch off guard when she got flirty.

so you had moved to journaling about abby, aggressively.

'had another sex dream about anderson again??? i swear to god she can't won't leave me alone, even in my dreams. i can't stand her.'

you slammed the cover shut, burrowing back under your blankets and trying to clear the image of abby's bare thighs from your mind

of course it was all you could think of. you couldn't catch a break.

it was andersons fault, you didn't mean to walk in on her changing. maybe if she fucking answered when you knocked it wouldn't have happened.

instead you're here, burying your hand between your legs and thinking about her toned thighs, the way they met with her plump ass

and her back, oh my god, her back.

you wanted to watch her back muscles ripple and flex while you fucked her from behind,

tugging on that stupid braid and drawing out the most needy moans

slick pooled under you as you fantasized about abby,

thinking about all the ways you would show her how much you hated her

"fuck you, anderson" your voice was low as your fingers sped up, the feeling on your clit drawing out quiet groans

and just as it was starting to get good, you felt your blanket come flying off you

an all too familiar voice echoing through your quiet room "well fuck you too-"

you met eyes with Abby just in time to see them shoot open, her jaw dropping while she took in the sight in front of her

"oh my god." you were surprised by the lack of disgust in her voice, which you expected

still, you felt your stomach sink as you realized abby had just caught you thinking about her,

with your hands down your pants.

her muscular frame took up so much space in your room, space that you had never imagined she'd be here to fill

"they told me to come wake you up..i- you didn't answer when i knocked" her voice trailed off as her eyes traveled down your body,

clad in pajama pants and a sports bra, not nearly enough clothes to be having this conversation with her

you swear you were in shock, and you opened your mouth to explain yourself, but no words came to your defense

"so...you're not going to tell me why my name is in your mouth right now?" her voice was challenging you, questioning if you really knew what she had just saw

"wrong anderson, i was thinking about your...uh, your...dad?" you really hated her for being an orphan right now.

"right. my dad. ohhkay." she cocked her brow at you, "didn't think you were that fucked up."

"NO! not your dad, thats not what...not like that" you looked up to see abby fucking laughing at you

a real laugh, one you had only seen from a distance, it seemed to light up her whole face,

that is until you sent a pillow flying off of it

"it's not fucking funny, abby!" her laughter just grew, almost doubling her over as she damn-near snorted

"i just caught you masturbating for me, after telling the whole unit how much you can't stand me," she had to fight off another fit of laughter "how is that not funny?"

your head landed in your hands, yet again. maybe this was just a nightmare, a horrible, cruel nightmare that you would soon wake up from

but it wasn't a nightmare, and when you felt abbys body press up against yours, you didn't think you wanted it to be.

her lips met yours in a harsh collision, both of your bodies a flury of passion and hatred as you both grabbed at every bit of flesh you could

your hands landed on abbys shirt, tugging it over her head in one movement with her sports bra

her tits sat perfectly, right in front of you. they were small, mostly muscle from her vigorous training, and they were absolutely captivating

your mouth found its way to her rosy nipples, sucking them harshly, one after the other

abbys pretty moans bounced off the walls while your tounge worked circles around her nipples,

her back arching off the bed, pressing her chest farther into you

you couldn't stop yourself from blindly searching for the waistband of her jeans, popping your mouth off her chest when you felt her belt

abby watched you with a smirk while you fumbled with her belt buckle, every frustrated grunt you made sent a shock right down to her pussy,

she was too impatient to let you struggle for long, however. you watched as she reached down and flipped her buckle open with one hand

"i need you on my tounge." you muttered, so incredibly turned on by her casual behavior and shit-eatting grin, which she was very aware of

her hips bent upwards, allowing you to pull her jeans and boxers off, eliciting a small gasp from the woman above you as the cold air hit her core

you hadn't pegged abby to care much about body hair,

nobody did anymore, with everything else there was to worry about these days

but sitting pretty under her boxers was a little landing strip, guiding you right down to her soaking cunt

you thanked god when you saw it connected to a little happy trail, you found your lips drawn to it,

leaving little kisses down her stomach, the wiry hairs tickling your lips

abby was writhing under you while you took your time, kissing all around her thighs and stomach,

making sure to give her attention everywhere except exactly the place she needed it

the woman grabbed your hair, tugging it up and forcing you to meet her steel blue eyes

"stop fucking around and eat my pussy." her words were nowhere close to a request,

abby anderson was bossing you around, and you fucking loved it

her hands stayed in your hair as she pushed you down to her cunt, watching as you licked slow, experimental strips up her pussy,

seeing the way her face contored gave you the confirmation you needed to continue sloppily dragging your tounge from her aching hole to her swollen clit

nothing you'd ever had tasted more divine then her, and you found yourself gripping her thighs,

shoving her into your face like you needed her to breathe

no part of you doubted that her scent alone would be enough to get you off,

but you found yourself grinding down into the bed anyway, searching for some form of friction

abby took note of this, watching your pretty ass jiggle with every movement of your hips,

she couldn't even register the absolutely maddening sounds coming out of her,

every moan made your stomach flutter, and you felt high off her voice already

"mm, gonna make me cum if you keep that up pretty girl" abby was trying her best to stay in control, and she was failing miserably

her cocky words held no weight, you could hear the bliss in her voice, and you felt it against your face

every motion you made drove her closer to her release, and she was very vocal about how close she was getting

thoughts of her teasing and flirting came to mind, you couldn't shake all the times she had that stomach-curdling power over you,

and as much as you wanted to continue, you wanted to have that power over her more

so when her moans were getting uncharacteristicly high, and her hips were grinding up with a near painful force,

you pulled back

abbys muscular body squirmed under your gaze as her whines and pleas filled the room,

"wh- what? no, no, no i was so close" you wanted so badly to dive back between her legs, to make her shake and come undone for you,

but she just sounded too good begging for you, so you placed a firm slap on her ass,

eliciting a surprised yelp from her as you gathered your clothes and started getting dressed

abbys desperate eyes followed you, watching with confusion as you threw her clothes into her lap

"they're gonna wonder where we are, better hustle anderson." you said as you head out your door, watching her scramble to get ready and get back before any questions arose.

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

you watched as abby scrambled over to the meeting table, all eyes on her and her flushed face

she tried to steady her breath, asking "what?"

manny looked between the two of you, eyes landing on you as you shared a knowing look with him.

"didn't expect you to be so loud abby, ." manny said with the same shit-eatting grin you had seen on her earlier,

both of you doubled over in laughter as her face lit up, random sounds sputtering out while she tried to explain herself.

you were looking forward to having the upper hand over her now.

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

listening to abby whimpering audio rn 🧘‍♀️🎧

[fluentmoviequoter]

Truth Without the Lasso

Requested Here!

Pairing: Jason Todd x fem!powered!reader

Summary: You're Wonder Woman's protégé and adopted daughter. Jason Todd admits that you look familiar, and you tell him secrets the gods have kept for your entire life.

Warnings: brief angst, fluff

Word Count: 1.9k+ words

Picture from Pinterest

Masterlist | DC/Jason Todd Masterlist | Request Info

19 Years Ago

The human, mortal-born baby washed ashore in Gotham Harbor was the talk of the town. Yet, when an out-of-town woman arrived in the dead of night and adopted her, the city quickly forgot the child, too caught up in its unraveling seam to wonder if the young girl found a home. Though they did not notice nor question her humanity, it was the first topic breached after she arrived on Mount Olympus.

“Who is the mortal?” Zeus demanded.

“She has no name,” Diana Prince, Wonder Woman, answered. “No family, no birthright. With the permission of the gods, I would like to adopt her, raise her, transform her into the warrior she is destined to be.”

Achilles looked to Zeus and nodded once. Other gods and goddesses followed, leaving their lofty perches to examine the young life nestled in Diana’s arms. She was at home with Diana, calm and content, and even smiled up at her. When Athena held the child, she squirmed and reached for Diana and cried against Hera’s chest.

“Diana has a connection to her,” Hera told Zeus, “one even you would have trouble breaking.”

“You have our blessing, daughter,” Zeus announced. “And for the child, age will bring her closer to her mother.”

Diana returned to Themyscira, growing to love the young child more each day. As she learned to crawl, walk, and talk, she showed early signs of powers like Diana’s. The blessing bestowed upon her by the gods brought her closer to her mother, indeed, and by the time you were old enough to leave Paradise, you’d met more than enough heroes, villains, and vigilantes to know your fate.

Present Day, Gotham

“What about you, Alkmini?” Flash asks. “Any ideas?”

You shrug, and Black Canary leans over. She whispers, “What about the public approach idea?”

“It’s stupid,” you mumble.

"I said the same about the idea to reform the JSA, but here we are,” Batman points out. “What were you thinking?”

You shift in your seat and look at the table as you say, “What if we just approach them as the JSA rather than trying to find some way to get past the Senate without exposing our identities?”

Batman looks to Superman, who undoubtedly has the most experience hiding his truest identity from humanity.

“Would Diana approve?” Clark asks, smiling at you.

“Why does it matter what Wonder Woman thinks?” Doctor Fate inquires. “Oh, right.”

“She would,” you answer.

“Then, in three weeks’ time, we’ll greet the approaching alien ship as the Justice Society of America, with or without the government’s approval,” Superman announces. “Meeting adjourned.”

“Patrolling tonight?” Bruce asks, seeming to spawn at your side.

“If they’ll let me tag along,” you answer as you prepare to enter the boom tube.

“The day my boys don’t let you patrol with them is the day they’ll need you most.”

“Alkmini!” Tim cheers as you join them on the roof.

“Drake,” you reply softly.

“You do enjoy reminding us that you know our secret identities,” Jason says, and you’re sure he’s smiling beneath the helmet.

You feel fingers along your belt, and the telltale crack of the Lasso of Truth precedes Dick asking, “ Do you care?”

“Of course not,” Jason answers, kicking his foot to remove your rope from his ankle.

“Why not?”

“I’m going to kill you,” Jason grits out, clearly talking through a clenched jaw.

“Where’s Robin?” you ask as you pull the lasso from Dick and return it to the hook along your waistband.

Jason breathes his thanks as Dick answers that he’s with Batman tonight. You feel more courageous than ever standing with Red Hood, Nightwing, and Red Robin. You’ve grown to love the bats and birds, and you know they care about you, too. Since learning their secret identities, you’ve noticed the long looks they send you, trying to decide if they should know who you are based on what they can see past the small mask your mother had forged for you. Diana’s your mother, biological or not, and your Themysciran family is as important to you as your Gotham family.

Batman flies across the sky before landing on the opposite side of the roof from you. You narrow your eyes and ask, “Did he get taller?”

“Let the criminals think so,” Batman rasps as he enters the light.

Damian is perched on his shoulders, his arms hanging as he blinks sleepily, leaning his head against the top of the cowl. Bruce’s gloved hands are wrapped protectively around Damian’s ankles as he moves carefully.

“Who can take him home?” he asks.

“I can,” you offer.

“Does Wonder Woman know where you are?”

“Of course.”

Bruce nods once, and when he tips toward you, Damian wakes. “Alkmini,” he says. “Your assistance on my Greek mythology essay was most….”

You wait for him to finish, but he slumps heavier against Bruce, asleep, and you take him carefully. Damian is incredibly special to you, and it isn’t the first time you’ve gone out of your way to protect him. You say goodbye to the boys, careful not to look directly at Jason’s red mask because you swear you can feel his intense gaze on you through the red material.

After you leave, Jason mumbles, “ So familiar. I should know by now.”

“How are the boys?” Diana asks, in her Wonder Woman costume – uniform? You aren’t sure of the correct terminology and are too far into training to ask – as she surveys the city.

“They’re good,” you answer. “Thanks for helping me with the braces. I’d hate to try to stop a real bullet without the practice.”

“Keep spending time in Gotham and you’ll appreciate the training even more.”

You chuckle and prepare to move your arms to deflect projectiles with the armor around your wrists once more.

Several hours after the conclusion of a rough patrol and a text from Dick, you knock on a locked window. Damian looks up from the couch and smiles before he lets you in. He hugs you tightly before stepping back.

“Where’s Jason?” you inquire, looking around the apartment.

“His room. You can go see him; I believe he’s sulking again. I don’t know if he reread Mr. Darcy’s first proposal or if tonight got to him,” Damian answers.

“Thanks.”

At the end of the short hall, you knock and wait for Jason to invite you in. He’s sitting on the floor, leaning back slightly with his patrol uniform still on, only his helmet and domino mask discarded beside him. You close the door and kneel beside his feet, giving him plenty of room.

“You know what one of my first memories is?” Jason asks, his head tipped back against the wall, his eyes closed. “When I was two or three, a kid washed up in the harbor. I don’t remember specifics, but it was a girl. The story stuck with me. I looked into it last night and read that a woman from out of town adopted her and took her away.”

You watch Jason and shift slightly. That was you, but you had no idea Jason knew about it. He opens his eyes and looks at you, smiling as you lose your fight to maintain eye contact and drop your eyes to his chest.

“Why haven’t you told us – me – who you really are?” he asks.

Your voice is soft, but you know Jason hears when you say, “Growing up, I wasn’t allowed to. And then, after that long, it just felt like… I guess I thought if I told you then it would be like I didn’t trust you before.”

“Do you trust me?” Jason asks.

You notice he didn’t even bother to include the rest of his family this time and pass him the lasso. With the end wrapped around your wrist, you say, “I trust you more than anything or anyone. Except my mom, maybe.”

Jason tilts his head, and his tongue runs over his lips quickly before he says, “I wasn’t aware this made shy people talk easier. I’ll have to remember that.” He tosses it back to you and places his hands on the floor beside him. “I trust you too, without the lasso.”

“Why’d you bring up the little girl from so long ago?” you inquire.

“There was a baby left in an alley tonight. Bruce said he’d look into it, but it just reminded me of that.”

You nod and roll your bottom lip between your teeth.

“You look so familiar,” he mutters. “Especially when you do that.”

Carefully, you move closer to Jason. He extends his arm, and you scoot forward until your hip is against his, facing him as his hand settles on your waist.

“Nineteen years ago, I was adopted by Wonder Woman,” you begin. “But, because of who she is, she couldn’t just take me in, she had to get permission from the gods.”

“The gods? Like Zeus, Athena?” Jason interjects.

You nod and continue, “They gave her permission, and gifted me some of her powers because we were connected and because I was a warrior.” You hold Jason’s intense gaze as you explain, “I was a warrior because I’d survived on my own and washed up in Gotham.”

“You visited with Diana,” Jason realizes. “That’s why you look so familiar! When Bruce first took me in, Diana would come by sometimes, and she always had a little girl with her.”

You smile, and Jason extends his legs out further. He pulls you against him, brushing his fingers along the bottom of your mask. After you nod, he peels it away from your face. It’s like he’s seeing you for the first time and the thousandth time, he thinks as he tugs you into his lap.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner,” you whisper.

“I trust you wholly,” Jason admits. “And that scared me. Do you remember playing together once, around Christmas the year after I stole Bruce’s tires?”

“Of course,” you answer as if it’s obvious. Something about having the mask off, being truly seen, makes it easier to admit everything. “How could I forget the Christmas I fell in love?”

Jason smiles and leans up, wrapping his arms around your waist as his nose taps yours.

“Are you decent?” Damian asks at the door. “I have a question regarding Odysseus and the suitors.”

“Is he reading The Odyssey?” you ask Jason.

“Sounds like a question for you,” he responds with a shrug.

“Are you okay? Finding a kid in a position like that can’t be easy.”

“I am. I’ll check on her tomorrow, and tonight hasn’t been all bad.”

“Come on in, Damian,” you call.

Jason scrambles for your mask, but you catch his wrist and shake your head as you stand from his lap. He pushes himself up beside you, and Damian enters with his nose in the book. When he finishes his question and looks up, his eyes widen.

You answer Damian’s question, but he doesn’t seem to hear it before he asks, “What’s your name?”

Jason answers with you, and you smile up at him.

“What’s that look for?” he inquires.

“I’m going to Themyscira for my birthday pretty soon. Do you want to come with me?”

“Will Diana threaten to kill me?”

“Probably.”

“I’ll go,” Damian offers.

“You’re all invited. But I should probably put Dick out of his misery and tell him that I am who he thinks I am.”

“Let’s take this,” Jason suggests, tugging your Lasso of Truth to pull you closer.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Cannibals [Chapter 3: Mist and Bricks]

Series summary: You are his sister, his lover, his betrothed despite everyone else’s protests; you have always belonged to Aemond and believe you always will. But on the night he returns from Storm’s End with horrifying news, the trajectories of your lives are irrevocably changed. Will the war of succession make your bond permanent, or destroy the twisted and fanatical love you share?

Chapter warnings: Language, a tiny bit of sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, dragons being weapons of mass destruction, King's Landing gets some visitors, Larys gets alarming news, Alicent gets an idea, Red gets a shock.

Word count: 7.2k

💙 All my writing can be found HERE! ❤️

Tagging: @themoonofthesun @chattylurker @moonfllowerr @ecstaticactus @mrs-starkgaryen, more in comments 🥰

🦇 Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🦇

There is a chilly steel-grey mist on Blackwater Bay, and another in your skull, your thoughts slow and muddled, the past bleeding into the present. It’s weeks later, the longest you’ve ever been away from Aemond, and the pebbles on the shore needle your shins through your velvet gown the color of cinnabar as you kneel to claw seashells from the muck. Helaena is here with you, and while you haven’t told her your plans for your next mosaic, she somehow knows what color shells to drop into your basket: dark green like Vhagar’s scales, shimmering white like Aemond’s hair. Sometimes there are still creatures hunkered inside, and Helaena can never bring herself to pry them out. She passes the doomed crabs and snails to you for a swift exhumation that you deliver with your bare hands, and then you wash the vacated shells in the surf. Mother and a flock of maids are playing with Jaehaera and Maelor farther down the beach. You can’t go near them, or Maelor will start screaming.

Grandsire comes plodding down the stone steps carved into the cliffside, carrying a plate laden with lemon cakes and slices of fresh bread slathered with butter and blackberry jam. “Helaena, you must eat,” he says.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Helaena, please.” And his voice is gentle in a way it has never been with you. “My gods, why are you wrist-deep in wet sand?”

“We’re collecting shells.”

Grandsire gives you a familiar look: disapproval, frustration. The he turns back to Helaena. “I can’t watch you disappear. You must eat something, I’m not leaving until you do.”

“You like blackberry jam,” you encourage her. But she flinches away when Grandsire offers her the plate, and suddenly you understand, you feel the thought as if it is your own. “It’s the color,” you tell him. “The jam, it’s like…” Like blood, like gore. Like the night Jaehaerys died.

“Oh.” Grandsire is quiet for a moment, remembering. “The lemon cakes, then.”

Helaena reluctantly rinses her hands in the seawater, takes a single lemon cake from the plate, and sits on a nearby rock to nibble on it, gazing blankly out over the inlet. You attended Jaehaerys’ funeral procession in her stead—an act of mercy, of penance, while Helaena spent that day sobbing in the Dragonpit, clinging to Dreamfyre, a pale blue century-old monster with infinite patience. The people of King’s Landing saw the dead prince, his head crudely stitched back onto his tiny body, and howled for vengeance. They burned white-haired effigies of Rhaenyra and Daemon. They gave rare autumn flowers to you and Mother. It’s always strange when you leave the Red Keep to interact with the smallfolk. They call you by your real name, something your family seldom does; they seem to believe you are righteous and wise. Perhaps they even pity you: no husband, no children, no dragon.

Mother has left Jaehaera and Maelor with the maids and is venturing closer. “Are there any new letters?” From Criston or Aemond, or even Daeron in the Reach. The Hightower army has been delayed there, cutting through the treasonous soldiers of House Rowan and House Caswell, Tessarion burning them alive in their armor.

“Ravens,” Helaena says thoughtfully from her rock, and no one knows why.

Grandsire shakes his head. No letters today. Butterwell, Stokeworth, and Rosby have bent the knee; the defiant lords of the Crownlands are being put to death. By now the Green forces will be marching on House Staunton at Rook’s Rest. When Aemond does write, you are not mentioned. With each passing day you find yourself thinking: Has he forgotten me? Does he truly love me? Perhaps this is not so irrational a question. Aemond has never used the word love to describe what you are to each other.

Grandsire frowns at you. You gaze mournfully back. He snaps: “And what’s wrong with you?”

Mother’s reply is hushed and sympathetic. “She’s lonely, Father.”

“Lonely?! She still has us here. Don’t we matter? No, I suppose not, she prefers arrogant fools who imperil the realm with their self-obsession. Perhaps she’d like us more if we wore silver wigs and eyepatches.”

Mother is distressed. “Father, please.”

He waves an irritated hand at you. “I better not find out you’ve been keeping the cats away from your chambers again.” Grandsire had a hundred cats brought to the Red Keep to do the tasks the dead ratcatchers left unattended.

“They scare my babies,” you say.

“Your vermin, you mean. Revolting creatures. Flying pestilence.”

You rise from the sand and pick up your basket, now full of shells. Your head is beginning to ache. Maester Orwyle removed your stitches this morning, but the wound in your chest still pains you more or less constantly, a gnawing sensation like an animal chewing on your ribcage.

“Where are you going?” Grandsire demands. You don’t answer him as you ascend the stone staircase, the waves growling behind you and gulls squawking in the foggy air.

In your chambers, you leave the basket of seashells on the floor and call for wine. The maids fetch it and you drink straight from the pitcher, staring at the little wooden figurines on your dresser until they turn blurry. Among them is Vermithor. You recall what Aegon said when he gave it to you years ago, when you were so stung by the dragon’s rejection: You might not have the real Bronze Fury, but you can keep this one.

Your bats are beginning to scrabble out of their roost and vanish through the window. As the sun sets and the room spins, you crawl into bed and lie there in the darkness clutching pillows, your pulse thudding just above your left eye. You doze in and out of consciousness. Aemond told you to think of him when you are here, and you do whether you want to or not: Aemond spilling red wine down your bare chest and then licking you clean; you straddling his lap and stroking him as he reads myths aloud to you in gloomy alcoves of the library, dust motes wheeling in the air, grinning victoriously when you make him lose his focus; the five game pieces racing around the wooden board, Aegon’s green snake, Helaena’s yellow butterfly, Aemond’s blue wolf, your red bat, Daeron’s purple shadowcat before he was sent away to Oldtown and the rest of you never played again.

Then something hits you, not like a vision but like knuckles that could crack teeth, and you are besieged by what Aemond is seeing in the Crownlands. There is flesh, horribly and ruinously burned, sheets of it sloughing off as Aemond peels away scraps of charred fabric, and the smell of it—like blackened pork, oily and stomach-turning—is in your nostrils, and you can feel the calamitous heat rising off the man who must be dying. You can feel Aemond’s terror, disbelief, desperation; you can feel his tears on the right side of your face.

Dragonfire??

The dreamscape abruptly disappears like a candle blown out. Your head throbs, your eyes are squeezed shut as you whimper into your pillows. Your fingertips go instinctively to the scar on your chest.

Who was burned? Criston? Gwayne?

But now the dire portents are here in your room, and they are real: the ringing of bells, smoke, shrieking, scorched flesh.

You open your eyes, and your bats are soaring back inside through the open window; but they have been turned to comets. They are on fire, squealing as their fur is singed off and the fragile membranes of their wings melted from their bones, herding around their roost as they try in vain to seek shelter inside. The dark blue velvet cover has been engulfed in flames.

“No!” you scream, bolting off the bed.

Your door is thrown open and Mother rushes in, dragging Jaehaera behind her. Helaena waits in the doorway holding little Maelor in her arms. He hasn’t seen you yet, but he is already wailing. The horror is back. When will it end?

“We have to go!” Mother shouts, grabbing your hand and pulling you away from your bats. You know you can’t save them, and yet you are compelled to. They are pieces of you, pieces of Aemond. They are burning to death in the house you built for them.

“What’s happening—?!” And then you hear the screeches of dragons, not Vhagar or Sunfyre or Dreamfyre or Tessarion. Through the window, you see an inferno bloom in the night sky. You get a firelit glimpse of a beast you do not recognize: dark, angular, very large and covered with jagged spines. People are screaming. Rooftops are ablaze.

A wild dragon? Claimed by who?

“We’ll go to the beach,” Mother says frantically. She’s thinking of the escape hatch in Aemond’s bedchamber, the only secret passageway in Maegor’s Holdfast. The king known as “the Cruel” wanted no spies or assassins in his walls. But one door was enough for Daemon’s executioners to kill Jaehaerys. “Helaena will try to get to Dreamfyre.”

But you won’t be able to fly away with the rest of them. Dreamfyre would sooner reduce you to ashes than let you touch her.

Mother knows this. She tells you, low and fierce, her coppery hair like glowing embers: “I won’t leave you. You and I will find another way out of King’s Landing.”

“You should escape on Dreamfyre if you have the chance.”

“Never,” she says. And then again: “Never.”

In the hallway, Grandsire has arrived, panicked and urging everyone towards Aemond’s bedchamber. He wheezes, breathless from his sprint through the castle: “I saw Syrax and Caraxes, and Vermax too I think, or maybe Moondancer, a small dragon…but who is the other one? It’s not Meleys. It’s a hideous creature, it looks deformed.”

“I don’t know,” Mother says. Hordes of yowling cats careen past your bare feet.

“Could Rhaenyra be finding new riders?” And Grandsire, a man who is afraid of very little, is petrified down to his bones by this.

I should have a dragon, you think, forlorn. I should be able to help fight this war. And instead I am worthless.

“I don’t know, Father,” Mother says again, and you follow her through the threshold and into Aemond’s abandoned bedchamber, illuminated only by the moonlight that streams in through the windows. You have not been in here since Jaehaerys died; the stone floor is still stained with his blood. Helaena begins sobbing, clutching Maelor closer to her chest. Downstairs, you can hear swords clanging and men groaning as they die.

You hurry to the hidden door and ram it with your shoulder, but as the passageway opens, you see red-orange torchlight approaching through the blackness like fire boiling up in the throat of a dragon. Rhaenyra’s soldiers are already here. You try to close the door, but now knights in armor are forcing their way inside the room. And Grandsire, who has never liked you, pulls you away from the breach and puts himself between you and the intruders.

“The hallway, back to the hallway!” he booms, giving you a shove, and that is the only place left to go. You, Mother, Jaehaera, Helaena, Maelor, and Grandsire flee from Aemond’s bloodstained bedchamber. But your captors have climbed the Grand Staircase—the place where you once waited for Aemond to return from Storm’s End, so convinced that he would not fail you—and now they are here.

Under the torches carried by her guards, Rhaenyra alternates between firelight and shadows. Daemon marches beside her, his face severe, his sword Dark Sister drawn. Mother pushes you, Jaehaera, and Helaena, still carrying Maelor, against the cold stone wall. Grandsire stands in front of Mother. Jace is walking behind Rhaenyra and Daemon, you notice, dressed in red and black, his cloak billowing behind him. The last time you saw Jace, you were smirking when Aemond shoved him off his feet at the last dinner King Viserys ever attended. Now you are trembling with thunderstruck terror.

Rhaenyra is supposed to be bedbound on Dragonstone. Daemon is supposed to be in the Riverlands.

Daemon points at you with the tip of his blade. “You should have that one executed,” he says to Rhaenyra. “Isn’t she Aemond’s whore?”

“They were never married,” Mother tells him, her dark eyes huge and reflecting the torchlight, her arm thrown in front of you.

“I didn’t say wife, I said whore.”

“Daemon,” Rhaenyra warns, and she studies you, Helaena, Grandsire, Mother. Her blue eyes are sharp like fractured glass, edges that glide effortlessly through arteries and veins; there is a queenlike composure in her face, but beneath that wrath, wrath, wrath. After a moment, she says to her guards: “Take the adults to the dungeons.”

Mother and Helaena are shouting and protesting, trying to stop the guards that rip Jaehaera and Maelor out of their grasps. Grandsire is attempting to negotiate. Rhaenyra and Daemon ignore them, continuing on down the hallway, taking possession of the rage-red castle where they first fell into their peculiar, destructive breed of love.

As he passes by, Jace glowers at you and you glare back, and when he reaches for the hilt of his sword you bare your teeth at him; but before Jace can draw his blade—to threaten you, to frighten you, to spill your blood the way Aemond spilled Luke’s—the guards have dragged you away.

~~~~~~~~~~

Your head is very bad now. The pain is almost impossible to think through; you are sick with it, retching into a wooden bucket until there is nothing left to expel. If Aemond was here, he would be holding you, murmuring to you in High Valyrian, pressing a cloth soaked with cold water to your forehead. But Mother is here instead, and she is doing the best she can.

It’s the next day, cold grey light tumbling in through cracks in the walls. You are imprisoned on the second level of the dungeons, reserved for highborn captives; you and Mother are in one cell, Helaena and Grandsire in another on the other side of the aisle. Helaena has been weeping constantly, worrying for her children. Grandsire and Mother try to console her as you lie pitifully on the floor, wishing the pain would knock you unconscious. You need Orwyle and his milk of the poppy. The guards have brought bread and water, but nothing else.

There is a creaking sound from several cells away, and then a slow shuffling accompanied by the tapping of a cane. Mother keeps one hand on your shoulder as she cranes her neck to see her visitor. Grandsire and Helaena move to the front of their cell, their fingers gripping the rusted iron bars.

Larys Strong appears, his hands resting on the handle his cane. Unlike Maegor’s Holdfast—the residence of the royal family—the other buildings of the Red Keep are rife with secret passageways, a latticework of corridors that one unfamiliar with their paths could get lost in forever. Surely Daemon and his confederates are in the process of searching them, but it is a task that could take a week.

“Lord Larys,” Mother says, relieved. “They have not found you.”

“Not yet, Your Grace,” he replies docilely. “Though I’m sure it will not take much longer.”

“Can you retrieve some milk of the poppy?” For you, she means.

“I will try.” Then he stalls, as if he does not wish to share what he has heard through his clandestine chain of whispers. “Something has happened at Rook’s Rest.”

Mother’s brow furrows. “Where?”

“The seat of House Staunton,” you tell her from where you lie on the floor, remembering it from the maps in Aemond’s bedchamber. He would tell you things, show you things, sometimes kindly, sometimes tauntingly, sometimes as he undressed you. He would quiz you and if you got an answer wrong, he would put your clothes back on.

“In the Crownlands?” Mother says to Larys, alarmed. “Is Aegon alright?”

Larys takes a moment to decide how to proceed. “The castle was captured without much difficulty, but a maester there must have gotten a raven out, because Dragonstone received word of the attack and was summoned to defend Rook’s Rest and retake it from the Greens. It is located very close to Dragonstone, and thus cannot be allowed to fall into the hands of the enemy.”

Larys pauses and looks at his audience. Grandsire asks: “So who answered the message?”

“It seems that Rhaenyra, Daemon, and Jacaerys were already preparing for an invasion of King’s Landing and were elsewhere,” Larys says. “The other dragon, the large brown one, is called Sheepstealer and is ridden by a peasant girl that Daemon found. There are rumors that he has grown somewhat…attached to her.”

Mother grimaces, tugging on the seven-pointed star necklace she never takes off. “He’s a beast.”

“The girl is a Targaryen bastard?” Grandsire says, confounded. “Whose? She’s not a child of Viserys, surely. Where the hell did she come from?”

Larys is apologetic. “I could not tell you, my lord. If I discover anything else concerning her origins, I shall share what I learn. She is known as Nettles.”

“Nettles?” Grandsire snorts.

Larys continues: “When the raven reached Dragonstone, Baela received the letter. It appears she was told that Sunfyre was the only dragon guarding Rook’s Rest at the time, and that Vhagar was away feeding. She must have thought she could best the king, or at least chase him away from the castle.”

“An understandable error,” Grandsire says, and you scowl at him between fruitless retches into your bucket. The thrumming in your skull is like blows from a hammer, rhythmic and disorienting. Your face is hot with fever; it radiates off of you in waves. Mother rubs your back—although somewhat cautiously, as if she is afraid that barbs might split through your skin to prick her—and offers you sips of water.

“Baela left Dragonstone, likely without permission. Rhaenys followed her on Meleys, but Moondancer was faster.”

“Meleys?” Mother says, startled. “Meleys was there too?”

Larys nods solemnly. “Aegon and Sunfyre attacked Moondancer and broke her neck high in the air. Baela perished when her dragon fell to the earth.”

“Daemon’s daughter,” Mother exhales, wondering what the retribution will be. “Jace’s betrothed.”

“And one of Rhaenys’ only two trueborn grandchildren,” Larys says. “When she arrived at Rook’s Rest and saw Moondancer’s carcass smoldering just outside the castle walls, she pursued the king before he could retreat. And Sunfyre…he was no match for a dragon as large as Meleys.”

“Aegon, he’s…?” Mother cannot bring herself to speak the words aloud. Tears gleam in her eyes. “Is he…is there no hope…?”

The ruined flesh, charred and raw, you remember from your horrifying glimpse into Aemond’s mind. It wasn’t Criston or Gwayne. It was Aegon.

“He was burned,” you whisper, and Mother stares at you.

“Aemond returned on Vhagar, and they slayed Rhaenys and her mount. But not before the king and his dragon were engulfed in Meleys’ flames.”

“He’s dead?” Grandsire says, emotion you’ve never heard before in his voice.

No, you think. Not yet.

“Aegon and Sunfyre are both gravely wounded,” Larys replies. “It is uncertain whether either will survive. The Blacks received the news just before their assault on King’s Landing.”

“Where is Aegon now?” Mother says.

“I’m not sure, Your Grace. He was still at Rook’s Rest last I heard, but they might move the king elsewhere to keep him hidden. I would imagine Aemond and Sir Criston Cole are requisitioning maesters from nearby houses to treat him.”

“Burns,” Mother sobs. “He must be suffering terribly, the pain…the disfigurement…”

Grandsire drums his fingers on the bars of his cell, his rings clinking against the rusted steel. His expression is remote, somber, resigned. “So we have two dragons capable of combat, one of which is young and small and pinned down by battles in the Reach, the other is on the far side of the Crownlands and trapped there while Aemond tries to keep our king alive. And Rhaenyra is here in the capital with Syrax, Caraxes, Vermax, and this new dragon Sheepstealer, larger than any of her others, and her faction seeks vengeance for not one but three royal deaths.”

In reply, Larys Strong only bows his head. Mother swipes tears from her cheeks and tucks your hair behind your ears as strands escape your braid.

“Well,” Grandsire sighs. “I believe we might be losing this war.”

There is the distant noise of a door’s hinges creaking, and Larys hobbles out of sight, retreating to the secret passageway he previously emerged from. A minute passes, and then footsteps echo down the corridor. Daemon strides into view, swinging Dark Sister in his right hand, and you are suddenly reminded so much of Aemond’s mannerisms that the absence of him guts you all over again, vital parts of you excavated like the organs of a slaughtered animal. Daemon is accompanied by several guards and a group of noblemen who you assume are members of Rhaenyra’s council. You recognize among them a tall man with short grey hair, Lord Bartimos Celtigar.

Daemon says: “Princess Helaena, the queen has taken your tiny, traitorous children to ward. Perhaps one day you will see them again. Perhaps not.” She gazes out from her cell vacantly, her face bloodless with shock and fear. Then Daemon turns to Grandsire. “Otto Hightower, you orchestrated an unlawful rebellion and therefore you will be put to death.”

Grandsire gapes at him. “What? When?”

“Oh, immediately.” Daemon steps back and the guards unlock the cell, seize Grandsire, knock him over and drag him wriggling on his belly into the corridor. Mother pleads for his life. Helaena shrieks and claws for him, trying to keep him with her. The guards fling her roughly away and slam the door of her cell shut before she can escape.

“No, no, do not mourn me!” Grandsire is bellowing as he is hauled away. “I am an old man, I have lived a good life, do not think of me, think of the living and what you can still do for them!”

“Father!” Mother wails, reaching through the bars of her cell though she knows she will never touch him again.

“I am ready to see your mother, Alicent,” Grandsire says; and then he is gone. The men of Rhaenyra’s council begin to file out of the dungeon.

“You followed us across the Narrow Sea, Lord Celtigar!” you shout after him, crawling across the floor and pressing your face against the bars of your cell. “House Targaryen saved you from the Doom, and now you rip it down from within by aiding a usurper. We will not forget your treason when the war is won. We will visit you on Claw Isle and bring with us fire and blood. And you will have no defenses. You are no dragonrider.”

“Neither are you, princess,” he says cooly, and leaves you in your prison.

Daemon is the only man still standing in the aisle. He peers down at you with shadowy deep-set eyes and twirls his Valyrian steel sword again. He grins, humorless, hungry, burning up inside with fury. “Perhaps I’ll be back soon.”

Mother yanks you away from the bars, and you can see what she’s thinking etched into the desperate lines of her face: How can I save her?

“I’m going to behead your father now,” Daemon tells Mother, then sweeps down the corridor. There is the sound of a heavy door closing when he reaches the end of the hall.

“Do not speak to them,” Mother hisses to you, and you are in too much pain to respond. Now you can hear men jeering out in the courtyard of the Red Keep. Daemon is listing Grandsire’s crimes. Crows are cawing.

He’s going to die too? you think dizzily. When does this end, how do we stop it?

The door at the end of the hallway opens again, and Mother stands and places herself in front of you; but it is not Daemon this time, relishing his chance to drag another Green to their death. It is Rhaenyra and Jace. The Blacks’ queen stops at your cell, her son a few paces behind her. He looks at you with heartbreak, with hatred, and of course he does; one of your brothers murdered Luke, the other killed Baela. And he does not believe you to be blameless like Helaena. You are a very different sort of woman.

“Alicent, your degenerate son’s insurrection is over,” Rhaenyra says. “I have taken the city and—”

“Jace needs to strengthen his claim,” Mother interrupts. Outside, men are cheering; Grandsire’s head has been struck from his shoulders. In her cell across the aisle, Helaena sinks to the floor and sobs quietly into her palms.

Rhaenyra studies Mother, incredulous. “What did you say?”

“There have always been people who doubted his parentage, as you well know,” Mother says, and you can see her hands are trembling; but her voice is steady. “And there are many who favor my line. They fear Daemon’s recklessness, and perhaps yours as well.”

“You speak so boldly for a woman who stands behind bars.”

Mother is unflinching. “Perhaps you imagine that you will kill every last Green, and all of our loyalists throughout the Seven Kingdoms, millions of people, and therefore you will have no use for bricks upon which to build a lasting peace. But I think that would be a mistake.”

“And you wish to help me?” Rhaenyra mocks.

“I wish to safeguard what is left of my family.”

The woman who calls herself queen considers this. Surely the same hope lives in her ribcage as well, the same catastrophic fear that it will prove impossible.

“One way or another, the war will be won,” Mother says. “And whichever side triumphs will have the other at their mercy.”

“I will have you at my mercy, yes.”

“Aemond and Vhagar are still out there. Underestimate them at your peril.”

“And what is your suggestion?” Rhaenyra demands. “To bolster Jace’s claim, to save your own skins?”

“Baela is gone and he is unspoken for. You once offered to unite our bloodlines by marrying Helaena to Jace. Perhaps if I had accepted that, I could have spared us this torment. I was wrong to dismiss your proposal so swiftly, Rhaenyra. I did not give you the respect you deserved. And I have reconsidered.”

Rhaenyra is puzzled. “Helaena is already married. Unless you have proof that Aegon is dead, which would be welcome.”

“No. I have another daughter.”

Both you and Jace begin to object at once; your mothers silence you with fearsome glares.

Rhaenyra is aghast; her sharp blue eyes dart to where you are slumped on the floor of your cell and then back to Mother. “This is a sickening insult.”

Mother seems calm, measured. It cannot be easy for her. “Willingly marrying my daughter to Jace is accepting his legitimacy. She is a Green, and very close in age to your son, and from what I have heard of Jace’s temperament I believe them to be well-matched.”

“I don’t,” Jace says.

Rhaenyra shakes her head in disbelief; but is there a ripple of uncertainty across her regal face? Yes, you think there is. “Aemond has already bedded her.”

“And who has said this?” Mother asks. “Daemon, who hates my family and has no mind for strategy or alliances? Rhaenys and the Sea Snake, who hungered for the Iron Throne all their lives and saw a chance for their descendants to possess it through Baela?”

Rhaenyra is looking at you again. “I’ve seen the way they watch each other. The way they move.” The dinner, she means. The night that Viserys died.

“She is a maiden,” Mother insists, but she gives you a transient sideways glance. Are you? “They had a flirtation, yes, as is so common for siblings of your foreign house, but nothing more. I would never have allowed fornication or the use of moon tea to disguise its consequences under my roof. They are grievous sins. You know me. You know my devotion to my faith.”

“She will submit to a maester’s examination to make sure?”

“Did you, Rhaenyra? Before you and Laenor Velaryon were wed?”

Rhaenyra raises an eyebrow. And you have the sense—vague and dreadful—that perhaps it is dawning upon her that taking something Aemond holds dear might have its advantages. “What do you want in return?”

“We have both lost innocent people,” Mother says. “There has been enough bloodshed. It must stop somewhere, or all the Targaryens will be dead and their dragons too, and this dynasty will vanish from the earth, and our ambitions will be for nothing. If you do indeed win the war, I want my surviving children and grandchildren spared. And my brother Gwayne, and Sir Criston Cole.”

“I cannot give you Aemond.”

“If you swear that you’ll pardon him, we shall do the same for Daemon if it is our armies that triumph.”

Now the hope is unmistakable on Rhaenyra’s face. “And my remaining sons will be allowed to live? All of them?” Even Daemon’s?

“Yes.”

She muses on this. “You make tempting promises, Alicent. But I don’t have any conviction that Aemond will heed you if Aegon dies and he is made regent until Maelor is grown. I don’t believe you can control him.”

“He’ll listen to his sister,” Mother swears. “He will not do anything that would bring her despair. And if she is married to Jace, she will come to love his family as her own. All the more so if they have children together.”

“She might not be trustworthy,” Rhaenyra says.

“She is of no threat to you. She is untrained with the sword, she rides no dragon. And you have her mother, sister, niece, and nephew held captive. She would not endanger us.”

“You have great confidence in her. Your hopes for survival are in her hands.”

“She is spirited, but she is clever, and she loves deeply and enduringly. She will do whatever is required to protect her own.” Now Mother’s voice breaks. “I want her sent away.”

“Mother, no—”

“Far from the war, far from Daemon,” she says, ignoring you.

Rhaenyra is nodding. “Somewhere secluded and peaceful…all the better for her to quickly give Jace an heir. The Riverlands, yes? Perhaps House Footly of Tumbleton.”

“No, not far enough. The Westerlands.”

“The North,” Rhaenyra counters.

“The Stormlands.”

“The Vale,” Rhaenyra says. “There will be no battles there, winter has already begun in the mountains and the roads are treacherous. She will be tucked away in obscurity until the war is won.”

“The Vale,” Mother agrees. She looks down at you and smiles, soft and sad and merciful. At last, after eighteen years, she has saved you.

Jace is whispering furiously to Rhaenyra, but she holds up a hand to stop him. He is exasperated. The supposed queen tells Alicent: “I shall think on this tonight.”

“She needs Maester Orwyle,” Mother says, kneeling beside you. “She is ill, she gets headaches. This place is bad for her. It’s the cold and the dampness. And the fear.”

“I’ll consider that,” Rhaenyra quips, and then she leaves, the hem of her black gown displacing dust on the floor of the aisle. Jace gives you one final glance—seething, appalled—and stalks after her. At the end of the hallway, he slams the heavy wooden door.

“I won’t do it,” you snarl, sick in body and soul. “I won’t, I won’t. I don’t care what you say.”

“We are in a fucking dungeon,” Mother says, grabbing and shaking you, and you’ve never heard her curse before. “Do you want to try to save your brothers’ lives? Or do you want to surrender to the destruction of our house? If you care for Aemond, as I know you do, you will give him a chance if he and Criston cannot win on the battlefield. You will earn Jace’s affection and convince him to spare us.”

You look at her, weak, stunned, at war with yourself. Jace can’t touch me. Only Aemond.

She asks you something; it takes great effort. “You are still…you haven’t…you’re a virgin, aren’t you?”

You hesitate. “In the literal sense.”

“In the…? Never mind, stop, I don’t want to hear any more.” Mother takes a deep breath. “Good. Then we haven’t lied to them. Jace might be able to tell. Sometimes there are…signs. Pain, blood.”

“He’s a bastard,” you hiss.

“He’s Rhaenyra’s son, and so he is a Targaryen and a dragonrider. And if Jace’s side wins, he will one day sit the Iron Throne. He can be proud, but no one says he is cruel. I don’t believe he would harm you. Your brothers are warriors, but you’ve never killed anyone.” Then she goes soft and hushed, and she cups your face with her gentle hands. “I know you’ve always thought you would marry Aemond.”

“Mother, I love him.”

“My darling, my brave girl, what you and Aemond have is…” She shakes her head, her large dark eyes grim and glistening. “It’s strange, and violent, and obsessive and profane and…and…unnatural.”

You are defiant. “If we had grown up in a true Targaryen court, we would have been expected to be this way. We would have married years ago, and no one would have condemned us for acting exactly like what we are. We aren’t First Men or Andals. We are the blood of the dragon.”

“It’s an affliction that brings nothing but sin and suffering.”

“You wed Aegon to Helaena!”

“And it has been a source of tremendous sorrow for them both,” Mother says, and now she is weeping again. “I should have stopped their marriage. But I was young, and I had already refused Rhaenyra’s offer of a match with Jace, and Viserys was so adamant, and I thought…maybe…maybe it’s not an offense to the gods. Maybe it’s just something I don’t understand. It was my husband’s custom, and so I deferred to him, as I had been taught to. But I was wrong. It’s too late for me to undo the pain I’ve caused Aegon and Helaena. It’s too late for me to mend Aemond’s eye or his soul. I can’t spare Daeron from the horrors of war. But I can still save you.”

“I belong with Aemond.” I belong to him.

“You don’t know better. You never had a choice.”

“I’m not you, Mother,” you say. “I’m not a Hightower or a Lannister or a Baratheon. I’m not like them, and I don’t want to be. I want to be Visenya.”

“You’re not going to be anyone if Daemon convinces Rhaenyra to have your head hacked off your shoulders.” Her vast eyes, dark like the mouth of a well, plead for you to understand. This is not a punishment; it is tenderness, it is compassion. “I would do anything to save you and Helaena and your brothers. Anything. You marrying Jace unites the realm. It provides a cornerstone around which to build a peaceful resolution. He will protect your kin. When the battles are past, we can negotiate a divided Westeros, or a line of succession, or exile to Essos or banishment to the Wall, or anything else that will preserve the lives of the people we love. And if Aemond can still win somehow…” She shrugs, and you know whatever affection she once had for Rhaenyra is dead now. “Then he can do whatever he wants with the Blacks who are left.”

I don’t want them to die. Aemond, Aegon, Criston, Daeron, Mother, Helaena, Jaehaera, Maelor.

Mother asks: “Will you do it?”

Aemond, Aemond, Aemond.

Again, desperately: “Will you do it?”

And you cannot look at her when you answer. “Yes.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Maester Orwyle appears an hour later to dose you with enough milk of the poppy to kill the pain in your skull, and when you sleep it is deep and dark and dreamless. Rhaenyra, Daemon, and Jace arrive at first light, dreary grey dawn trickling into the dungeon. You know what she has decided. Both Daemon and Jace are scowling, and you think, somehow knowing that it is true: The more they try to dissuade her, the more convinced she is. She feels the need to remind them that she alone was Viserys’ heir, that she is a queen in her own right.

“Just marry him to Rhaena!” Daemon is ranting.

“Rhaena brings nothing to our cause that we do not have already. And she will always feel second to Baela. She knows Jace loved her sister. It is perverse.” Then Rhaenyra collects herself and asks Mother: “She consents?”

“She does.”

Rhaenyra turns to Jace. His reply is toneless. “I will do as you bid me to, Your Grace.”

“She will be in the keeping of House Corbray until the war is over,” Rhaenyra says, nodding to you. “They are an honorable but old and modest house, and of little strategic importance. No one beyond who is absolutely necessary will know where she is, for her own safety and that of the children she bears. Jace will fly her to Heart’s Home.”

House Corbray. You remember their banner, Aemond once taught it to you: three black ravens, three red hearts. You have a memory of being in the library with his lips on your throat, his fingers skating up the inside of your thigh, whispering for you to keep quiet as maesters stock books on the other side of the shelf.

“She cannot ride a dragon,” Mother says.

“Sure she can, if he puts her on Vermax.”

“No, you don’t understand,” Mother insists. “Dragons hate her. She cannot go near them. They will attack her, they will kill her. She and Jace will have to travel by ship.”

Rhaenyra is taken aback by this. Daemon scoffs: “What the fuck kind of Targaryen repels dragons?”

“The kind that will never be able to fly to battle against us,” Rhaenyra mutters, and you think: She is angry with him. He has done something, he has displeased her somehow. And you wonder about the girl who rides Sheepstealer.

Your eyes drift to Jace, you cannot stop them. He stares back from beneath dark curls, his gaze hard like the cold stony earth of the Vale, his fingers tapping on the hilt of his sword.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s the very first time.

You are at your vanity, and you are supposed to be getting ready for dinner: choosing your earrings and bracelets, combing out your hair before you braid it, a silver river that shimmers like moonlight in the mirror’s reflection. You have bathed, and steam still clings warm and dewy on your skin. You wear a silk robe the color of ripe cherries and nothing underneath it. Candles flicker, cool evening air breathes in through the windows…and your mind is wandering.

For years, you have felt episodic pangs of longing, an indistinct need, a deep untouchable hunger, and you have never found a way to satisfy it. It waxes like a moon growing full and then wanes into nothingness, but it always reappears again, and tonight you are feeling restless, occasionally shifting on the cushion of your chair, seeking the pressure that gives you a taste—and only a morsel, a nibble, a drag of the tongue—of what fulfillment might feel like. Lately, when you are like this, you find yourself thinking of Aemond. He has never spoken of it directly, but you have noticed the way his eye catches on your chest and your hips, how his hands linger when he grabs or shoves or embraces you. You can’t stop wondering what it would taste like to kiss him. You can’t stop imagining which positions he would fuck you in, remembering the lustful figures on the tapestries that hang from the walls of Aegon’s bedchamber.

Your hand settles in your lap, and there—over the glossy blood-colored silk of your robe—presses down tentatively. You sigh, you writhe, you picture Aemond forcing your thighs apart and gazing transfixed at the rare pieces of you he’s never seen.

How do I satiate this craving, how do I make it go away?

Your bedchamber door opens and Aemond stands in the threshold, black leather and silver hair. “Are you ready yet—?” Then his eye drops to where you snatch your hand out of your lap, not quickly enough to escape him noticing. There is a stretch of silence that seems very long. Then Aemond’s scarred forehead furrows and he asks: “What were you doing?”

You consider lies; they dangle in front of you by the dozen, so many ways to deflect or deny or even to disparage him, those prickly games of wordplay. But when you speak, it is not just the truth. It is an invitation. “Thinking of you.”

And Aemond steps into your bedchamber and shuts the door behind him. He crosses the room, kneels in front of you, reaches beneath your robe to hook his arms under your thighs and yanks you halfway out of the chair. You yelp in exhilarated shock as he buries his face between your legs, and then your fingers knot in his hair, and then you are pushing him closer, shaking, awestruck.

Is he really here? Is this finally happening?

You cannot stay quiet when the pinpoint ecstasy opens, blooms, drags you to places you never knew existed. It is something too powerful to be found in the world of mortals. It is bloodmagic, it is shade of the evening, a poison so sweet you’d let it ruin you.

Afterwards—collapsed and gasping on the stone floor, your robe open and your body laid bare for him, flesh that he has claimed irrevocably, bones he owns like a dragon or a blade—you say: “What was that?”

“You had a climax,” Aemond murmurs. “It’s easier for a man, but they are possible for women too.” He smooths your hair back from your face; it is unbound and wild, spilling all around you. You think vaguely: He wants me even when I don’t look like Visenya? He ghosts his thumb across your lips and then kisses you, and it is nothing but warmth, desire, the shared minerals your blood is built of, undying affinity like the celestial kinship of stars in the same constellation. “You can always ask me to take care of you, and I’ll do it. I’m the only one who is allowed to. No one else, not ever.”

This is no sacrifice. You have never wanted another man, and now you know you never will. “Teach me how to satisfy you,” you say, smiling. “I want to see you helpless too.”

Before you dress and leave your bedchamber, you erase as much of the evidence as you can, washing your skin clean and taming your hair into a tidy braid; but still, Mother frowns worriedly at you and Aemond all through dinner.

[firstprincehornyramblings]

I'm posting this Sentences Sunday at 3am, because why the hell not, it's Sunday. This one is going to have 3 snippets, all very nsfw, all very under the cut, but I'm doing to try and keep them shorter, for mysterious reasons. *wiggles fingers*

- kissingchambers (🤭) pwp 💊

He couldn’t look down at Elliot, he managed a glance before giving up and looking back at the ceiling. Those hungry eyes and wide pupils narrowed and nearly predatory- that look was lethal. It would make impossibly quick work of Marco if he allowed himself to watch. His hand tugged harder at the hair between his fingers, legs spreading wider, to what end he had no idea. But it was rewarded with one of Elliot’s hand sliding along his inner thigh, squeezing at soft skin. “I- uh, Ellie…” Marco swallowed hard, gasping for air between moans as he spoke. “Can you uh-” With a hum, Elliot lifted his head, still sucking hard as his mouth popped free. “Ellie, that’s cute, what, are you about to cum?” he chuckled, somehow still sounding sarcastic. All Marco could really do was nod.

--------------------------------------------------------------------- doctor alex and patient henry 🩺

“Oh, I didn’t make you dinner,” Henry sneered, “You can do that on your own.” “Wh-” “You need to get tested,” he didn’t even allow his boyfriend to respond to the initial jab. “You fucking gave me chlamydia,” he hissed, already standing up and emptying his plate, “Don’t apologize, don’t make a fucking excuse, be an adult, take care of it. And for christ’s fucking sake,” he snapped, tossing his plate into the sink nearly hard enough to break it, “Use a Johnny next time, will you?” “Baby, wait,” Charlie pleaded, following behind Henry who was already in the process of storming toward the bedroom. “Do not,” the blond whipped around with lightning speed, a finger shoved only centimeters from his boyfriend’s nose, “Do not fucking ‘baby’ me, right now.”

-------------------------------------------------------------------- dystopian prince's consort alex 👑

All at once, Alex got his wish, Henry’s hips jerking forward as he spilled onto the bed. Streak after streak of white painted the linens, loud husky whines and moans coming from deep in the blond’s chest. That tightness squeezing Alex’s cock like a vice grip, it was an incredible feat that he didn’t finish on the spot himself; he’d thank whichever god did that for him later. His own hips finally slowed to a moderate pace, now just rolling into deep, slow slamming motions into the other man. His hand worked the last few drops from Henry’s tip, the opposite hand leaving the blond’s throat to lovingly cradle a warm cheek instead. His thumb brushed over Henry’s lips in a way that was far too affectionate for what they’d just done, but he couldn’t help it, Alex was a romantic at heart. “Where do you want me to cum, baby?” “On my face, please,” with that answer, the blond leaned forward, falling into the mattress with no regard for the mess. He rolled over onto his back after a moment, still breathing hard as he looked up at Alex. There was a smile on those plush lips now, a quiet blissed out laugh, and half-lidded cock drunk eyes. Henry was more beautiful that way, Alex thought.

—

🏷️(no pressure tags darlings)

@taste-thewaste @henrysfox @mikibwrites @eusuntgratie

@softboynick @catdadacd @sheepywritesfics @henryspearl

@basil-bird @caressthosecheekbones @henfox @anti-homophobia-cheese

@redlipstickandglitter @onthewaytosomewhere

@thesleepyskipper @tailsbeth-writes @thighzp @lfg1986-2

+ literally anyone else I'm tired and forgot. (i say as if im not always sleepy) or anyone who sees this and wants to tag me, I love reading yall's stuff. <3

[ppushable]

Fanfic writer interview

tysm for the tag eb! sorry i took so long getting to it. i swear it was screaming at me from the drafts the whole time

How many work do you have on AO3?

4! (but one of them doesn’t really count because it’s a test)

What's your total AO3 word count?

84,177

What are your top 5 stories by kudos/likes?

two ibuprofen - 92 notes

low tide - 44 notes

just us - 26 notes

ofcwbo - i’m not sure but she’s definitely at the bottom

Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

yes i do! i love that people take the time and effort to do this and i want to show my gratitude always. they didnt have to comment but they did. fics are so personal as well imo, seeing what other people have to say about it is. i’m not sure how to describe it but it makes me want to yell into a pillow.

What's the fic you've written with the angstiest ending?

ofcwbo will have the edgiest ending, but since i haven’t actually finished any of my (posted) fics other than just us, it has to take the title by default. (it does have a very angsty ending though. and an angsty beginning and middle)

What's the fic you've written with the happiest ending?

using the above logic, just us by default….? (it would be anything in the rose tinted hours collection (that being two ibu or low tide (for now (👁️)) because that’s my happiness and i shall keep angst away from it with a 10 km pole)

Do you write crossovers?

nope

Have you ever received hate on a fic?

nope! if that happens i’ll wither and die

Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

no

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

not that i know of!

Have you ever had a fic translated?

nope!

Have you ever co-written a fic before?

oh dear god. my origin story

back in my reddit phase (i was like 13? leave me alone) i made art for a fandom which mustn’t be named and met another person there. we became friends (stranger danger, i know, i’m smarter now) and somehow we started writing fic. it went pretty well, they would make most of the plot and the chapter outline and i would go in and edit it to make it make sense. we had a good run, all things considered. we then moved on to another fandom (read: they dragged me into another fandom) and we wrote for that one as well, except this time i got the opportunity to write my own chapters with my own ocs. that’s when i started realizing how nice and cool this was.

if youre seeing this, J, hi.

What's your all-time favorite ship?

jean and i. alternatively, me and jean (YEAH FOR SELFSHIP DELULU I LOVE BEING INSANE)

What's a WIP that you want to finish but don't think you ever will?

i don’t have such weaknesses. i WILL finish all my wips.

(ofcwbo. it’s going to drag on forever. deep inside a part of me wants to be realistic and say that it’s a little unrealistic for me to actually get down everything i wanted in a way that satisfies me. maybe i dont even WANT to finish it, because the fic has been such a comfort in the back of my mind for so long that the idea of it suddenly. terminating. is terrifying. maybe i’m overthinking it. i just dont want that world in my head to die, whether that be by fading away quietly or suddenly coming to an end.)

What are your writing strengths?

toughie. i think my descriptions are solid, as well as getting into the mc’s head (but that can just be attributed to the first person pov thing aha).

What are your writing weaknesses?

planning whatever i’m trying to write - i dont control it, it infects my brain and hands and forges its own way. i’m also not a huge fan of proofreading (this mostly applies to the earlier chapters of ofcwbo (i get embarrassed)). i also have a tendency to repeat a certain phrase or metaphor in a fic without realizing it. sequences of actions are hard to write too.

What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

i try not to do it too much because it can be confusing and having to translate/provide a translation can break the flow. but i do like adding in little phrases sometimes based on my hcs for what languages the characters speak

What's a fandom/ship you haven't written for yet but want to?

i’m not sure i have one. i’m deep in the bowels of jean/reader purgatory and i don’t see a way out

What's your favorite fic you've written?

just us. <3

@firefly--bright no pressure (yes pressure)

Fanfic writer interview

Thank you @thelettersfromnoone for the tag!! 💖

How many work do u have on AO3?

3, not your local AO3 girlie lmao

What's your total AO3 word count?

8 534

Your top 5 stories by kudos/likes

I'll go with Tumblr ones, cause from my 3 AO3 works the biggest number I got is 31 lmao

Anyone but you (Legolas x f!reader)

Night watch (Legolas x Reader)

Well-deserved rest (Haldir x f!Reader)

One messy night (Boromir x f!Reader)

Transition (Haldir x f!Reader)

Honorable mention (since it's not fics but headcanons)

Green Council receiving a hot pic from you (HotD)

TLK men's reaction on being pet named

Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

I always try to respond to comments! These little things are brightening up my day, so I wanna let the people know that they are my heroes hahaha

What's the fic you've written with the angstiest ending?

I really think it's Transition. All in all it's a pretty dark story, a bit depressing I think (I had these intentions while writing at least).

Otherwise, I don't think I have angsty endings fics?

What's the fic you've written with the happiest ending?

New family members for sure!! Was thinking hard what to choose, cause I think all of my happy ending fics are on the pretty same level on a happy scale, but I remember that I have this gen, non romantic baby and I love it so much ❤️‍🩹 There's a little TLK OMC for y'all

Do you write crossovers?

I wanted to say I've never done this BUT THEN!!! My Assassin's Creed (Ezio) x LOTR little headcanon!!! My beloved child!!

Have you ever received hate on a fic?

No, not that I remember getting any hate on my fics

Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

I do, tho not much and on rare occasions. I used to write a lot of smut when I was younger (a teen), then I stopped being comfortable with it for a wild few years (tho reading never made me uncomfortable lmao).

Now I started writing smut again, idk what kind? Don't really understand what does that mean lol F x M traditional sex? Pretty detailed? If so, then yes lmao

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

I don't know 😂 Maybe, maybe not. I think rather not.

Have you ever had a fic translated?

Not to my knowledge, I don't think so.

Have you ever co-written a fic before?

We tried with my friend a long long time ago. Didn't go well lmao It's hard and kinda stressing, cause you never know what the other person is gonna write (at least we had this SURPRISE system), so... You kinda have zero plot cause everything you want to write plot-wise can be ruined by the second person's plot lmao

What's your all-time favorite ship?

Athelnar?? Athelstan and Ragnar were my first ever OTP (quickly followed by Alfred and Uhtred). You could never beat that Athelnar shit out of my body lmao I've never written for them, but oh I do love them boys!

What's a WIP that you want to finish but don't think you ever will?

Now, that's the HARSH one lmao

I think I have at least 3 OC stories that I really wanna write (2 for TLK and one for LOTR), but I'm scared that I will never actually do it. I never was good with multi chaptered stories, and these are indeed not a one shots 🥲

What are your writing strengths?

Ugh... I don't know? I think I was pretty good with dialogues and descriptions of the surroundings to build the atmosphere. But... I guess it's not for me to decide but for the readers?

What are your writing weaknesses?

I rarely finish what I've started lmao I should write everything in one go or else I'll never finish it... Or will finish it in two months even if it's a 2k words one shot

What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

I love them! I've only done it with my LOTR fics (with Sindarin) but I really love it. But I really love it when the language is different from the language of the settings? Like, if the story is happening in England and everyone is English, but you have two characters who can speak idk Dutch, let them have a Dutch language in their dialogue. I had a rant post about it not that long ago actually lmao You have to think about your in-universe language

What's a fandom/ship you haven't written for yet but want to?

Ahhh Bungou Stray Dogs! I love them, and I'd gladly try to write something for them. Not a character/character but reader my beloved.

And maybe Stephane Narcisse (reign) my beloved and a reader

What's your favorite fic you've written?

The blood on my hands (Eomer) and Peace (Finan) are definitely my fave ones I think. They are dark and both explore some trauma

No pressure tags: @whitedarkmoonflower @lord-aldhelm @holy3cake @gemini-mama @emilyhufflepufftlk @persephones-journey @solinarimoon @mrsalwayswrite @emmanuellececchi @bilbotargaryen @levithestripper @mrsarnasdelicious @paula-in-dreamland

[rayveewrites]

Drew a little Allay!Alice because they (in all their forms) are vibing in my head rent-free pretty much constantly.

Transparent version without glow effects under the cut:

[lucabyte]

On autonomy, and what it means to be Obliged to Help.

Bonus:

[krysmcscience]

Don't mind me, just slacking on a big Billford comic by making other far more ridiculous Billford comics and also some AU art (please excuse my slapdash human!Bill thank you please, also before anyone asks the art style is messy and all over the place because idgaf LOL)

This started out as an excuse to design a Bill Cipher-inspired "wedding" dress, but then spiraled wildly out of control. Various rambles and a bunch more human!Bill arts under the cut, including another silly little comic at the end! (Feel free to skip the rambles, I won't be offended. I know I'm bad at shutting up. XD)

I may or may not write some comedy stuff for this AU, which I'm calling 'For Better Or Worse (But Mostly Worse)'. While Ford DOES remember getting sloshed enough for one thing to lead to making out with another after karaoke, neither he nor Bill remember this wedding, At All. The Love God did nothing to dissuade them from going hog wild on their marriage spending, either, so it got...uh. Exorbitantly Expensive. As in, the grand total could probably buy the entire fucking MOON sort of expensive. (It's fine, don't worry, Bill's good enough at crime to be able to afford it.) Also, because the logic of this AU is mostly dictated by Rule of Funny, the Love God's powers are close to unlimited when it comes to matters of romance, but ONLY when it comes to matters of romance. (Like weddings!)

Want an empty human vessel to smash the soul of a triangle into for date nights or when it's convenient, or perhaps even when it's NOT convenient? Easy peasy! Want the marriage to be recognized in every corner of the multiverse from now until the end of time, thus making any potential future divorce nigh-on impossible? Can do! Want to buy an entire beach for the ceremony and honeymoon and in general, and totally not at all because it would be Super Hilarious to prevent any specific movies from being made on that very same beach in the future? Fine, whatever, it's not his finances he's ruining!

Does the Love God also provide special rings that just so happen to turn incorporeal as long as the "happy couple" doesn't remember that they barged into his dreams to bully him into presiding over their marriage? ...No comment!

He spends the next thirty years trying and failing to get in touch with either of them for payment. This is why you should always demand half the money up front, my guy!

Also it's absolutely a traditional Jewish wedding, because I like the idea of Bill demanding all the keepsakes from the marriage that he paid for, and being completely confused when one of the things he's handed is a fancy container full of broken glass. He gets it later, but in the moment, he thinks the Love God is just fucking with him some more.

Ramble over! Here's the full dress that caused the comic to happen, along with what Ford wound up wearing at the wedding (and begrudgingly agreeing to put on again later for Reasons), aaaaand also a close-up of Bill's ring:

I may have forgotten to draw Bill's hair floofier when drawing the back of the dress, lmao

Since double ring ceremonies have been leaking over into Jewish wedding customs for a while now, Ford also has a ring, but his is the much more traditional plain gold band. There's definitely a message engraved on the inside - embarrassing, cringe, or incriminating somehow - but I haven't decided what it is yet, so use your imagination for now. XD Bill, on the other hand, saw the phrase 'traditional plain gold band' and said "No Thank You" before proceeding to embellish his ring to his liking. And because he's a secret sap who adores Ford's extra fingers, the triangle points add up to twelve, as do the engraved stars. Yes, they're stars, not dots, I just got lazy. There's also six lashes on the eye gem, and probably an eye engraving on the inside with another six lashes. (Bill's got it BAD, okay? We all know this.)

Here are the initial scribbles of Bill's custom vessel in more casual attire, please ignore the wonky anatomy and the fact that I flat out refuse to ever draw him with a proper top hat:

He does actually need a cane in this vessel; since Bill tends to possess men and especially Ford more often than not, he's used to having a higher center of gravity when in a human body, so his ability to balance is pretty garbage. (He may or may not topple over with concerning regularity.) As for his empty eye socket, his bangs don't do much to hide it since he's so high-energy (dude is constantly on the move), and he also refuses to wear a patch over it, because 1.) why bother, and 2.) it's more fun to freak people out.

To better align with Ford's attraction towards the strange, the vessel was designed with super minor shapeshifting ability - Bill can look like a perfectly normal human, but he can also make the teeth and fingers sharper whenever he likes (which is mostly just when he's angry or being more of a menace than usual), as well as slit down the pupils or outright ditch the irises altogether. He can also have whatever he wants in the downstairs department, just because I'm an indecisive bitch on that front, lmao. Maybe he can have boobs if he wants them, too, but I ain't drawin' tits on no triangle, nuh-uh, no sir. His powers are otherwise limited down to what humans can do, because for some reason, the Love God doesn't trust Bill to not snap into Immediate Apocalypse Mode if he's given a physical form that's actually all his and no one else's.

Due to the body being all his and no one else's, it's also not really a standard possession so much as it is just...Bill being temporarily human. He's a lot more aware of and in tune with his human body's senses than he ever was with his "puppets", which makes things like pain a lot more intense. (He is mostly fine with this, because he's a fukken masochist.)

A bit more fashion stuff, including beach and party attire~

The beach outfit was mostly me trying and failing to nail down his body shape, which is still not bottom-heavy enough. I then decided to slap a bikini on it, before making it supremely unsexy with a pair of fugly shorts, because Bill's fashion choices are not allowed to be conventionally attractive. Meanwhile, the party outfit was mostly me looking at the casual attire I designed, asking 'how would Bill make this Worse', and then drawing the result. The mismatched thigh-highs are killing me inside! :D

No, his vessel can't actually summon fire, I just drew it for funzies before I decided on said vessel's limitations. Yes, the gold brick tattoos are absolutely a reference to the fic 'Knowing Me, Knowing You' - I simply could not resist.

I also HAD to draw Bill in one of his canonical(?) shirts, just made tank-top'd:

He is absolutely about to over-correct and fall backwards after this. USE YOUR CANE, GOOFBALL!!! (I meant to draw Bill closer to this degree of bottom-heavy in the other images, but. Alas. I am bad at anatomy, LOL)

And, last but not least before More Comic Time, I attempted to draw him closer to Gravity Falls style:

Jury's out on whether or not I succeeded, but - hey. I tried. Now have some Handyman Bill AU, but with my goofy human design, instead:

Hey, it's a 'mystery snack', and the guy wanted A BITE to eat - the joke was right there, guys!!! (Based on this post, because it just screamed BILL CIPHER to me.)

whoops i forgor bills ring and cracks ahaha too late now

I WILL SHUT UP AND STOP RAMBLING NOW K THX BYYYYYE

[stevebabey]

no one asked but this is the post that inspired this! thank u immensely for the luv <3 number 1 comment was wondering what steve’s bids were & from his pov, so without further ado...enjoy — part one here!

—

Begrudgingly, Eddie has to admit that Robin might be right.

It’s impossible not to be looking for the bids since he brought them up to her. Even though Eddie was fully expecting to tell Robin to suck it, maybe even wager what little money he had against this working out, Eddie can’t help but watch for them in every interaction. And fuck, she’s right.

They’re little, but they’re there.

The first one Eddie would’ve missed if he wasn’t looking for it. Actually, that’s a lie; Eddie does miss it, until Robin points it out, the nosy bitch. It’s minuscule and honestly, it just seems like Steve asking his opinion — which friends do all the time! It’s why Eddie brushes right over it.

“Okay, be honest,“ Steve had said, walking and talking as he entered the living room where Robin and Eddie were sprawled across the couches. They were both waiting on him, the three of them set on heading out to the drive-in to catch a film.

Eddie can’t fathom why Steve felt the need to change his outfit for it, but when he returns, he gets it. It’s not quite the usual polo Eddie had grown to like on Steve, this one hanging a little looser, the colour a bit darker than Steve’s usual choice, the sleeves a little shorter — almost midway to a muscle tee.

Steve’s fingers fiddle with the distressed collar of the shirt, smoothing invisible wrinkles and fussing over nothing. He swishes back his floppy hair with a flick of his head. “It’s a new shirt, I know it’s a little different - but what do we think?”

He says we but he’s looking at Eddie.

Eddie, who has taken to trying to reel in his gawp because what the fuck Steve? It’s like he’s well aware of what drives Eddie insane and has specifically leaned into it. Some evil goblin in Eddie’s brain whispers think how good he’d look in your shirt and he squashes it, giving a visible twitch to shut down that train of thought.

From the other couch, Robin clears her throat loudly and smiles sweetly at her best friend. “It looks great, Steve.”

It’s sincere and Steve’s mouth tugs up, nearly a smile but his gaze fast-tracks back to Eddie. Eddie nods in agreement, a bit sluggish from his distracting thoughts and god dammit, the extra exposed skin of Steve’s arms are so not helping. “Yeah, looks... looks good, man.”

Steve smiles, lips pressed together but his shoulders curl in just a bit, deflating just a tad. From where Steve can’t see her, Robin waves her hands wildly and catches Eddie’s attention. He watches as she gestures wildly and it takes a moment to realise what’s she mouthing — ‘A bid! That’s a bid, you idiot!’

Oh fuck, Eddie thinks. Cos it totally was; the question, the focus on Eddie. He doesn’t even think about the logistics of it, of the fact Robin was right, just jumps right into picking up the bid.

“You trying a new style?” Eddie asks and then thanks whatever god invented the whole fake-it-to-you-make-it schtick because he’s feeling so far from casual or confident. “Going metal on me, big boy?”

Eddie just manages to catch the grin that breaks across Steve’s face as he turns away, giving a scoff — it comes out too soft though, giving away his complete lack of annoyance. He pulls that usual Steve Harrington pose, hands sliding onto his hips, and screws his face into some melted smiley-grimace. “Shut up, Munson.”

Eddie grins and goads on the blush that’s beginning on Steve’s neck, a glorious tinged pink colour. “If this shirt is any indication, you’d pull it off just fine.”

Eddie watches the blush climb higher as Steve ignores the comment, his smile still giving him away. He grabs his coat and pats down his jeans — ridiculous tight acid wash jeans that Eddie hates he’s somehow become attracted to — ensuring he has his keys and wallet. Once assured, he looks up at his two friends again, brows raised, and says, “Ready to rock and roll?”

That comment alone has Eddie seriously reconsidering his type in men.

There’s only a brief moment to talk about it when Eddie and Robin cajole Steve into going and getting them both popcorn to get a moment alone. Steve had scoffed, face twitching in the way it did whenever he tried to hold back a bitchy comment, but he still stomped off in the direction of the snack stand.

The moment he’s out of earshot, both voices explode in the back of Eddie’s van.

“What did I say—”

“Jesus H Christ, you were right—”

“Literally how many times do I have—”

“Oh my god, you were right—”

“ —before you realise I’m always—”

“Robin.” He cuts her off, hands landing on her shoulders. Robin eyes them warily, lips still parted from how her rant had been cut off. “Robin, I’m gonna kill you.”

“What?” Robin’s nose scrunches up. “What the hell are you—”

“Oh Christ, I can’t believe- how long have you noticed those bids?” Eddie’s aware he sounds a bit estranged, eyes probably wide and it doesn’t help when he softly shakes Robin back and forth. She lets herself be shaken, hair flying back in forth. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me! You are such a bad gay friend!”

Robin smacks his hands off her shoulders with a frown, her freckly face perturbed at Eddie’s outburst. “Dude, it’s not my fault! May I remind you that until very very recently you were seeing someone else? What difference would it have made?”

Eddie waves his hand, disregarding the point with a shake of his head. His unkempt curls cover his face and Eddie sweeps them back in one motion, “What difference would it have made? Oh my, Jesus—“

Whatever long-winded sentence Eddie was about to spit out is lost by the sound of Steve’s approaching footsteps, effectively shutting both of them up.

Eddie flings himself to the other side of the van, putting an unusual amount of distance between Robin and him like they were being caught doing something they shouldn’t.

Robin frowns at him and gestures wildly with her hands in a way that means what the fuck man? Eddie gestures back, though he’s not entirely sure what his fast hand motions are supposed to mean when Steve rounds the door.

He’s got two buckets of popcorn tucked under each arm and Eddie quickly crosses his arms, tucking his hands into his armpits like his stupid hand motions will somehow give him away. 

Steve looks up, stopping just a way from the edge of the van, and looks at the pair of them. His eyes track from Robin still sitting on one of the old cushions and looking two seconds from burying her face in her hands, across to Eddie. He huffs a laugh and kneels on the edge of the van.

“I know he’s gross Robin,” He begins, tone light, as he holds out one of the buckets for Robin to take. “But c’mon, is the distance really necessary?”

Robin snickers as Eddie makes an appalled noise, both of which make Steve smirk. He holds out the other for Eddie to take and Eddie snatches it, glaring at him over the buttery rim for his comment. Then takes a handful and shovels it in because he can’t think of a witty comment to retaliate. Steve crawls into the van and plops himself between them with a content sigh.

“See? Gross.” He teases, shoving his hand into Eddie’s popcorn bucket to grab a handful. Eddie scowls and chews a little faster when the flavour on his tongue seems to register in his brain.

His eyes stare at the popcorn bucket as he chews, then swallows — up the front of the van, the radio that’s tuned into the correct frequency begins playing the opening credits song as the screen changes. Silence sweeps across the drive-in but despite the sudden hush, Eddie has no qualms about breaking it.

“Sweet n’ salty flavour?” He asks Steve, only half attempting a whisper. Robin shushes him instantly, her focus already on the movie that’s beginning. Steve smiles, looking a bit sheepish beneath the glow of the drive-in screen, but he nods.

“I know you like it.” He whispers with a small shrug of his shoulders. Like it wasn’t a big deal. Fuck, Eddie thinks again and hastily feeds himself another handful of popcorn before he says anything majorly stupid in response to that, like: Oh, amazing- have you noticed the big fat crush I have on you as well?

He doesn’t even need to look at Robin to know she’s smiling, smug as ever.

—

Steve, God bless his oblivious little heart, doesn’t even realise he’s doing it.

Steve likes Eddie. Eddie is— god, Eddie is different but he’s good.

He’s this strange amalgamation of traits that Steve can’t comprehend how they fit together in one body or how Eddie manages to pull it all off completely charmingly.

He’s loud, he says rude things, he’s fucking dorky, and far too sweet on the kids — he likes to tease Steve, and yet somehow, when Eddie calls him ‘pretty boy’, Steve knows he’s not actually making fun of him.

Steve likes Eddie, likes his boyishly endearing charm, likes his touchiness towards Steve that no other boy his age is like, likes his messy curls and his ‘holier than thou’ attitude about metal music even though Steve doesn’t get it, like at all. And fuck, Steve really wants Eddie to like him.

It reminds him faintly of when he first started working alongside Robin at Scoops. That thought tickles in the back of his mind, something along the lines of how he had wanted Robin to like him for other reasons, but he doesn’t delve into it.

To Steve, it’s simple: he just wants Eddie to like him.

After the night at the drive-in, between Eddie acting strangely skittish and Robin giving more amused snorts than usual, Steve knows something is up.

He knows they must have discussed something when they sent him on popcorn duty, the bastards. He tries his best to not feel left out; god knows Robin and he have more than a dozen secrets they’ve sworn not to tell anyone but each other.

Besides, Steve trusts Robin to come and tell him if he really needs to know, even if it does worry him a bit. He bites down his anxious thoughts, even trying for a moment to see if there’s a pattern he’s been missing.

That train of thought gets derailed when Steve recalls instead Eddie’s delightful reaction to his new shirt — that Steve definitely hadn’t bought for that specific reason.

Even though Robin had given him that look when he’d first shown it to her — her bright eyes had narrowed, her smile turning a little more coy, and Steve had felt his ears get a little hotter. She hadn’t said anything though, just suggested that he should wear it tomorrow night when they were going out with Eddie.

God, he was glad she suggested it.

Rewinding over Eddie’s parted lips, the way his brown eyes had drank in the details as they trailed up his body and lingered on his arms— Steve had the sudden thought to flex the muscle, just to elicit some reaction, but it had gone out the window at Eddie’s original dismal reaction.

‘Yeah, looks... looks good, man’. Said all aloof, like he hadn’t really thought it. It was like bursting a balloon hidden behind Steve’s ribs, one he wasn’t even aware was there until it was deflating pathetically, making his shoulders sag.

Then— ‘You trying a new style? Going metal on me, big boy?’ And dammit, it’s like Eddie had clocked exactly what calling him ‘big boy’ had done the first time in the Winnebago.

Eddie had then grinned, done another once over of the new shirt, even as Steve pretended to search for his keys and wallet while saying something snarky to try to cover up the heat crawling up his neck. Yet, Steve found himself smiling too because, fuck yes, Eddie liked it too.

But, apparently, whatever Eddie and Robin had discussed wasn’t considered important enough because Robin never brought it up.

The thought and worry about it melt away in Steve’s mind until the memory of that night is about Eddie’s compliment, about his cat-like grin over the popcorn bucket, and how he had leaned over to whisper every bad joke into Steve’s ear all through the movie.

Some of them had been down-right filthy jokes which Eddie only seemed to enjoy more when Steve screwed his face up and nudged Eddie in the ribs, yet unable to hide his smile.

After the third vulgar joke and subsequent nudge, Steve had chided ‘dude’ with a poorly hidden grin. Eddie, smile all cheeky, had nudged him back with a ‘dude’ of his own.

Which, of course, ensued a nudge competition til Robin had given a shush that librarians all over the world would be jealous of. But Steve didn’t even care because he and Eddie were arm to arm, pressed close together and Eddie…didn’t move. Stayed close, like he wanted the closeness the same way Steve did.

Steve only remembers the strange drive-in moment when Robin brings it up finally, on one interesting Saturday night.

It’s not the usual routine; it’s not very often that the whole group gets together to share drinks and get rowdy.

But it was for Robin’s birthday and she’d been persuasive enough to get even the introverts, like Jonathan, to come along. Though, she was aware he’d probably spend the night on a pool lounger, stoned to high heaven. Whatever floats your boat, she’d said, happy for the company in any form.

There’s enough of them there that it almost resembles some sort of party— and makes Steve try not to think about the last small party he threw here. He can tell Nancy notices it too, eyeing the pool a bit too long in a way he’s very familiar with, then taking a swig of beer.

So, Steve heckles them inside — doing a fantastic mothering impression as he waves the group indoors with a promise of pizza, and that has both Jonathan and Argyle perking up and beginning a fast discussion on the best pizza toppings.

Eddie makes a fuss, because of course he does, and moans terribly when Steve tries to roll him off the pool lounger he’s on. He’s had a bit of a joint and some beer, and Steve’s learned that he gets adorably stubborn after some substances.

“Stevie, this is mean,” he had pouted, gripping the edges of the lounger and staring up at Steve with those big brown eyes. “You telling me I did all that bonding with you for nothing? Can’t even lounge by the pool! I’ve got a couch at homeeeee.”

Steve had sent him an amused look of disbelief, hands on his hips after his first round of flicks against Eddie’s arm were apparently fruitless to get him to move. “Really? Didn’t peg you for a gold-digger, Eds.”

Eddie had snorted at that, one hand coming to slap over his mouth. Steve couldn’t quite hear what he had said but the words pegging and anytime slipped through and Steve thinks he could get the gist of that.

“Oh for Christ’s sake,” Steve muttered, feeling the tips of his ears turn warm. He didn’t know how Eddie could be such a menace— or why he enjoyed it so much when he was. Steve waved a hand in the direction of the doors, ignoring Eddie’s delighted snickering. “If you go inside now, you can be on music, alright?”

And that had finally got them all indoors, Eddie whooping and skedaddling through the doors in an instant, with a call of ‘no take backsies!’ echoing behind him.

Inside was much cozier, the whole group a little more connected when squished up on the couches together. Eddie had taken Steve’s word and was jamming a cassette into one of the speakers when Steve made it back inside after scouting around the pool for leftover cans and butts to throw out.

He’s just been thinking about what playful jab he could make at Eddie’s music, like Eddie always did to him when Robin hollered at him from the kitchen.

“Steve!” She’d yelled excitedly and he come to find her quick, brows raised as he entered the kitchen. She was grinning, already a bit jumpy as she got when she had a bit of liquor — but apparently not enough because when Steve saw what she’d called him in for, she’d announced, “Tequila shots!”

Which lead to now. A hazy combination of beer, tequila, and a bit of weed, and Steve is feeling good. Robin had managed to hijack the music not too long ago, with a hiccup of ‘it’s my birthday’ that had Eddie surrendering with a pout.

She’d since put on a bit of everything: some Blondie for Nance, Talking Heads for Jonathan, and some Bowie, just so she and Steve could dance along to ‘Magic Dance’ and she could do all the silly little goblin voices that made them both cackle.

Steve realised at some point that Robin was playing their mixtape, the one she’d made for driving in the morning, and nearly tripped stumbling over to her in his excitement. He grabbed her shoulders, not too hard, and squeezed.

“Is it- is this our mixtape?” Steve asked, words slurring only a bit. Robin gleamed, hair bouncing with her excited nod.

“Yes!” She was already dancing, even though the tape was between songs — because she knew what song was coming. “It’s Springsteen time, Steve!”

Right as the drums to Born to Run filtered out the speaker.

And oh, Steve loves Robin so much. He loves having a best friend that knows his favourite song and gets jittery and excited because she knows it’s about to play— that she put it on this mix for him.

“You’re my best friend!” Steve says, the words bursting out like he can’t control them. He doesn’t even feel embarrassed, just happy, just drunk, and overwhelming happy to be able to have this.

And even though Robin knows this, she still beams, feet dancing along and just begins to sing along with the song, “In the days, we sweat it out on the streets of a runaway American dream…”

It’s a brazen drunken performance from the both of them. Steve’s chest is heaving after just one chorus that he’s pretty sure he put his whole soul into and he’s so fucking happy —and it feels like pure instinct to seek out Eddie, his eyes scouring the room for him.

Eddie’s leaned up against the wall, hiding his smile behind a can and Steve doesn’t think twice about it— doesn’t think about why he’s so drawn to Eddie, why he wants to include him in this happiness — just extends his hand out and grins.

Eddie sees the bid coming this time.

Part Three.

— 

yes i saw all ur lovely tags and MAYBE cried about it. but thats none of ur business.

@orangeandthefairroadkill @swimmingbirdrunningrock @sadcanadianwinter @phantypurple @omg-elledubs-things @henderdads @farfaras @mixsethaddams @prismandblue @kerlypride @bushbees @legitcookie @temporalcoffin @callmesirkay @beautifully-useless @millyditty @cinnamon-mushroomabomination @ninjapirateunicorns @darkwitchoferie @vi-the-best-you-can @psychosnowfox @desert-fern @scarletzgo @cr0w-culture @softpink-candlelight @livingforfictionalcharacters @makewavesandwar @kozuuji @rhapsodyinalto @eddiethesexy @cassaloopa @lightwoodbanethings @qu33rcommunist @moonlitkilljoy @starkdusk @theysherobinbuckley @sanguineterrain @loganwright @sillysparrow @hotcocoaharrington @eddie-munson-is-my-wife @she-is-tim @steddiehearts @sideblogofthcentury @sidebarre @corrodedcoughin @stevieclaus

[triglycercule]

mtt therapy moment except dust keeps taking breaks to talk to phantom papyrus and horror just wants this to hurry up so it can get to his turn because he couldn't give two shits about dust and killer's trauma and killer physically cannot discuss his issues and just starts zoning out while crying for some reason during it

and i'm the therapist listening to all of this writing down notes fervently because ITS CANON MATERIAL CANON I NEED TO GET THE CANON MATERIAL

[jadequarze]

Women

[nobodyknowsimalesbian777]

It's Just Buisness- Ambessa x Sevika (Arcane)

NSFW tags - hate sex, strap-usage (a!receiving), pussy-slapping (a!receiving), hair-pulling (a!receiving), sub!ambessa (she doesnt think so), dom!sevika

authors note: i always feel so slutty writing the tags after im done. like yeah u just wrote all that u little freak 😞😞😞 if you liked this go look at the art it was inspired by!! creators links are at the end, if you have any trouble dm me and i'll send the art to you!! okay hope u love im going to shut up now #holyyapamoly ----------------------------------------------------------

sevika and ambessa had an incredibly delicate relationship,

both women valued loyalty, power, and strength,

but above all else, the only thing they truly bonded over was their shared love of sex

once a week, the two women would meet at the brothel,

neither one of them worked there, but sevika insisted that it was the least suspicious place for "women like them"

ambessa urged that they at least come at different times, to avoid anyone getting the wrong idea.

truly, ambessa thought that being seen at a brothel was already wounding,

she hated that people might think she needed to pay a woman to have sex with her

in spite of this, ambessa stood in the lobby, her large frame already grabbing more attention then she liked

babette didn't even look up from her work as she waved the woman back,

she didnt expect payment yet, knowing exactly what she was really here for,

more, who she was really here for

ambessa rushed to the end room, aggressively pulling the beaded curtain aside as her eyes landed on sevika

"took you long enough." the younger woman snarked, her eyes trailing up and down ambessa's frame

clothes hit the floor faster then sevika had ever seen, and it wasn't long before ambessas naked body was pressed against sevikas clothed one

"it's just business." ambessa muttered, more to herself then anyone else

sevikas hand gripped ambessas braided bun, tugging it back "you always were a bad liar."

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

sevika stood behind ambessa, holding the taller woman's hip as she tapped her strap against her clit

ambessa felt cool metal grip her other hip, relishing in the bruising hold sevika had on her

one gentle push of her hips had sevika fully sheathed inside ambessa, who worked her hardest to remain quiet,

showing pleasure ment showing sevika had the power to please her, and she would not stand for that

"you call this rough?" ambessa scoffed, rolling her eyes at sevikas unusually gentle demeanor

a stinging slap landed on ambessas ass, and she turned around to see sevikas metal arm coming up and snaking around her neck, pulling her back

her flesh hand traveled around ambessas thigh, finding her clit with unsurprising ease

sevika pressed hard on her clit as she pulled ambessa towards her, nipping at her ear as she sneered

"you're not the one in charge here, general" the patronizing nickname urged a swell of slick to leak from ambessas cunt,

giving sevika the perfect opportunity to deliver a harsh slap to her clit, before pulling her hips back and ramming them into the taller woman

she quickly found a bruising pace, switching from grabbing at ambessas full tits and rubbing her clit with her metal arm

eventually, she settled on a punishing grip on ambessas bun, her flesh hand reaching around and clawing at her stomach

ambessas moans filled the room as sevika brutally slammed her hips into her, guiding her to lean her hands against the table in front of her

the back of her strap provided a delicious friction to sevikas clit, encouraging her to go that much harder in search of her own release

it wasn't long before ambessa was writhing under the younger woman's touch, her gruff moans transforming into needy whines and pleas

"this enough for you?" sevika huffed out, pressing her stomach against the swell of ambessas ass

"y-yes. that's- oh god..better" ambessa whined out, arching her back into sevika

the two women only lasted a few more strokes before coming undone, one after the other.

both of their muscular bodies intertwined as they came,

one who walked in might have trouble telling where one woman ended and the other began due to their closeness

in a moment of passion, sevika grabbed ambessas jaw, pulling her to the side and feverishly connecting their lips

the two women did their best to stay away from any sort of emotional intimacy, it was one of the rare things they agreed on,

and, although neither one would ever admit it, in this moment, with their bodies pressed together and their minds focused on only each other, they both caught themselves questioning "is this really just business?"

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

THIS FIC WAS INSPIRED BY SOME ABSOLUTELY AMAZING ART I HAD SENT TO ME!! im going to tag the creators twitter, and blog since the link to the art isnt working (dm me if you can!t find it and i'll send it to you!) . please please please go show some love to their art if you liked this fic, because this story wouldn't exist without them!! as always, i hope you all enjoyed this very, very much!

gang we all knew i was going to write the two buff muscle mommies getting freaky, it was just a matter of time.

also, ik ambessa bad but like i still want her to ptpom 😛

[prostocupoftea]

I have made a stickrr

Aww, look at him! Ah, it seems like he has something behind him- But, i mean, you wouldn't want to disturb him, right? (:

It came out good for the first time i think, hehe

And of course my object show style integral oc bc she is already everywhere and i show no signs of stopping

Also yes this is my work laptop. Yes it glows in the dark. I have no shame certified

[sinfulsunni]

Jake Nicola and Vince Parker x

consent is hot <3

[can-of-slorgs]

Finished the Seashells collection a couple of weeks ago, so I drew my girl who did it all possible.