#someone elses fanfic

[coolbeanzeaglbones]

I was just reading a fanfic on ao3 called fashion zombies and it had me crying more than any other thing I have ever read. You guys should totally check it out if you haven't already

[pen-of-roses]

Do y'all ever think about how cool it is that art inspires other art inspires other art inspires other art in an endless cycle

[tedkaczynskiofficial]

I love Zutara as much as the next girlie, but I think people romanticizing Zuko catching Azula's lightning in the Final Agni Kai are doing Zuko's character a massive disservice. He would have done that for anyone. Not just anyone in the Gaang, anyone.

He did it for the division he ended up getting burned over. He did it for his subordinate that was going to fall to his death after the ship was struck by lightning. He did it for Lee, when he was kidnapped by Gao. He did it for Iroh, when he confronted his dad and tried to break him out of prison. He did it for the whole Gaang at the Western Air Temple. He did it for Sokka, Suki, and Hakoda at the Boiling Rock.

His whole character revolves around saving everyone else first. Hell, he tried to save Zhao of all people! There's no way that would have gone well for Zuko if Zhao had actually taken his hand. He always does what he thinks is right first before considering his own safety.

Zuko always saves other people. Even if, especially if, he can't save himself.

[frownyalfred]

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[dawneternal]

now my head's splitting at the seams

✴︎ in the labyrinth of my pain, would you find me?

✴︎ Azriel x Valkyrie reader, platonic Cassian x reader

✴︎ Summary: you miss a few days of training, down with a bad migraine. It turns out Cassian has a few misconceptions about your condition and, possibly, about pain itself.

✴︎ Warnings: mentions of nausea and vomiting (no descriptions), pain, toxic positivity and ableism, internalized ableism, Cassian's a jerk in the first half. Also I'm so sorry for the tense changing back and forth 💀 I would definitely not call this one a masterpiece

✴︎ Word Count: 3.4k

AO3 Link / Writing Masterlist

✴︎ Notes: somehow writing out my feelings about having a migraine turned into something pretentious about pain and ableism. I think a lot about John Green's "pain is the opposite of language" and how much that's changed my perception of pain

Also listen I love Cassian and I have no problems with him but I had to pick someone to take my feelings out on I'm sorry 💛 also just want to acknowledge that everyone experiences migraines differently and it's not a topic I'm an expert on so I'm sorry if you don't feel well represented by this.

Tbh I could write several essays about the way pain and disability are handled in the acotar books but that's for another time.

Letting out a frustrated groan, you squeeze your eyes shut tighter and twist your knuckle into the pressure point at the base of your palm, chasing the momentary relief it'll give you from your nausea. It works for a minute, and you're considering making your way to the bathroom before another wave hits you when your bedroom door flies open.

"You're late," Cassian's voice bellows through the room and he doesn't see you wince. He strides into the room, footsteps booming across the floorboards, and he's left the door open behind him, letting a traitorous amount of light into your dark room. What good were black out curtains if your darkness was going to be invaded like this anyways?

"Oh my gods you've got to talk quieter," You curl tighter around yourself, head clutched in your hands.

"So you're hungover?" He stops near your bed, arms crossed as he towers over you.

"No, I have a migraine."

"Isn't that the same thing?"

You squint up at him, scowling, swallowing every bad word threatening to spill off your tongue. Though maybe he deserves it for coming into your room without asking.

"Please leave," You say quietly, all the venom you could usually imbue into your voice completely swallowed by your current condition.

"You've missed three days of training." He says by way of answering, definitely not following your request to lower his volume. "You can't coddle yourself like this."

His words punch the air from your lungs. Coddle? Something terrible is rising in your gut, along with the desperate thought that you can't deal with this right now.

"I'm not - this isn't - I don't think you understand how much it hurts." You scramble for words, cheeks heated from pain and anger.

"You've gotta push through it," He says, no hint of sympathy.

"Cassian please."

"I'm not leaving until you agree to come with me."

You don't have time to respond before you're running to the bathroom and throwing up whatever you'd managed to keep down last night, head throbbing with every movement.

Breathing hard, you lean back from the toilet and clutch your head in your hands. The silence rings in your ears and you aren't sure if Cassian is still there or if he finally took mercy on you and left, until his voice makes it's way to you, with just a hint of remorse in it -

"I'd better see you up there."

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

Cassian did not see you at training that morning, and you're assuming you've bruised his ego because the next day he doubles down.

The thing is, Rhysand knew of your condition. The other priestesses knew. It's only Cassian being out of the loop and if he understood what a migraine felt like, you're certain he wouldn't be dragging you up there. You were used to dealing with people who didn't understand, had worked hard to learn how to give yourself kindness no matter what other people said. But it's like he knew exactly what things to say, what buttons to press to undo all of that progress.

It was like he'd pulled off your armor, piece by piece, leaving you cold and exposed. Going back to that world where weakness was your given name and it hurt worse than stepping into the ring and fighting the pain. If you could prove him wrong, just make it through a couple of hours, you could return to your sanctuary of darkness. And at least then, you wouldn't hate yourself on top of everything else.

So you followed him up to the training ring, struggling to open your eyes all the way in the morning light, hunched over to make the pain down your shoulders and neck just a bit more bearable. You sway on your feet, but Cassian either doesn't notice or doesn't care.

When he moves aside, revealing your small, huddled frame trailing beside him, Gwyn gasps.

"Cassian!" She cries, her tone scathing, and the hint of smug triumph slips from his face. It disappears completely as Gwyn rushes to your side, folding you into her arms to block your eyes from the light. You groan into her shoulder and go limp in her arms, grateful for the support.

Azriel stands to the side, watching with narrowed eyes. His arms are crossed over his chest like Cassian's, but there is no determination or judgment in his posture or expression. There's angry, crackling flames as he watches the redheaded Valkyrie thread her fingers through your hair and murmur soft comfort.

"She missed training all this week," Cassian says, but he's not barking any more. He's feeling a little bit small underneath the glares that pin him where he stands.

"Yeah, we know," Gwyn says, and it's the closest she's gotten to snapping at him in the whole time they've known each other. She turns to you and her eyes soften. "Let's get you back to bed, love."

"No," You murmur, guilt and shame bringing your resolve to the surface once more. You gently push her away to stand on your own, raising your squinted eyes to meet Cassian's. "I can do it. I'll be fine."

She watches you take shaky steps to the nearest mat and begin stretching, body obviously stiff from a few days in bed. You're conscious of all the eyes on you, far too sympathetic for your liking. This is exactly what you hated.

"Are we starting or not?" You let out a stiff laugh, too aware that your words are lightly slurred. That is absolutely not helping the hangover accusations.

The other priestesses shuffle to get into place, bumping into each other as they move to find their positions. There was still a horrible silence, crackling with fierce anger, all rippling in Cassian's direction. He halfheartedly called a few orders, visibly uncomfortable with the energy in the ring.

And you tried. You tried hard. To move your body through the stretches like normal. But your muscles protested every move, threatening to lock back up, sending stabs of pain through your skull. It didn't take long for the nausea to take over, forcing you to the edge of the ring, doubled over and dry heaving.

"This is ridiculous," Gwyn scoffs before she's at your side again. "You're going to back to bed."

"I will not be weak," You growl at her, panting as you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, "I am not lazy."

Gwyn's head snaps around to find Cassian, mouth dropped open in fury as she silently dares him to confirm that he may have suggested weakness to you.

"You're not and you know it," She says softly, hauling you up and leading you away from the training ring. “Don't do that to yourself.”

Cassian is feeling like he's surrounded by wolves, all the glares that are being sent his way. He understands by now that he's messed up, and in front of a group that may not be easily inclined to forgive him. He's sure every single one of them has experienced the disbelief that he foolishly shoved your way. For their pain, or for anything else.

He thought you would snap back to your normal self after a bit of warming up, shake off your symptoms with a bit of movement and sunshine. You were strong enough to, if you wanted to. He'd seen it before. He thought you just didn't want to.

A small, firm hand lands on his arm and he finds himself looking down at Nesta. There's sympathy in her expression, but her eyes twinkle with the threat of a nasty bite if he dares to say anything stupid.

"She gets them after particularly bad flashbacks," Nesta says, "Or sometimes they're just random. Madja says there's no fix for the pain but darkness and sleep."

Cassian's stomach twists so terribly he thinks he might puke, too. In the midst of attempting to instill resilience, he's understanding that he knows nothing of this kind of pain. This is something different, something that cannot be conquered in the same way as emotional pain, as every day aches and injuries. You are a soldier in a battle he has no strategy for.

He may understand the concept of emotional resilience, of getting back up and into the training ring when you don't want to. But this is different.

The final blow, the thing that makes him want to cower and hide, is meeting his brother's eyes. Seeing the fire there transports him back in time, sending flashes of a smaller Azriel pushing himself too hard, determined to show the world that he'd never be less because of the damage to his hands. Fighting against words far too similar to the ones his own brother had spouted to you this morning, desperate to become strong enough that no one would ever doubt his pain and live.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

It was not a surprise that Cassian found himself in Rhysand's office later, confessing how thoroughly he'd fucked up, desperate for a little direction in how to fix this mess.

"It has to be their choice," Rhysand is saying, eyes meeting Cassian's over his glass.

Cassian's mouth opens and closes as he tries to conjure a response. He knows that. Of course he knows that. But apparently, his brain had not wrapped around how far that concept might go.

Cassian let out a grunt as he sat back in his chair, arms crossed. Rhysand knew he didn't have to push any further, he recognized the conflict in his brother's eyes. So he sat with him, quiet, while he processed.

"Do you want to know what it feels like?" He broke the since after a while, as the idea came to him.

"What?" Cassian blinked, startled from his thoughts.

"A migraine," Rhys explained, "Do you want to know what it feels like?"

Cassian frowned, studying his brother's expression for anything resembling amusement, but there was none. So he nods.

Not even a full second later, his skull is attacked with throbbing pain, deep in the base of his neck. He hadn't even noticed the fae lights before, but now they overwhelm him, causing a dull pain to surface behind his eyes. Nausea curled up his throat, threatening ruthlessly.

"Oh gods," He leaned forward and clutched his head in his hands, finding that his limbs trembled under his own weight.

"Do you push yourself when you feel like this?" Rhysand asked softly, not taunting. Prompting.

"I don't really ever feel like this," Cassian grumbled out.

"Hm," Rhysand mused, his brows drawing together. He'd experienced episodes like these often, under the mountain. He knew that Azriel struggled with them through his teenage years, like his brain still struggled to process his senses outside of a dark cell.

Deep in thought, he only remembered to ease up on Cassian's mind when his brother whimpered.

"Some say pain cannot truly be described with language," Rhys says, gaze somewhere else as Cassian gulps down air. "And that your pain is one of the few things that is truly yours, that you can never share. Even if you manage to describe it, it will never be felt by anyone else."

"I thought she was just hungover," Cassian says, but he's not defending himself. Rhysand knows.

"What if she was, though?" He tilts his head to the side, watching his brother carefully.

And that is the thing that had begun to unfurl within Cassian as he stood surrounded by the priestesses he'd wronged. He understood that having true control of your body meant that dictating how pain is handled had to be yours, too. He understood that pushing someone to deal with pain in his own way was a violation in and of itself. He had stepped into the world that you had carefully balanced and re-built around your condition and dared to tell you that you may have done it wrong.

"Will she get better?" He asks, thinking of the agony he'd just experienced for a few short minutes. The same one that you'd been experiencing for three days, now.

"It's hard to say," Rhysand shrugs, "Madja says she will likely experience these off and on for the rest of her life, but she may have some periods of remission."

He tilts his head at his brother again, "You know that a majority of the priestesses have an invisible disability of similar kinds, right? They won't get better. They will be in pain every day until they die."

Rhysand sighs, thinking of the hundreds - possibly thousands - of tins of salve that Azriel has gone through, numbing the pain of his nerve damage. Trembling hands hidden in black gloves, tucked into his body and away from the world. And that is the reason he's bothering telling Cassian of any of this. Otherwise, he might let him figure it out on his own.

"But the healers-" Cassian begins.

"Are there to help them cope with their emotional pain and trauma," Rhysand nods, "But some of them, a lot of them, were disabled as a result of what they went through and will never get better. Like Clotho.”

Oh.

It clicks in Cassian's mind, then. Who else Rhys meant. Who else Cassian had insulted. He had never barged into Azriel's room, insisting that he still train even when he could not flex his fingers without wincing, without trembling too hard to hold a glass of water. But he'd done it to you, in front of him. And that pinned his disbelief on Azriel all the same.

Azriel's pain, your pain, were enemies that neither of you could defeat. And here he was, shoving a sword into your hands, and insisting that you try.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

A soft knock sounds against your door, so quiet you almost don't hear it. You stare at it, wondering if you should pretend that you didn't. But then the knob turns slowly and it opens just a crack, and a soft voice is saying into the darkness,

"Hey, it's Azriel. Can I come in?"

Your breath catches in your throat, and you watch his shadows dancing back and forth through the thin wedge of light he's letting in.

"Sure," You say, moving quickly to smooth your rumpled clothes and tangled hair before he steps in. You're not exactly sure what he thinks of you after this morning.

He steps inside and closes the door behind him. His eyes seem to glow in the darkness, an amber-honey color, and somehow you can still see his shadows, like they're even darker than your room with no light.

"I just wanted to check on you," He says, crouching down beside your bed so you don't have to sit up.

"I'm okay," You say, still getting over the surprise of the Shadowsinger in your space. It's true, though, you suppose. You're used to all of your other symptoms by now, and your heart hurts worse than your head.

"He's an idiot sometimes," Azriel says, basically spits. A smile begins to spread on your face so he continues, “Like, sometimes he's just an asshole, straight up. But this time, believe it or not, I think he actually meant well and was just an idiot.”

“I know,” You give him a sad smile and all of the anger melts from his face.

“I think he went to buy flowers if that makes you feel any better,” He sighs. You know he's just as mad at Cassian as you are, maybe even more mad. But he still can't help vouching for him. It's definitely going to take more than flowers to forgive him, but it's a good start. You also appreciate that Azriel has bothered to warn you ahead of time, in case you wanted to avoid Cassian's apology.

“How are you feeling?” He asks, so quietly. And you wonder who else has earned this tenderness from him.

“It's not too bad right now,” you say truthfully, though you know that sitting up or going outside might be pushing your luck.

“Still hurts?”

“Yeah. Still hurts.”

He nods. “I can try something that helps me, sometimes.”

You search his eyes for a moment, then nod.

“Can I touch your face?” He asks, almost a whisper.

Your heart leaps into your throat and you fight to keep your face neutral as you nod again, no idea what he's planning to do with you.

Slowly, leaving enough time for you to stop him, he reaches out. He's not wearing gloves, like usual, and in the dark you can just barely make out the uneven silhouette of his dimpled, scarred hands.

His fingers land gently on your forehead, and he presses his thumb between your brows. Gently at first, and then harder, circling a tender point under your skin. It makes the pain in your head sharper, and you let out a hiss.

“I know,” He says, “Bear with me a minute.”

You close your eyes, biting back a whimper, but after a moment the pain begins to ease. He keeps going for a few minutes and you feel your whole body relax, pain free for the first time in days.

You don't realize how much you've leaned into his touch until he gently pulls away and you find your head falling forward with him.

“What is that?” You open your eyes and blink at him.

“A pressure point,” He grins, and it almost looks like he's blushing.

“That's magical,” you say. You hesitate for a moment, and then, “you can sit on the bed if you want.”

Azriel smiles and straightens, and you move your pillow to the side to make space for him. He slides off his boots and sits on the bed next to you, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. You place your pillow next to his lap and settle back into it.

“Thank you,” You say, your body feeling lighter than it has in days.

“Of course,” he says.

A silence settles, but it's not uncomfortable. There's something in it that you understand. He's just keeping you company. Here to sit with you in your pain.

It's easy to relax in his presence, between his calm aura and the pain relief he's offered you. And you find yourself spilling the question that's been circling though your mind since this morning.

“What if I can't fight, someday? What if I can't be a Valkyrie anymore?”

Azriel stills beside you. It's a long moment before he says anything. You're tense beside him, and it makes you flinch when he brings his hand so gently to rest on your head. Not moving, just resting.

“First,” He says, in the same soft voice, “You'll always be a Valkyrie. Because you cut the ribbon. Because you sisters will never let you go. And because I know for a fact that the Valkyries did not strip their warriors of their title if they became disabled by an illness or an injury.”

“Really?” You breathe.

“Mhm,” He hums in affirmation. You forget sometimes that he knows the Valkyries from more than history books.

“And second,” His voice drops lower, like he's sharing a secret with you. His hand moves, fingers slipping gingerly through your hair. And it makes you realize that he came here with his hands uncovered as an offer of solidarity. Combing his scarred fingers through your hair, he is offering you vulnerability, like recompense for what you bared this morning. A trade. A truce.

“If you cannot fight,” He continues, “Then you will show the world that a formidable woman can be made from more than fighting skills. You will still be - will always be - something incredible.”

Tears prickle at your eyes, form a lump in your throat. You reach up to grasp his hand, the only thank you that you can manage in the moment, and he lets you.

There's another silence, as he holds your hand in the dark.

“Who helps you?” You ask, turning to look up at him. He watches your eyebrows knit together, so serious, and he swallows a smile.

“What do you mean?” He says.

You bring one finger up to tap the space between his own eyebrows.

“With your pain? Who helps you like you helped me?”

“Um,” He shrugs, “Sometimes Rhys if he has time. Otherwise, no one.”

That's what you thought, but it still makes your heart twist in your chest. It takes a deep breath before you have the courage to say the next words out loud.

“You should tell me next time you're in pain. And I'll help.”

Azriel stares back at you, something bewildered in his eyes. Because he sees your suggestion for what it is. The same thing he offered you. A trade. A truce.

A beginning.

“Yes,” He whispers into the dark, and his hand closes around yours. “I will.”

[legayllyblonde]

drawing i made for a narumitsu fic i’ve been writing for the past couple months! it’s 29k words of phoenix tackling his hardest case yet: getting edgeworth to agree to a pet name. completely finished & uploaded, T-rating, established relationship… link’s here if you're interested, if not, enjoy the sillies!

for venturing under the cut, i reward thee with the title card & section break illustrations! my favorites are the origami family and the popcorn pigeon :P

and finally... tigerworth...

[moonyswarmsweaters]

[starry-bi-sky]

Blood Blossom Au: Baby's First Commissioner Meeting :)

TL:DR This Post: Danny (orphan) gets poisoned with blood blossom extract by Vlad. He runs away from him and ends up under the care of one Pre-Robin Battinson Batman! Starry is loudly pushing her batdad agenda.

(Also known as "Late At Night, When The Nightingale Sings" on my ao3!)

This was a fun rough idea I've been sitting on for weeks, thinking about how Commissioner Gordon and Nightingale's first meeting might go.

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

Commissioner Gordon likes to think that he's adjusting to the new normal of Gotham very well, -- the new normal being grown men running around dressed like bats, in military-grade strength body armor, committing acts of vigilantism, -- and slowly, little by little, he was no longer being surprised when this new normal pops up out of the shadows like the world's most terrifying daisy. His shaving lifespan thanks him for it.

....

The kid is a surprise though.

Granted, he seemed to be a surprise to the Bat too.

There's been a string of murders lately, -- which, in Gotham, is kind of like saying there's been another storm during monsoon season. And there's just been another; in some dilapidated building down in south Gotham, with the broken, boarded-up windows and mildew-crawling walls to match. The victim is a man in his thirties, multiple gunshot wounds to the chest, left in the center of the room for the blood to pool out around him.

The place is already secured when he arrives, the building swarmed with officers and the forensic detectives. The Bat emerges shortly after he does -- or, he might've been here the whole time, hiding someplace dark and shadowy. For his own sanity, Gordon doesn't think about it too hard.

The kid is a surprise, and he appears like a bolt of lightning.

He shows up in the middle of a conversation Gordon is having with the Bat.

A whistle, sharp and loud, slicing through the air, meant for open air rather than a confined space. Gordon's ears pierce and protest the sound, and the solemn, murmured chatter floating through the room abruptly cuts off like the swing of a gavel. As he turns towards the sound -- as they all do -- he swears, up and down, that he sees Batman's shoulders jump, just slightly.

At the source, perched on the window, is a boy. A boy in a gray-blue scarf and an oversized black hoodie, one that hangs off his frame and has ace bandages wrapped around the wrists in some attempt to cinch the sleeves. The hood is up, big like the rest of it, and threatens to swallow the upper half of the boy's face whole in the fabric. What upper half Gordon can see, is smeared with some kind of opaque, black face paint. He's holding onto the side of the frame with one hand, on his hip is a grappling hook. A familiar grappling hook.

Gordon has multiple questions, and his officers tense up.

Martinez puffs up, brows furrowing as his face shapes into a frown. Shoulders rolling back. "You can't be here, kid--"

The reaction is immediate, like a spark to gunpowder, the boy yanks his fingers from his mouth and his mouth twists into a scowl. Head snapping over to Officer Martinez, his hood manages to stay on but Gordon swears that as he bares his teeth, the glint makes them look sharper than they should be. His voice is rasp and quiet and harsh; snappish in its hissing; "Put a fuckin sock in it, Martinez. I'm not stayin."

Martinez reels back, and the boy immediately veers his attention off him. Like a switch, his demeanor drops. Despite half his face being covered, his mouth twists into a cringing, apologetic smile. Slanted and off-beat, embarrassed. It'd be disarming if this wasn't Gotham, and if he didn't just hiss at Martinez like he was about to bite his head off.

"Sorry." He whispers, voice deceptively polite and softer now. Gordon has to strain his ears to hear him. "I was looking for him."

He points his finger towards-- Gordon? No, Gordon follows the direction, and finds himself looking at -- the Bat.

The Bat, who always looks stiff as a pole, now looks even stiffer. Somehow. Well, the explains the grappling hook attached to the boy's waist.

"What are you doing here?" The Bat says, gruff and unable to completely smother the stumble of surprise in his tone.

The boy still holds a sheepish smile, and slips off the window ledge. His feet hit the creaky boards with a near-silent thud, the Batman finds his feet and rapidly begins crossing the room.

Gordon notes the slight tremble in the boy's legs as he straightens. He adjusts his scarf, which droops close to his knees now that he's standing, and slings a backpack -- how long has had that? -- off his shoulders. When the Bat reaches his side, he does as he always does, and looms over the boy like a spectre. A threatening mass of shadows cloaked in all-consuming black. Standing next to him, the boy looks teeny in comparison.

The Bat is a man who terrifies even the most hardened criminals, Gordon has seen grown men shiver in fear at the mention of his name. And yet when the boy looks up at him, he doesn't even flinch.

Instead, his sheepish smile melts away like ice under the sun, holding only traces of his previous embarrassment. It remains as a shadow on his face, a small upturn at the corners of his mouth. The boy pushes his hood back just enough to reveal glinting, ice-flint eyes surrounded in tar-black face paint. He holds the backpack up with one arm. "You forgot this."

[superbat-love]

Clark banished Bruce from his apartment after letting him stay for just one night. Bruce left the bed unmade, dropped dirty clothes and towels on the floor after showering, and routinely left used cups and plates on the table. His kitchen was a disaster zone after Bruce tried to make himself an omelette. Worse, he never turned off the appliances, and Clark nearly had a heart attack when he saw the utility bill.

To avoid being responsible for a dead Superman, Bruce promised to clean up and cover the expenses. Unfortunately, he hired a house cleaning slash renovation crew, turning Clark's apartment into Metropolis’ fanciest, complete with a private elevator and a backyard pool. Clark didn't even have a backyard. Now he has to figure out how to explain the whole thing to his landlord.

[starrystevie]

18+ | cw: public handjobs, coming in pants | crossposted on twitter

“are you okay?”

realistically, eddie knows the answer to steve’s question is no. he’s not okay. he’s sitting in a club booth hard as nails with a flush no doubt covering his whole body. he should say no, far from okay, but instead he says-

“yeah, of course im fine.”

steve brings the back of his hand to wipe at his brow, crinkling his eyebrows together in confusion as he flashes an all too well knowing smirk eddie’s way. 

“you sure?” he asks smartly, leaning over the table to grab his rum and coke. standing back up, he tilts his head. “you look a little… bothered.”

eddie narrows his eyes and looks back out to the dance floor to see the girl steve was just dancing with crossing her arms over her chest. she’s pretty, clearly thinking she was making headway with steve, probably making plans in her head about marriage and babies with freckled cheeks.

eddie sighs and slumps over the table, balances his head in his palm as he plants his elbow on the sticky table top. 

how is eddie supposed to tell him that no, he’s no where close to alright? his cock is leaking into his nice jeans and it’s all from the way steve looks as he grinds into a pretty girl. as he tilts his head back to let the neon lights bounce off his pretty sun kissed skin. as he threads a hand into his own sweaty hair to push it back off his forehead. as he threads a hand into her curly hair to keep her where he wants her. 

he has to stop thinking about it.

if he doesn’t, he’s going to cream his pants and that would make for an even worse evening. 

“im good, man. it’s just a little hot.”

steve nods absently as he sips at his drink, as he looks eddie dead in the eye. eddie sighs and steve smirks again. he’s well and truly fucked.

suddenly, steves sliding into the booth, arm coming up to rest behind eddie’s head. he sputters, floundering as steve gets closer, close enough that he can smell his sharp cologne mixed with sweat, a smell that drives him wild. 

“oh.” steve says simply.

eddie flicks his eyes up to meet steve’s to ask what he’s talking about only to find that he’s staring at his hard on. the humiliation that rushes through eddie must cloud his vision when he thinks he sees steve’s smirk get wider, all teeth like a wolf on the hunt.

“fuck.”

he’s been caught. eddie whispers the curse into the air of the crowded nightclub but steve still hears it. his fingers drop down to just barely graze eddie’s shoulder, causing him to shudder. 

steve huffs out a laugh. “looks like i was right, you are bothered.”

eddie groans and drops his head with his eyes closed. “yeah, yeah, laugh all you want.” if he was flushed earlier, it grows tenfold now. he can feel the heat emanating off of him, warm enough that he feels sick with it.

he wants a hole to open up and swallow him. he wants to run out the door and never look back, saying au revoir to the fairytale idea of ever being with steve. he wants to crawl into his bed and jerk himself off under his covers and think about how hot the humiliation is that runs through him when steve looks at him and-

“you want some help with that?”

eddie freezes. steve’s breath is hot against his ear as he leans down to yell over the music, his lips ghosting over the sensitive skin, the fingers that were teasing along the very tip of eddie’s shoulder pressing more intently into him.

“…do i want some help with what?” he murmurs, sliding his eyes open to glance at steve as he pulls back.

there’s something electric that zings through him as their eyes meet. the lights flash and steve is covered in red, glinting off his teeth like he could go in for the kill.

eddie thinks, knows, that he’d let him if he really wanted to.

“your little problem. or well-” steve breaks off and makes a clear look down, trailing his eyes slowly over eddie before bringing them back up to eddie’s face. “maybe not so little, huh?”

eddie blanches, a whine escaping him without his permission, something high and thready from the back of his throat. it’s a miracle steve can even hear it, but he does, taking it as the ‘fuck yes’ answer that it’s meant to be and sliding his hand down to rest on eddie’s thigh.

steve’s fingers tighten around eddie’s leg as he nods, the pressure quick and intense and enough to have him whining once more, shoulder slumping forward. he’s going to black out, he just knows it. his head is getting all foggy in anticipation.

when he looks down and sees just how hard steve’s breathing too, his chest expanding in time with the increasing pressure of his fingers, it all clicks in eddie’s head. this isn’t just for him like he thought it was. this isn’t just helping with his maybe not so little problem.

this is for steve, too.

once he realizes it, he sees the same realization wash over steve and the floodgates open. there’s a hand cupping his cock over his jeans as steve pulls the table closer to cover what they’re doing. it’s so much so fast and eddie takes in a gasping breath.

steve’s scooting somehow even closer to eddie until they’re pressed together hip to hip, chest to chest, with lips hot against eddie’s ear once more. eddie briefly wonders what they must look like but it’s dark enough that people aren’t looking over. not really.

if they did look over, they’d see eddie with his mouth agape, shoulders and head hunched forward as his friend must be saying something over the music. they wouldn’t see a hand working deliciously over him. they wouldn’t see the tongue flitting out to play with his earrings. they wouldn’t hear the absolute filth that steve is whispering that brings eddie closer and closer to the brink.

“god, i can’t wait to get my mouth on you,” he says and eddie feels like he can’t breathe, his hips bucking forward to chase after an embarrassingly fast orgasm. “think if you come in your pants, you can get it up again when we leave? want you to fuck me into the mattress until i’m fucking crying, til i'm begging for it. think you can do that?”

it’s too much. eddie turns his head and looks at steve with his lip pulled between his teeth. “what about her?”

he doesn’t have to clarify, they both know who he’s talking about. steve grins again as he quickens his hand. watches as red lights and bliss pass over eddie’s face.

“just wanted to make you jealous,” he breathes out, “she has your hair, y’know? wanted to feel like it was you against me.”

steve’s hand grinds into him once more and then his fingers are finding their way around his length in the denim, stroking him quickly. it's a bit too dry and it kind of hurts but they both correctly guess that eddie loves it a bit too dry, a bit too painful.

eddie chokes, eyes squeezing together as he comes in his pants like a goddamn teenager.

“there you go,” steve murmurs pressing a featherlight hidden kiss to his temple.

eddie jolts his hips through the aftershocks, unable to hide the whimpers that escape him. he doesn’t care about it, can’t care about it, not when steve picks up one of eddie’s hands to place on his own hard cock. he can feel a damp spot under his palm, and when he looks up at steve's face, he looks about as wrecked as eddie feels.

the only thing he can possibly say to steve is easy. “take me home. now.”

[maelancoli]

i cannot stress enough how important it is to write at your own pace. to give your mind and spirit room to breathe, to process your creativity and allow it to come organically to you. goals and discipline are a good and necessary part of any hobby, especially writing, but so is rest. rest prevents burn out. and if you push yourself until you burn out you will wind up taking even longer to complete projects or meet goals. even if you are already burnt out that's okay. this is your sign to give yourself the grace to take breaks. your story, your muses, your brilliant ideas will be waiting for you to pick them up with proper enthusiasm when you're ready.

[stuffeddeer]

okay but..... pathetic yearning beast!stalkerzai... he's so quiet abt his obsession with u making up any excuse to have u around for subordinate purposes and when ur not around him he makes sure he can still keep tabs on u AHHH hes so sad and so smitten

"pathetic" i dont need to hear any more. im on board.

The continuous knocking on your apartment door leaves you anxious, quickly pulling on a comfy sweatshirt before answering the door. A breeze flies into the room, causing you to shiver, before you make eye contact with,

"Why aren't you at work today?" Dazai crosses his arms, an angry expression on his face. Though, the pout he wears causes it to be less intimidating than he'd normally be.

You glance into your apartment briefly, still feeling chilly while exposed to the outside air. "Um... I don't work?"

"You always work."

"Right. Which is why I have today off." Awkwardly, you itch your arm. "Am I… needed, Boss?"

Dazai sighs before walking into your apartment (with no invitation) and closes your own door behind him. "You're freezing."

"I'm slightly chilled," you shrug, brushing off the notion. Any other subordinate wouldn't dare correct the boss of the Port Mafia, but he'd always been more lenient with you - supposedly because you ‘aren’t as dumb’ as the rest. "But that's what the hoodie is for."

Without another word, Dazai plops down onto your couch, making a show of looking around your apartment. It’s tiny - the whole thing barely the size of his office at HQ — and Dazai wonders if you’d rather move in with him. For more space, of course. And he guesses you’d be saving on rent that way, too.

“How do you know where I live?” You ask curiously. Sure, it’s probably somewhere in your files, but your boss never seemed like the type to care.

Shrugging, he murmurs, “It’s my job.”

You want to make this visit quick, but kicking out your boss didn’t seem like a smart idea. “Are you thirsty? Would you like a cup of tea?..”

Yes, Dazai wants to try your tea. Just because you’re his subordinate, and he needs to make sure it’s up to par. What if he needs you to serve tea to some associates in the future? “I’d love one.”

Biting back a sigh, you fill your kettle before placing it on the stove, watching as your old gas stove flickers on. Silence hangs between you two - you had no intention of carrying the conversation when he just barged in uninvited.

Dazai seems to have a similar idea, sitting laxly on your couch and waiting for his tea. You pour one cup, uninterested in making one yourself, before placing it on the coffee table in front of him. “Sugar? Milk?”

“This is fine, thanks.” He takes a sip. Heavenly, he’s sure. Well, all tea tastes the same, but something about it coming from your hands… delectable. It’s as though he can taste the love you must pour into every cup.

Mouth shut, you take a seat on the chair across from him. “May I ask, sir, why are you here? Am I needed?” The question is posed once again as you hope for a quick resolution. Kicking out your boss is wrong, but hopefully he’ll read between the lines and show himself out - the same way he showed himself in.

A long sip of tea permeates the otherwise silent room. He’s doing this on purpose, you’re sure of it.

“…I was worried,” he mumbles into the mug, sound muffled and quiet.

“Sorry?”

“You should be,” he replies, uninterested in repeating himself. “I needed you today, only to find out you vanished into thin air.”

“I didn’t run, if that’s what you’re implying,” your eyes narrow. You would not be mistaken for a traitor.

“No, no,” he grins. You were at your most entertaining when you became combative. Dazai much prefers you like this rather than subservient. “You took today off.”

Correcting the boss of the Port Mafia was risky, but, “You gave me today off. A month ago, after that mission, you told me to pick a day to relax.”

That’s… true. It was a strenuous mission, and while Dazai made sure to keep you out of the fray, he thought a gift like that would make you feel touched and indebted to him. Annoyingly, he’d nearly forgotten, since Dazai had planned on reneging at the last minute to trap you with him. For your work ethtic, of course.

A pout graces his lips, unhappy at your disappearance from his side. And that he had no rebuttal to it. “Well, I still need you. I made dinner reservations for two accidentally, and the restaurant is rather strict. You need to come with. The meal will be comped, of course."

“Sir, I don’t— “

“Don’t want your job?” His eyes narrow, pout vanishing immediately. You had to go along with it. “I’m sure you don’t mean that, over something as silly as a nice dinner.”

“...Of course, sir.” You tug on the strings of your hoodie, wanting to emphasize that you aren't exactly dressed for something 'nice.' "What time am I expected?"

Dazai has to stop himself from swooning. How adorable. Well, it’s not you that’s adorable, of course. It’s the juxtaposition of such n oversized hoodie on you that he finds adorable, not you yourself. Definitely. “We can leave now, actually. Get changed, please. I wouldn't say there's a dress code, but it's not a 'hoodie' establishment."

Rather than lashing out at him for the snide comment, you choose to bite your tongue and head into your bedroom.

Exhausted was too light a word to describe how you felt. Donned in a 'nice' outfit that was rather uncomfortable, you stood outside in the cold air and harsh breeze as Dazai suggested to the host to let him in. This bastard didn't have reservations for one, much less two.

After the manager is called over and recognizes Dazai, you're quickly ushered in beside him. Dazai pulls out a seat at a secluded table in the back, gesturing for you to sit. "Come."

Without a second thought, you sit in the very seat he'd pulled out, stifling a yawn as he pushes you in. You’re Dazai's best employee - he must keep you close at all times. Which is why he takes advantage of your position as his subordinate to orders you waste your day off in a fancy restaurant across from him. If you want time off of work, you’ll have to spend it with him - just so he can keep an eye on you, of course.

[wlntrsldler]

keep that to yourself | luke castellan

song: keep that to yourself by tristan

synopsis: luke survives the battle of manhattan and returns to camp half blood. he sees you and apologizes for all the damage he's done.

a/n: not associated with my other exbf!luke one shot, just obsessed with writing exbf!luke rn lol. please listen to the song bc it actually broke me.

luke castellan was never mean to you. he was always the boy with the kind eyes and gentle smile. the boy who was the first camper you met at 16 when you stumbled into camp half blood, terrified and partly relieved that you'd finally found sanctuary after two years of fending for yourself.

he offered his bed to you when you walked into the hermes cabin, stating that nobody deserved to sleep on the hardwood floors in a sleeping bag on their first night at camp. it was unusual for the head counselor to give up the bed they earned for a new camper, but you didn't know that then. you didn't question why luke never offered it to any new campers who entered the cabin throughout the years.

luke castellan was never mean to you. he was always the boy who stole extra pieces of dessert at dinner because he knew you had a sweet tooth. he noticed that when it came to burning offerings, you'd always frown knowing that you'd have to save your dessert to pray to your parent, so he started stealing an extra slice of cake or a fruit platter or the corner piece of the brownies.

when he passed by your table, he'd slide the plate on your tray and offer a shy smile before walking away. the grateful look in your eye every time he did this was cemented in his brain. you looked at him with so much adoration in your eyes and luke promised himself that he would do everything in his power to keep you looking at him like that.

luke castellan was never mean to you. he was always the boy who spent too much time helping you train because once kronos started visiting his dreams, he knew he wouldn't always be there to protect you. he would stay in that secluded part of the woods with you until the sun disappeared from the sky.

he would push you to your limit and you'd give it your all until your bones ached and you collapsed in exhaustion in his arms. then, he would kiss your temple and tell you that you did so well and joke that you were going to surpass him as the best swordsman at camp soon enough. you'd end the night winding down, pointing out the constellations in the sky, until the ominous sounds of the creatures lurking would force the two of you to retire to your respective cabins. he'd bid you goodnight with a soft kiss to your lips and a promise that he'll be outside your cabin door, bright and early, ready to take on the world with you the next day.

luke castellan was never mean to you, until he was. the fireworks in the sky illuminated his face in an eerie way, fire and anger dancing in the brown of his eyes as he pointed his sword at percy. you screamed at him to stop, to drop his sword, and he scoffed at you, calling you a traitor for taking the side of a boy you'd only met a few days ago. he accused you of betraying him, of never loving him, because you turned your back on him.

his words still ring in your ears years later. and when he walked into camp half blood, terrified and partly relieved thinking that the worst was over, that kronos was gone and he managed to survive the battle of manhattan, all you could think of was how he spoke to you that night.

there was a pain in your chest when he walked in with annabeth and percy. there were new scars on his body, two new ones that joined the scar on his face that you used to kiss. he looked older, too, sunken eyes and a slight hunch to his back, but he still looked like luke. your luke.

when he saw you, there was a stutter in his step that had percy gripping his arm to keep him steady. when the younger boy realized what luke was looking at, he offered you a small, apologetic smile. you tried to return the gesture, but your lips formed a grimace. you clutched your chest, standing frozen in your spot as your eyes raked over luke's body.

"y/n."

you closed your eyes at the sound of your name leaving his lips. it hurts to hear it. you gulped, blinking away the tears that were pooling in your eyes. when you finally found the strength to move, luke broke away from percy's grip and walked towards you, despite the warnings from the kids behind him.

there hasn't been a day since he left where luke didn't regret the way he left things with you. he wasn't himself then, but even that didn't excuse the way he treated you. he'd spent too many nights practicing what he would say to you, how he would apologize, how he would plead for your forgiveness if the gods showed him mercy and somehow blessed him with the opportunity to see you again.

now that he had the chance, he realized that it was not a blessing. this was a punishment from the gods; a punishment for his actions in the last few years, a punishment worse than death. you were looking at him like you hated him, like you wanted nothing to do with him. you looked at him like he was a stranger to you and it killed him slowly because he still felt like you were every memory, every hope, every lifeline he'll ever have.

luke knew he couldn't blame you. you had a million reasons to walk away from him right now and leave him here with his tail tucked between his legs. he ruined the one good thing in his life the night he spoke to you like that and accused you of never loving him. how did he ever think that? how did he ever doubt you when you've shown him nothing but the good in this god-forsaken life? it haunted him. it still haunts him.

"don't."

luke's lips formed a straight line. he looked down at your feet, a shudder trickling down his spine when he saw the fading doodles on your shoes that he drew with sharpie years ago.

"you don't get to talk to me," you said. "you don't get to do that, okay?"

"i just want to apologize."

"you don't get to do that," you repeated, voice wavering as you spoke. you wiped your eyes with the sleeve of your shirt, clenching your jaw, "it's not fair."

"y/n, please," he begged, "please."

"no, i've grieved losing you already," you croaked out, crossing your arms over your chest, "i've already accepted that i lost you. you don't get to come back to my life for any reason."

"baby..."

"you're so mean, luke," you cried, pushing him back. he let you shove him and hit his chest. he knew you were pulling your punches. he stood there and took it, biting his bottom lip as he watched you break down in front of him, unable to hold you in his arms. "you're so fucking mean, you know that? you were gone for years and so many people died and got hurt because of you. and you come in here and use how i feel about you to your advantage. how fucking cruel can you be?"

"i know, i know, i messed up really badly, but you gotta believe me. i didn't do it to hurt you."

you scoffed, backing away from him, "but you did."

"luke," annabeth approached the two of you, placing a hand on luke's back. "we should go, get you checked out at the infirmary."

you sniffled, wrapping your arms around yourself as you looked away to hide your tears from the pair. luke reached out to touch you, but he quickly dropped his hand when you flinched. his tongue poked the inside of his cheek as he tried to keep his emotions at bay. he wiped his eyes, giving annabeth a small nod.

he looked back at you, hoping that your eyes would meet his, but you never turned around. luke sighed sadly, following his younger sister to the infirmary. you didn't turn around to watch him leave until he turned the corner, disappearing from your view.

[avocado62524]

[nanenna]

The Best Laid Plans

Sleepy King Master Post (for my contributions anyway)

---

“I’m driving,” Jazz announced, snatching the keys from her dad as they all walked to where the GAV was parked on the city hall’s lawn.

“Young lady,” Mom started to scold.

“I only have a limited amount of time to drive with supervision before I’m off to college and driving all by myself.” Jazz gave her parents the biggest puppy dog eyes she could muster.

“And I am more than happy to be that supervision,” Vlad said as he reached for the front passenger seat.

Danny quickly jumped into the back seat, as far away from Vlad as he could get. Jazz adjusted the seat and mirrors while she waited for her parents to get in. Then she looked Danny in the eye through the rear view mirror, “The engine doesn’t start until every last person is buckled in.”

“C’mon, Jazz! Even if your grandma driving somehow got us into a car accident we both know I’d be fine.”

“I’m not repeating myself.”

Danny grumbled as he buckled himself in, Jazz kept her smirk to a minimum as she started the car. While she drove them to Vlad’s home she half listened to her parents explain the situation to him, the other half of her attention being spent watching the cars on the road around her swerve and nearly crash around her. She pulled up to a red light next to another car, the passenger staring up at her dumbfounded. Jazz smiled and waved.

“So you’re telling me Daniel is now the Ghost King,” Vlad asked as they pulled up to his mansion.

“That’s what it looks like,” Dad agreed boisterously. “Right now it seems like a meaningless title, but we’re worried about him getting randomly summoned by those darn occultists!”

“A bunch of fanatics with ludicrous ideas,” Mom said with a sniff. “I’d hate to think what they’d try to do to Danny if it ever happens again.”

There was a pause as they all got out of the GAV, then walked into Vlad’s mansion together.

“That doesn't explain why you're here. Shouldn't you be in school, young lady?”

“Apparently it's school policy to send siblings home in these kinds of situations.” And Jazz was so thankful for that!

“And Danielle?”

“She doesn’t go to our school, now does she?”

Vlad nodded along before turning his attention fully on Mom. “I’m guessing you have a plan?”

“Of course,” Mom replied without another thought. “Since we’re pretty sure the title is attached to the crown, we’re going to destroy it and hope it destroys the Ghost King title.”

Vlad stopped in his tracks, “You’ll what?”

Dad patted Vlad on the shoulder consolingly, “I know, I’m sure Danny would be a good king too, but he’s adamant he doesn’t want to. And the risk of a bunch of wacko cultists kidnapping him is just too big.”

“It’s not like you want me to be king anyway,” Danny added with a smirk.

“Well… Little Badger, you’re so young!” Vlad blurted out.

“And it’s weird, you’ve had the crown for over a year now, but I’ve never seen you use it.”

Vlad sighed deeply, “I’ve tried, but it just doesn’t do anything.”

Danny just nodded, “So if it doesn’t work anyway isn’t it better if no one can?”

Vlad side eyed Danny before shrugging, “You do have a point. I shall go retrieve the crown, one moment.” He turned and left the sitting room he’d led them to.

The Fentons all sat down on various pieces of furniture. Their parents shared a couch, sitting as close together as possible, while Jazz and Danny each sat in a chair of their own. Danny sighed and slouched in his seat.

“Danny, have you let Sam and Tucker know what's going on yet?” Jazz asked. It seemed the easiest way to distract him while they waited.

“Yeah, kinda. I told them I was home safe and would explain everything after school.”

Jazz nodded, that seemed the safest.

“They promised to bring me my homework,” Danny added with a groan. “It's so unfair! I got kidnapped, shouldn't I get- oh shit!” Danny practically threw himself out of his chair.

“Language,” Mom chided.

“Don't sneak up on me like that!” Danny whined as he picked himself up off the floor. Then he froze, eyes glaring at seemingly empty space. “How did you sneak up on me? You didn't activate my ghost sense at all.”

Danny waited, presumably a ghost they couldn't see was responding. Jazz had learned from the Youngblood incident, she quietly pulled out a collapsed boo-staff from her purse.

“You don't know who I am?”

…

“Well yes, but ghosts don't usually call me that.”

…

“How about you tell me your name first?” After another pause he burst into laughter. “Are you for real?”

“Danny, is it Youngblood?”

“Huh?” Danny looked to Jazz, then back to the open space. He gestured, “You can't see him?”

Jazz and their parents shook their heads.

Vlad came back into the room holding a cardboard box, knocking a thin layer of dust from the top. “Here it is!” He looked up and frowned. “Who are you, and why are you in my home?”

Everyone paused for the response.

“He didn't set off my ghost sense,” Danny added, he turned back to the empty space, “Are you even a ghost?”

A window burst, shattering into many flying shards under Batman’s combat boots. Jazz instinctively covered her face and shrieked. By the time she looked up the blond man in a trenchcoat from earlier was climbing through the shattered window while muttering to himself.

“Was that really necessary?!” Vlad yelled angrily.

The blond man pointed at Danny and said something, dazzling light flew from his finger to hit Danny, leaving him standing there braced for impact but looking fine.

Mom squawked, “What'd you do?!”

“Danno! Are you okay?” Dad rushed over to check Danny over.

“I think I'm okay?” Danny said shakily as he straightened up from his protective curl to look himself over.

There was a familiar burning crown floating over his head.

“Huh,” the blond man said, “that was supposed to reveal your true form.”

“Congrats, this is my true form,” Danny said with an eye roll.

“Danny, above your head,” Jazz said carefully. Unfortunately that got everyone's attention, far more than Wonder Woman slipping into the room.

Danny looked up, “What? Where?”

“No Danny, it's the crown,” Mom supplied, coming over to stand next to him while glaring at the heroes and their pet wizard. (That was unkind, Jazz shouldn't think such things.)

Dany reached up and felt around until he found the crown, then pulled it down to look at. “Okay, crown retrieved.”

“We may have a problem,” Vlad said as he pulled an identical crown from his cardboard box.

“What.” Danny looked back and forth between the crown in his hand and the one in Vlad's. “Why are there two?” Danny turned to the pet wizard, “What did you do?!”

“I didn't do anything, that was purely an identification spell, it can't duplicate things!”

“Well clearly you did something wrong,” Mom said while glaring at the pet wizard.

Jazz extended the boo-staff and came to stand slightly in front of Danny, these guys may have powers but Jazz had helped fight bigger, badder beings.

Vlad started to step backwards, back towards the hallway.

“Oh no you don’t!” Danny let go of his crown as he ran over to grab the crown Vlad was still holding, it quickly turned into a tug of war.

“Vladdie? What are you doing?” Dad asked in confusion.

“You don’t need two crowns, and since this one was already in my possession…”

“Absolutely not, you fruitloop!”

“Danny!” Mom and Dad both chided.

The Justice Leaguers had all gathered together and were just watching, seeming unsure what to do after all their silly dramatics.

Vlad glowered down at Danny’s hands on the crown, then his eyes widened. He switched to trying to grab Danny’s hand.

Danny looked down, his own eyes widened as he curled his hand into a fist. “Is that the Ring of Rage?! What the hell, that should still be on Pariah’s finger!” Danny looked at the pet wizard in horror, “What. Did. You. Do?!”

“Danny, Vlad, stop it both of you!” Mom moved over to the two and tried to separate them, Dad joined her and was doing his best to cajole them both into backing down. For her part Jazz kept her eyes on the intruders while the rest of her family and Vlad squabbled.

“Alright, that’s enough,” the pet wizard said grumpily before raising his voice. “Shut up!”

[perfinn]

you're out of touch, i'm out of time

aegon ii targaryen x reader

wc: 3.3k

summary: you have a tendency to pick up strays, but when you pick up the king of westeros (who was supposed to have died hundreds of years ago), things begin to get a little complicated

cw: NSFW, f!reader, aegon being a creep (shocker), aegon being deeply pathetic (also shocker), aegon is drunk or possibly hung over, attempted sex (aegon begs for a handjob but doesn't get one)

masterlist, read on ao3, divider by saradika

You’ve always been too nice. You’re aware of this unfortunate fact, though you staunchly refuse to admit it’s a weakness. Has this trait left you without necessities from time to time because you gave them to someone who needed them more? Yes, but you sleep better at night knowing that that homeless girl had sturdy new shoes, even if you had to walk home barefoot. You can always handle a bit of discomfort if it means improving someone’s day marginally. It’s not as though you’re without any sense of self preservation– you know when to say no, or when to walk away. When someone is out for their own self interest, or just plain dangerous. 

You’re smart about it. Mostly. Sometimes, though, your sympathy gene takes over, and you approach the danger because you feel there’s more beneath the surface. So far, it hasn’t put you in any troubling positions. Still, first time for everything. And as you stand on the edge of the pavement, toes of your shoes swinging down into the gutter as you sway back and forth, you wonder if you’re about to break your successful streak.

There’s a man in the busy city street, raving and desperately trying to get someone’s attention. Usually, he’s the type you’d regretfully ignore for your own safety, but he seems different. He doesn’t seem like the usual King’s Landing crackheads. He’s dressed too nice, for starters. Strange, yes, but still nice. In fact, it looks to be better quality than anything you own. And he’s young– which isn't uncommon in this situation, but it always makes your heart ache when they’re young. 

He looks desperate, terrified, and as another person ducks their head and walks past him, you feel yourself moving toward him. You don't know why. Maybe because you know if you leave now, you’ll not sleep tonight for the sheer guilt of passing him by. He spots you making your way over and turns to you, seeming to hope against hope that you’re going to acknowledge him. 

“Hi,” you say in a calm, even voice. It's a tone you’ve gotten quite good at. You’re not professionally trained by any means, but these things generally come with the territory. “Let's get you out of the road, okay? You could get hurt.”

“What the fuck are those things?” He demands of you as a car stops to let you take him across. You wave your thanks to the driver, who looks mildly disgruntled, and take the young man gently by the arms to get him onto the pavement. “Where are the horses?”

You know he must be confused, so you’re gentle with him. “There's no horses,” you say, still holding his arms as he finally looks away from the disappearing car and into your eyes. He looks so deeply afraid, but you notice he does take a moment to look you over. You let him, trying to see the best in him and hoping it's just curiosity. It doesn't matter right now anyway, you tell yourself. “Are you okay?”

“No!” He snaps. “Course I’m not bloody okay! Where am I?!”

“You’re in King’s Landing,” you say. “Let's get you somewhere quiet, okay? Are you hungry?”

“This,” he laughs in disbelief, looking around. “Is not King’s Landing, I know what King’s Landing looks like!”

“Okay,” you nod. “I believe you. Let's go sit down, I’ll buy you something to eat.”

The man looks at you with what you think is an offended scowl, but the offer of food does seem to intrigue him. “And wine?”

“No,” you say, and he deflates. 

He scratches at his chin, but nods in agreement. “Yes, fine.”

You smile, a bit of relief easing the worry in your ribs. Sometimes people won't cooperate, or they’ll turn you away when you say you won't buy them booze or give them money outright. This young man seems to be content enough without wine, so you wave your hand and lead him down the road toward the nearest fast food joint. 

He follows behind you, panicked eyes still looking around as though he's never seen the world before. It's not wonder, but something close to anger, indignation maybe. You make it to a diner you like, opening the door for him. He's clearly astounded by the ugly cacophony of colours inside, but you can't blame him. You don't come here for the aesthetics. 

“Go sit down?” You tell him gently, framing it like a suggestion as you point to your favourite booth. He scowls, but does as bid. 

The teen behind the counter takes little notice of your strange company. It's King’s Landing, he's probably seen something ten times as strange already today. Once you’ve paid, you join your new stray, sitting down across from him and folding your hands on the table. 

“So, what's your name?” You ask him, and he looks away from the bustling street outside the window to stare at you in what you assume is disbelief. 

“What’s my name?” He echoes, leaning slightly over the table. “Are you serious?”

You blink. That’s… not a question anyone’s ever been mad at you for. You learned quickly which questions to steer clear of to avoid pissing people off.

He scoffs, leaning back in his seat and tapping a dirtied fingernail against the peeling surface of the table. “Aegon,” he says, almost experimentally. Like he's testing the waters. 

You nod politely, and tell him yours.

He stares at you. “Nothing? Aegon? You’ve not heard the name Aegon?”

“Well, of course I have,” you say, confused smile pulling at your lips. “It's a common enough name. I think I knew a guy in school named Aegon–”

“You have been to school?” Aegon asks, eyebrows shooting up and a laugh spilling from his mouth. He leans back, dragging his hands over his clammy face. “Have I been drugged?!”

You’d put serious money on that being a resounding yes. 

“This is crazy,” he says, leaning forward again. He says your name slowly, glancing around before his eyes land on you. “Can you tell me what's going on?”

You bite your lip, thankful when the cashier calls out your order number. You rush to get up and get it, fearing you may be way out of your depth this time. He talks like he’s never seen the world before, and his comment about you having gone to school… none of it makes any sense. You’ve never even had the thought of dropping someone off with someone who’s better equipped to handle problems of this magnitude, but Aegon has you really considering it. When you return with the tray of food and set it down, Aegon has the specials menu in hand and is squinting at it. 

“I got you what I usually get,” you say, setting the tray down and placing his wrapped burger in front of him, leaving the fries on the tray. “Aegon, I want to help you, but I’m at a bit of a loss.”

“That certainly makes two of us,” Aegon says, unwrapping the burger curiously. “What meat is this?”

“It’s beef,” you tell him, unwrapping your own. He watches as you take a bite of yours, and he nods as though in satisfaction before taking a hefty bite of his. “Aegon, I want to understand what’s going on in your head. Can you just…”

You’re not sure how to say it, really. It’s invasive, and you don’t want him to feel like you believe he’s crazy, or lying.

“What’s your deal?”

He chews slowly on his burger, eyeing you suspiciously. “My deal,” he echoes, lips turned down in a scowl. “Is that I’m the King of Westeros.”

You nod slowly, biting into your burger so you don’t have to answer right away. You hope if you stay silent long enough, he’ll feel compelled to keep talking. 

“King Aegon,” he says slowly, like you’re the deluded one. “Aegon Targaryen, Second of His Name, Protector of the Realm, all the rest. Are you serious?”

You swallow your mouthful and nod. You’re not particularly well versed in history, but the titles ring a bell. It’s some sort of messiah complex, you’d wager. Trying your best not to seem dismissive, you pull out your phone. “Let me see,” you say. 

“What’s that?” He asks, leaning forward and trying to snatch it from you. You move it out of his way, yelping softly in contrition. 

“My phone!” You say. “I’m just looking you up, Aegon.”

“You’re what?” He says, looking horrified. “Give me that!”

“Dude, no! Let me just–” You stand up from your seat to be out of his reach, hurriedly typing the name he’d told you into the search bar. “Look, I know the name Targaryen, that’s the Conqueror's name!”

“Yes! Aegon the Conqueror!” He cries. “You’re finally making sense!”

“What? No, I mean Daenerys!”

“Who!?”

“Aegon, sit back down!” You snap, and he pauses in his pursuit of your phone, stunned into silence by your firm tone. Slowly, he returns to his seat, picking up a fry to eat it. 

“Only because I want to,” he says childishly. 

You frown at him, shaking your head before looking back at your phone as it pulls up the results for your search. 

‘Aegon II Targaryen, also known as Aegon the Elder, was the sixth Targaryen king to sit the Iron Throne, succeeding his father, Viserys I Targaryen, as Lord of the Seven Kingdoms.’

The search pulls up a picture as well, one of those terribly done paintings from the dark ages. It’s hard to say whether the Aegon in front of you looks much like the one in the painting, but he does have the same pale blonde hair and violet eyes. He’s a lot more pathetic than the portrait, too. He has the qualities of a wet cat, and you hate that it’s somewhat endearing. When you keep scrolling, you find a painting that can’t have been contemporary. This is a more detailed portrait, likely from half a century ago, where Aegon is covered in burns and lies dead in a carriage. 

You look up, meeting the wary eyes of the confused but un-burned man before you, and slowly sit back down. You know that he isn’t actually the king from nearly a millennium ago, but there’s an uncanny quality about him that makes you want to doubt the logical truth. His clothes, for one. You don’t know many homeless guys with such fine embroidery on their clothes. And there’s his features… you know them to be Valyrian, but rarely does anyone still pop up with the stark blond and violet irises. You remember well enough from your high school history classes that the Targaryen dynasty had those features.

“What does your little brick do?”

You blink, looking down at it and pulling up the contemporary portrait – part of you tells you not to show him the other. He scowls at it, but nods. “Seven hells, that’s not flattering. Where did you get this miniature? You have this and yet claim not to know me? What game do you play?”

You sigh. He truly doesn’t understand, does he? 

“Aegon, what year do you think it is?”

He rears back and regards you with more suspicion. “129 AC,” he says.

“And what were you doing before this?” 

“I will not tell you that,” he says. “You’re one of Rhaenyra’s spies, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know who Rhaenyra is,” you say softly. “I’m sorry, Aegon, I’m not a history buff.”

“History–” He stops, and goes deathly silent for a long moment, as though the whole situation is finally processing for him. You wonder if it’s the stench of wine that hangs off him explains his slow processing. “What year do you think it is?”

You tell him the year, even tack today’s date on for him. He stares are you, and you can see his brain buffering yet again. 

“Seven hells,” he murmurs. You find you share a similar sentiment. 

He picks up his burger and begins to eat it slowly. He’s silent for a long while, eyes seeming far away as he contemplates. You try not to stare at him, but it's no easy task. 

“This is going to sound crazy,” he says after a long while. “But I believe I may have travelled… through time.”

“I’d say so, yeah,” you respond. At this point, it's the only explanation. You’d usually say something about eliminating all the impossible options, but that just doesn't work here. Time travel is impossible, or it should be. And it's possible Aegon is just suffering from a deeply intense messiah complex. But that doesn't seem right. Your instincts haven't led you wrong before, you’re not about to ignore them now. 

“What am I going to do?” asks Aegon.

You want to tell him you’re going to try to find a way to get him back to his own time, but you’re struck once more with the image of him burned and twisted, dead in a carriage. How can you send him back to his fate knowing his grisly end?

You take in the man in front of you, this historical figure you’d never heard of until five minutes ago, and bite your lip. “We’ll figure it out,” you promise him. “You… can stay with me until we do.”

That’s probably dumb, and you’ll probably regret it. But not more than you would regret leaving him out on the streets.

“I suppose,” sighs Aegon like he’s spoiled for choice. You get up to ask for a bag for your food, glancing back as Aegon chews sadly on his burger. 

You get Aegon back to your place, and he wanders into the flat ahead of you. You watch him go with a soft huff, rolling your eyes. If everything else hadn’t convinced you, his attitude is proof positive that he’s from the past. He has all the entitlement of a prince and none of the consideration of those around him that modern men have (sometimes) gained. 

Your flat isn't much, two bedrooms and mostly paid for by your university. You had a flatmate for a time, but their sudden withdrawal left you without anyone and the school doesn’t seem to have noticed. Aegon can stay in the empty room until you figure him out. 

Aegon’s standing in your living room, staring in wonder at the decor you’ve collected over the course of your degree, at your television, maybe he’s just looking at all of it. He’s turning in a slow circle, eyes narrowed. 

“This is very nice for a commoner. Very strange, but it is not… disgusting.” He pauses in his assessing, looking between you and the ridiculous tapestry you purchased one night after far too many drinks. “Who is this man?”

“Oh, he’s this guy from a movie,” you say, not really processing that he won’t understand what a movie is. He stands there, dumbstruck, while you go to put your leftover food in the fridge. 

“A what?”

“Just… don’t worry about it. There’s going to be a lot for you to take in, but with any luck you won’t be here too long.” You come back over to him, taking him in. He looks out of place standing here in his king’s threads. “Let me get you something to wear.”

“There’s nothing wrong with this,” he says, shifting and taking in your clothes. “Where is your father? Your husband?”

“My father is in my hometown, and I don’t have a husband.”

“You live without a man?” He eyes you suspiciously. “A whore?”

“Okay,” you say, gently grabbing him by the shoulders and walking him over to the sofa. “Sit here, I have some men’s clothes lying around. Do not move.”

Aegon huffs, rolling his eyes and sitting back with folded arms. You wonder, as you go into your room to find something for him, if he’s heard the word ‘no’ very much in his life. It wouldn’t seem that way, but sometimes the way he reacts to you telling him off leaves you thinking otherwise. He’s a bigger mystery than you’ve ever faced, but something tells you he’s worth it.

You emerge after a while to see him flicking through the book you’d left on your coffee table, frowning. He looks up when you enter, setting the book down. “Your home is peculiar,” he informs you. 

“I know,” you say, handing him the soft clothes you’d found. “Student housing is kind of a lottery. You can get changed in the spare room, if you want. I’m going to go shower. If you get hungry, your leftovers are in that big white box there, okay?”

“Yes, yes, whatever.” 

You watch him enter the near-empty bedroom and shut the door, heaving a heavy sigh before you go off to your own room. You don't shower. Instead, you pull out your computer and set out to learn all that you possibly can about Aegon. 

What you learn twists your stomach into knots so tight you feel that they would trap the nausea that grips your throat from escaping. Aegon was no saint, no, but what you find is that his life is steeped in tragedy. If he believes himself to be king now but remains unburned by his cousin’s dragon, he must be near the end of his life; but the worst of his troubles have yet to begin. 

It is strange to think of the pathetic and bratty man in your flat as growing into the role of a king, if one could say he ever did. He seems nothing but a lost young man, unloved but for the power he afforded his Hightower family. 

The reports on him are so extensive and exhaustive that an hour has passed before you realise you haven’t been disturbed. You get up from your desk, wondering if Aegon has somehow wandered out of your flat and back onto the street.

When you open the door, you’re greeted by the sight of your kitchen cabinets strewn open, and your cheap bottle of vodka now empty on the counter. Aegon is sprawled on your sofa, cradling a novelty ceramic beer mug you won in a pub quiz in your first year. 

“Seven hells,” you mumble, going over to him and snatching the cup from him to be met with his whining protests. You sniff the cup, nose scrunching in disgust at the acetone-y smell. “Not even a mixer…”

Aegon looks up at you, trying to reach for the cup and whining your name. At least he changed into the sweats. The King’s Landing University jumper rather suits him, actually. 

“Please,” he says, looking even more closely akin to a wet cat. He seems on the verge of tears. “You’re pretty, do you know?”

“I’ve heard,” you say, setting the cup down on the coffee table and turning to him.

He grabs your wrist, tugging you closer with surprising strength considering how sloshed he is. “You’re so pretty,” he whispers. He almost sings your name. “Will you get me off?”

“Wh- Aegon!” You snap, tearing your wrist away. “No!”

“Please! Just your hand, you’ve got such soft hands!”

“Aegon,” you hiss. “No. You’re drunk. Even if I wanted to, that wouldn't be okay. You don't know what you're saying.”

Aegon pouts at you, falling back against the sofa and letting out a soft hiccup. “That doesn't make sense.”

“Maybe not in your time,” you say, grabbing him a blanket and laying it over him. “Gods- just- just try to get some sleep, okay? We’ll talk in the morning when you're fully sober.”

“I’ll die before that,” he says, snuggling up to the soft blanket with a ridiculous cartoon of a wolf on it. Another of your decor purchases you thought would be hilarious in the moment. You grab his cup and pour what’s left of the vodka into the sink before gathering up your remaining bottles and vowing to take them to the cabinet in your room with a lock. 

“Maybe. But if you vomit on my carpet, you’ll be paying the cleaning bill, your grace.”

part ii