#if you go into the tags of any of my posts or even the post we're refferring to rn

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Besotted 9

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, virginity loss, age gap, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: your new neighbour brings intrigue and a bit of danger.

Characters: ex-con!Bucky Barnes (silverfox)

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

"You're fucking cheating dude," Sterling sweeps the plastic chips from the table.

Colin and Trent cackle and Ryan cradles his head, a few too many cans stacked around him. The other girls giggle as they set on the foldout sofa. You watch from your perch near the window, uneasy from your run-in. You're almost sober. 

"You're a sore loser," Trent hurls back and belches. "And drinking all my beer." 

"The fuck ever. You said help myself." 

"Not much help can save you," Colin chirps. 

"Would you all stop whining? God, little boys," Angelique cackles. 

"Little boys?" Trent scoffs. "Not what you said last time--" 

"Average at best," she retorts. 

"Compared to some," Colin smirks, catching your eye. You glower and look at the wall. He's such a slime, yet you have bigger things to worry about. 

You turn and peer out over the deck. You squint into the dim blue and the stirring waves beyond the coastline. Did Bucky really mean it? Is he really watching you? 

Well, he said it himself. He told you, he warned you, how many times, and you were so set on what you wanted. So much so that you just didn't care about what he wanted. You can't really blame him after all. 

You put your palms to your neck and shudder. He said he went to prison. What did he do? You should have worried about that sooner... you should have thought a lot more about all of this. 

"Missing the geezer?" Harley snarks as she struts up, another bottle of neon swill in hand. 

"No, I'm just... tired. The sun..." you shrug, unable to finish the lie. Half a lie; you are exhausted. 

"You didn't tell us everything," Hazel approaches. "How big was it?" 

"Jesus," you gasp. 

"Oh, your prude days are over," Tracy snorts. "So," she puts her hands up before her, "tell me when." She starts to move them apart and you scoff.  

You roll your eyes as heat creeps up your neck. You want to stop thinking about him. Desperately so. You want to believe that if you do, he'll just go away. Bucky was great but scary. You played with fire and now you don't want to get burned any more than you already have. 

"You guys are children," you push away from the window frame and march buy them. "I need some air." 

"Were his pubes grey? Like one of those scouring sponges?" Colin taunts. 

You ignore him with a shake of your head and stomp behind his chair. You feel the air stir as he reaches for you. You dodge him and storm out into the balmy evening. The door snaps shut behind you and you huff. 

You cross your arms and pace up and down the porch. The boards creak and have you spinning with paranoia. You stop and stare out into the trees. It's too dangerous for anyone to be out there. Even him. 

You sit on the top step and lean your elbows on your knees. You cradle your head. You think about all the red flags you raced past. That shady bar and his bruised knuckles. Did he hurt someone that day? 

Then there's that other chill. Not fear, but deeper. The way he made you feel. His patience, his calm intent as he devoured you bit by bit. It was amazing but you're young and it just doesn't make sense. What do you really know about Bucky? You don't even know why he went to prison. People don't go for stealing five cent candy... 

The door swings open and the hinges squeak. You don't look up. It's probably Angelique coming to tell you you're being a buzz killer. Not really. You separated yourself from the situation. Better then sticking around and moping. She only knows how to make her problems everyone else's. You could blame her for all of this. She dared you to do it. Still, you did it. 

Footsteps tramp heavily up next to you and hop down on the second step. Colin drops beside you on the step and slings his arm over your shoulder. You shrug him off as he snickers. 

"You know, the old man's not around..." 

"Stop," you mutter and cross your arms. 

"Come on. It's vacation. Have a little fun," he plants his hand behind you, leaning against you. "I've been hard all day." 

"You've been a creep forever," you sneer. "I want you to go away." 

"Why? I mean. You wear that suit all day, ready to pop out, and you expect me not to notice?" He slides closer, nearly crushing you against the railing. 

"I didn't wear it for you," you push your elbow into his side. "Take a hint, buddy." 

"I took all the hints," he caress the top of your ass. 

You growl and lift your hand. You reel back but before you can swing, he flies forward and lands at the bottom of the steps. You squeal and look up as a deep black shadow puffs above you. Bucky steps to the edge of the top stair as Colin wheezes on the ground. 

"What-- How--" You stand and he catches your upper arm. 

"You're leaving. Now." He snarls. 

"Bucky, I was dealing with him--" 

Colin coughs as he writhes in the dirt. 

"Sure you were. Barely," he growls. "I seen men like him in the pen. Animals. He wasn't gonna stop." 

"Let go--" 

To your surprise, he does, but only to barrel down the stairs. He grabs Colin as he tries to sit up, gripping his wrist as he pushes his middle finger back. The pop of his joint roils in your stomach. Colin hollers. 

"Bucky!" You hurtle down and latch onto him. 

"Fucker! Touching my woman," he grabs another finger. "Wanna see what happens to rats like you--" 

"Bucky! Stop. Please. Don't hurt him--" 

"What the fuck is this?" Angelique's whiny screech comes from behind a flash. You turn as she lights up the seen with her phone. "Oh my god! Are you serious?" She slams each foot down as she crosses the porch. "You invited this loser? Withou even asking?" 

"No, I--" You cling to Bucky as you tug on him. "I didn't--" 

"Don't fucking worry," he throws Colin's arm away and boots him in the side. "I don't wanna fucking be here." He turns to face the others as they follow the chaos outside. "I came here to take her away from you filth." 

"Filth?" Harley gasps. "Excuse you. You might be hot as fuck but you can't talk to us like that." 

Bucky walks up the steps calmly. "You gonna stop me?" 

Harley backs up and grabs onto Hazel. Both of them hide behind Sterling who just stares, a drunken droop in his eyelids. The others gape, sharing looks as aimless as your own. What do you do? 

You're jostled from behind and stumble. Colin staggers up the steps only for Bucky to spin and send him plummeting again. The crack of his fist carries up into the sky. He shakes out his fingers then points at you. 

"Go get your stuff. Now." 

The thunder of his voice, the violence he's wrought, it has your throat in a snare. You can't breathe, you can't think. Why is he doing this?

"What the fuck--" Kissie exclaims. 

"Bucky, please--" you put your hands up. "Don't hurt anyone else, okay? I'm going to.... I'm going to get my things. Alright? Just no more hitting." 

He glares at you then tilts his head. "Five minutes." 

You gulp and sidle past him. As you get to the top of the steps and Angelique postures, "yeah, get the fuck out of here, slut." 

You flinch. It was always a joke before. Whore, slut, bitch; not anymore. The venom in her voice makes your insides sour. 

"Ang?" 

"You ruined this whole fucking night," she shoves you. 

She squeals as suddenly her arm is wrenched back. Bucky spins her, pulling her wrist between her shoulder blades. Trent and Sterling step up but Bucky doesn't relent. 

"Trying it, you skinny fuckers," he barks. 

They stop. Trent clears his throat, "look, dude, let her go and get out of here." 

"I will," Bucky looks at you. "Go on, doll. Before anyone else does something stupid." 

You look at him. His face is cast in darkness but you feel the anger roiling off him. You turn and flit inside. The door is caught behind you. 

"Are you fucking serious? You brought that criminal here?!" Harley's on your heels. "He's hurting Angie." 

"I'm going, okay? I'll get rid of him." 

"Doesn't change that you led him here--" 

"Would you shut up?" You grab our phone and spin to face her. "And grow the fuck up. Stop whining. All of you are so immature and maybe I'm better off without you. Even if it's with him." 

Ryan falls out of his chair and belches. "Shhhhhh, sleep." You stare at him as he all but reaffirms your statement. You frown at Harley and throw your hands up. 

"Wow, you're a bitch," she sneers. 

"Sure. Yeah, whatever you say," you drop your shoulders and brush by her. 

You go down the hall and grab your bag out of the room. You turn back and ignore Harley and Hazel as they stand just inside the door.

You step out, your stomach plunging, the sudden drop of your heart nearly folding your legs. Kissie is down with Colin as he whimpers and holds his hand. Bucky release Angelique and she whines. She stops a few inches from you. 

"Get the fuck out of here!" She snivels and bats her lashes against a wall of tears. 

You don't say a word. You're too embarrassed, too afraid. You don't have much of a choice. Your so-called friends wouldn't let you stay even if you could stand up to Bucky. What friends? Shouldn't they protect you like they did Angelique? 

Bucky grabs onto your wrist as you near and drags you down the steps. You stumble but keep your feet moving. You don't look back. You can hear Angelique hurling insults under her breath as everyone else comforts her. Your eyes sting. They really don't care about you. 

"Come on, doll," Bucky lead you into the dark, not hesitating as the gloom surrounds you. "They ain't no good for you." 

You let him. You give in to your own bad decisions. How stupid! 

It’s jarring how only last week, you were so excited, thrilled about this man. You were intoxicated by him and now you are terrified. That liberation has turned into entrapment. 

He stops you as you trip over an unseen root. He pauses then a light blooms ahead of you. He uses his phone to light the way. His bike is just ahead, like a beast against the evening hue. 

He takes your bag and shoves it into the saddle bag. Your phone drops as he does and he quickly swipes it from the ground. He puts it in his pocket. He grabs a helmet and puts it on your head. You wince as he secures the strap. 

“Bucky,” you croak. “Bucky, please...” 

“It’s late.” 

“Yes, and dark. It’s not safe--” 

“Don’t tell me what’s safe,” he snaps. “Not after today.” 

He puts his own helmet on then grabs the jacket draped over the seat. He puts his leather coat on you. The summer night has a sliver of a chill on it. He zips it to your chin then taps the rear seat. The one he installed only days after you met. 

He straddles the bike and extends his arm out. He helps you on behind him and you squeeze his shoulders to steady yourself. He exhales and leans back into you. 

“You know, doll, I missed you. I didn’t come to punish you,” he sits up and straightens the bike. “I came to save you.”  

He twists the ignition and the bike roars to life. It rumbles beneath you and you wrap your arms around his middle. You rest your head against his back as he twists the throttle. As the bike tears forward and he steers along the narrow path, your tears spring forth. A tunnel of wind encases you, adding to that sense of suffocation. 

He told you who he is. He told you what he is. Why didn’t you listen to him? 

[cheesenchalk]

These are all really interesting points of discussion, and I agree with you to a point, but disagree on some aspects.

I do think the internet as a whole right now has an issue with over-pathologizing pretty much everything. It's hard to go anywhere without tiktok therapists telling you that X behavior is actually a sign of Y disorder, and speaking as someone in the field of psychology, it's a frustrating pattern. That said, there is a distinction between pathologizing, and simply analyzing the information we have to make connections and try to reach a loose understanding of someone.

Your focus is mostly on the "people-pleasing" aspect, and that's part of what i bring up in the original post, but not the focus. I didn't necessarily go into specifics because it wasn't the point of the post as a whole, but I was framing that examination specifically through how media and the public perceived them at the time and in years since, so I'm not applying that pattern to interpersonal and private relationships, because that's a completely different playing field where these patterns don't exist in the same way.

In that same vein, I'm not going to dig into the distinction you make between demeanor/personality, and psychology, both because I don't think those are separate concepts, and because it's not entirely relevant here.

The different ways John and Paul approached public scrutiny and situations of stress are able to be looked at without it also being applied to every other aspect of them, and that's mostly what I was doing before. Paul isn't people-pleasing, because that's a label trying to encompass his approach to every situation, but in the context of intense and potentially harmful situations, he is someone who generally responds/responded to them by trying to deflect, and soothe, and charm, and pointing to instances in his personal life and childhood where that style of conflict-resolution is also seen isn't saying that kind of response is entirely a trauma-response, but it is to say that, if we know about it because the story was told to us, it isn't unreasonable to think that similar situations might have happened when he was young, and might have contributed to forming how he approached situations in the future. Even if it were just a manifestation of some inherent personality trait (if those did exist), stories like those at least show examples of it, and connecting these instances do help us understand Paul better.

Defense mechanisms, personality, world view, and approach are all facets of us as people that are shaped by the world we grow up in, the people around us, and the experiences we have, and we can highlight microcosms of those environmental factors in specific moments sometimes.

My point in the tags of the original post wasn't that "people pathologize John so we should do the same with Paul," it was that people often look for explanations of John's behavior in his background and life, while taking Paul's behavior as a given result of Who He Is, which is assumed to be a certain way intrinsically, when the reality is, there are a lot of things in Paul's life we can look to to better understand him that have gone largely ignored for the majority of the history of the public and authors analyzing the Beatles and how they worked.

I do like how you point how much of our framing is in response to previous framing, but I don't think the counter to that is to swing back into refusing to examine his psychology, or connect aspects of it. I do think you're right in that the short, pithy simplifications of any of the Beatles' personalities are repeated until they're accepted as fact, so in the end any generalization of them as people is doomed to be incomplete to the point of inaccuracy. Any summation of a person a sentence or two long would be. And similarly, even using terms like "people-pleasing" are a result of responding to contemporary understanding flattening them to simple traits.

To be general to the point of unhelpfulness, the fix to that isn't to dive full-on into pathologizing, or to reject psychological analysis entirely, it's just continuing to try and look at all the facets of Paul or the others to shape our understanding of them the best we can. It's just nuance

i never know how to phrase it but something about the way beatles biographers and people in general view paul's reflexive placating persona and determination to smooth things over as manipulative or duplicitous and john's reflexive barbed persona and habit of lashing out as brave and subversive despite both being equally defensive mechanisms to shield themselves from the world that resulted in them saying things that weren't true says more about how we culturally view kindness or friendliness as inherently untrustworthy or flimsy and anger and carelessness as more believable as someone's true nature than it says about either of them in actuality

[wikiangela]

wip wednesday

tagged by @theotherbuckley

hello, I need to start posting more snippets again, I have too many wips I need motivation for lol

here's my "8x11 morning after going differently fic" where im giving them the counter make out they deserve lol it uses some of the dialogue until a certain point, but then it's going how it was supposed to idc lol

(lowkey set myself a cut off point in the episode dialogue to change stuff from then on and got stuck but I rememberd I can change stuff at any point actually, who knew lol)

___

"Honestly?" Buck scans Tommy's face, leaning in slightly. He can't help his eyes falling onto his lips, that perfect cupid's bow he needs to taste again. "This was the best night I've had in this place." He smiles, feeling so light and well-rested for once, and so happy. Just, he feels right, sitting here with Tommy so close. "To be fair," Buck adds, "it's also the first night I've had in this place, but, uh, still." He licks his lips, not even hiding he's looking right at Tommy's. Craving another taste.

Buck squeezes his thighs around Tommy's hips, reaches out to wrap his arms around Tommy's neck and bringing him closer. Tommy's not protesting, his smile only growing, hands inching a little further up on Buck's thighs.

"Yeah?" Tommy tilts his head, gaze stopping on Buck's lips.

"Mhm." Buck's eyes flutter as he leans further into Tommy, their noses brushing.

"Wonder why's that." Tommy hums, and Buck laughs, shakes his head slightly, enough to not lean away from Tommy.

"I always sleep better with you next to me." Buck whispers, and hears Tommy's breath hitch before he presses his lips to Tommy's.

___

no pressure tags

@dr-shortsighted-owl @eddiebabygirldiaz @watchyourbuck @diazpatcher @monsterrae1 @pirrusstuff @rogerzsteven @honestlydarkprincess @diazheartsbuckley @giddyupbuck @thewolvesof1998 @underwaterninja13 @your-catfish-friend @gaytommykinard @beyourownanchor6 @weewootruck @kirkaut @quillvice @wildfluorescent @bucked-it-up @drcloyd @girlwonder-writes @dadbodbucky @loullaby @aringofsalt @actuallyitsellie @hippolotamus @diazsdimples @hyperfocusthusly @cornerofspace @tommybuckleys @romanbridgers @evansbuck-ley @champagnetommy and anyone who wants to idk <3

[girlsworldillusion]

I'll fake it until you give up (or will it be me?)

Ravenclaw!Barty - Gryffindor!Reader

Summary: The five times Barty tried to hint at a relationship with you, being actively blocked in the process, and the one time you were the one who did it.

Rated: Explicit (+18)

Ella's Notes: This was supposed to be a one shot, yes I know. But it got out of hand and it was so ridiculously long that no one would have the patience to read something like that. So I split it into two parts - but before you kill me, the second part is practically ready, so I'll post it very soon. Let me know what you think of this first part!

In this story I didn't go into any details about the Slytherins mentioned and Barty himself having any association with Voldemort, nor anything about Death Eaters. In fact, you can even pretend that this scenario doesn't exist in this fic, because that was my intention. I wanted to create something independent, an alternative and lighter version of the events. Maybe in a future opportunity I'll write something within this canonical reality, but that's not the case this time.

Happy reading!

Word count: 6,5k

Lovely tags: @just-here-for-ff @amel1ee

Dividers: @saradika-graphics

English is not my first language, I apologize for any mistakes you may find.

i.

You felt bad for the blonde girl next to you in History of Magic class, having to put up with your frustrated huffs every few minutes, born of a complete and utter lack of understanding of the subject. Each class made you feel more confused than the last. Which, honestly, was understandable considering who was teaching.

Professor Binns, oblivious to the students dozing off and openly drooling during his lecture, continued to float tediously around the room with his hands clasped behind his transparent body, reciting every tiny and unnecessary detail about the Goblin Rebellion, his favorite topic to lecture on, with the energy of an old and broken vacuum cleaner.

You glance with some irritation at the nearly blank parchment on the table, your meager notes consisting only of dates and names fished here and there throughout the ghost's monotonous and endless speech - nothing that would guarantee you a good score in the upcoming N.E.W.T.s.

You hate with all your might that your impeccable grade record in all other classes is constantly tarnished by this one hellish subject, year after year.

How was it possible that after so much time listening to the same long and exhausting lectures about the damned rebellion, you still hadn't learned anything substantial about it?

It was clear that this was all Professor Binns' fault and his innate ability to put anyone to sleep in ten minutes of class - five if the day was particularly hot.

"And with that, I conclude today's class." The old ghost's dull, drawling voice rings out and for the first time since class began you feel excited by something he says, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. "For the next class I expect from each of you a detailed essay on how Urg the Unclean went from a simple goblin to a renowned leader of the XVIII Rebellion, even having his own image on a Chocolate Frog Card."

The smile dies as quickly as it appears and you slam your forehead against the tabletop with an exasperated groan between your teeth, hearing Pandora chuckle beside you, though she’s certainly as bored with the task as you are.

You turn your face away from the cold surface of the table, cheek pressed against the wood and a defeated look on eyes as you glide disinterestedly across the classroom — which looks as ready to kill themselves as you do. Your expression, however, sharpens immediately when you notice him.

Unlike the other students, who are either openly drooling over their desks as they take the best nap of the school year, or rolling their eyes so hard they might as well end up in the back of their heads in exasperation over this class, he remains irritatingly unfazed.

At first you wouldn’t think he was paying attention in class, not with the nonchalant way he rests his face on his hand, elbow propped on the table. His gaze isn't even on the boring Professor Binns, who's still talking (detailing the damned assignment about Urg the Unclean). His face is tilted over his palm, a sly, soft smile on his lips. And he's looking at you.

You keep the side of your face flat on the table as squint at him suspiciously.

You couldn't say when you first became aware of his stares. And even after you noticed it, for a long time you wondered if you were just imagining it. Of course it could only be your imagination. Why, after all, would he be staring at you at every opportunity he got? There was no apparent reason for it in your mind.

But time passed and what was apparently just imagination changed into an irrefutable certainty. You couldn't pretend not to notice his stares, especially since he never tried to be subtle about it; whether it was over the steamy cauldrons in Potions Class, or from the Ravenclaw table during meals, or the piercing gaze he gave you as he skilfully glided through the air on his broom during a Quidditch match, or even from a strategically positioned spot on the table in front of you as you tried to concentrate and study in the library...

Whatever it was, he was always looking.

And it was already disturbing you. Because, no matter how hard you tried, you simply couldn't understand why.

Of course, your mind always ran to the worst possibility of all. Some cruel little game orchestrated with his friends.

Although he was a Ravenclaw, you knew that most of his friendships was centered around Slytherin. Somewhat questionable friendships, such as; Evan Rosier, Regulus Black, Bellatrix, Rabastan Lestrange, Lucious Malfoy, Severus Snape, Wilkes...

Regulus Black and Evan Rosier seemed to be the most 'normal' of the dysfunctional group nicknamed by the other students as the Slytherin Gang; Regulus with his usual superior and disinterested attitude and Evan with the restless and endless energy of a Cornish Pixie. The others, however, were much more openly unpleasant and frightening.

It was not uncommon for you to have to give detentions to Rabastan Lestrange and Bellatrix Black on your nights of patrol as a Head Girl. You would constantly find them doing something they definitely shouldn't, like sneaking out of the dungeons after bedtime to make out indecently in the castle corridors in plain sight, or even cornering some poor younger student to torture with their cruel psychological games - and sometimes physically.

In any case, Barty Crouch's constant association with this group made you automatically label him as one of them, making you wary and suspicious, especially after noticing his stares at you.

Maybe Bellatrix and Rabastan were using him as a channel for revenge on you after all those detentions?

Although, knowing the sadistic and selfish streak of the duo, you doubted they would plan to inflict any torture methods on you through anyone other than themselves.

But anything was possible and the longer he stared, the more paranoid you became.

He smiled a little wider and his stupid crystal blue gaze slowly blinked at you, almost as if he could read your mind.

You blushed, widening your eyes slightly. Could he be a legilimens?

You knew he had the intelligence for it. He was intelligent enough that you were absolutely certain that, even though he didn't seem to hear a single word Professor Binns was saying, he already knew every annoying detail of this subject by heart.

Merlin, he had managed to perform and do ridiculously well in TWELVE O.W.L.s during the fifth year! Which is almost impossible to do, unless you're a damned time traveler, or someone with a level of intelligence and academic commitment that is destined for creatures of superhuman level.

You had your suspicions, and envy, thinking that perhaps he had access to a Time-Turner. But, since Time-Turners were only granted through a direct request from the Head of House to the Ministry, who fully trusted that the student would not use it recklessly, you ruled that possibility out almost immediately. No one in their right mind would trust that Barty Crouch Jr. would not use a Time-Turner to open rifts in space-time and permanently alter events of the past and future for purely selfish reasons, least of all the very sensible and intelligent Head of Ravenclaw House.

Which, of course, didn't help with the question of how he did it.

You yourself had fought tooth and nail, basically living like a living dead person throughout the school year to fit as many classes as possible into your free time during the day, and still managed to complete ten out of twelve O.W.L.s. Of course, at the time, you felt incredibly proud of this, since the standard was for a student, even the smartest, to only complete around seven or eight. Your pride, however, deflated considerably when you discovered that Barty Crouch, a guy with a questionable sense of humor and a worrying level of disinterest in seemingly anything that didn't have a pair of nice legs and a skirt, had surpassed you.

Indignation and envy aside, you felt like you were being pushed to the limit with these constant stares.

Pandora thought he was in love with you. An opinion that, respectfully, you laughed in her face when you heard. There was no way in hell that something like that would happen. Not only was Barty stupidly attractive and therefore completely out of your league - but the mere idea of ​​someone being romantically interested in you made you feel...well, weird would almost be a descriptive enough word.

You didn’t want romance. You never really understood the appeal of it, not at such a young age. Love distracts, it makes people lose sight of the goal, it makes them silly and vulnerable. And you didn’t have time to be silly and vulnerable, not with the weight of so many responsibilities on your shoulders, with dreams and grand ambitions waiting for you in the future. And surely no guy who had trouble keeping himself from cumming as soon as he got in your pants would understand that well enough. You were used to keeping yourself apart, it was almost a defense mechanism at this point. While other girls your age were collecting love, you were collecting good grades in the classes. And that was okay.

Don’t get me wrong, you weren’t necessarily a pessimist (but you certainly weren’t someone who believed in anything; your mother always told you that there was more wisdom in proving it for yourself than in believing in mere whispered words here and there). You just didn’t really understand how this whole love thing could be remotely interesting at your age.

And anyone with half a functioning brain cell knows that Crouch is chaos incarnate: loud, mischievous, and impossible to ignore. He's determined to break every rule ever made by man, but somehow still manages to be absurdly endearing while doing it. It just makes you want to run — to hide. He's definitely the kind of trouble you try to avoid as much as possible in your life.

And that's why the possibility of him being in love with you was definitely not encouraged. In fact, you vehemently refused to even acknowledge it. Simply because it wasn't possible — by any means. Neither would he be interested in you in that way, and much less could you afford to accept any soft feelings from him, on the off chance that they were real. So you cling to the only coherent explanation for all this supposed interest of his: cruel intentions.

Yes, that had to be it.

And it's with that thought in mind that you hurriedly gather your things as soon as Professor Binns finally finishes his almost endless speech and dismisses the class.

You don't look to the side as leave the classroom with brisk steps, but feel his gaze following you anyway.

ii.

Regulus Black was very handsome.

Like, unfairly handsome.

You stare at the Slytherin with a fair amount of jealousy oozing from your pores, a pout on your lips and a furrowed brow. The guy, for his part, doesn’t even seem to be aware of your spiteful gaze upon him, taking elegant, measured bites of the chocolate pudding on his plate, nodding discreetly every now and then to agree with whatever his chatterbox neighbor is saying.

He clearly doesn’t want to engage in any conversation with the boy, but he’s too courteous and polite to make any rude comments about it. Because of course, he’s Regulus Black.

With his aristocratic nose elongated in an undeniably masculine way, but maintaining a delicate curve and a pert tip in a disturbingly cute way - the soft dusting of freckles over the bridge only intensifying the cuteness. His thick, dark eyebrows, drawn in a perfectly symmetrical arch. His pale, smooth skin like the most flawless marble sculpture. His beautiful, onyx curls, framing the sides of his face like he was some ethereal creature from a fairy tale. His eyes, deep-set and beautifully flickering between green and blue, surrounded by the most ridiculously thick curtain of dark lashes you’d ever seen on anyone. And that was just Regulus Black’s face. It was taking absolutely everything in you not to start a detailed analysis of his damn tall, ripped Seeker body.

Now, you hadn’t planned on spending the night cataloging how many unfair ways Regulus Black managed to be more pretty than any other boy you’d ever seen in your life — by Merlin, he was prettier than most GIRLS you’d ever seen, too. You definitely didn't plan on feeling completely humiliated by his appearance that night, as if you looked like you'd been beaten by a Whomping Willow and never recovered from it.

None of that was in the plan, but at some point during Professor Slughorn's endless ramblings and the pretentious comments from the students of this small and select club of supposedly exceptional young people, you found your mind wandering to unwanted places. Unfortunately, Regulus Black was the one sitting right in your line of sight, on the other side of the table - and the poor guy was the victim of your mental fixation to escape boredom.

At first, you saw Slughorn's invitation as an invaluable honor. After all, you had been included in the extremely selective list of the most promising students at Hogwarts. Your body practically vibrated with excitement in the days leading up to the meeting. You picked out a cute dress for the occasion, fixed your hair and even applied a light layer of makeup. Your expectations were admittedly high and you planned to leave the meeting with some good friends and a lot of extra knowledge in your pocket.

But the meeting was nothing like you imagined.

Yes, the students present were all exceptionally talented in one way or another, and the food was quite good too. But the whole thing proved to be nothing more than a parade of superiority and arrogance, so dull and unsatisfying that it drained your energy within the first few minutes.

Slughorn was genuinely proud of having assembled such a group of model young minds, but the students were only concerned with proving who was better than the other. There was no stimulating conversation and extra knowledge as you had imagined - it was just an irritating and inconvenient contest of who had the best and most absurd lived experiences (most of them made up, you were sure) and who, in fact, stood out with it. 

You wanted to leave within the first fifteen minutes of this verbal ordeal, but forced yourself to stay for the sake of Professor Slughorn, who was genuinely elated by the whole thing.

Black and you were the only ones who hadn't shared any stories with the others, resigning yourselves to discreet and scattered comments here and there, just enough to let them know you were present.

To escape the absolute boredom, you let your mind wander. And that's how you ended up hyper-fixated on Regulus Black and his immaculate beauty. The Slytherin proved to be a very effective source of distraction, although his flawless face showed no emotion, remaining as expressionless as a doll - it was clear that the guy also wanted to get rid of this meeting urgently.

Your attention is only broken when a dramatic noise sounds at the entrance of the room, announcing someone's arrival.

Your eyes widen when you see none other than Barty Crouch Junior stumble into the room, spectacularly late. He smiles broadly at the alarmed looks at his indiscreet entrance, walking calmly with his hands in his pants pocket.

There must have been some mistake, you think in bewilderment as you watch him walk over to the table as if he belonged there.

Maybe he was just here to deliver a message?

Your hunch is proven wrong when he seems to notice your presence with a surprised look, his arrogant smile softening immediately to give way to a more natural, more sincere one. Even with a few options open, you sigh in no surprise when you hear him sit down in the empty chair next to yours, sliding in with the kind of ease that makes it seem like he belongs there, as if he was destined from the start to end up sitting next to you tonight.

You refuse to look at him, turning your face downwards as you busy yourself with sinking the spoon into your own half-eaten chocolate pudding. His audacity to sit next to you only makes you more frustrated - it's not like you're sending out the least bit receptive vibes to his company.

"It's very good to have you with us, Crouch. Even if you arrived later than agreed. It's a shame, I'm afraid you missed some very interesting experiences from your colleagues."

You want to roll your eyes at what Slughorn says from the head of the table, hardly classifying any of those made-up nonsense as remotely interesting, but his presence beside you makes you too tense to do so.

"I'm sorry about that, Professor, I had to finish some important work before I came. I promise I'll be here on time next time."

There's not much sincere regret in Ravenclaw's voice, in fact you swear you can hear something mischievous in his words, which almost makes you want to lift your head to look at his expression.

But, determined as you are to ignore anything Barty would no doubt say to start a conversation, you tilt your head down a little more so that your hair partially hides your face, still showing great interest in the pudding. Crouch, breathing beside you, makes a small sound of confusion at the obvious walls you’ve been putting up, before the sound turns into something akin to amusement.

“You know, ignoring me isn’t going to make me leave,” he says cheerfully — far too cheerfully for someone who’s supposedly (and rightly so) being ignored on purpose.

His recognition of your intentions means you can’t keep up your charade any longer. So, with a heavy sigh, you peer through your hair, already knowing what to expect.

There, right next to you, casually sitting like he was the male protagonist of some clichéd, cheesy romance novel, Batry Crouch smiles.

You feel your eye twitch.

Unlike Regulus, with his ebony curls elegantly arranged around his face, Barty always had that look of someone who tossed and turned all night in bed and didn't even bother to use a comb when he woke up. Locks of light brown hair stuck out in every direction, a mess of strands as chaotic as absolutely everything about him. A few lighter strands stood out among the brown mess, oscillating in a rich shade of gold and honey. And oh Merlin, did the look suit him.

"You look so beautiful tonight. I like that dress on you." He comments, seemingly oblivious to what his words spoken out of absolute nothingness could do to you. Or perhaps very purposefully aware of them. "By the way, you always look beautiful so..."

He's waving his hand in the air as if to emphasize the point that those supposed good looks were normal for you. And of course you get really nervous. It's true, no matter how much you try to deny it to yourself. No matter how much you deny the reasons for being nervous either. You're just not used to compliments, from anyone. Yet you appreciate them very much. Not that you're ever going to admit it, especially to someone as unruly as Crouch.

But you're worried that ravenclaw will notice how nervous you really are anyway, Merlin knows that would only boost his ego and further intensify his apparent commitment to poking you in the most annoying ways. It's a colossal effort to try to calm yourself down while simultaneously trying to stop the blush that was forming on your face. But by heavens, it's really challenging to do so when he's staring at you so openly and intently - oh my, he really doesn't have any respect for the boundaries of proper social behavior, did he?

Your eyes sparkle, cheeks turning pinker as you stare at him with a mixture of shyness and a violent session of anger daggers from beneath your lashes. You’re visibly flustered the longer he stares at you (and unlike you, he’s very comfortable with it), your hands fidgeting with each other on the table in a nervous gesture, having long since given up on poking at the poor chocolate pudding.

Barty blinks briefly at your nervous gesture before returning his eyes to yours. “You know you look so cute when you’re all blushing like that,” he teases playfully. “You look like a little strawberry or something.”

You let out a low, uncomfortable meow in your throat, feeling like you could burst into a ball of flames at any moment. What kind of dysfunctional compliment is that? He’s so horrible at it!

“But then again, I’ve never seen you blush that much,” Barty continues as if the observation wasn’t completely humiliating and unnecessary, his head tilted closer to your flaming face with genuine interest. Your gut churns and protests, seemingly trying to eat itself. What’s with that damn look on his face anyway? “Wait…do I make you shy, princess?”

You hate him. You hate him so much, You swear to Merlin, Barty is the worst. He can’t let a girl blush without drawing undue attention to it?! Sure, it’s a little like baking in your dress from how hard your body is blushing, and yeah, maybe you’ve never reacted like that to anyone else — but that’s no big deal!

Except Barty’s looking at you like it is. Like he wants to cut you open, dissect your insides and see for himself just how deep your supposed secrets are, and it’s doing things to you.

Your face won’t stop burning. “What a stupid ideia, of course you don’t — of course I don’t…” Your sudden, complete inability to form a coherent sentence only makes you more frustrated. “Just shut up, Crouch.”

But he doesn’t, of course he doesn’t. This is Barty.

“If you’re going to lie about this, at least be convincing,” he smiles wider, a sickly sweet humming sound in his throat, as if the whole situation pleases him beyond words.

You frown, hissing through your teeth as you ball your hands into fists, saying the first thing that comes to mind. “Stop smiling, idiot. This isn’t funny.”

The teasing glint in his blue eyes softens to something gentler at your discomfort.

“I’m not smiling to make fun of you little lion, believe me.”

Barty hums, lifting his hand from the table to reach out towards what appears to be, to your complete horror and shock, your face. Any naughty joke dies in your throat, your eyes widening in response, a blush creeping across your skin. A sharp gasp escapes your parted lips and you blink owlishly at those fingers so close to reaching your cheeks.

The boy freezes along with you, surprised by your reaction, his fingers frozen in midair as if he had been struck by a Glacius. You barely notice, though. All you can hear is the anxious beating of your own heart, the electricity that seems to crackle from the fingertips that threaten to brush against your skin.

He’s not…he shouldn’t be touching you. And he’s not, in fact. But then why does that make you feel suddenly dazed and pliable like long-whipped cream? It’s almost a disappointment that he hasn’t extinguished those last few inches and touched your flaming cheeks. You almost regret not knowing what his fingers would feel like on your skin.

What?

The thought comes so quickly, so naturally, that it almost makes you jump.

“Huh...” He breathes and you blink pathetically, coming back to the present with a startled expression and hands strangely damp with cold, nervous sweat. His eyes grow curiously darker, and he realizes, you know he does, you know the exact moment he understands something that not even you are willing to acknowledge, and holy shit, no. Just—no. No.

And when you turn your face away to escape that undesirably intense eye contact (and the equally undesirably feelings that come with it), you realize that damn Regulus Black has finally gotten tired of pretending to pay attention to what the boy next to him is saying. Because now his attention is completely focused on you and Barty and the strange exchange that just happened.

He’s wearing what you’d initially think is a completely neutral expression, but a closer look reveals the slight lift of his eyebrow as he slowly, appraisingly slides his eyes between you and Barty, as if silently contemplating something. For some stupid reason, as he stares at you like that, you feel a lot like a child caught by mom doing something their shouldn’t. He seems to find whatever he’s looking for when he allows a small, almost imperceptible smirk to lift the left corner of his lip, his sharp gaze shining with far more mischief than you’d expect from someone as emotionally distant as him.

You silently wish the ground would open up and swallow you right there, taking you to the deepest abyss - or any fucking place where you can just forget this whole thing ever happened. Your face is so heated with humiliation that you can literally feel your cheeks tingling with red, which only makes Regulus’s smirk grow a little wider.

Your resentment towards Barty Crouch Jr and his colossal guilt in this unspeakable situation grows along with that stupid grin.

“I’m leaving,” you announce abruptly, much louder than necessary, glad that Slughorn is now too engrossed in a conversation with a Hufflepuff in the far corner of the room to notice your cowardly and untimely exit. Before you do, however, you narrow your gaze at Barty while practically hissing through your teeth. “And, by Merlin, you better forget this whole thing ever happened or I swear I’ll spell you and make you vomit slugs all weekend, Crouch. I’m just going to — damn, just...bye.”

And then you’re off, without even allowing the ravenclaw to answer you — he’s already said too much, anyway.

Your stubborn gryffindor streak is trying too hard to sugarcoat the situation and convince you that this was a brave and completely strategic exit, to avoid more trouble. But the truth is, it's just you running, shamelessly running away with your tail between your legs while you can still feel Barty Crouch's gaze burning into the back of your neck and Regulus Black's annoyingly knowing smirk etched into your mind the entire way.

iii.

You never neglected your duties as Head Girl, ever.

So it was extremely unusual that you, on your patrol night, would be hiding in a dark, secluded alcove with a gray cat curled up on your lap while you cried everything you hadn’t cried in longer than you could remember.

You supposed it was bound to happen sooner or later, given the circumstances. But it was really inconvenient that it was on the night of your patrol.

A few days ago you received an owl from your parents with the news that your aunt, probably the person you loved most in the world, had passed away. Despite your intense feelings for her and the absolute shock of reading the letter, you didn’t shed a single tear. Not that night and not in the nights that followed. You grieved, of course; silently and internally. But for a moment you truly believed that this was it - this was all the grief you would ever feel.

Maybe you felt things differently than other people. Maybe you didn’t need to wallow in grief and tears like most people tended to do during their mourning.

And then, as you were patrolling the halls earlier that night, you spotted a cat approaching. At first, there was nothing special about it; cats were everywhere in the castle. Except this cat, furry and gray and with the smug air of someone who was countless miles above you in the social hierarchy, was almost identical to the cat your beloved aunt had kept. The same cat you spent the summers teasing, fluffing its soft, well-groomed fur while the animal gave you its best utter scornful glare — your aunt’s laughter ringing in the background, amused and affectionate.

And that was it.

Before you even realized what was happening, you felt the first tears roll down your cheeks, chest shaking with a shaky sob that fought to escape your lips. Like a burst dam, you felt something break inside you, intense and abrupt. There was no way to control the torrent of emotions that threatened to suffocate you, all you could do was run to find a place where no one could witness your collapse.

The cat, surprisingly, followed your hurried steps all the way, settling between your ankles as soon as you found a safe alcove, wrapping its long tail around your legs as you slid down the wall until you fell to the floor. You cried and sobbed and it purred the whole time; its soft, furry little body rubbing against your skin in a strangely comforting way. It made you feel a little better with its presence, the way it went out of its way to keep you company - as it knew it would do you good at that moment.

Small sobs escape your lips and the weight on your chest threatens to suffocate you for a moment and you choke, covering your mouth.

It's clear that this is undoubtedly a dramatic and unfortunate consequence of trying to internalize your feelings as you always do. But the worst thing is knowing that, when this sudden storm of emotions passes, you'll do it again. Because that's what you always do with your feelings. Run and hide.

The only consolation is knowing that no one other than the poor cat who had the misfortune of crossing your path (or would it be the opposite?) is witnessing this embarrassing moment. You're alone.

At least you think you're alone — until you're not anymore.

The flames in the braziers arranged on the stone walls cast shadows on the floor as someone approaches. And you don't need to look up to know who it is. There's no need to, because you feel the weight of his gaze, the same impossible-to-ignore gaze as always. You know it's Crouch without a doubt and you don't want to be seen like this. Not by anyone, but certainly not by him.

This seems to be enough of a motivator for the cry to die in your throat and suddenly your focus is solely on getting away of here. Get away from him. You need air, space, something.

You stand on shaky legs so fast you feel dizzy, your balance already precarious from the headache from crying so much, and the impact makes you stumble. For a split second, you think you might fall — your ankle twists awkwardly, the world tilts — and then a strong hand grabs your wrist, another braces on your back, steadying you before you can hit the ground. The cat running away during the confusion.

You don’t process what happens immediately, the abrupt turn and your own reeling mind making it hard to form a coherent judgment. Your mind is still stuck on running away and I can’t breathe, and it takes a second to realize that Barty is holding you upright, his hands firm but careful on your body, his expression wavering between amusement and concern.

“Hey hey little lion, what’s the rush?” He teases as always, but his voice loses its careless tone as he seems to get a better look at your face. And you can only imagine the shitty visual you’re giving off. The flames on the walls highlighting the wet trail of tears on your flushed cheeks, your eyes puffy and red from crying, teeth sinking into a quivering bottom lip, hair messy around your face. You look like hell, and you know it.

It doesn’t help that Barty is still examining your face, his eyes narrowing beneath heavy brows that furrow together.

You pull away from him, a little too quickly, a little too abruptly.

“I’m fine.” You spit before he can elaborate on whatever it is that’s on his mind.

Crouch doesn’t look convinced. “Are you sure?Because honestly, princess, It's not what it seems.” He tilts his head to get a better look at you. "Did someone hurt you? Tell me who made you feel like this, please, I swear I-"

"I said I'm fine." You cut off the endless stream of words, looking down as you adjust your shirt against your body, shifting the weight to your other foot, ignoring the new wave of tears that threaten to spill from your eyes. In the same way that you purposefully ignore how his readiness to solve whatever it is that made you feel so bad makes you feel...things. "Go bother someone else, Crouch."

Barty exhales, something heavy in the sound. You look up at the sound, almost uncomfortable with the change. For the first time, his blue eyes aren't filled with that same joy or mischief its always had. Just something inquisitive, something that makes your chest ache in a way you don't have the strength to deal with right now.

"Why...why do you do this?" he asks, softer now, but no less intense. Your brows furrow in confusion at the question, eyes still bright with unshed tears. He sighs, giving you a look that is nothing short of wistful. “Why do you try so hard to pretend that you don’t need anyone to care? You always act like you carry the whole world on your own and you’re doing just fine.”

Your fingers curl into your palms. Your lips tighten. You don’t want to hear this. You don’t want to acknowledge how close his words are to the truth. Your throat tightens.

“Why do you care?”

Barty lets out a sigh, tilting his head slightly, his eyes scanning your face as if you’re something he’s trying very hard to decipher. Then he laughs, low and humorless.

“You really don’t get it, do you?” His voice is lower now, something dangerously close to vulnerability. Your fists clench to the point of pain at your sides. “I care because it’s you.”

You blink at him, unable to understand, unable to accept whatever it is he’s trying to tell you. In fact, something inside you whispers that you do. But it feels like too much, like more than you can handle, more than you can comprehend. You feel impossible, a being made of knots and thorns, too tight in your own skin.

“Please,” you sigh then, tired and tearful, the next wave of tears finally spilling over your waterline to run down your wet cheeks, “let’s not do this now…I just, please—”

“Shhh,” he silences your incoherent protest as he pulls you closer with a firm but still gentle tug on your wrist. Your head sinks into the hard planes of his chest as you follow the pull with the naturalness of a wooden doll, your eyes wide and still leaking water — because, Merlin, he’s hugging you.

Your nose is buried in the white dress shirt of his uniform, and the first thing you notice is how strangely good he feels. Warm and comfortable against the chilly wind that blows in through the hallway’s openings, smelling like the wood that fuels the flames of the many fireplaces around the castle’s many and the fresh mint of the tea you drink before bed. And you don’t know what to do with it, what you’re supposed to be doing here. Your body is stiff and trembling as he gently wraps his arms around you, as if you’re something priceless, leaning in so he can bury his nose in the roots of your hair.

“Relax.”

And as if that small, whispered ‘relax’ was all you needed to pull yourself out of your own mind, you slowly feel every muscle beneath your flesh give way and do exactly what he asked; your body relaxing against his, doe eyes blinking against the softness of his shirt, lips parted as you let his presence comfort you.

He feels safe, trustworthy. And it’s so rare that you feel this way that even though you know it would be over in an instant, you don’t want to, and it doesn’t matter, and…your fingers ache to touch him back. It feels like a lifetime before you allow yourself to and you’re returning it. You wrap your arms around his waist to hug his back, gripping the fabric under your hands so tightly it hurts, but you can’t bring yourself to let go, face sinking into his chest to sob some more. Please, don’t make him let go.

“It’s okay, we’ll have time to talk later,” he murmurs into your hair, “I’m not going anywhere.”

And he doesn’t. He lets you cry and sob into his shirt, completely ruining it in the process. But Barty doesn’t care, not even when you sniffle and move to pull away after realizing how messy you’ve been. He just mumbles, 'It's okay, princess, I just want to help you feel better' - something that makes you blush and cry a little more. Because, good heavens, no one has ever said something like that to you.

At one point, you realize that you're both sitting on the floor, his back against the wall and you're half-sitting on the floor, between his legs, face still against his chest - feeling his deep, even breathing calm you down.

By the time tears stop falling, you're exhausted. You've been exhausted for so long, but this kind of exhaustion is different. Better. You realize that you're lighter now than you've felt in a long time, thanks to Barty Crouch Junior. And you...don't know how you feel about that.

And you're too exhausted to think about it.

But you do know one thing.

You don't hate this comfortable contact with him. You don't hate his fingers gently combing through your hair, untangling knots you didn't even know were there. You don't hate his whispers close to your ear, reciting the name of every constellation visible in the dark sky.

You certainly don't hate this moment of peace, a white flag you've raised to wave lazily between the two of you.

When you pull away some time later, struggling to smooth out your wrinkled skirt and shirt, you mumble a thank you to him with heated cheeks and shy eyes. And when he smiles back with his hands in his pockets and head tilted to the side, telling you not to mind, that it was nothing - and you freeze, feeling...

Disappointed?

It was nothing, really. This could never be anything other than 'nothing'. But for some reason, hearing that from him hits you in a completely unexpected and senseless way.

He notices the change in the shine in your eyes, rushing to rephrase what he said with a series of 'wait, that came out wrong' and 'please, I didn't mean it like that'. But you calm him down, assuring him that everything was fine and that it really was nothing, he’s more than right about it.

Before he can argue with that, you’re walking, smiling over your shoulder as you bid him a hasty goodnight before rushing off to your dorm.

Barty was right. This was nothing.

[spr1ngbunnypvrin]

🐣 Happy Easter at Playtime Co. Headcanon — Featuring Harley Sawyer (and his reluctant descent into madness)

Note: Sorry for not posting any content about PPT Harley x reader, so here's a make-up post for y'all…Now I'm going back to my hole.

You wanted to organize an Easter event for the orphans raised in the company’s care. You wanted color, joy, light—a break from sterile hallways and somber routines. You wanted Harley to be involved. He wanted nothing to do with it. You won.

🌸 Context

You, of course, bring it up during a meeting, with that look in your eyes that always means something big.

Stella’s ecstatic. Eddie says something like “Let’s make it the best Easter they’ve ever had!”

Leith suggests egg-hunting mazes and “bunny-themed hazard corridors” (he’s joking... mostly).

Harley just... slowly turns to look at you.

"Absolutely not."

"Do you understand the risk of exposing them to that much unregulated glitter?"

"And who approved this– oh. You did."

🐰 Preparations Begin

You:

Designing pastel-colored banners.

Assigning rooms for Easter egg painting, storytime, and "bunny cookie science."

Sneaking chocolate eggs into everyone's lockers, including Harley's.

Stella:

Goes full Spring Fairy Mode™.

She wears bunny ears unironically.

She starts calling it “The Spring Festival of Renewal.”

She insists the orphans do a flower-crown making session.

Leith:

Designs a massive egg-hunt route inside the facility.

Is too excited about hiding eggs in "high-risk, low-visibility areas.”

(Harley is Not Amused.)

"That’s an OSHA violation waiting to happen, Pierre."

"You don’t even know OSHA."

Eddie:

Brings in speakers.

Plays disco-remix Easter songs.

Bakes cookies that are absolutely loaded with sugar and then passes them around to the kids.

🥚 Harley’s Reluctant Involvement

You put him in charge of the Egg Dyeing Station.

He wears gloves, a lab coat, a grimace, and the smallest pink bunny sticker you managed to sneak onto his sleeve.

He says things like:

“Do not consume the dye.”

“That’s not how color theory works—give me that—”

“…Fine. Add glitter if you must. Just don’t get it on the—”

One of the orphans hands him a hand-painted egg.

It says “Doctor Hoppy.”

He stares at it in silence.

He doesn’t speak for the next five minutes.

He keeps the egg. You notice it later on his desk.

💖 The Moment

As the event goes on, Harley’s resistance slowly cracks.

He watches you helping a child tie their bunny ears.

He sees Stella lifting a kid onto her shoulders to help them reach an egg hidden on a pipe.

He sees you smile at him from across the hall—just a little messy, a little tired, but glowing.

The moment he lets out a sigh and adjusts a child’s poorly fastened bowtie, you know he’s doomed.

“If you must frolic… do it safely.”

💐 Later That Night

You find him alone in the lab, looking over an Easter egg one of the children handed him that has both of your initials drawn (poorly) in crayon.

He doesn’t say anything as you approach, but when you lean against the counter next to him, he murmurs:

“You’ve turned this place into chaos.”

“They laughed. They smiled. Even Eddie stopped breaking things long enough to be useful.”

“…Maybe it wasn’t the worst use of company time.”

He hands you a small, carefully-wrapped chocolate bunny. The tag says your name.

“Scientific curiosity.”

“…I wanted to see if you’d smile.”

🎁 Bonus: The Aftermath

Harley still finds glitter in his lab weeks later.

Someone (probably Leith) taped a picture of him mid-egg-painting to the bulletin board.

The orphans start calling him “Dr. Hoppy” unironically.

He never corrects them.

🌙 Post-Easter Soft Moment — You and Harley, After the Chaos

The facility had gone quiet. The streamers had been taken down, the confetti vacuumed, the cookies either devoured or confiscated, and the orphans were sound asleep in the guest dormitories, sugar crashing like little meteorites. Even Leith was finally gone, after a three-minute chase around the cafeteria involving a water gun and a rogue bunny puppet.

But Harley?

You found him in the East Observation Lab, where the glass windows looked out over the city like a crystal dome. The lights were off, save for the blinking panels on the monitors, casting a cold blue light on everything. His lab coat was still rumpled from the day’s chaos, and there was a faint smudge of pink dye near the collar he hadn’t noticed.

He didn’t turn when you came in—just spoke quietly:

“You survived.”

You smiled faintly.

“Barely. One of the kids tied my shoelaces together and said it was a ‘trap for the egg bandit’.”

“Hnh.” A dry sound. Possibly a laugh.

You joined him at the counter, where he was examining something with a level of intensity usually reserved for corrupted data or misbehaving prototypes.

It was the egg.

The one with your initials and his, scribbled by a child with too much crayon and too much hope. It was lumpy, imperfect, and cracked slightly down one side. He’d placed it on a weighted display tray, as if it were some rare relic.

“You kept it.”

He didn’t look at you.

“It was structurally interesting.” “The layering of paint was inefficient, yet…” He trailed off, brow furrowing. “…charming.”

You looked at him from the side—how the light caught the edge of his jaw, the curve of his mouth held just a little tighter than necessary. You could still see the remnants of stress under his eyes, but they were softer now. Warmer.

You nudged his elbow.

“You did good today, Doctor Hoppy.”

“Say that again and I’ll cancel Christmas.”

“Not even a little hop?”

He finally turned to look at you, and the expression he wore was… unreadable at first. Then it softened further—an almost bewildered fondness, like he couldn’t quite understand how you’d gotten under his skin and rearranged the wires without him noticing.

“Why do you care so much?” he asked, barely above a whisper. “About these… things. Events. People.”

“Because someone has to,” you replied simply. “Because I believe in joy. Even here.”

His gaze lingered.

Then, carefully—as if afraid the moment might break—he reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out a small foil-wrapped shape. A second chocolate bunny.

But this one… wasn’t from the event. The wrapper was matte black and gold. It looked expensive.

He placed it in your hand without a word.

“Happy Easter,” he said after a long pause. “…I acquired this prior. In case you… didn't like the corporate treats.”

Your fingers brushed his as you took it.

“You’re spoiling me, Doctor Sawyer.”

“I haven’t even started.”

It slipped out so quietly that it almost didn’t feel real—but it was. His voice held no mockery, no defense. Just a subtle admission, wrapped in his usual clinical delivery.

You smiled.

And for once, he didn’t look away.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

an italian fish conspiracy theory

We’ve been calling Mrs. Leech “Georgina” (which I believe has Greek origins) but what if her name is actually… “Giorgina”, a more Italian spelling??? Might this be how her name will be localized in EN?

I thought this because Ultramarine City strikes me as very… mediterranean?? More specifically, Italian. For example, the geography and architecture resembles Italy’s coastlines, which are rocky. The buildings and surrounding have similar coloration as well. Seafood is highly popular both in Italian costal cities and in Ultramarine City.

Furthermore! Malleus has a voice line in his Shore’s Celebration card in which he mentions having gelato, which is an Italian frozen dessert similar to ice-cream. Gelato has lower milk fat content (less cream, more actual milk) and a slower churning process, which incorporates less air into the final product.

Now, it’s true that these Italian details apply to the city and not necessarily to Mrs. Leech herself. BUT—she has an acquaintance that is getting married here, in this specific place. It’s possible that they’re connected more than we think. Maybe Mrs. Leech has more “Italian” (or whatever the Twst equivalent of it is) background than we think she does.

Jade, her own son, has a voice lines in his Shore’s Celebration card in which he mentions wanting to arrive via gondola if he were to have his own wedding on land. A gondola is—you guessed it, an Italian boat. Now why would Jade specify a GONDOLA and not a ship, rowboat, or any of the other kinds of boats…? Why would he pick a type of boat that has no appearance in The Little Mermaid (which was originally a Danish tale) and didn’t associate with a particular location like Ultramarine City?

When you think about it, this isn’t even the ONLY Octatrio member with Italian ties. The -grotto in Azul’s surname is an English word adopted in the 1600s, but originally derived from Greek, Latin, and Italian origins. We also can't forget how the trio is constantly presented as "mob" or "mafia"-like. Mafia, of course, being an organized crime group or family originally operating in Sicily, Italy.

The on-campus café Azul runs, the Mostro Lounge, is Italian for “monster” (and many fans of even mistook the name as “Monstro”, the name of the whale from Pinocchio, which is set in Italy). His mother’s restaurant, La Grotta, also sounds Italian. Grotta refers to a pothole (ie a hole or cave made in rock by the action of swirling water). Azul even specifically refers to his mother’s restaurant in a few voice lines as a trattoria, which is an Italian eatery. Not only that, but food is a huge part of Italian culture. It’s important for families to come together to eat at the same table (something which is increasingly becoming difficult to so in the modern age), and feeding others is seen as a sign of love. AND WHAT DO MRS. LEECH AND MRS. ASHENGROTTO DO??? That’s right, they give Azul lots of food 😭 Not to say that food = love is exclusively related to Italian culture, just that Italian culture is one of the cultures with that strong association.

Because the twins and Azul live in the same general area of the Coral Sea (they are familiar with the ice floes of winter, they go to the same schools, their families seem to know each other), I find all these Italian details to be more than coincidence 🤨

That’s not to say that the Coral Sea and/or the Sunshine Lands ARE 1:1 twisted Italy. I’m sure the devs have additional inspirations as well, such as other mediterranean cultures and maybe even some non-mediterranean cultures. For example, the Octatrio mention their home, the Coral Sea, being frozen over in winter, which definitely does not occur in mediterranean areas but are moreso associated with Scandinavian (like Denmark, the area in which TLM originates) seas. just thought this was interesting to note!!

Goes back to tag all my Georgina posts with “Giorgina” too just in case…

[barachiki]

Sooooooo I just got an anonymous message that my personal posts make them uncomfortable in between all my images.

That really threw me off. I’ve had messages like this before, but it has been a while.

Yesterday, I had a comment asking why I don’t make new stuff as frequently as I used to.

Look, people.

I’m a human. Hi.

I do human things. Sometimes I even express my thoughts on the human things I do.

It doesn’t give you the right to complain about the quantity, quality, or frequency of entertainment I provide.

I’m sorry I don’t post as often as I used to, it is really a different time than it was ten years ago. In my life, in the fandom, in the world.

I’m sorry if you’d prefer I keep my personal stuff on another blog, but I’m not going to do that.

I’m just sorry you might not get it. Or that I don’t get it. I don’t even know any more.

I’m sorry if this comes across as rude, but I’m tired, in pain as always, and I’m just treading water with my life. I’m not being rude, I’m just telling it as it is.

If you don’t want to hear it, you can block my just blabber tag.

[defuckingthrone-dot-com]

Hi! So I’ve been into shy nerdy Noah lately. Can you please write a one shot about Noah who’s really shy and geeky like he’s never had any womanly contact before, but turn it into a smut

Nerdy Noah you say? I got you! (And I'm sorry this took entirely too long to post) I hope you like it!

Tag List: @bloody-spades @chey-h

If you would like to be added to the tag list, please go here.

Smut below the cut!

Noah had spent most of his life mastering playing video games but zero-time mastering women.

For being a tall boy that was heavily tattooed much less the singer of a very prominent hardcore band you would guess that what you couldn't see from his twitch streams how he adorns the other side of the wall with comic book and action figures

But that started to change after he met you. his neighbor.

You had both crossed paths once or twice, just casual good morning or good afternoons, but nothing more.

So, he was just as surprised when one day you knocked on his door.

"Hi, I'm sorry to bother you, I'm having trouble setting up my new tv on the wall, and I'm embarrassed to say that I didn't know who to call, I'm new here" you take a deep breath, "oh god I'm rambling. So would you be able to help me?"

There was no denying you thought he was handsome and the thought of having to ask for his help made you nervous but here you were.

"Yeah... yes. of course, no problem i will help you." he said a bit shy which was something you didn't expect all

Of course, you knew zero to nothing about it except for the fact that he lived next door to you.

With a smile you signaled him to follow you into your home. you showed him the living room where you had already unboxed the tv.

"Thank you once again for helping me, I don't know what I'm doing with this sort of thing," you said and gave him a sheepish smile.

All he could do was nod. You quickly realized that maybe he wasn't much of a talker as he got to work on setting up the tv on your wall.

You watched as he got to work and you tried to not ogle too much but something about him made your eyes be glued to him. His bright tattoos, his comically large hand. the way he focused on the task? you couldn't quite put your finger on it but there was something.

After about 40 minutes of you just staring at him while he worked, he finally finished.

"Uh, it's all done, tv is on the wall now, you can take a look" he said in quite possibly the smallest voice he could do. You find it a bit odd how he behaves. You would think that by the way he looks his confidence level would be out of this world, and he probably would have a line of girls waiting for his attention.

"It looks perfect thank you, i appreciate it so much, let me pay you for this, just let me grab m...." you started searching around for your wallet before he cut you off.

"Please don't. I don't. need to be paid.."

"Please? at least let me do something for you, i would feel horrible with you walking out of here and not getting nothing for your work"4

He just stared at you without saying anything.

The silence was making you a bit anxious, so you blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

"Your girlfriend must be very lucky to have you and be able to do things like this."

He chuckles so subtlety that you barely noticed "I don't have a girlfriend actually"

"No way, you're tall, handsome and tattooed" you say without thinking and watch as he begins to turn a bit red.

Your feet started moving involuntarily towards him and in a matter of seconds you were standing in front of him.

Once again, he stayed silent just looking down at you with the softest bobba eyes you had ever seen.

You don't know what came over you but you grabbed his hand and felt the smallest twitch from him.

"You seem nervous, are you okay?"

"No... I mean yes... i mean, I've just never really been with this close to a girl before" he says with a nervous laugh

" How close?" Now you're intrigued.

"Like this" he looks down at your hand grabbing his.

"Oh" you say but don't make even the slightest attempt to move your hand. The little devil on your shoulder whispered into your ear to make a proposition that even you wouldn't dare say out loud but something came over you that you couldn't resist. "Okay you haven been close or touched by another woman?" you make a small pause not really expecting an answer. "Do you want to change that? I could help you out if you would like"

You could see the wheels turning inside his hand and before he could turn you down you started speaking again

“Ok I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that.. i don't know what came over me” you nervously laugh

“Yes i want you to help me” he blurted out before you could continue

“You do? Okay yes i can do that” you guided him over to the sofa where you had him sit down and without a second thought you straddled him. “Is this okay?” you wanted to make sure that he was okay

He nodded quickly. “Please tell me to stop if you feel uncomfortable” he nodded once more.

You started to let your hand roam, first up his tattooed arms, next down over his clothed chest. He made no move so you decided to make the initiative and grab his hand to place it directly on your ass. 

“It's okay Noah, you can touch me too.” he nodded and with the smallest movement he squeezed on tenderly. 

Your left hand found the hem of his shirt and tugged on it. “Can I take this off?” you asked in your sweetest voice.

“ye.. yes…” 

You fisted the hem of the shirt in your hand and raised it to pull it over his hand once it was off you threw it to the floor behind you.

As you looked down at his chest you started to trace all the intricate ink adorn it. “I love your tattoos, they look so good on you”

“Thank you, i love getting tattooed, my best friend is a tattoo artist and he has done most of them, if you want one i could let him know..” 

You chuckled at his response.

“i'm sorry i tend to yap when im nervous.” he says apologetically

“Don't be, I think it's cute.” you said, leaning into him, lips just inches from his. 

Hands still roaming you decided that for now you would leave a kiss on the corner of his mouth and leave a trail down from mouth to his jaw, down his neck and moving down his chest. 

You were now down on your knees in between his legs looking up to him. without breaking contact you unbuckled his belt and unbuttoned his jeans. You could feel the shivers he was getting. 

“Do you want me to stop Noah?” you asked once more to make sure he was really okay.

“¡No!” he blurted so fast. 

That's all you need to hear, you grabbed onto the waistband off his boxers and pulled it down to free his now throbbing cock. Pink at the tip and veins running down to the base,

This time you decided not to ask and moved your hand to touch it and with small up and down motions you started to stroke it. 

A smirk grew on your face as you saw Noah's eyes roll back.

“Does it feel good Noah? Do you want more?” 

“It feels so good oh god” he threw his head back “Please more”

You saw a few beads of precum on his tip and used it as lubrication to move up and down a bit faster. 

You moved your head down so your lips could meet the tip.You gave a quick lip while maintaining eye contact with.

“Will you be a good boy for me Noah? Will cum in my mouth?” Hearing yourself saying it outloud shocked you a bit , you never been like this with anyone else but the feeling of dominating Noah and teaching him new things had you on a high.

“Yes, I'll be a good boy! yes..” he said with heavy breathing.

With that you went to town. You grabbed his cock at the base and brought the tip up to your mouth again. You licked once, twice before you fully opened your mouth and put it in. You started slow at first, moving your head up and down and licking all around. 

As the minutes passed you started to set a faster pace, now going down past the tip and to the middle almost reaching the base. You moved your hand that was at the base in unison with your mouth and moved it along up and down. 

You can feel Noah starting to shake and if it wasn't for all of your senses being heighting you would have heard him saying he wouldn't last much longer.

With your free hand you gripped at his thigh which still had his pants midway. as you make sure now to reach the base of his cock with your mouth. One small gagging sound you were knowing hitting his pubic hair with your nose.

A few head bobs later you felt the string of cum hitting the back of your throat, slowing down the motion off your head you detached and made a swallow sound, your hand grabbing on to him once more to give him a few last strokes. 

“Wow, that was…incredible…” he said in his shy voice again “no women has ever touched me or like this” he said turning red again

You chuckled while whipping your mouth  and said “Yeah? Maybe i can help you out more often, we can make it into a few lessons” you finish with a wink

“I'd like that…yes!” he said without hesitation while buttoning his jeans again. 

[kckt88]

Imzadi VIII

Summary:

Aemond's reign begins with bloodshed and a new council is assembled.

Warning(s): Angst, Drama, Language, Uncle/Niece Incest, Kissing, P in V, Multiple Positions, Interupted Sex, Knotting, Character Death, Blood, Violence & Arguements.

AEMOND x O.C NIECE

ALPHA/BETA/OMEGA DYNAMIC

Word Count: 7040

A.N - 'Imzadi - Beloved'

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

Comments, likes, and reblogs are very much appreciated, do not copy/post to other sights without my permission.

Tag List - @jasminecosmic99 @kaelatargaryen @yesterdayfeelings-blog @immyowndefender @0eessirk8 @darylandbethfanforever9 @killua2dot0 @msassenach @xcharlottemikaelsonx @moonnicole @zenka69 @aemondsbabygirl @aphroditesblunt @iamtoriasworld @persephonerinyes

“Lord Otto Hightower-”

Gasps erupted across the Dragonpit. The crowd recoiled, stunned, some even blinking as if they had perhaps misheard.

Otto’s smile shattered. Gone was the polished expression of smug satisfaction.

His lips parted, eyes wide with dawning horror, as if the very ground beneath his feet had cracked open.

Alicent stared at her father, lips parted, eyes wide with disbelief. “F-Father-” she whispered, but the sound was swallowed by the wind and the growing unrest.

Nearby, Aegon clutched Helaena’s arm and tugged her back. Her eyes were distant, as her mouth moved with eerie calm:

“The Hand no longer turns the loom; No spool of black, no spool of green; a traitor’s blood spilled at the seam”

Otto took a staggering half-step forward, his voice cracking:

“Your Grace, surely, this is a mistake—”

But Aemond’s voice rang like thunder “GUARDS—SEIZE HIM!”

For a heartbeat, the Kingsguard looked to one another, uncertain. Then, at a silent nod from Ser Harrold Westerling, they surged forward.

Otto flinched, trying to step back, but gloved hands grabbed him, dragging him forward.

He struggled and protested as he was forced to his knees before his grandson.

Aemond stepped down from the dais slowly, his fury burning. He stood before Otto, looking down at him with cold finality.

He leaned in, voice low and venomous. “Did you truly believe that you could get away with it? That I wouldn’t find out what you were doing?”

Otto’s lips trembled “I—I know not of what—”

“Do not fucking lie to me-”

Otto flinched at the snarl, eyes darting, desperate “Aemond, pleaseI did what—”

Aemond stepped back, turned to the crowd, his voice booming:

“The Hand of the King. My own grandsire. Skulking in the shadows. Hiring assassins and plotting not only my death—but the death of my Queen-the only Omega to exist since Queen Rhaenys-”

The crowd erupted in fury.

“Traitor!” — “Snake!” — “Hang him!”

The air crackled with rage, the voices of the people rising in a storm of hatred.

But Aemond wasn’t finished.

“Yet he did not act alone. Larys Strong. Jasper Wylde. Tyland Lannister. Maester Orwyle—all complicit in his schemes. SEIZE THEM!”

Before the accused could react, more guards closed in, seizing them roughly and dragging them forward to kneel beside Otto.

The boos and hisses grew louder. The air itself seemed to boil with disgust and betrayal.

Alicent rushed forward, grabbing Aemond’s arm.

“Aemond—what are you doing?” she cried. “You cannot execute your entire council!”

Aemond turned on her, voice rising “Can’t I? Tell me, Mother—should I simply smile and say all is well? Shall we all hold hands and dance around in a circle singing rhymes made for children. Or mayhaps I should let the traitorous cunts go free?"

Alicent sighed "Aemond-"

"What message does that send?! That it’s acceptable to plot the death of the King and his Queen?!”

Alicent tried again, voice shaking “I know you’re angry—”

“Angry?!” Aemond’s voice cracked with pain, fury, grief. “They were going to kill her—reduce her to nothing but a broodmare, use her body like a vessel for heirs they’d rip from her arms"

“Your Grace-”

“I can’t—” Aemond’s voice broke. “-Live without her. She is my mate. I love her.”

Tears shimmered in his eye and Alicent's expression softened. Her hand rose, cupping her son’s cheek tenderly, the way she had when he was a child.

“Then do what you must, my son.”

Aemond drew a breath, steadying himself. He turned toward Rhaenyra and Daemon, who both gave firm, solemn nods.

The lords beside them—Cregan, Jeyne, Borros, Corlys, and Rhaenys—all looked on in stunned silence, their expressions hardened with disgust at the traitors.

Aemond turned to Lucaera, cupping the back of her neck gently as he pressed his forehead to hers.

“Go stand with your mother,” he whispered.

“I wish to remain by your side—”

“No,” he breathed. “This is something I must do alone. The man who passes the sentence must swing the sword-”

Lucaera kissed him gently, her lips soft and sure, and moved to stand beside her mother and brothers.

Aemond returned to face the kneeling traitors, his eye narrowed and cold.

“The dogs that kneel before your King,” he declared, “-have conspired against the crown for years, plotting and scheming in the shadows for their own personal gain and today they will pay for their betrayal-”

The crowd booed louder, vengeful and furious.

Jason Lannister pushed through the crowd, kneeling before the dais. “Please, Your Grace—he’s my brother—have mercy—”

“Silence-” Aemond growled, “or Casterly Rock will be turned into another Harrenhal and House Lannister will be buried beneath it's ashes”

Jasper Wylde then began to beg “My king—I only did what I thought was best—”

“Save your breath-” Aemond hissed. “Nothing you can say will save your head from being parted from your fucking neck.”

Larys Strong said nothing. His gaze was fixed on Lucaera, lips curled in a perverse smile.

Aemond noticed and his fury surged. “You dare look at my Queen?” Aemond snarled, stepping forward as he drew Blackfyre. “You filthy toad.”

Maester Orwyle whimpered out a plea, but Aemond didn’t even look at him.

“Otto Hightower. Tyland Lannister. Jasper Wylde. Larys Strong. Maester Orwyle—” His voice rose, echoing through the Dragonpit. “I, Aemond of House Targaryen, the First of My Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm—sentence you all to die.”

And one by one, he swung.

Tyland. Jasper. Larys. Orwyle.

Four heads fell. Four traitorous lives ended.

Then Aemond stood over Otto, the blade of his sword dripping with the blood of his co-conspirators, the tip pointed at his throat.

“Any last words, grandsire?”

Otto’s lip curled. “You’ll never be the King your father was”

Aemond’s eye narrowed. “No. I’ll be greater”

Blackfyre rose in the air and then came down in a graceful arch. The metal easily slicing through skin and bone as Otto’s severed head dropped to the floor with a wet thud, his body slumping forward.

For a moment—silence.

Then—

“LONG LIVE THE KING! LONG LIVE THE QUEEN!”

Aemond cleaned Blackfyre on the hem of his cloak and sheathed it with finality.

He turned, holding out his hand to Lucaera, and she stepped forward, placing her palm in his.

Love and understanding surged through their bond, anchoring him.

“Put their heads on pikes-” Aemond ordered coldly. “Feed the bodies to the dragons.”

Just before turning to leave, Aemond stopped before Ser Criston. He leaned in, voice low and dangerous.

“I pray that you were not involved in any of this. Because if I find out that you were—by the time I’m finished, you’ll beg for death.”

Criston swallowed hard. “I swear it, Your Grace—I was not.”

Aemond narrowed his eye.

“It is by my grace that you remain in the Kingsguard. But your dalliance with my mother ends. NOW-”

Criston opened his mouth to speak, no doubt to deny it—but Aemond growled.

“Do not fucking speak. I know, Cole. I’ve always known-”

Without another glance, Aemond and Lucaera turned, walking from the Dragonpit surrounded by the kingsguard as they made their way to the waiting royal carriage.

The Iron Throne loomed large behind him, the metal jagged and cold, but Aemond sat with ease, his long fingers tapping slowly along one of the steel edges—measured and thoughtful, in the silence of the throne room.

Below, gathered in respectful anticipation, stood the lords and ladies of the realm.

Considering that most of the council had been executed that morning, Aemond now needed to reconstitute it—offering positions to those who would be loyal, honest and faithful, not only to the crown but to the realm itself.

At the base of the throne stood Lucaera. Regal and radiant in her silvery crown—the light danced across the polished metal, casting her in an ethereal glow. Her hands resting gently on her stomach, where their pup grew.

Aemond caught her looking up at him, her violet eyes meeting his.

Through their bond, he felt her warmth—her love—and the subtle flush of embarrassment as she picked up on his growing arousal.

She blushed, her cheeks dusted with rose, and Aemond had to will himself to focus.

The Alpha Prime within him growled low with appreciation, imagining his Queen wearing nothing but her crown as she writhed and moaned beneath him.

Aemond shook his head and took a deep breath, shifting slightly on the Iron Throne, now was not the time to get a cock stand.

Cleared his throat.

“Lord Corlys Velaryon. Step forward-”

Corlys took a stedying breath, and stepped out from the crowd, bowing his silver head. “Your Grace.”

Aemond’s voice rang clear, steady “You served on my father's council for many years as Master of Ships. You proved wise in your counsel and loyal in your service. I would see that continue. I name you again as the Master of Ships”

Corlys gave a solemn nod “I accept the honour, Your Grace. Thank you.”

“And I take this moment to confirm that Lucerys Velaryon is named heir to Driftmark, and the future Lord of the Tides.”

The throne room rippled with shock—murmurs spreading like wildfire, a surprising offer considering the history between Aemond and Lucerys.

But Corlys only bowed again, deeper this time, and returned to stand beside Rhaenys.

“Lord Lyman Beesbury has long served as Master of Coin. However, he now desires time with his family—and I have granted his request- which leaves me without a Master of Coin—Lord Thaddeus Rowan, step forward”

Lord Thaddeus blinked, visibly startled at his name being called, but he took a deep breath and stepped forwaed.

“Your Grace.”

“I have no doubt that your intelligence and shrewdness will benefit not only the crowns coffers, but the realm also. I name you Master of Coin”

“I-I accept. Thank you, Your Grace.”

Aemond pursed his lips “Know that I will be watching you, Lord Rowan, I intend to see our fortunes flourish- not diminish under greed and selfishness”

Thaddeus nodded quickly and returned to the crowd.

“Lady Jeyne Arryn. Step forward-”

Jeyne moved with poise, her features calm, as she bowed respectfully “Your Grace.”

Aemond eyes her curiously “You strike me as a woman of great intelligence and strength.”

Jeyne nodded “I’d like to think so, Your Grace.”

Aemond offered the barest smile “Then I offer you the position of Mistress of Laws-”

Jeyne inclined her head “It would be my honour”. She then returned to her place in the crowd, composed and steady, even though the crowd was whispering curiously at Aemond’s appointment of a woman on his council.

“Prince Daemon Targaryen, step forward”

Daemon who seemed unbothered by his summons, stepped forward with a wry smirk

“I would hope to never need a Master of War-” Aemond said, “but it is wiser to have one than to find oneself lacking and given your victories in battle—particularly the Stepstones—I shall name you Master of War”

The crowd erupted into gasps, many surprised at Aemond’s offer. Daemon cocked his head to the side and rested his hands on the hilt of Dark Sister studying Aemond for a long moment before nodding.

“I accept the offer, Your Grace” replied Daemon before returning to the crowd and resuming his position next to Rhaenyra.

Aemond the cleared his throat “Aegon Targaryen. Step forward-”

Aegon who had been eyeing up one of the noble lords daughters, looked confused and almost dazed—but slowly shuffled forward.

He quickly glanced at Lucaera who shrugged.

Aemond leaned forward slightly “I have no official position to offer you. But you shall sit on my council, nonetheless. You will not spend your days wasting away in wine, you will make yourself useful brother-”

Aegon huffed, rolling his eyes. “Of course, Your Grace.” He then bowed—half-heartedly and slunk back into place next to Helaena, who was smiling brightly.

“Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen. Step forward-”

A hush fell on the crowd. All eyes turned eagerly to witness what was about to unfold.

Rhaenyra moved forward with quiet dignity, bowing slightly. “Your Grace.”

Aemond spoke with full authority “As King, I confirm your possession of Dragonstone. It shall pass to your heir, Jacaerys, upon your death. When your younger sons—Aegon and Viserys—come of age, they shall be given places of high honour at court.”

Rhaenyra nodded. “Thank you, Your Grace I—”

Aemond held up his hand “-I’m not finished”

The entire hall went still, everyone holding their breath in anticipation.

“Tradition demands that I name a Hand of the King. A trusted advisor. A person that can be counted upon to help govern, guide, and safeguard the realm-Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, I name you Hand of the King-”

The room gasped. Murmurs rose—everyone remained rooted to the spot.

Rhaenyra stared at Aemond stunned, clearly not expecting him to make such an offer, and it seems as though she was not alone in her surprise as Lucaera was now staring open mouthed at Aemond, before she quickly regained her composure.

Aemond cocked his head to the side and smirked  “Gaomagon ao mazōregon mandia?” (Do you accept, sister?)

Rhaenyra’s breath caught—but then she nodded. “Gaoman, lēkia.” (I do, brother).

Aemond nodded and watched as she returned to Daemon’s side, still visibly taken aback.

“Princess Rhaenys Targaryen.”

Rhaenys stepped forward, expression unreadable. “Your Grace.”

“You are wise, and you are just. And If I may say so, you do not fear speaking truth. I would have you on my council as an advisor—to help keep my rule tempered and sound.”

Rhaenys smiled faintly. “I accept. And I thank you, Your Grace.”

“Lord Cregan Stark-”

The northern lord moved forward, bowing first to Lucaera, then to Aemond.

“Though the North is far-” Aemond said, “-I would like to have your voice here. As an advisor, one I can trust to speak with honour and without ambition.”

Cregan nodded thoughtfully. “It is a wise request, Your Grace. And one I am happy to accept.”

He turned briefly to Lucaera, nodding respectfully, before returning to the crowd.

Aemond rose from the throne. “Now that my council has been named, we shall meet on the morrow, after breaking our fast. Change must come—and swiftly. For the good of the realm. Now, if you will excuse me. I desire a moment alone with my Queen. I shall, of course, see you all at the celebration feast later tonight-”

The crowd bowed, as Aemond descended the Iron Throne’s steps. Reaching Lucaera, he took her hand in his.

Their bond pulsed with shared desire, devotion, and a growing anticipation neither could quite suppress.

Just as Aemond and Lucaera reached the great doors of the throne room, a voice cut through the reverent silence behind them.

“Aemond—” came Alicent’s voice, sharp, urgent. “Please, wait.”

Aemond stopped, his back still turned. He inhaled slowly through his nose, his jaw tightening.

“Not now, mother.”

Aemond didn’t wait for her reply.

With steady steps, he guided Lucaera out of the throne room, the huge wooden doors slowly closing behind them with a low thud.

“Ivestragī issa rȳbagon ao” growls Aemond (Let me hear you).

 “A-Aemond. Oh god. Please” moaned Lucaera.

“I know your almost there. Let it happen my sweet. Come for me” whispered Aemond.

Lucaera arched her back and let out a scream as her pleasure erupted.

“Fuck” groaned Aemond, his fingers digging into the flesh of his wife’s hips.

“God. Yes. Aemond” moaned Lucaera, as he began to thrust in and out of her in deep achingly slow thrusts.

Lucaera took one of Aemond’s hands that was on her hip and brought it towards her head.

Knowing what his naughty wife wanted, Aemond placed his large hand on the back of her head and pushed her face into the mattress, her back arching beautifully.

His cock reaching deeper inside her as he moved with such ferocity it could rival an animal, his long silver hair unbound, sticking to his sweaty back, his abdominal muscles flexing taut as he pounded into her.

Aemond then grasped both of Lucaera’ arms and held them behind her back as he thrust into her, the sound of his hips slapping against hers echoing around their chambers.

Her screams of pleasure muffled by the mattress, her silver crown sitting lopsided on her head.

 “Fuck. Lucaera-that’s it” moaned Aemond.

He took hold of Lucaera’ hair, twisting his fingers into the messy braid before he pulled her backwards, her sweaty back colliding with his chest.

The crown falling onto the mattress with a thump.

Aemond held Lucaera tight too him as he fucked her, his cock reaching deep inside her.

One hand grasped her hip, his blunt fingers digging into her flesh. Whilst his other released her hair and moved round to her throat, squeezing gently.

“Give it to me please” pleaded Lucaera her head lolling back onto Aemond’s shoulder.

She reached behind her and tangled her fingers into his silver hair, turning his head towards hers.

Their mouths meeting in a messy kiss, consisting of teeth and tongue.

Aemond could feel the tension building in his abdomen, his knot swelling as he thrust his cock inside Lucaera.

“I want you to peak on my cock again, but not like this-” muttered Aemond as he once withdrew from his wife’s wet heat and propped himself up against the headboard.

“-Aemond” exclaimed Lucaera breathlessly.

 “Ride me” replied Aemond as he pulled Lucaera on top of him. His hand moving to his cock, rubbing it along her folds before she sunk down and completely engulfed him.

 “Oh” gasped Lucaera as she rolled her hips against Aemond’s.

“That’s it baby, take it. Take all of me”.

Then the sound of knocking made both of them pause momentarily.

“Ignore them” urged Aemond as he placed his hands on Lucaera’ hips and encouraged her to keep moving.

“Oooh Aemond” gasped Lucaera as she resumed her movements.

Lucaera dug her nails into Aemond’s chest as she moved her hips against his. Aemond let out a frustrated snarl as the sound of knocking continued.

“FUCK OFF”

“Your Grace-“

“What?” snapped Aemond as he planted his feet on the mattress and began thrusting harder and deeper.

“T-The Dowager Queen- wishes to see you”.

“I don’t give a flying fuck-I’m busy“ snapped Aemond, his fingers digging into Lucaera’ hips.

“W-What sh-shall I tell her?”

“T-tell h-her -that’s it. Fuck-you’re taking me so well-my wife, my Queen-” moaned Aemond, his head lolling backwards against the wooden headboard.

“Y-Your Grace?”

“FUCK SAKE-tell her I’m performing my duty as husband, and I shall be there once my desires have been thoroughly satisfied” replied Aemond.

“B-But Your Grace-“

“I swear the next person to interrupt me whilst I'm making love to my wife will be skinned alive and fed to Vhagar-“ snarled Aemond pausing momentarily.

As no more interruptions came, Aemond resumed his hard thrusts.

“A-Aemond” moaned Lucaera as he sat up, moving his hand to her breast and taking her nipple into his mouth, his teeth gently grazing the sensitive rosy bud.

“That’s it-gods it’s so good” groaned Aemond his face pressed against his wife’s soft breasts.

“Aemond-“ whimpered Lucaera.

“Let go baby, I can feel you clenching around me” exclaimed Aemond, as he moved to the other breast and lavished it with the same attention as the other.

Lucaera’ thighs began to burn, as she felt her peak approaching.

 “AEMOND” screamed Lucaera as she peaked, her eyes rolling into the back of her head.

As her movements slowed Aemond rolled her back onto the bed his cock never leaving her warmth as he pounded into her, her legs wrapped around his waist.

With a low, rumbling growl from deep within his chest, Aemond sank his teeth into the curve of her neck, breaking the skin.

The taste of her blood upon Aemond’s tongue was warm and rich, intoxicating, and it sent the Alpha Prime within him roaring with delight, claiming her once more, not out of dominance but love—deep, protective, and consuming love.

Lucaera gasped, her fingers curling tightly into his back, but not in pain—in pure ecstasy.

Their bond flared, and her own instincts surged forward. With a growl of her own she twisted beneath him, and sank her teeth into his neck in return, her claim just as fierce and unyielding.

“God. Lucy- My Lucy-” groaned Aemond as he forced his knot inside her and exploded. His cock throbbing and twitching as he finally spilled his seed, collapsing on top of his wife, breathing hard, the Alpha Prime elated at the sound of his sweet Omega purring happily in his arms.

Aemond lay beside Lucaera, his long fingers slowly trailing over her belly, where their pup grew within her womb, the sheets stained with their blood, and the mingled scents of Alpha and Omega lingered in the air.

Her scent was rich and comforting, apples and cinnamon—but tinged sweetness of milk.

The Alpha Prime in him swelled with a quiet, primal joy. It was the scent of life, of their legacy. He leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to her stomach, murmuring—words of protection, devotion, and fierce, undying love.

A soft, steady snore pulled his attention upward.

Aemond looked to find Lucaera sleeping, her dark hair spread across the pillows like spilled ink. A small, peaceful smile curled her lips even in slumber.

Aemond’s heart ached at the sight. She looked every bit the goddess he knew her to be, and in this rare stillness, he allowed himself the privilege of simply gazing and adoring her.

He pressed a kiss to her temple, lingering there for a heartbeat longer than needed, before slipping out of bed. He didn’t bother washing—her scent on him was a mark he bore proudly, almost possessively.

Instead, he pulled on his trousers, cotton shirt, and his dark leather jerkin, tightening the cuffs with precise fingers.

Aemond paused. One last glance.

Lucaera shifted slightly, and the sheet slipped lower down her body. He gently pulled it up, covering her naked form with a care that only she ever saw from him.

Then, with quiet steps, he left the chamber.

“Ser Arryk-” he called, and the knight at his post turned immediately.

“Your Grace.”

Aemond adjusted the cuff of his jerkin, eyes lingering on the seam as he spoke. “How is your brother?”

“Erryk is healing well, Your Grace,”

Aemond allowed himself a faint smile. “I’m glad to hear it.”

Ser Arryk nodded sharply “Gratitude Your Grace”

Aemond straightened, taking on the mantle of King once again. “My presence has been requested by my mother. While I am gone, I need you to stand guard here. Watch over my Queen-”

Ser Arryk bowed deeply. “I will ensure her safety and well-being, Your Grace.”

Aemond gave a curt nod. “I should not be too long.”

He turned and walked the corridor, the familiar sound of Ser Harrold Westerling’s boots falling into step behind him.

As they passed through the Red Keep, courtiers and lords bowed, “Your Grace,” murmured from every corner. Maids curtsied, eyes darting shyly toward him.

But the Alphas, he noticed their glances. They caught the lingering scent on him—his Omega’s claim, her love, their bond.

It clung to his skin like sacred perfume. He didn’t hide it. He welcomed it.

Finally, they reached Alicent’s chambers. Ser Rickard, standing dutifully at the door, knocked twice.

“Come,” came his mother’s voice from within.

“The King, Your Grace,” Rickard announced as he opened the door.

Aemond stepped inside.

The door closed behind him with a soft thud, and he found his mother standing near the window, picking nervously at her fingers.

“You asked to see me,” Aemond said, his voice cool, folding his hands behind his back.

Alicent turned, her eyes roving over him.

Aemond was usually immaculate in his courtly appearance—But now, he was dishevelled.

Blood still dried at his neck. His long silver hair tousled from bed; and the collar of his jerkin was undone.

She took a step forward, lifting her hand to brush the mark on his throat—but he caught her wrist.

Aemond snapped “Don’t-”

She lowered her hand, embarrassed. “Do you think it’s wise for people to see their King in such a state?”

Aemond let out a dry scoff. “I was enjoying time with my wife. Time which you saw fit to interrupt.”

“I needed to see you. To explain. To make you understand—”

“What is there to explain?” he snapped, not angry, but exhausted. “You condemned Rhaenyra for years for her affairs and yet here you are. Guilty of the same thing-”

Alicent’s cheeks burned red. “It’s not the same- ”

“Oh, I think it is,” Aemond said sharply, stepping closer. “You have bedded the same man she has.”

Alicent froze. “How do you know about that?”

He smirked. “Lucy told me. Seems Rhaenyra is an honest mother with her children. Can you say the same?”

Alicent flinched. “This isn’t about Rhaenyra-” she tried again, but Aemond cut her off once more.

“-Isn’t it? You reside in her old chambers. Now you’ve taken her old paramour. Don’t think me a fool, Mother. I see how you look at her. You've always looked at her-”

A flicker of something raw passed through Alicent’s eyes—guilt? Pain? Longing?

“I know not what you’re implying,” she whispered.

“Oh-I think you do,” Aemond said quietly. “You can’t have the one you truly wanted, so you took the next best thing”

Alicent raised her hand to slap him, but he caught her wrist once more and gently shoved her away.

Not in violence—in disappointment. For a long, heavy moment, silence hung between them.

Then, Alicent whispered, “I did my duty. I married Viserys. Bore his children. But I’ve been lonely. For so many years.”

Aemond’s face softened, just slightly. “You think I don’t know what that feels like?” he said. “I was different. I was alone. They all laughed at me-”

Alicent looked up at him—and in that instant, she saw the little boy who once clung to her, his eyes red from crying over a pig with wings, and ashamed of having no dragon.

Now he was a man grown, the rider of the largest dragon in the world and the King.

Alicent stepped closer. He tensed—but didn’t move. She reached up, her fingers brushing the scar on his cheek.

“I’m sorry for what I did with Criston,” she whispered. “I just needed to know what it felt like”

Aemond frowned. “What do you mean?”

“To choose-” she whispered. “I was but a girl when your grandsire placed me before Viserys. He was grieving his beloved Aemma and Otto used that for his own personal gain and in no time at all I was wedded to a man twice my age and the father of my dearest friend. I just wanted to be seen. Desired. Wanted for who I am. Not as obligation. Not as duty.”

Aemond took her hand and squeezed it gently. “I understand. I spent years in Rhaenyra’s shadow. Even in the end, Father didn’t choose me. He chose Lucaera-”

Alicent blinked. “He did?”

Aemond nodded. “He called her to his deathbed. Spoke to her of a dream. Something only a King would share with his heir, if he couldn’t have Rhaenyra on the Iron Throne, he would have Lucaera in her stead”

Alicent’s face softened. “Oh, Aemond-”

“But do not mourn me mother. I may not have been his choice. But I will be a worthy King-this I swear”

“And Lucaera?” Alicent asked softly.

Aemond offered a small smile. “She will be a fine Queen”

Alicent’s brow furrowed. “Is she really who you want?”

“More than anything,” Aemond said, without hesitation. “I choose her and she chooses me. We complete one another.”

Alicent nodded, voice barely a whisper. “That’s all I ever wanted for you.”

Aemond looked at her, firm and certain now. “I want you to serve on my council. As an advisor.”

Alicent stared, stunned. “Oh Aemond. I—I don’t know-”

“You served the realm faithfully while Father was ill,” Aemond said. “I need you. Please-”

Then suddenly he was that boy again—lost and longing. And Alicent saw it, for in that moment he was not a King—but her son.

Alicent nodded “I accept-”

Aemond exhaled, relieved. And before he could speak again, Alicent embraced him.

He stiffened at first, startled by the gesture, before slowly melting into her arms, his head lowered toward her shoulder.

Aemond sighed, closing his eye. Letting her hold him. Letting her be his mother once more.

The music echoed through the great hall of the Red Keep, triumphant and jubilant, a lively tune fit for celebration.

The scent of roasted meats and spiced wine filled the air, mingling with perfumes and the heady aroma of court.

It was a night of joy, a night to honour the newly crowned King and Queen, and the nobles of Westeros drank deep of the moment.

But Aemond, King and Alpha Prime, was not celebrating.

He sat rigidly on the dais, his fingers curling around the carved wooden armrest of his chair, his jaw clenched so tight it ached.

His single violet eye was fixed across the room, unwavering, sharp as a blade as he tracked every movement of Lucaera as she danced across the floor.

Her red and black silk gown flowing like fire and shadow as she danced. Her hair was braided in the style of Old Valyria, half-up and simple, the rest cascading in ink-dark waves down her back. The silver of her crown gleamed beneath the torchlight.

As she laughed—a sweet, melodic sound that curled into his chest and simultaneously soothed and maddened him as she danced with Cregan Stark.

Aemond’s nostrils flared as his inner Alpha Prime snarled, primal and possessive. He could feel the throb of his bond with her, pulsing at the back of his mind, and yet the sight of another man touching her—even with the innocence of a dance—was enough to make his blood simmer.

Aemond’s fingers flexed against the armrest of his chair.

“If you clench your jaw any harder,” came Aegon’s drawling voice beside him, “you’ll shatter your bloody teeth.”

Aemond didn’t even glance at him. He growled low in his throat, his gaze still locked on his Queen.

Aegon followed his brother’s eye line and smirked. “Daughter of the Realm’s Delight indeed-”

Aemond finally turned, sharp and biting. “Is there something you want, brother, or are you just deliberately being a twat?”

Aegon snorted, swirling his wine. “Your ridiculous appointment of me on your council—”

“I offered you no position,” Aemond snapped. “But you will attend meetings. I won’t have you drinking and whoring your days away-you will learn valuable skills”

“Ahh yes-” Aegon said dramatically, raising his cup. “-Sitting around a table full of boring cunts droning on about taxes and grain.”

“The governance of the realm’s matters are important-” Aemond said coolly, “being King is not about barking orders. It’s about listening to the people, understanding their struggles, and guiding the realm toward prosperity.”

Aegon blinked at him. “You’re really determined to be a worthy King, aren’t you?”

“More than determined,” Aemond said softly. “It is unfortunate however that my reign began in blood. But it—”

“-Was necessary,” Aegon cut in. “Traitorous dogs deserved their heads. Speaking of which dragon got the honour of roasting our grandsire’s corpse?”

“Caraxes,” Aemond said, lip curling in faint amusement. “Daemon insisted, after his dragon mysteriously showed up the day prior.”

Aegon snorted. “Let me guess. He said it was merely coincidence.”

“Something like that.”

The brothers shared a brief smirk, their rare moment of camaraderie settling between them. Aegon looked toward Daemon and Rhaenyra, who were seated closely, their hands entwined and their expressions soft.

“You know what’s funny?” Aegon said.

“What?” replied Aemond curiously.

“The fearsome Rogue Prince, reduced to nothing but a cuntstruck fool”

“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with loving one’s wife,” Aemond murmured. “Advice you might consider heeding brother-”

Aegon sighed. “Regardless of what anyone thinks I do love Helaena. But only as a sister. I’ve tried to feel more for her as a wife. I-I just can’t.”

Aemond turned to him, nudging his shoulder. “That’s the first honest thing you’ve said.”

Aegon muttered “Don’t get used to it.”

Aemond sighed “I wish things could be different for you-”

Aegon shrugged, taking another sip. “Hellie and I have an understanding. She has the children and her bugs. I have wine and women.”

Aemond exhaled. “So long as she is happy, that’s all that matters. She’s the best of us, she deserves happiness”

“She does-” Aegon agreed. “Helaena is a diamond in the rough of this family-”

They both exchanged a curious look before laughing, the two of them clinking their cups together and sipping wine.

Until someone cleared their throat.

Aemond looked up to see Floris Baratheon standing before him, cheeks dusted pink, her dress clinging a little too tightly to her form.

Aegon whispered, “That’s my cue to leave.”

“Don’t you dare,” Aemond snarled lowly.

“Oh, I dare,” Aegon giggled as he stood up and disappeared into the crowd.

“Twat,” Aemond muttered before rising slightly in his chair.

“Your Grace,” said Floris with a curtsy.

“My lady,” Aemond replied with polite detachment.

“I was wondering if you fancied a dance Your Grace?” asked Floris

Aemond furrowed his brow. “In truth. I’m not much of a dancer, my lady.”

“Then perhaps a drink?” she offered, already sitting beside him.

Aemond hesitated but then nodded. “Very well.”

Floris poured them both a cup of wine, her fingers brushing his as she handed him the goblet, her cheeks flushed pink. He took it without comment, then turned his attention back to Lucaera.

She now danced with Jacaerys, her laughter still echoing. Her joy. Her light.

Floris leaned in. “The celebration is quite grand, Your Grace.”

Aemond gave a tight smile. “Fit for a King, some would say.”

Floris leaned even closer. “To think I could’ve been your Queen.”

Aemond blinked. “You what?”

Floris smiled, coy and confident. “Didn’t you know? When you first presented as Alpha Prime, your grandsire was in talks with my father. A betrothal between us was nearly settled.”

Aemond’s voice turned cold. “My grandsire was a treasonous cur. Nothing he arranged holds weight.”

Floris’s smile curdled. “Not now that that Strong bastard presented as an Omega and opened her legs for you.”

The rage was instant.

Aemond’s eye snapped to her. His lips curled back in a snarl. The Alpha Prime inside him roared, snarling with fury at the insult to his Queen.

“What,” he growled, voice dark and deadly, “did you just say?”

Floris paled but pressed on, foolishly. “That should be me carrying your pup.”

Aemond surged to his feet.

“You have seconds to remove yourself from my sight,” he snarled. “Or I will slit your throat. And if you ever insult my Queen again, I will slaughter your entire fucking family.”

Floris gathered her skirts gathered and bolted. The fury in Aemond’s scent was so potent now that other Alphas were lowering their heads instinctively, stepping away.

The music faltered. The silence spreading throughout the throne room.

Aemond stood shaking, his body tight with rage, his fists clenched—Until a soft, warm hand wrapped around his arm.

Lucaera.

Her scent—apples, cinnamon, milk—wrapped around him, rich and grounding. The Alpha Prime in him quieted.

She stepped forward, wrapping her arms around his waist, and he buried his face in her neck, pressing his nose against the mating mark he’d renewed earlier that day.

Aemond’s rage melted into a low hum of possessive protectiveness and bitter annoyance.

The entire hall watched in silence—the bond between Alpha Prime and Omega laid bare for all to see.

“Guards,” Aemond said, voice clear and sharp.

Ser Harrold Westerling stepped forward. “Your Grace?”

“I want the Baratheon’s gone from court. All of them.”

Harrold bowed. “At once, Your Grace.”

As the guards moved to carry out his order, Lucaera cupped his face in both hands, her eyes searching.

“What happened?”

Aemond shook his head. “I’ll tell you later. For now-just remain at my side. Please.”

Lucaera nodded.

And Aemond held her close, in the flickering torchlight, surrounded by music, wine, and whispers—but none of it mattered.

Only her. Only this.

Aemond hadn’t let go of Lucaera's hand once since the moment she calmed him with her scent, wrapped her arms around him, and pulled him back from the edge of wrath.

She had become his anchor amidst the storm—the only thing tethering the Alpha Prime inside him to reason.

The coronation celebration continued around them in all its grandeur. Lords and ladies laughed and feasted, music floated on the air, and gold gleamed from gifts offered by the great houses.

But Aemond felt none of it. The insult from Floris Baratheon had fouled the air. Her words still hissed in his ears like a viper hiding in the court’s finery.

His Queen moved gracefully by his side, regal and radiant in every step, but she never left him—because he wouldn't allow it.

Not even for a moment.

Every time someone came close, every time a lord looked at her for too long, or a noble's words lingered with honeyed intent, the Alpha Prime in Aemond flared.

His hand on the small of her back was firm, possessive. His eye swept the crowd with a warrior’s caution, and more than once, his gaze caught a glance that made his blood simmer.

Floris’ words, her presumption and—her insult—had cut through the joy like a blade, poisoning every congratulation that followed.

And worse still, it resurrected ghosts he’d thought buried. His grandsire may be dead, his head severed from his traitorous body and devoured by Caraxes, but Otto Hightower’s legacy still lingered like a curse.

Schemes. Promises and alliances made in shadows. Even in death, his grip stretched on like creeping ivy through the cracks of the realm.

Aemond’s eye swept the crowd. Lords and ladies, all raising goblets with smiles stretched too thin.

How many of them had once been whispered to by Otto? How many of them had plotted to place a Baratheon Queen beside him and cast Rhaenyra’s line into the void?

How many still dreamed of it?

The Alpha Prime inside him stirred, restless and snarling, pacing against his ribs like a caged beast.

Don’t trust them. Don’t turn your back. They're waiting, all of them. Waiting for you to falter.

Lucaera’s fingers squeezed his.

Aemond blinked, torn from the spiralling darkness in his mind, and turned to look at her.

Her violet eyes were soft, steady.

Through their bond, she could feel it all—the turmoil, the mistrust, the anger, the rot festering deep inside him.

“My love,” she whispered, her lips close to his ear, “I can feel your ire through the bond and it’s quite unsettling.”

Aemond exhaled slowly, as if the breath alone could cool the fire inside him. “Apologies my love.”

Lucaera leaned in closer, her temple brushing against his cheek. “Tell me what troubles you,” she urged softly, “before it eats away at you completely.”

Aemond hesitated for a brief moment before he spoke “When I first presented as Alpha Prime, Otto opened negotiations with Lord Borros. A betrothal was arranged. Had you not presented as Omega, I would have been wed to Floris and she would now sit where you are.”

Lucaera stilled, her lip curling faintly at the thought. Her gaze swept the room once, then returned to him.

Then she said, quiet but resolute, “If that had come to pass, then half the people in this hall would not be here tonight. Myself included. No doubt, we’d have been cast aside. Until Vhagar’s shadow swallowed us whole.”

Aemond’s jaw tightened, and his fingers reflexively gripped hers more firmly.

The meaning behind her words struck hard. He could see it—Otto, whispering poison into his ear, convincing him to rid himself of every threat: Daemon. Rhaenyra. Jace. Luke. Lucaera.

All of them. Slain for the sake of ambition. A kingdom built on ash.

The very thought of never knowing Lucaera, never feeling her warmth beside him in bed, never tasting her lips or hearing the way she moaned his name when overcome with need—never seeing her swell with their pup—It made the Alpha Prime inside him writhe with revulsion.

Aemond’s hands shook with restrained rage, at the past that had nearly stolen everything from him.

“Otto would’ve succeeded, Lucy-” said Aemond bitterly. “He would’ve poisoned my mind until I tore my family apart. Until I lost you. Before I’d even had the chance-”

Lucaera’s hand rose to his cheek, her palm warm and grounding.

“Then it’s a mercy that you’re no one’s puppet,” she said. “You saw through him in the end. You chose your path—not his. And this is your reign, my King. Not Otto’s. His legacy will fade into memory. And that memory will be stained with treason.”

Her words worked their way past his armour like sunlight breaking through the clouds. She was his clarity. His reason. His strength.

“Perhaps I’m right to be cautious,” Aemond murmured, “But I cannot let it consume me.”

She nodded. “Be wary, yes. But don’t let Otto’s shade rule your reign”

Aemond looked at her with something soft flickering behind the steel in his eye.

She was right. As always. He would not become a man haunted by the ghosts of another’s ambition.

Not while he had her. Not while she stood beside him.

He lifted her hand to his lips, kissed her knuckles, and let his lips linger on her soft skin.

“Avy jorrāelan ābrazȳrys,” he whispered against her skin (I love you wife).

Lucaera smiled, the tension easing from her shoulders as she whispered in return:

“Se avy jorrāelan valzȳrys.” (And I love you husband).

The music played on, the nobles cheered and danced and drank—but the King and Queen stood together, hand in hand, their bond unshakable.

TBC

[miraculouslbcnreactions]

It's funny to me how you put these tags just as the newest episode revealed that Nathalie has been working for a secret organization this entire time and is taking commands from her dad who surprise surprise wants the ladybug and cat miraculouses

(Post in question for context)

[Image transcript: a series of tags reading "She is not a safe person and I HATE that she knows Marinette's identity Wtf is this show doing? Nathalie knowing Ladybug's identity should be a terrible thing that makes Marinette quit"]

Oh, so that's why Nathalie refused to turn herself in and convinced Ladybug to lie in the London special!

Nathalie: It's time to tell the truth. Bug Noire: If you do that, you'll go to jail. Nathalie: Isn't the truth worth it? Bug Noire: If you tell the truth, Adrien will have no one left. He'll have lost his mom, his dad, you. Nathalie: He will have you. Bug Noire: It's not' the same. He needs a mother. Nathalie: I'm not his mother. Bug Noire: You're the closest thing to a mother he's got. (Bunnyx runs over to the window as it continues playing)That's why Gabriel Agreste sacrificed himself, it's what finally made him a good father to Adrien and that's what Adrien should remember. Nathalie: Don't you want to tell Adrien that his father was Monarch? Bug Noire: The only thing I can fix is the way Adrien will remember his father. Nathalie: But that would be lying to him.

Oh, wait, no, my bad, that's the exact opposite of what happened in this dialogue! Why would you write the scene like this if Nathalie is still evil? And if Nathalie isn't evil anymore, then why is she keeping the evil organization a secret from Ladybug? This seems like something Ladybug should know about and this dialogue does not set Nathalie up as wanting to maintain secrets. Nothing in the special does!

[Image description: Fear from Pixar's Inside Out yelling "Boo! Pick a plotline!"]

I haven't seen El Toro De Piedra, so maybe there's something I'm missing, but doesn't this secret organization reveal basically destroy the popular argument that Nathalie is obeying Marinette's wishes re the lies because Nathalie no longer trusts herself to make good calls after all her years supporting Gabriel? If that was really the case, then Nathalie would have told Marinette about the secret organization and let Marinette decide what to do, but it sounds like that's not what happened. Nathalie feels totally comfortable making all the calls and controlling the information re the evil organization! She's only leaving Marinette to make the calls when it comes to Adrien's relationship with his father, a thing Marinette knows almost nothing about but that Nathalie actively watched deteriorate over the entire course of Adrien's life.

You can't have this both ways. Either Nathalie is a broken woman who is basically Marinette's puppet or Nathalie is a functional adult who is fully responsible for her own choices. Pick a lane.

I'm posting this now instead of waiting for the script because this is going to bother me until I get an answer. I legitimately want to know if the episode does anything to address any of these issues. Based on this ask, this is just adding fuel to my, "Nathalie should have been the liar" stance. Why is Marinette even involved in the lies if Nathalie is the one with all the actual secrets and information? It doesn't sound like the lies are doing anything interesting for Marinette's character or her relationship with Adrien. Can Adrien please get someone in his life who actually respects him? Can the writers please get rid of the asinine "Marinette must be wrong" rule when it makes no sense for the actual plot?

Gods, if Nathalie was actually written as still evil then this could have been amazing! The plot beats are all there, the writers just failed on every level. I'm still annoyed that her undoing Adrien's senticommands was presented as her being a good mom and not as her just using Adrien to fuck with Gabriel. Let my evil queen be an evil queen, gods damn it!

[lemotmo]

😂😂😂😂 I desperately want to believe this is fake but I'm afraid they totally believe he's a pilot

Q. I'm sorry but the fact that he's an actual pilot is the sexiest thing ever. We deserved the entire scene, I wish they hadn't cut it. That was too difficult for him to pull off for them to not have aired the entire bit. The rest of the episode was trash. I will give you that.

A. Please, PLEASE tell me all of you are aware that he is not an actual pilot. Please tell me that you're at least capable of realizing that he didn't actually fly a helicopter through the air space over Los Angeles. Between the disgusting billboard stunt and the 14! asks all kind of insinuating lou was actually flying that helicopter, I feel like I'm going insane. I need this to be a bit because my belief in humanity is hanging by a thread. But just in case.... his part of the helicopter stuff was filmed on a soundstage in California. No part of what you 'saw' him do was real. It's called acting. He's very, very bad at it but it's all fake nonetheless. He's not a pilot. He's not a firefighter. He is not the Messiah (but the show is going to insinuate Bobby Nash could be). The episode was bad. It was a bad episode. The plot, such as it was, was flimsy and full of holes big enough to drive a truck through, which I'm assuming was the point, so Bobby not really being dead won't be that much of a stretch for the audience. It was a bad idea. It's been poorly executed. Angela's version of how she found out has changed 3 times now. The 'goodbye' posts all focused way more on Bobby leaving the 118 than Peter leaving 911. Oliver and Ryan aren't even trying to sell it. Aisha had to change her post twice. And Kenny overplayed the replying to upset viewers bit too much. It hasn't been done well at all, but we're here. The important thing is that Bobby won't really be dead. And Tim being a co writer for the episode ups the chances of a Buddie grief moment exponentially. I'm going to take the wins. Your character had his full circle moment, like the moron said, so take that and be happy as well. Because I'm pretty sure his part in the Buddie plot comes full circle in episode 16. He has served his purpose and in Tommy's own words the ride is over. But at no time was he ever really flying anything, other than up my nerves.

🤣 Thank you Nonny!!!

Why would anyone believe that L flew that helicopter for real? 🙄

I agree with most of this. It was a bad episode. There is nothing wrong with a character death on a TV-show, but the way they handled this? The random episode? The underwhelming death scene? The useless random helicopter scene that wasted time? The absolute lack of Eddie???

The whole follow-up that reeks of deception?

Yeah, it just wasn't a good idea and on top of that is was badly executed. 🤷‍♀️

But it is what it is. We are here now. So, we've got to move on from this. And we will... as soon as Bobby (and Eddie) returns to them and to us. 😋 I'm fully in the 'Bobby is alive' camp at this point.

As for Tommy? I also believe that his part in the 911, Buck and Buddie narrative will come to an end in season 8. It started with a helicopter rescue to save bathena and it ended with a helicopter rescue to save the 118. It started with him kissing Buck and it'll end with him walking away from Buck to make room for Eddie. His character's journey really has come full circle.

IMPORTANT! Please don't repost this ask and/or a link that leads straight to my Tumblr account on Twitter or any other social media. Thank you!

Heads up! For anyone who is giving me the shifty eyes for reposting Ali's updates instead of reblogging. Read this.

Remember, no hate in comments, reblogs or inboxes. Let's keep it civil and respectful. Thank you.

If you are interested in more of Ali’s posts, you can find all of her posts so far under the tag: anonymous blog I love.

[ludolka]

out of curiosity, is there any particular reason you dislike scarian or is it just personal preferance

It’s not that I dislike the ship itself, I more so dislike how it’s everywhere and it gets pushed down my throat no matter where I go or what I filter/block. But I guess annoyance would be a better word for what I’m feeling than dislike

I’m generally fine with scarian, I can see why people like it, I just can’t bring myself to ship it personally. The earth x sun implications of it are cool and I think they have an interesting dynamic, I just see them working better as close friends than in a relationship. I’m more into the scarian exes-turned-into-friends dynamic or a one-sided situation, I sometimes use those, but that’s the extent of my interpretation

My dislike comes from how it’s completely inescapable. I have all the tags surrounding it filtered, I still see a ton of ship art of them because people think only tagging their names and “hermitshipping” is enough. I read fanfics with other pairings, scarian is always somehow involved. I go to other Grian ship tags, half of the content is filtered because it features scarian. I post ship or even platonic duo art featuring Grian, I get comments about scarian. I read grumbo fanfics, a big majority of them is mumscarian (or the grumbo tag is only there to show one-sided grumbo with end-game scarian)

I’m just,, tired of seeing it absolutely everywhere I guess. Especially since I’m actively trying not to see it. And I have a personal problem with people bringing them up in my comments, expressing disappointment how it’s some other ship/duo and not scarian

But to clarify, I really don’t have any issues with scarian shippers. I’m happy for you guys for getting so much content and having found such a big community. Ship and let ship babes, I won’t go commenting under anyone’s scarian art how it should be some other Grian or Scar ship, so don’t do it under mine either ✌🏻

[lavandadiana]

Nice's Support System

Thanks to this post by @kiraisrika for giving me brainrot and had me spend my lunch break writing this for the past two weeks

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀🜲⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒🜲𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀🜲⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒🜲𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀🜲⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒🜲𓈒

Word Count 🜲 1,614

TW 🜲 Attempted suicide

Constructive criticism is welcome! Let me know if I miss a TW or a tag. :)

Also, on Ao3!

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀🜲⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒🜲𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀🜲⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒🜲𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀🜲⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒🜲𓈒

“Is that Nice?” Lin Ling thought. He lowered his hand as the “Perfect” hero flew towards him; towards the roof’s edge. “What is he doing here?” Lin Ling pondered. As Lin Ling was about to open his mouth, Nice smiled and shoot his signature pose at Lin Ling before his foot was over the edge.

Lin Ling’s eyes widened as his hands reached out, grabbing Nice’s arm, his feet planted against the roof’s risen edge. “What the hell are you doing?!” Lin Ling yelled as he used his entire body weight to hold the suicidal hero.

Nice struggled against Lin Ling’s hold. “What the- Let go of me!” “No way! Whatever’s wrong, I’m sure jumping to your death isn’t the answer!” Nice’s eyes widen as tears pricked his eyes. Nice stopped struggling and flew upwards, slightly lifting Lin Ling into the air.

As soon as Lin Ling’s and Nice’s feet touched the floor, Lin Ling, still holding Nice’s hand, gasped for air. “W-Why?! Why did you try to kill yourself?” Nice’s eyes widened as he looked at him before his gaze turn to Lin’s hand on his arm.

“Because... I’m tired... I’m so tired of being Nice...” Nice said as he wiped away his tears. Lin Ling’s eyes widened as he removed his hand from Nice’s arm. “I... I’m sorry... But killing yourself isn’t the answer!” Lin Ling yelled at him. “Then why are you here?”

Lin Ling’s eyes widen as heat flushed to his cheeks “I-I’m different! Yo-you’re perfect, you’re amazing, you’re Nice! I’m nothing like you... I- I don’t have a great relationship with my family, I don’t have a girlfriend, I’d just got fired, not even an hour ago, and my dreams of being a hero totally got crushed.”

“I have nothing to lose, but you... You have everything to lose ...“ Lin Ling cries, his head fallen forward as tear droplets hit the concrete roof floor. Nice’s soften his gaze at him. “I- I’m not perfect ... I’m forced to be perfect... But I- I would rather be you.”

Nice said his voice, wavering with emotions. Nice took a deep breath and held his hand out. “What’s your name?” Lin Ling sniffled as he blinked away any remaining tears and shook Nice’s outstretched hand. “Lin Ling. What about you? I don’t think you want me to Keep calling you Nice.”

Nice smiled; Not his signature smile, but a genuine smile. “Actually, I would like it if you can keep calling me Nice. Hearing you saying my name is music to my ears. Like a breath of fresh air.”

Lin Ling’s cheeks heats up as he turns his head away to the side."D-Don’t say that ... Well, if it stops you from killing yourself ..." Lin Ling sighed and sharpen his gaze at him.

“Are you still going to kill yourself?” Nice sighed and rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. “Well... Yeah? Treeman wouldn’t exactly get me therapy. Wouldn’t want news of the perfect hero being in therapy or suicidal.”

“And the only way from me to not be Nice is to kill myself... unless...” Nice looked at Lin Ling and smiled. “You said that you’d want to be a hero, right?” Lin Ling nodded. “Yeah. What about it?” “How would you like to be my hero?!” Nice exclaimed as he leaned forward, his face inches away from Lin Ling’s face. “Huh?!” Lin Ling pulled away, slightly jumping back. “What do you mean?”

“Well, you know about me being suicidal, and I enjoy talking to you. So how would you like to be my emotional support human?!” “Huh?! Wait... I’m supposed to be like those emotional support pets?!” Lin Ling exclaimed, not believing Nice’s words.

Nice nodded, floating in the air, his face inches away from Lin Ling’s. “You’ll obviously get paid, and you’ll basically be my side 24/7!” “Huh?! Wa-wait! What do you mean by your side 24/7?! Wha-what about when you fight?! What’s going to happen to me?!”

Nice landed, his body inches away from Lin Ling’s body. Nice paused for a moment; Nice’s blue eyes staring into Lin Ling’s brown eyes. Nice’s face morphed into a cheeky smile. “I’ll protect you, of course! Although, the thought of you being in danger leaves a bad feeling in my heart ...”

“He’ll be with me, then.” Both Nice and Lin Ling jumped at Miss J’s voice. They turned around and saw Miss J standing there, her face morphed into a stern look, her arms crossed over her chest, and her bodyguards behind her.

“What?! No way! I’m not letting him anywhere near you!” Nice frowned, baring his teeth, his body in front of Lin Ling, as if he’s a shield. Miss J, nonchalant, just sighed and shook her head. “Although, I’d much prefer if Lin Ling to signs an NDA in return for a handsome reward.”

Nice gritted his teeth, but took a deep breath. He looked back at Lin Ling; Nice’s expression is one of concern and fear. “Lin Ling, what do you want to do? Do you want to be my support system, or do you want to get paid and sign an NDA?”

Lin Ling pondered for a moment. If he signs an NDA, he’ll get paid. He’ll have enough for bills and rent while he looks for a new job. But what would happen with Nice? Will he still try to kill himself? How much can Nice take before they push him too far?

On the other hand, if he becomes Nice’s support system, he’ll get to see the real Nice; he could be a hero to Nice and maybe he’ll get to see Moon. Call him selfish, but Moon is still his idol, even though Nice is creeping into his number 1 spot.

Lin Ling made up his mind. He stared at Nice and Miss J, his face stern as he nodded. “I made up my mind. I want to be Nice’s support system.” As soon as he said those fated words, Nice jumped and flew to Lin Ling, hugging him in the air, while Miss J let out an exasperated sigh.

“Fine... I’ll let Treeman Corporation know about Lin Ling and his role with you. Since Lin Ling will be by your side 24/7, I’ll have someone rearranged your floor at hero tower.” Miss J said, already contacting someone on her tablet.

“No need, Lin Ling will sleep with me!” “Yeah... wait, what?! Isn’t Moon living with you?!” Lin Ling asked; his expression is one of shock. “Well, yeah, but I can kick her out.” Nice nonchalantly said. “You are not kicking Moon out! And you and Lin Ling won’t be sleeping in the same bed!” Miss J growled at the nonchalant Nice. Miss J pinched the bridge of her nose.

“Maybe I’ll just have Lin Ling live close to you ...” Miss J contemplated. “Then I’ll live with Lin Ling in his new place!” Nice smiled. Miss J gritted her teeth, but before she can speak, Lin Ling spoke up.

“It’s okay, Miss J. I’ll live with Nice and Moon, but I’m not going to sleeping with Nice in bed; there, a compromise between two wants!” Miss J nodded. “Not bad, kid. That’s an acceptable compromise; In the meantime, you,“ Miss J pointed at her one of her bodyguards. “Get to the ground quick. Nice; princess carry Lin Ling, smile at him and slowly fly down. “Huh?!” “On it!”

Without hesitation, Nice princess carried Lin Ling, smiled at him, and slowly flew down the building."Wa-wait!" Lin Ling stuttered, his eyes widened in shock as his cheeks heats up. On the ground, one of Miss J’s bodyguards held a phone out and took a photo of the scene.

Once Nice and Lin Ling landed safety on the ground, Miss J walked out of the building and towards them. The bodyguard handed Miss J the phone, and she looks over the photos and nodded. “These are acceptable.” She pockets the phone and looks at Nice, still carrying Lin Ling.

“You can put him down now.” As soon as she said those words, Nice and Lin Ling’s cheeks turned red, and Lin Ling scrambled out of Nice’s arm, stumbling a bit once both of his feet touched the ground. “So, what was that photo for?” Lin Ling asked, trying to change the subject.

“I’ll have someone write a news article about Nice saving this civilian from suicide and, from time to time, checks up with him. It helps raises Nice’s trust value and covers up any time you both go out in public together.” Miss J says, not once looking up from her tablet.

“Hmm... Not bad, Miss J. Now Lin Ling, you ready to go home?” Nice says, looking into Lin Ling’s eyes, a genuine smile plastered on his face.

Lin ling, cheeks red, nodded. “Yeah, let’s go home, Nice.” Lin Ling smiled back. Nice smiles even wider and Princess carried Lin Ling. “Ah! What the hell!!” “Hold on tight!” “Wait! Nice! Hold on- AHH!” Lin Ling screamed, wrapping his arms around Nice’s neck as Nice flew fast in the air and carried Lin Ling home to their now shared living space.

Miss J shook her head as she puts away her tablet. She looks at her bodyguards. “Get the limo. God, explaining this to Moon is going to be a headache...” She says, looking annoyed but the small smile on her face says otherwise. “Good luck, kid. I wish you the best of luck.” Miss J muttered under her breath as she steps into the limousine, driving towards Hero Tower to explain this situation to Moon and to lay some ground rules.

[tenderbeck]

You suffer, too (and it’s all my fault)

── ❦・⸝⸝ pairing: fiend!sylus x sorceress!mc

── ❦・⸝⸝ genre: angst, nsfw for gore thematics, MDNI

── ❦・⸝⸝ word count: 1.7k

── ❦・⸝⸝ tags: hanahaki disease, not really the same just inspired by it so it's my own version, blood and gore, it's not the main focus but it's there, angst with an happy ending, i mean it's inspired by sylus' myth so do the math for the after ending :"), implied future character death

── ❦・⸝⸝ links: ao3, x thread

── ❦・⸝⸝ summary: Sylus is sick. He doesn't need a diagnosis, he already knows what he has. This curse is present in his kin's blood since the beginning of time. He is cursed with love, and love is going to get him killed. Two bloodied hands engulf his heart, squeeze it and then throw it on the ground to let it rot there. Even if his heart is all cut and bruised, it faintly follows the beat of hers. But oh, isn't death sweet when it comes from the tenderest touch?

this is my only lads account, i'll only post my writings here, on ao3 and x NOT IN ANY OTHER BLOGS / ACCOUNTS

── ❦・⸝⸝ author's note: hi baby bats!! this is the first fic i've written in the LaDS' fandom (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶) the glasses with the rose in promise inspired me so much i had to write something about it, so here we are with my own version of hanahaki disease. english is not my first language so please bear with the eventual mistakes.

In a world where the one who loves coughs petals, the beloved suffers too.

He discovered his disease just like that. One day he was fine, or, at least, as fine as someone chained up for eternity could be, then she came into the picture. First, she unchained him, then she gave him a name. His name. She occupied every corner of his den with her scent. A glimpse of her shadow alone could make him feel like he found the most precious jewel in the world and he wanted to add her to his collection, whom he guarded jealously.

Then he discovered the first sign. He felt something stuck in his throat and, when he coughed, a red petal came out of his mouth. He was confused but decided to disregard it: he hoped it was a coincidence.

Then it became a daily occurrence, coughing petals whenever he thought of her. It was becoming so evident that now even she knew something was wrong. “We should look this up” she said one day. When she sang for him, they remained out to observe the stars together but his coughing became unbearable. “I can search some sorcery books about this, it seems like some type of enchantment is involved”. “You don’t have to worry your pretty head about this kitten, I’ve got it under control” replied Sylus. He knew exactly what it was but it couldn’t be possible. He wasn’t capable of feeling human emotions.

Right?

Then, one day, when he was checking his treasures, he heard it. “Sylus?” there was confusion in her voice, but the first thing he noticed was hurt. She was hurting. He whipped his head around and paled when he saw her: tears were streaming down her face from one eye, and the other… “Please Sylus, tell me I’m dreaming”. A rose stemmed from her left eye and it was dripping blood. It looked painful and it was all his fault. He rushed to her side and cupped her face to inspect her eye: the illness was at the last stage, but how? It couldn’t be possible, unless…

“Sylus please tell me what’s happening to me” she said while sniffling. “First you coughing petals, now this” she put a hand over his arm “I– I cant see from my left eye”. She looked up at him, her expression was distraught “it hurts so much”. “Sweetie, I–“ he sighed, almost trembling, then took her hand and guided her to his bedding to sit down and she followed him like a lost puppy.

Oh, who has his fierce sorceress become? First a lioness, now a scared house cat. He needed to fix this as soon as possible. He needed to have her back.

As they sat, he began to speak “kitten, I know you’re hurting” he gently stoked her right cheek “but now listen to my story, it’s important that you understand what it’s going to happen and why”. She nodded, tears and blood still streaming down her face. “In my kin there’s a curse as old as time” he started, looking at her “to deter us from becoming weak, we are born with this illness, which consists in coughing rose petals when…” he averted his gaze, he couldn’t muster to say it. How could he say that to her? But looking at her expectant face, where he found so much hope, he had to find the courage to say it. To admit it.

“When?” she asked, drying a bloody tear fallen from the rose nestled in her eye. He took a deep breath, coughed some petals again, and then answered “when one of my kin is feeling emotions. Human emotions”. “Which emotions are you feeling that make you so sick? Your coughing is getting worse” she said preoccupied.

Even in a situation like this, she could find the strength to worry for him.

“And what that has to do with my eye?” she said, confusion evident on her features. Sylus gently stroked her face and continued “that’s the other part, this illness also infects the person to whom these emotions are directed”. It was hard to admit it, but if he wanted to save himself (her) he had to say it all. Even if it meant admitting he was feeling something that his kind never even once felt.

“And which is the emotion that you’re directing to me?” she took his hand and waited, tears and blood still evident on her ethereal face.

“It’s love, kitten” Sylus finally had the courage to say. To admit to himself. “It’s love that I’m feeling”. She looked at him as if he grew two heads, and he might as well have given the way he was feeling.

Feeling, such a strange thing for a fiend.

“What? Love?” by her tone, he feared she was scared or worse, repulsed by him. But she tightened her grip on his hand, as if she was scared he’d let her go.

He could never.

“Yes sweetie. I fear my love for you has led to our demise.”

“But how could it happen in one night?” she asked again, ever the curious kitten. “I mean… you started to cough several weeks ago, why has the rose appeared now?”. Sylus thought for a bit, and then answered “the only explanation I can give you is that, given its sudden appearance and the stage of the illness,” he stroked the rose’s petals as he spoke “you’re in love with me too”. She was astonished, but he caught some red tinting her cheeks. He smirked, figuring that some playfulness could sweeten the thing he had to say later. “I am right, aren’t I, kitten?”. She looked at his face, then at their intertwined hands, and then at him again “I think you’ve carved a spot in my heart that has become too big to ignore”.

He gently smiled at her, knowing how this will turn out in the end. But he didn’t care now. As he looked at her face, the first thing he wanted to do was to get rid of this rose. As he finished this thought, she grimaced and the rose started dripping bloody tears again. She tried to dry them with her hand, but the result was only blood smearing on her face. He must admit that, even in this state, all covered in blood and hurting, she still looked fierce. She still looked as beautiful as a ruby.

“Please, tell me you know how you get rid of this rose” she tried to touch it but then retracted her hand as soon as the fingers graced the flower “it hurts Sylus, so much”. The pain in her voice made him restless, he wanted to do it quickly but he knew he couldn’t. “Kitten, now you have to do as i say, but please rest assured that I’ll handle this with the outmost care”. She slowly nodded, so he took her and placed her in his lap, back to chest. He placed her head on his gem and entangled her waist with his tail, to keep her from moving. “Sweetie, now I have to manually remove the rose”. She gasped in the middle of hiccups: she was crying a lot and he couldn’t bear this sight. He couldn’t bear to be the one to have reduced her to this.

“Why?”.

Sylus almost couldn’t hear her whisper. “Why what?”

“Why is this curse so cruel. To you. To me” she said, still crying. “Just, why would someone treat your kin and the ones they loved like this”. He sighed. As always, her way of thinking mesmerised him. “It’s a test”. “A test for what?”. “Loyalty”. He couldn’t phrase it any better, it was as simple as that: loyalty. “The pain you’re going to endure now will be so unbearable to most humans that, in the end, you’ll curse me and I’ll end up dying by your hand”.

“Never” she was so quick to reply. “I’ll never curse you” she held his hand. “I’ll never kill you” she took it near her mouth. “Do what you have to do, i can handle it. I’m not like any human” she spoke against it and then kissed it. Sylus nodded, then he tightened his tail around her waist while wiith one hand he held still her head, and with the other he took the rose.

“It’s going to hurt, kitten”.

“I’m ready”.

He held the rose firmly and started to pull. Blood started dripping from her eye socket and she moaned in pain. The more he pulled, the more the flower tried to resist and the more blood dripped in her face. And the more she hurt.  He noticed that she was gritting her teeth trying not to scream. “Here, sweetie” he said, as he placed his hand in her mouth and she immediately bit down hard.

“Good girl”.

He continued to pull, now only the rose’s stem was remaining. It was full of thorns and she was screaming while biting his hand. He couldn’t bear this sight, he had to finish this soon. “Kitten we’re almost done”. He placed a kiss on her head and finished to pull the rose out: now her eye was at its place, but with a stem attached to its pupil. He made a quick downward movement and the stem detached itself from the eye, freeing her from her agony. He looked down and noticed that her dress was covered in blood, as were her face, neck and chest. 

She was quiet for a moment, breathing heavily. Then she turned and straddled on his lap. Her face as of now was the most beautiful thing Sylus ever saw. Maybe because she was looking at him with nothing but love. How much violence did it take to have that look on one’s features?

But in the end, violence was the only thing his kin knew.

She put her bloodied hands on his cheeks, dirtying his face, then placed her forehead on his and spoke “I told you i could take it”. He had closed his eyes but swore she was smiling. She then did something unexpected: she kissed him. He was almost taken aback.

Almost.

He held her tight against his chest and gently kissed her back, tasting something that was a mix of iron and flowers and everything her.

Maybe his kin didn’t only know violence.

Maybe they knew love, too.

“My fiend” she whispered against his lips.

Maybe he liked this.

Maybe he liked the idea that these bloodied hands, that held him so tenderly now, would be the very same hands that would bring him death.

── ❦・⸝⸝ author's note: please let me know what do you think, kind feedback is really appreciated ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

p.s.: you can find me on twitter @/tenderbeck where i post lads related stuff!! love you all ♡

── ❦・⸝⸝ click to find my masterlist

[littleapplle]

needa study for exams but can't stop thinking abt puppy caleb :( I lost the chance to write him with the most messy and disgusting happy trail ever :( he took the 'let it grow' joke too seriously. it is BIG.

and thinking about dirty n sweaty puppy caleb.. his ears and hair dripping with sweat, vv stinky smell of a wet pup mmm

AND. I don't think he even notices he's stinky at first:( he needs ur guidance !!! hes just a pup!!!! likeeee when u come home and all you wanna do is bury your head on your pillow, that DEFINITELY smelled like lavender in the morning and you feel that NASTY smell of a dog that must've ran a marathon before lying on ur comfy bed???? oh nuh uh. to the shower you go u freak.

in the hygiene topic, I think he'd shave (ask you for help) his happy trail if u asked him to do so. And honestly, how dare you?? so what if it's already reaching his bellybutton!! that's his fur!/j

OH and I saw someone with a p. link list for caleb ?? with the hottest handjob video I've ever seen?? like?? someone shaving a guy but he's just stupidly hard??? soooooo hot. so puppy caleb coded. i'll tag it if i find later.

in any way, I'll probably post something caleb related this week or the next one. have lots of thoughts abt this pathetic attempt of a man. oh and- ive seen a lot of people asking for puppy caleb and I see u!!!! I'm thinking about it always, don't worry!! I'll start to tag all my thoughts abt him properly so it's easier to find on my blog LOL ><

[inquisimer]

wip wednesday

I have shareable words this week \o/ Lately I've been beating my head against WIPs and/or working on event pieces that are Secret for the time being, but last night I had a breakthrough on the end scene of the next chapter of though I burn (how could I fall), the one that's been haunting me for 2 months but is now a fully drafted chapter to be edited for posting🎉

tags for @shivunin | @basedonconjecture | @flowersforthemachines | @larkinna | @ttrevelyan | @greypetrel | and you 🫵, if you have something you want to share!

Without further ado, have some Marisol/Viago banter and tangential wound tending <3

And just like that, the shutters she’d vanished behind melt away, the general amusement that sits below her skin and colors the air around her returned to its proper place. He does not even have to give the follow-up order; once she’s sat on his workbench, she rids herself of her armor, her tunic, and waits. (Disrespectful, in truth, to be so cavalier with her own welfare, when she has been invested in, trained, honed. How much worse would war be if a sword were contrary and pushing, always pushing, questioning the whetstone and the cloth and the oil that keep it sharp. In another life, she would have been such a blade. Instead she is a bird, and her claws are just as sharp as steel— But trust is not so easily balanced as a blade, and it is a precarious thing, to give your weapon wings.)

“I am offering you aid.” Viago rolls his eyes, tipping antiseptic onto a cloth and pressing it to the wound weeping beneath her ribs. His touch is not gentle, and perhaps she did not expect it to be, because other than a slight hiss and a white-knuckled grip on the bench, she does not react. “It is not typically a thing that needs to be bartered.” “You of all people should understand a reticence to taking unknown substances.” “Is that what it was, then?” “Perhaps,” Marisol hums, kicking her heels against the crates stacked beneath the table. “It is as good a reason as any, no?” “Do you derive some kind of pleasure from being as vague and unhelpful as possible?” “I rather think you’ve lost the right to call me unhelpful, considering all the help I’ve given you recently.” “Considering that I pay for that help, I will call you whatever I wish.” Her wound has absorbed most of the antiseptic, so he counts a measure of thirty, studiously avoiding her eyes, though he can feel them boring unabashedly into him. Instead, his gaze traces her skin, the silvery scars and moles and tattoos that decorate her like a canvas. Of course, there is no mercy and he does not fare better for avoiding her scrutiny, as the image of Teia’s fingers and lips tracing every mark, fingers in curls against bronze skin, comes unbidden to his mind. “Again with the staring.” Her soft laughter vibrates through his gloves, up his arm, up into his throat and his gaze snaps to hers like lightning. He scowls at the amusement twinkling there. “Someday you might just ask the questions you’re ruminating on.” “Don’t hold your breath,” he mutters, swiping the excess solution from her skin and threading a suture to a needle. “Hold still.” For once, she obeys. And the shock of that is like ice breaking underfoot, the sudden shoot of frigid water and adrenaline. Viago actually stutters, having been fully prepared to wait for her quip to settle so that her skin would not pull taut before he began. “I have had stitches before,” she says, amused, “I know why you asked.” He scowls, evidenced again that she can behave and chooses not to, which is wholly worse than simple incompetence. With practiced hands he draws the suture through her skin, deftly pulling the wound closed and tying off the end. She relaxes, running her fingers lightly over his work as he reaches for salve and bandages; he resists the urge to swat her hand away. She is not going to tear it open by touching. Probably. “You were meant to be providing cover,” he finally says, smearing salve across her skin. Her breath catches, lungs twitching beneath his fingers. “So. How did they get this close?” “I thought you no longer wanted my report.” He shuts the jar of salve with a snap. “I want to know if this is a result of my Crow’s negligence, or another demerit I can mark against you in my ledger.” “Going to charge Teia for my insolence?” “I could.” And he could, by the letter of the interhouse agreement. They both know that he won’t, not the way things stand now, not when Teia has done him so many favors—no matter that they are paid, they are favors. It would have been no small thing for her to refuse Marisol’s assistance and scoop the contracts for her own when Viago could not deliver. But she has not, not even once. So no. He will not charge Teia for her Crow’s attitude. But he could, so he will be ornery and obstinate about it instead.