#suffer for my entertainment fool

[battlevann]

thinking about spooky again

[madamdionysia]

Im gonna write for monsta x soon, just you watch me

[xichilie]

Hello, hope it's fine if I request more than once!

How about a Brant x Reader where she ended up as a Pilgrim herself and endured very traumatic events before being found and saved by Brant and the Troupe. As a result of said events, she never spoke so everyone assumed she was born mute until she eventually speaks to Brant due to feeling safe around him. How would he act before that (thinking that she's mute) and how would he react when hearing her voice for the first time?

Hello 👋

It's fine. You can send as many requests as you like ♡

Brant x (fem) reader

A silent voice

The moment Brant saw her, huddled among the wreckage of yet another forsaken Pilgrim’s Sail, he knew she had suffered greatly. She was thin, her clothes torn and ragged from the unforgiving trials of Penitent’s End, and her eyes—haunted, wary—spoke of horrors she would never utter. Or so he thought.

The Troupe of Fools had found her on one of their rescue missions, bringing her back to the hidden refuge of Fool’s Elysium. Like many before her, she was taken in, clothed, fed, and given a space to heal. But unlike the others, she never spoke a word. Not even in pain, not even in comfort.

At first, Brant assumed she was mute, like some of the others who had survived the journey. Many who faced the Dragon of Dirge lost more than their voices—some their minds, others their very will to live. Yet, despite her silence, she was strong. She adapted, she learned the unspoken rhythms of their troupe, and she carved out a place for herself amongst them.

Brant, ever the performer, took it upon himself to entertain her. Whether it was through grand gestures, exaggerated tales, or whispered stories in the quiet glow of the cavern fires, he would always find a way to bring some light into her somber eyes. It became a routine—him speaking, her listening, her presence a comfort he never knew he needed.

Still, the silence lingered, an invisible barrier between them. A part of him ached for her, wishing he could ease whatever suffering had stolen her words. But he never pushed. He never asked. He simply stayed.

Until one night, when everything changed.

The storm raged outside Fool’s Elysium, the entrance sealed with heavy tarps to keep the howling winds at bay. The firelight flickered, casting shadows against the stone walls, and Brant found her in her usual spot—knees drawn to her chest, staring into the flames. He approached as he always did, settling beside her, his warmth a familiar presence in the cavern’s cool embrace.

“I suppose you’re waiting for another tale,” he mused, voice tinged with the soft lilt of amusement. “Or perhaps a song? Something tragic and romantic, fitting for such a dreadful night?”

She didn���t move, but he felt her gaze shift toward him, the weight of her unspoken thoughts pressing between them. He exhaled, leaning back on his hands. “You know, I always imagined my soulmate would be someone loud. Someone who could match my theatrics word for word. But here you are, proving me an absolute fool.”

A small, almost imperceptible twitch of her lips. Not quite a smile, but enough to make his heart lurch. He continued, emboldened. “But I don’t mind. You don’t need to speak for me to know what you’re thinking. It’s in your eyes. Always in your eyes.”

For a moment, there was only the sound of the storm outside, the distant echoes of laughter from the others deeper within the cavern. And then—

“…Brant.”

The voice was soft, hoarse from disuse, barely more than a whisper. But it was there. Real. Hers.

Brant froze, his breath catching in his throat. He turned to her, wide-eyed, as if he had imagined it. But she was staring at him, waiting, her fingers curled into the fabric of her sleeves. Her expression was uncertain, hesitant, like she had just crossed an invisible threshold and feared what lay beyond it.

His heart pounded. Of all the things he expected in that moment, hearing her voice—hearing her say his name—was not one of them. He opened his mouth, but for once, words failed him.

“Say that again.” His voice was barely above a whisper, a fragile plea carried by the firelight.

She hesitated, then, softer this time—“Brant.”

It was his name, just his name, but it was everything. A single word that shattered the silence, breaking through the walls she had built around herself. And it was for him. Only for him.

A sharp breath escaped him, and before he could stop himself, he surged forward, wrapping his arms around her in a fierce embrace. He felt her stiffen for just a moment before slowly melting into him, her head pressing against his shoulder. He held her tightly, as if anchoring her to the present, as if trying to shield her from every nightmare she had ever endured.

“You spoke,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “You actually spoke.”

She nodded against him, her fingers curling into the fabric of his coat. He could feel the slight tremble in her hands, the way she clung to him like he was something solid in a world that had once been cruel and uncertain.

He laughed, though it came out choked, overwhelmed. “You… you have no idea how much this means to me.”

She pulled back just enough to look at him, her expression softer now, less guarded. “I… feel safe,” she admitted, voice still rough but steady. “With you.”

Brant’s breath hitched, and he cupped her face gently, his pink eyes searching hers. “Then I’ll make sure you always are.”

The storm outside raged on, but inside Fool’s Elysium, wrapped in Brant’s arms, she felt something she hadn’t in a long time—home.

And for the first time since she had arrived, since she had endured the horrors of the pilgrimage and found sanctuary in Fool’s Elysium, she felt something close to peace.

Brant didn’t let go of her hand for the rest of the night.

[milkb0nny]

Hii, first of all it makes me so happy to see someone writing for Ivar in the year of our Lord 2025, and so well too you deserve more love!

I really enjoyed your works. Since requests look to be open could I ask for some fluffy headcanons about Ivar and his wife during feasts/celebrations? I’m a bit introverted and tend to keep to myself if that helps, but please do your thing and I look forward to anything you come up with!

Ivar with...

an introverted wife during a festive feast...

Pairing: Ivar x fem!reader

Note: I rarely get requests because the fandom is rather dying. I still notice a quiet presence of people enjoying Vikings and liking to read fanfics. I mean, I do too! So thank you so much for finding the courage to slide into my ask box! I included some dialogue perhaps it portrays my intention a little better??

Content: established relationships, fluff, wholesomeness, anxious reader, introverted reader

“Stop wringing your hands, love. They’ll start to bleed.”

⚜️ Ivar has a sharp eye, especially when it comes to you. He knows you so well and therefore observes you constantly. The second he sees you fidgeting nervously, avoiding eye contact, or hesitating to engage with others, he knows you’re not too uncomfortable. His observant nature means he can sense your unease even before you tell him.

“You’ll sit here, next to me. Let them try to bother you while I’m around.”

⚜️ Before the feast even begins, Ivar ensures that you’re seated in a way that keeps you away from the loudest, most boisterous individuals. He places you right next to him, acting as a physical and emotional barrier between you and the chaos. Sometimes you like to banter around with the women, and he doesn’t mind. But incase everything gets too much, you have a rather quiet space in the room.

“Look at Hvitserk. How many mugs do you think it’ll take before he dances on the table? My bet’s three.”

⚜️ Ivar isn’t known for being gentle with most people, but with you, he softens. Throughout the evening, he leans close to whisper jokes or biting comments about the crowd to distract you.

⚜️ Ivar’s way of lightening the mood often involves humor. He’ll joke about how everyone else was far more embarrassing than you anxiety could ever be. Perhaps that would make you less conscious about other people’s opinions.

“You’re doing fine, Krútt. They don’t deserve your attention anyway.”

⚜️ While Ivar isn’t overly touchy in public, he makes exceptions when you’re incredibly overwhelmed. His hand might rest protectively on your knee under the table, or he’ll brush his fingers along your arm to remind you that you’re not alone.

“Mind me telling you some tales? It’s far more entertaining than watching my wife blush so lovingly.”

⚜️ If anyone tries to draw too much attention to you, Ivar is quick to redirect it elsewhere. Whether it’s calling out Ubbe for something embarrassing or telling a story about himself, he ensures all eyes are off his wife.

⚜️ Ivar subtly pushes you to engage in ways that won’t overwhelm you. If someone offers you a drink or a kind word, he gently nudges you to respond. Your answer through a nod or a smile is often enough for him and the people around you.

“Come, let’s leave these fools to their noise. They won’t notice we’re gone.”

⚜️ If it becomes too much for you, Ivar doesn’t hesitate to make an early exit. He’d rather waive the feast than watch you suffer.

⚜️ Ivar’s mix of protective fierceness and surprising tenderness ensures that even in the bustling chaos of a feast, his introverted wife feels seen, supported, and loved. And that, is you.

[sleepberries]

lapdance dance of suffering | a spideyhood ficlet

happy april fools y'all!! meanwhile, here's a silly spideyhood fluff set 17 months after redflags

Dick Grayson was going to need industrial-strength brain bleach. Maybe even a lobotomy.

It had started as a normal night out—well, as normal as any night could be when you were the designated third wheel to Gotham's most insufferable couple. Jason and Peter (who had officially weaseled his way into the family over a year ago, thanks to a lethal combination of charm, audacity, and Jason's questionable taste in men) had decided that a dive bar on the edge of the city was the perfect place for date night. Dick had somehow been roped into joining them, because apparently, his life wasn't painful enough already.

"I'm only coming for one drink," Dick had warned when Jason first extended the invitation with that knowing smirk of his. "One. Then I'm out."

Four hours later, Dick was still there, questioning every life choice that had led to this moment.

The bar was dimly lit, the kind of place where the stools wobbled and the drinks were strong enough to make Batman reconsider his no-kill rule. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and regret. Dick nursed his beer, watching as Peter—already three drinks in—gestured wildly while recounting some ridiculous story involving a pigeon, a stolen sandwich, and a very confused cop.

"So there I am, sandwich in one hand, pigeon literally attacking my face," Peter was saying, his eyes bright with mischief, "and this cop rounds the corner just in time to see me yelling profanities at a bird while covered in mustard."

Jason, leaning against the bar with his usual brooding intensity, smirked into his drink, clearly entertained despite himself. The leather jacket he wore hung open, revealing a worn t-shirt that hugged his frame a little too well for Dick's comfort given what was about to unfold. His eyes hadn't left Peter all night, tracking him with the same intensity he usually reserved for targets.

And then it happened.

Peter, mid-story, went to take a step—whether to emphasize a point or just because he had the coordination of a concussed toddler after his fourth whiskey sour, Dick wasn't sure—and somehow managed to trip over absolutely nothing.

"Whoa—!"

Dick saw it in slow motion. Peter's arms windmilled dramatically, his drink sloshed precariously, and then—with all the grace of a fainting Victorian heroine—he toppled directly into Jason's lap.

Jason, because he had the reflexes of a man who regularly dodged bullets for breakfast, caught him effortlessly, one hand snaking around Peter's waist while the other steadied his drink with the precision of someone who knew alcohol was too precious to waste. His hands automatically settled on Peter's hips to stabilize him, fingers splaying possessively against the fabric of Peter's jeans.

Silence.

Peter blinked up at Jason from where he was now sprawled across his thighs, looking equal parts surprised and way too pleased with himself. His hair was mussed from the fall, lips parted slightly in a way that made Dick want to throw holy water at both of them.

"...I slipped," Peter announced, not moving an inch, his voice dripping with fake innocence that wouldn't fool a concussed goldfish.

Jason's grip tightened slightly, his smirk deepening to dangerous levels. "Sure you did." His voice had dropped an octave, rough around the edges in a way that made Dick consider the merits of spontaneous deafness.

Dick's soul left his body, waved goodbye, and caught the first bus out of Gotham.

Because Peter, the little menace, didn't get up. Oh no. Instead, he wiggled, adjusting himself in Jason's lap like he was trying to get comfortable on a particularly appealing throne. Jason's fingers flexed against his hips, his expression shifting into something dangerously amused, pupils dilating just enough that Dick wished he'd never learned to recognize the signs of arousal during his detective training.

"You know," Peter murmured, just loud enough for Dick to hear and subsequently wish he hadn't, "your lap is much more comfortable than those bar stools."

Jason hummed, one hand sliding up to the small of Peter's back. "Is that so?"

Dick's eye twitched so hard he was pretty sure he'd pulled something. "I know you did that on purpose."

Peter grinned, shameless as a cat who'd just pushed a vase off a shelf. "Prove it."

And then—because the universe hated Dick Grayson with the burning passion of a thousand exploding suns—Peter rolled his hips, just enough to be deliberate, just enough to make Jason's breath hitch audibly. Jason's head tilted back slightly, exposing the line of his throat as his fingers dug into the fabric of Peter's shirt.

Dick made a noise like a deflating balloon that had just witnessed something unholy. "I'm leaving."

Jason, the traitor, didn't even look at him. His hands were still firmly on Peter's hips, thumbs now slipping under the hem of Peter's shirt to brush against bare skin. His voice was a low rumble that Dick desperately wished he couldn't hear. "You're something else, you know that?"

Peter, the absolute gremlin, just laughed and did it again, this time with a slow, deliberate precision that had Jason's jaw clenching in a way that told Dick far more than he ever wanted to know about his brother's self-control.

"You like 'something else,'" Peter countered, shifting to straddle Jason properly now, knees on either side of his thighs. He reached up to brush a strand of hair from Jason's forehead with uncharacteristic tenderness, the gesture somehow more intimate than the obscene grinding.

Dick pulled out his phone and opened the group chat with the speed of a man who had seen things that couldn't be unseen.

Dick: I need brain bleach. Industrial strength. — Or maybe a memory wipe. Is Zatanna available?

The responses were immediate, his phone buzzing with the collective curiosity of his siblings.

Steph: oh my god what did they do now 🍿

Tim: do i even want to know? — don't answer that.

Cass: send video

Duke: wait, who's "they" — OH

Damian: Ugh. Todd's disgusting flirtations strike again. This is why I refuse to accompany him anywhere.

Babs: Location? I'll hack the security cameras for posterity.

Dick didn't dignify that with a reply. Instead, he risked another glance at the disaster unfolding in front of him, immediately regretting his life choices.

Peter had settled in now, one arm slung over Jason's shoulders, fingers playing with the short hairs at the nape of his neck. He was still murmuring something that made Jason's eyes darken with amusement and something else that Dick refused to acknowledge. Jason's thumbs were tracing idle circles against the exposed skin of Peter's waist, and Dick was this close to throwing himself into Gotham Harbor.

"Y'know," Peter said, voice dripping with faux innocence as he leaned in until their foreheads were nearly touching, "if you wanted me in your lap, you could've just asked."

Jason snorted, but the sound was undercut by the way his hand had migrated to the back of Peter's neck, fingers threading through his hair. "Like you'd have waited for an invitation."

Peter gasped, pressing a hand to his chest like he was scandalized, though the effect was somewhat ruined by how he was practically melded to Jason's front. "Why Mister Todd, I am but a gentleman."

"A gentleman wouldn't be doing what you're doing in public," Jason countered, lips quirking up at the corner in that dangerous way that usually preceded someone getting shot. In this case, Dick feared, the shooting would be metaphorical in a way that would require years of therapy.

"You weren't complaining last night when I—"

Dick made another wounded noise, this one resembling a cat whose tail had been stepped on. "I hate both of you. So much."

Jason finally looked at him, smirk widening to shit-eating proportions. His hand hadn't moved from where it was now cradling the back of Peter's head, thumb brushing against his cheekbone with casual intimacy. "You love us."

Peter, because he was the absolute worst, grinded down with deliberate intent just to watch Dick's horrified expression. Jason's responding intake of breath was sharp enough to cut glass.

"That's it." Dick turned on his heel, nearly knocking over his forgotten beer in his haste to escape. "I'm texting Bruce."

Jason had the audacity to laugh, the sound warm and genuine in a way that Dick would appreciate if it weren't for the fact that Peter was now pressing open-mouthed kisses along his jawline.

"Tell him we said hi," Peter called after him, voice muffled against Jason's skin.

Dick's last image before he fled the bar was of Jason tilting Peter's chin up, eyes hooded as he murmured something that made Peter's expression soften before Jason closed the distance between them.

Peter's laughter, followed by the distinct sound of Jason's low groan, chased him all the way out the door and into the blessed reprieve of Gotham's polluted night air.

His phone buzzed again.

Alfred: Might I suggest a nice cup of tea and perhaps some memory-suppressing meditation techniques, Master Richard?

Dick groaned. One day, he was going to learn to say no when Jason asked him to hang out.

But for now, he was going to need that brain bleach.

[reveriebae]

How it tastes like

pairing(s) : Roommate! Song Mingi x Fic writer! reader

word count : 2912

genre : smut

summary : when your roommate wanna check what's make you stressed out from writing end up to an unexpected tasting experience.

warning(s) : afab! reader, oral (m & f receiving), fingering (f receiving), no protection (please use in rl!), cumplay. Lmk if I missed something.

Minors do not interact, 21+ only!!

🪐smut under the cut🪐

A loud sigh escaping from your lips, your room is dark but the screen from the laptop in front of you lights up your face and some spot behind you which is the headboard of your bed.

"Fuck this is so hard, what the hell am I gonna type" you muttered.

Being a writer is fun, actually really fun, but there's a time where you can't think any word and stressed out when people who read your fics give you a bunch of requests but they doesn't give you any plot idea or something that could boost your writing mood, especially when it comes to something you never even experience but you really want to write about that thing. You don't have to be a full experienced person to write stories, but sometimes to make your story feels alive and entertaining you gotta know the details about the thing that will be the main 'thing' for the whole story.

It's about blowjob in this case, as a smut fanfic writer it's really stressed you out when you realized how powerful and amazing your imagination are but the lack of experience you have is sometimes become a barricade for you to explain every detail of it, it's making you feel exhausted and confused and of course losing your interest to write, but the image of finish your writing that satisfied your imagination feels so so good.

"Hey, Y/N are you still awake?" Your roommate said after knock your bedroom door.

"Yeah, why?" The door cracks open, showing Mingi on the door frame peeks inside your room while all he could see is just a dark room with a small light from the laptop screen.

"Are you serious? Still writing at this fucking hour? Y/N please look at the time..you gotta rest, you gotta work, you have a class tomorrow and you gonna blind yourself if you keep writing in the dark dumbass".

"Shut the fuck up, you always say that I have to find some hobby to not stressed out from my-".

"Hobby do not supposed to make you feel stressed Y/N.. don't get me wrong, can I go in?" you nod and he turn on the light switch of your bedroom, he sits beside you on the bed.

You hurried to close the laptop cause everyone knew you are a writer but no one knows what in the hell your writings are about. Mingi frowns and his face is all confused.

"I was about to help Y/N, don't be such an ass".

"No no, you don't have to Mingi, I... I feel tired, I'm gonna slee-" he grab your laptop in one hand and his other hand grips both of your hand, you gasp as you tried to get off of his hand but you can't match his power.

"Nah you're not gonna fool me this time, come on let me help. You gotta remember your family is not even here, if you sick I'm gonna be the one who got to and will to take care of you".

"But Mingi, that's not the problem..".

"Just tell me what story are you writing right now? Is it romance?" You shook you head.

"Fantasy?action?" Nuh-uh.

"You do horror??".

"No you dumb, I am a smut writer" your face flushed it's now all red and hot from the embarrassment, but his face remained still.

"What is smut? A killer documentary? World secret? Conspiracy theory?" You stare at him in disbelief.

"It's.. it's some kind of... Porn" You stutter as he still grips you hand and your laptop is on his lap. Your faced get hotter when he just laughed in front of your face.

"You? Write a porn? That's amazing actually, despite you interact with guy is a rare view that so cool that you could write that such a thing, so what makes you stressed lately?" He lets out your hand to give you a small clap with smile that you want to wipe of his face, cause you're literally suffering while he unexpectedly support you when he knew you wrote filth all this time.

"You won't help me at all Mingi, just go.." you let out a deep breath, can't seem to look at his eyes.

"You're just unsure of the things that you want to write, because I know you are inexperienced. Now tell me, what makes you stressed?" He ends up rubbing your knuckles softly, wants to make you sure that you're safe with him, wants to make you sure that he cares about you in every way.

"Shut the fuck up Mingi, I said you won't help me".

"You are the one who's gonna shut the fuck up and tell me now" he grumbled he lets your hand then lift up your chin to make you look at his eyes.

"Blowjob, it's blowjob!" Your face might be directed to him but you shut your eyes closed.

"Wasn't so hard was it? Tell me more of your curiosity about blowjob".

You have no choice but to explain to him, it's overshoot. "I- I know blowjob is sucking- you know..dick, I have read those blowjobs scene from a lot of different writers but I'm not sure if I can write about that cause I don't know what to write for the details, I always thought of 'what if I make a mistake?' 'what if my readers mock me because of my writings?' 'what if they call me an inexperienced smut writer?' I got so many 'what if' in my head Mingi and I know you could barely help me, beside this is so embarrassing to talk about this with you cause you're literally a dude".

"That's the point, I'm a dude and that's why I said let me help you. All you gotta do is just ask" Your mind wandered into something you shouldn't thought about, the word 'All you gotta do is just ask' is so ambiguous, is he telling you to ask a question or ask him to do something? You decided to give up and receive the help Mingi gave you.

"So..how a cum tastes like?" You ask bluntly makes him chuckles under his breath.

"I never taste my own cum Y/N" you frown and slap his shoulder make him hissed.

"Fuck off Mingi, you told me you gonna help me!".

"I was Y/N, but I really never taste my own cum so I really don't know" he laughed while blocking your hands that's about to puch his chest. "But you can taste it yourself, if you want to" he smirks after finish his laughter.

"Mingi..you did not..".

"I'm just tryna help, if you want to let's do it..the blowjob, once again if you want to. But if you don't I'll be back to my room right now " You thought he's just playing with you but when you gather your courage to look at his face, he's serious about it.

"But that would be so weird.." he shakes his head at your words "isn't it?".

"No if you would trust me as much as I trusted you, you gotta remember that you are the one who need this Y/N, I'm just trying to help" His hands wraps around your shoulders, make you hold a shiver that could run down your body. "Do you want to?" His eyes drilling holes into your soul, you could only nod at him and smile plastered his face.

"So..w-what should I do?" You look back at your lap, you're so embarrassed right now you can't even think straight.

"My eyes are right here love, now help me to remove my pants" he lifts your chin up again, and now your hands begin trailing his sweatpants as he move his hips up to make you remove the pants easier.

Now he's half naked, in front of you, on your bed and the night dress you are wearing is slutty enough for the man's view.

"Show me what you learned from those smuts you read love" You start to touch his dick, hold and experimentally stroke his dick. You could hear his breath hitched, it gains confident in you so you stroke it a bit faster makes him lets out a moan, you could feel yourself started getting wet.

"Good love, now try to use your mouth" You wet your lips then stick your tongue to lick on his shaft then roll your tongue on the head. A salty liquid appears you guess that is what's called a precum, you open your mouth and try to take his cock inside, take a look at Mingi make you moan at how good he looks right now. His head falls back to the headboard while his mouth wide open, the sweats rising on his forehead and chest going up and down at how hard he is breathing, when you taste the salty precum of his your moan send a vibration right into his dick then his right hand suddenly have a nice grip on your hair as he starts moving your head up and down his cock.

The more he moves your head the faster it become and deeper it gets down your throat, when you swallow your saliva that collected inside your mouth, his moan became louder then you do it repeatedly. His not gonna last and you know it, you could feel his cock pulsing against your lips then you could taste a really bitter liquid spurts out of his dick, he calls your name on repeat then you bob your head on his dick for about 4 times before you pull out.

When you watch porn or read smut, it looks so easy to swallow the cum but you can't seem to swallow it, Mingi noticed your panicked expression then quickly open your drawer to take 2 sheets of tissues then hold the tissue on his hand and put it near your lips "Sorry love, spit it out don't worry" instead of spit his cum out of your mouth, you stick out your tongue while look at him to give him a nice view of his cum trickle down your tongue and land on the tissue on his hands.

"Fuck you look so beautiful doing that, so pretty for me, so messy with my cum like that love" when his cum is all out of your mouth Mingi throw the tissue to the trash bin and hand you a glass of water. "Your throat might feel a bit rough, you gotta drink a lot " you nod as you do what he tells, you could still feel the taste of his cum washed by the water and crashing down your throat.

"Mingi..uhm, I think you caused me another problem" you cleared your throat then Mingi eyes went wide he thought he hurted you or something.

"What? Are you okay? Am I hurting your throat? Too big for your lips it hurts?" He ramble then you close his mouth with your index finger to shut him up.

"No, it's just.. I need you to..".

"To what? You want another glass of water? Or do you want a candy? Yeah? I have some in my room wait a seco-".

"I need to you fuck me Mingi! You moaned a lot when I suck you, you..make me kinda wet".

"Oh..you sure?" Mingi blinks multiple times when you finally stand up and kissed him, the kiss is slow and passionate, his hands begins to roams all over your body as you gasp onto his mouth.He lays you in your bed, pull up your night dress to reveal you are not wearing anything but only your panties inside the dress. "So beautiful for me love, bet you gonna touch yourself while imagine about me tonight if we don't fuck" he lowers himself until he's between your legs then he removes your panties in no time.

"I actually did, sometimes" he looks at your face at the words, he grips your thighs so hard you let out a hiss.

"You are really driving me insane my love, do you also write smut about me?" He opens your legs wide and place his face right in front of your bare pussy then blow on it, the action make you whimper above him. "I hope you could take a look at how wet you are love, eager for me to ruin your pretty little pussy, don't you?" He trails kisses on you inner thigh.

"Please Mingi..don't keep me waiting" you mewl then smile to him when he looks at your face, pushing his middle finger into your wet cunt make you gasp as he trusts it slowly inside you.

"You're not ready to take me yet my love, I gotta prepare you first" he trusts his finger faster and when you start to moan loudly he pull his finger out of you and lick them clean. "So sweet for me" you whimper at his action.

"Don't you wanna eat me out Mingi? Please do" smirk plastered on his face when you say the word, he lifts your legs until they touched your chest then he devour you immediately. Your eyes rolling back and your hand automatically get a grip on Mingi's hair as he growls into your pussy. He inserts his middle and ring fingers into your cunt then curling it up while his tongue doing a kitten lick on your clit, a fast kitten lick on your clit. "Fuck Mingi.. don't stop-mmh gonna..gonna cum" His index finger joins the other two fingers and he suck your clit make you scream as you cum so hard your body spasming and Mingi holds your hips down.

"Just like that love, let it out for me" he trails kisses on you cheeks and jawline until you stop shaking under him.He peels off his shirt then rubbing his cock on your clit, you let out whimpers because of the sensitivity "And from now on..fuck with me will be your new hobby, my dick is gonna be your fucking hobby" with that he enters himself inside you in one hard trust make you scream so loud. "Oh shoot, it hurts? Sorry, I'll pull it ou-".

"No please, just keep going" you breathed while holding into his arms, he nods at you then starts to move slowly. When your moans become louder he sped up his movement, "ah- fuck you feel so good Mingi, so big.." you moan uncontrollably.

"Yeah, you take me really well Y/N my love" his words sounds so sweet with the soft deep voice he lets out, but his grip on your waist and the way he's pistoning his hips so hard your tears start to gather at the corner of your eyes.

"Faster Mingi! Please make me cum please please fuckkk" Your eyes closed, whimpers and rambling flow out of your lips. You can hear his whisper, definitely sounds like he's begging you to cum. His movement become faster and faster, you lose it when he moves one of his hand and rubs your clit with two fingers that you assume it's his index and middle finger.

"Yes love..yes, fuck you are so so tight, so good for me, you are amazing baby" you cum for the second time, your legs feels like giving up but Mingi still thrust himself into you. "God.. I'll fucking give you what you want, I'll make you taste what you wanna fucking taste" it doesn't take him so long to cum inside you with sharp thrust that make you let out a choked moan. He pulled out make you whimper then go down on you to suck his cum out of your cunt.

"W-wait Mingi! What are you doing?!" You look down but he pays you no mind, when he finishes whatever he's doing he hovers over you and then give you an open mouthed kiss, your eyes open wide when you could taste a salty liquid over your tongue, when Mingi fills your mouth with all his cum he pulls off from the kiss then spit right into your tongue, he is doing a fucking cumplay and you know that.

"Now swallow it love, I know you can do it" You don't wanna swallow it, but the moment when Mingi spit into your mouth and the fact that your cum, his cum, your spit and his spit are mixed together make your head dizzy in a good way then you swallow it unwittingly and without hesitation, you show your tongue to him to proof that you have swallow all of it, his smirk grows. "You do really good for me love" he's keeping you in his embrace for a good half an hour. When he feels you dozed off, he give a light pat on your cheek you wake you up. "Don't sleep yet my love, we gotta clean you up first".

"I'm feel so tired Mingi, let me sleep" He lifts you up into his arms instead, but it's not like you're complaining tho. He takes you to your bathroom then put you inside the tub after he fills it with warm water.

He stokes your hair make you dozed off again, he giggles at the sight.

"What are you going to do without me, my love".

[valacre]

: ̗̀➛ On the Shoulder of a Giant

Megatron x Reader - transformers prime

Your life was nothing compared to his, minuscule, short and insignificant, yet you were no fool when poor excuses were concerned. For all his speeches, infuriatingly wonderful poetry, and his oh-so-deep and pleasant voice, not even Megatron could fool you with the reason he gave for keeping you by his side.

Sat atop his shoulder, clinging tightly to a protruding spike, you side-eyed him as he smirked at you, far too pleased with himself for rendering you so fear-stricken. Well, fear-stricken in his optics, you for your part were both that and greatly annoyed. Within your glass cage you had at least been warm with enough time to think through your life and choices, whilst here, atop the tyrant’s shoulder, the world rumbled with each step he took, threatening to send you to an abrupt end. You did not fully believe he would let you fall and die; he’d surely catch you, but only for as long as he saw value in your life.

The human who had been seen close to Optimus Prime surely must be of great importance, and though you remained tight-lipped and uncooperative, the warlord had proved himself surprisingly patient. Within your glass cage, you’d been still as a statue, unwilling to even entertain anyone with anything. Atop Megatron’s shoulder pad? Well, constant fear had a way of chipping away at your mind, and you would eventually let something slip, whether it was out of frustration or anger.

Nothing was revealed to you. Every screen was filled with Cybertronian symbols, and although Ratchet had attempted to teach you some, you were, unfortunately, a slow learner. Megatron also ensured you understood nothing of what they spoke either, so here you were, clinging to the worst being to ever enter Earth’s atmosphere like a lifeline.

He seemed to take some sadistic pleasure in knowing that you knew your life was in his servos. If not for him, you’d be at the whims of his Decepticons, some of whom appeared more than eager to cause you suffering; Airachnid chief among them. You detested the way she looked at you, and you detested the fact that you hid against Megatron, squeezing in close to his neck to evade Airachnid’s searching optics.

The rumbling of his chuckling had made your cheeks flush with humiliation and anger.

“Take care in not frightening the human too much, Airachnid. We wouldn’t want their feeble little heart to give out too soon, would we?” he said, glancing down at you with those glowing red optics of his. You sent him a scorching glare in return, and he laughed. “Such fierce hate! You greatly amuse me, little one. Perhaps I ought to keep you as my pet once you’ve revealed the location of the Autobot base.”

“Eat dirt,” you said, wishing to curse him out but being too afraid to push the limits. The deep chuckle you received in return made you look away, eyes refusing to meet his optics as much as you were refusing to accept what you were feeling.

Was it a ploy to soften you up to him? Had they been watching you, gathering intel about your interests before kidnapping you? Surely it was no coincidence as to why Megatron spoke to you about poetry, art, and music whenever you were alone.

He’d threatened you at first, done his job quite well in frying your nerves, but as he’d noticed the way you’d listened closely when he gave a speech, and the way your eyes had followed the movements of his servos and arms, well… he’d begun to indulge himself.

The less paranoid part of you believed he didn’t get to speak to others about his interests often, at least the ones that didn’t involve the war, so perhaps your unhidden fascination had sparked an interest in him? Surely that was one of the reasons why he insisted you stay seated atop his shoulder, which was also why you tried your best to not meet his gaze; feigning disinterest so he may let you back into your cage.

Unfortunately for you, Megatron was attentive, and with you so near nothing was missed on his accord. You understood that far too easily once you dared to glance his way only to immediately find him smirking at you, those sharp denta glinting in amusement.

It would have been easy to hate him. You should hate him; despise him, wish him dead. Yet, you could not. Not when you’d been the one who caught him off-guard, only for a moment, and you’d seen a small window where he was not smirking, but smiling, genuinely, optics a gentle red as you’d been momentarily lost to the sound of his voice grazing your ears with the most beautiful poetry you’d ever heard.

Just as much as he’d taken in your expression of wonderment, you’d caught him with a smile that spoke of gratitude and… You dared not even think of what that second word could be, because if you did, then your heart may sway towards a sea of bloody red which appeared to calm its storm for you; only you.

Next Music: Vangelis – Dreams of Adventure Part 2

[mediocreanomaly]

The World Keeps Turning

Cecil x GN!Reader: Comfort Drabble

Authors Note: a little comfort for you sweeties. (I sprinkled some of my southerner Cecil propaganda in here, deal with it.)

Breathing should come naturally to you, yet your breaths come in uneven stammering inhales that threaten to turn into something more, something worse, a breakdown that would mean admitting that you can't keep it together. So you try not to think about it. Try not to think about anything.

It's one of those days where the walls seem too close, the world is moving too fast, and you… you're sinking. You can feel it choking up your throat and crushing in your chest.

You take another breath.

It's more watery than the last, threatening to spill over.

The front door unlocks, the sound adding insult to injury. It feels… wrong, being caught like this. Steady footsteps of dress shoes on the ground feel like a hammer driving nails into a coffin. The man who exhausts himself protecting the world, and you can’t even get out of bed?

It makes something dark and writhing twist in your head and you bury your face against the pillows to pretend to be asleep.

“Honey?” Cecil asks, setting down his bag; you can hear the ‘thump’ of the leather on the carpet floor as he comes to sit on the bed, the mattress dipping slightly with his weight.

You can't look up. You CAN'T. If you do, he'll see what a mess you are right now, and the thought of adding another problem for him to fix to his day is just too much. So you stay buried, unreachable, a cocoon of quiet suffering.

“Hm” Cecil hums like he understands, like he's adjusting a radio dial, he already knows what to look for he's just got to fine tune for to you. “One of those days, huh?”

Of course he knows. Cecil always knows.

He reaches forward, fingers threading through your hair, toying with the ends before smoothing them back. His touch begins to unravel the tight knot of tension in your chest.

After a few moments, he gets up, and just as you start to miss him, he's already over at the record player in the corner, setting a vinyl in place. The needle dips, and the first crackles spill from the old speakers as Can't Take My Eyes Off You begins to play. It's familiar, one of his favorites when he's in a sentimental sort of mood. The music wavers and cracks, the record well loved from years of use, but Cecil never throws it away. You hope he never does.

You can hear the telltale sound of rustling fabric as he slides off his coat, undoes his tie, and toes off his shoes to get comfortable before he slides into bed with you.

His arms wrap around your frame, the weight of another person gathering you and keeping you together… making you feel like you can finally let go.

The water works come quick and with abandon, trembling full bodied sobs escape your mouth as you press your face against Cecil's chest. His cologne and aftershave fill your senses, a scent that feels more like ‘home’ than any GDA-approved living space ever could.

You think you speak, or at least try to. Watery gasps and cries of apologies for the situation, for yourself. He shushes every single one.

“Easy Darlin’...” he murmurs, his voice uncharacteristically soft for a man who’s mastered the art of snappy detachment.

He talks about everything and nothing at all; his day, dull government meetings, and more entertaining, exasperated quotes from the team. He tells you he ate the lunch you made him, that Donald pretended not to be amused by the handwritten note tucked inside, but Cecil’s known the fucker too long to be fooled.

He tells you he cut down on his caffeine and that he missed you. He tells you that you're okay because, you know what? He's seen the worst of the worst and the world keeps turning.

Sweet words muttered against your hairline like if he said them enough, you might just believe him.

He stays until you've worn yourself out, until all that's left is dull exhaustion, and even then, he just holds you tighter.

“We're alright, sugar,” he says softly, pulling the covers higher up your shoulders, keeping the world out of this moment for just a moment longer.

For once, it feels like that might be true.

[sonderingdreams]

Fake dating Tsukishima Kei.

So like what the fuck were you thinking? You couldn’t recruit anyone else? This is honestly all on you.

“Kei you are so tense, he is not going to believe our shitty act!” You hissed out, tugging on his arm like a lifeline. Dragging Tsukishima against his will around the corner of the lecture hall, internally panicking and dragging a hand down your face.

“Hey, you pulled me into this. With no warning. You didn’t even give me a goddamn say.” He hissed back, pointing an obnoxious finger in your face.

“Kei are we breaking up or dating?! Play your damn role!” You groaned out, shriveling in embarrassment, and continuously checking behind your shoulder.

Tsukishima clenched his jaw, crossing his arms in growing impatience, ready to snap back before stopping in his tracks and taking a serious note of your growing uneasiness.

“Give me your stupid hand.” He muttered out, averting his gaze.

“Huh—

“Jesus Christ you idiot.” He sighed out, reluctantly grabbing your smaller hand in his and securely intertwining his fingers with yours.

Your eyes widened as he hastily grabbed his book bag, slinging it over his shoulder, snatching his keys and coffee in the blink of an eye and making his way with you out of the half empty lecture hall.

Okay. Suddenly things were too bad. Kei was finally cooperating, maybe reluctantly so but wait a goddamn minute.

You whipped your head around, glaring up at him, and tugging at his arm insistently.

“Kei. Where the fuck are we going? Wrong way.” You whispered screamed, eyes darting back and forth between two views, the ex’s direction on the far end of the room and the maniac who was holding your hand.

“No. You are mistaken, this is the right way. This is what you wanted, no?” He hummed out, taking each stride with confidence, even pulling you closer to his side.

No, no, no, no, no.

“Kei. I never mentioned confrontation?” You remarked quickly, you had literally quite no choice, the ex was in view now. You can’t bail now and look like a stupid fool.

Tsukishima stopped, warm golden brown eyes looking back at you, a sly smile tugging at his lips. The one he’s been infuriatingly charming everyone with since highschool. “This is gonna keep happening to you all the time. You can’t escape him, he goes to the same uni as, dumbass. Might as well make a statement and get this problem over with now. You wanted my help and I’m gonna give it to you.” He stated curtly, raising his head up high again, sliding an arm around your shoulder and even rubbing your far left shoulder in comfort.

This fucking asshole. You’re not falling for his fake comfort and stupid shoulder rub! And yet…you can’t help but lean into it and take a deep breath as you two fake a casual walk by, pretending to happily indulge in each other's presence.

Well, one of you didn’t have to fake it.

As much as Tsukishima hates to admit it, he got a thrill by it. He wasn’t going to question it…he had a lot on his mind about you already. But he liked it.

You two finally walk out of the stuffy building and out into the campus’s outdoor scenery. And Kei can’t help but let out a laugh, shaking his head as he took a swig of his coffee.

You scrunch your nose in disdain, bumping into his side with your hip. Quickly shrugging yourself out of his embrace, and rolling your eyes with crossed your arms.

“Wow. I’m glad you find my suffering entertaining. Funny how you only ever laugh or smile when something bad is happening to me.” You retorted, shaking your head in disbelief, but finally letting out a much needed sigh of relief.

But…it looks good on him.

Fuck. It’s over.

Tsukishima raises a defining brow, extending a toned arm and ruffling up your hair. “I think you meant to say thank you.” He mockingly cooed out, adjusting his glasses before slinging an obnoxious arm around you.

After a long moment of silence you cleared your throat, catching the attention of Tsukishima’s gaze as he downed the last of his latte.

“So, hypothetically could we keep this act up for a little longer…?” You asked out quietly, running a hand through your hair, pretending to busy your gaze on the rowdy campus around you.

Tsukishima let out a snort, cocking his head to the side, a knowing smile tugging at his lips. “Are you sure that isn’t a personal desire? A want not a need?” He laughed out, shaking his head in amusement.

“You know what, never mind—

“As if I’d let you do that. I would never hear the end of you. We’ve got a deal, okay?” Tsukishima remarked, rolling his eyes right back at me.

Perhaps it was a need from the both of us.

[muletia]

Optimus should go more mad with longing more often. For MY entertainment.

You write great btw! Good for you!

thank you <333 i love making characters suffer from love

cw: implied stalking

word count: 406

Optimus drove past your house today. He set out on a routine patrol through Jasper, searching for alarming signs of Decepticon activity, but for some reason, his wheels carried him along a route too familiar to him. Humans would call this phenomenon muscle memory, an ability allowing them to perform actions unconsciously if repeated often enough. He did it out of a burning longing.

He knew the coordinates of your house by heart, having been in the area hundreds of times. At first, it was only for patrols, then for drop-offs, and once, for a visit when he had to recharge on your driveway due to unusually high Decepticon activity in the vicinity. And though he was glad you had a roof over your head—such a beautifully arranged one, too—a part of him detested this place. This was where your partings occurred, where he was forced to leave you to fend for yourself, exposed to danger. His paranoia screamed that the Decepticons could strike at any moment, that the second he took his optics off you, they would abduct you. They would take you, wrench you from his servos, and he would be powerless to stop it. They would destroy the primary reason he continued his miserable existence at all.

He knows he shouldn’t slow down as he nears the familiar building. He knows it’s unethical, another boundary he is crossing. But he must be sure you’re safe, that you’re still part of his life. It’s been so long since you were at the base (a week), so much time without messages, contact, certainty. Optimus wants to see you, to finally reassure himself that everything is fine. That you’re alive and haven’t forgotten him because he has thought of you constantly. A relentless stream of questions and uncertainties, but also warm memories, keeping him from descending into madness.

He wonders when the patrol stopped being a duty and started becoming personal. Did he pass your house by coincidence, or did he deliberately take this route, hoping to see you?

Ultimately, it all boils down to him being a naïve fool. Perhaps even a lunatic, spinning endless imaginary scenarios of moments you’ll never share. He drafts plans in his processor that will never come to fruition. And despite the constant disappointment, failures, and relentless fracturing of his spark, he still expects different outcomes, clinging desperately to a sliver of hope that this time, something—anything—will go his way.

[thewritetofreespeech]

「 SQUEEZE 」 + aemond

「 SQUEEZE 」 : for sender to rest their hand on the receivers thigh , giving it a squeeze

Aemond detested a lot of things, but state dinners were one of the worst.

With his father incapacitated, due to some new malady from his condition, and his favorite off at Dragonstone with her bastard brood and new husband, it fell to his mother and the second sons to make good. She insisted that he and Aegon be there. Comments on making connections, along with some underlying manner of threat on the horizon if they didn’t, as they welcomed guests from far & wide into their home. Aemond wasn’t sure why he had to be there. Aegon was the social one. Let him entertain the lickspittles and drunken fools. Why must he suffer just because his mother was paranoid over the future?

“You see…hic…the thing that most people do not know about grain accounting….ahem…”

Aemond knew he was not a perfect person. He had sinned in his life plenty, but what sin was so great that he had to be forced into this conversation with such a drunken fool. Droning on & on about grain ledgers and crop rotations as if anyone cared.

“I’m sure it’s quite taxing, Lord Marshen.” His wife commented. Also trapped at this table with him, but thankfully not leaving his side. “I know your contribution to the Capital’s stores have not gone unnoticed.”

She was much better at this than him. Soothing egos. Complimenting the unremarkable. With her soft voice and clear smile, she almost seemed like she meant it. Aemond almost envied her ability to move people in such a way as this. He would just cut through them.

“Well, I don’t mean to brag,” but he was going to, “but our grain is some of the finest in the land. Not that your family’s offering is subpar, your grace. I just wish I had something finer to offer than grain when the time came.”

Aemond’s eye narrow. What was he talking about?

“Perhaps if I had something sweeter to offer than our fine wheat like they did, we could have been in-laws, your grace. Ha! A cow, to sweeten the cream!”

Aemond gripped the arm of his chair to stand. His finger almost as tight as his jaw. This insufferable insect was permitted in the castle, and he chooses to thank their hospitality by insulting his wife!

Before he could rise, however, his wife’s hand lanced out under the table and gripped his thigh. Hard. He could even feel her nails trying to poke through the material of his pants, and he sat back down. “Yes, well. Everyone wants 5 sons like you Lord Marshen, until the marriage mart opens.” The old man laughed, clearly unaware on how close his death had been, as his wife turned to him. “I think all the wine and conversation has gone to my head, husband. Would his grace please escort me back to our chambers?”

She released his leg and Aemond stood again. The bite of her hand still there to keep him calm, even as the fool made more comments about the weak minds of women in social situations. He took his wife’s hand and led her from the hall. “Thank you.”

“No need to thank me, my love.” His wife replied when they were alone. “We can’t have you stabbing a man in front of everyone. What would ‘mother’ say?” Aemond scoffed. Nothing pleasant from Queen Alicent, he was sure. “It’s just a few more days. Then they’ll all be gone.”

“I would rather be thrown from the Keep than go to another dinner.”

“I could suddenly become ill?” She suggested as they arrived at their door. “Or just continue to grab your leg under tables until it bleeds. Your choice.”

Aemond scoffed, then leaned in to kiss her. “I’d rather not be maimed again, if it’s all the same.”

[dolphin-diaries]

Detrans Women v. Trans Men, Or: The Sanity Of Sex Change

Originally published on the Dolphin Diaries substack.

Be advised: this essay contains misogynistic, transphobic, and ableist language, especially as it pertains to pregnancy, trans men, and mental disability.

Today the court presides over a very special case, poised to answer a question that has plagued the nation since the dreaded sex wars. Several questions, actually. What are transsexuals? Do they deserve to exist? What about women? If a woman could become a man, why wouldn’t she? Do real women like being women? And when all the real women are gone—who, pray tell, will bear our children for us?

The plaintiff is a sight to behold. She is stern and clearly distressed, because she’s not smiling. She’s dressed with a presentable degree of femininity, not like a whore or anything. But there is a certain mannishness about her. Her jaw and her shoulders—must’ve been a surgery. When she speaks, you can hear she’s not really a woman anymore. Well, no, she is, but—you know. You can just tell by looking at her, she is barren inside.

The defendant is… charming. S—I mean, he, of course he looks like a ‘he,’ but of course he’s also short. Kind of too well-dressed. He has small wrists and his cranium is pronouncedly feminine. If the court looks away for a moment, the court will forget his face, but the court will certainly remember the wrists and the height and the cranium. Can you imagine, that thing can get pregnant? That was an aside, don’t record that.

When the plaintiff speaks, it is with great pain. She bears the scars of her transition with tremulous distress and speaks of tragic self-harm in a futile attempt to escape the patriarchy. She’d been hoodwinked by the trans cult and doctors—they sold her an illusion of a cure. Now she has seen there’s no such thing. The woman-ness has awoken within her and cried for the de-mammaried chest and all the babies she will never gestate. Her question is simple: why was she forced to do this; why was she lied to? Why has no one ever stopped her? Why have her doctors and friends entertained her delusion that she could somehow be a man? It is nothing short of a grave injustice that her woman-ness was allowed to be undermined. That it is now broken and impossible to heal.

When the defendant speaks, he too overflows with suffering. He was—in his soul, his mind—a man, but yet his body was not. His distress over this mismatch was profound and incurable; transition alone managed to mercifully relieve it. And he is dearly sorry for the plaintiff’s pain, but—well, it’s hardly his fault she tried to fool the system, isn’t it? Why must the one truly suffering be held accountable for the delusions of liars? Why must he be punished for the deranged ravings of belligerent, hysterical cunts?

Gender Madness

Now that the jury is well and properly annoyed with me for my inflammatory phrasing—we all have our defects; mine is that I’m a rhetorician—I shall transform from a bigoted judge into a two-headed creature, prosecutor and attorney both. A little unorthodox, you might say? But this isn’t really a courtroom. No, this argument only occasionally makes it that far; we stand most often in the court of private and public opinion.

With that in mind, let us go over the details of the case. We shall start from afar, but do stay with me; the context is vital.

Our crime(s) take place in a very particular world, one in which life is earned with labour. A citizen must perform and provide labour up to a somewhat arbitrary standard, for which they are rewarded with normal treatment. Human treatment, not-Other treatment. What exactly that constitutes depends on time, place, circumstance, and other extenuating traits the citizen holds. How that is phrased also depends, but it’s usually something to the tune of an adequate contribution for the good of something greater and more abstract. In a late-capitalist society, for instance, money is a measure of labour and a vehicle for greater social contribution, and it thus reflects the measure of allowed humanity. Even when that money is inherited, and its holder has not worked for a damn penny of it, it must reflect some great labour done in the past, by themself or an ancestor. They must’ve deserved it, because money is a measure of labour, and labour is a measure of deserving.

Capitalist profit-meritocratic logics are only one of many ways earning life with labour manifests. But this is a court case, not a lesson in history or politics or economics, so never mind that.

What happens when one cannot meet the standard of labour? What is someone who cannot contribute enough to be normal? Every human’s capacity is limited, but some limits lie at or above the arbitrary standard of labour—and some below. Failure to meet standard capacity is, quite plainly, disability. I speak specifically—now and henceforth—of the social construct of disability. Just as sex/gender, it encompasses human features which may exist regardless of social order; just as sex/gender, it constructs archetypes and social scripts that serve a purpose.

What is the social purpose of disability? Of the infirm, the crippled, the wretched? Sometimes it is to make a large performance of helping them—only those that truly deserve it, of course; never forget truly deserving, being truly in pain—but much more importantly, across history disability existed to move the disabled to the margins of society, render them vulnerable and reliant on goodwill when they cannot be cured of being insufficient. They cannot adequately contribute, which makes them dead weights on the finite resources earned by other people’s labour. That’s why deserving is so important, you see. Because, you know, all people are constantly trying to shirk their fair share of labour, don’t they? Wouldn’t we all not work if we could choose not-working? If we granted this sort of charity to just anybody; if we kept encouraging this sort of behaviour—think of the finite resources! You and I—real, honest, hard-working people—will be the last Atlas shouldering humanity! Oh, it’s unthinkable. No-no, we have to ensure the disabled demonstrate real, provable pain that renders them utterly and definitely incapable of working as much as we do. Otherwise the world will end.

The function of the social construct of disability is to draw a line as to how much labour must be performed, and how much accommodation a normal citizen requires to do it. Disability then makes it hell to seek more accommodation for less labour—in broad strokes.

But you might say, prosecutor/attorney ma’am, what does this have to do with being trans? Or with women? Or with gender, or sex, or whatever you kids call it these days?

Well, dear jury, I know it is uncouth and uncommon to call it labour, but—by which process do we create new labourers? By what mechanism do we ensure the production of citizens? How do we ascertain that the working bodies are taken care of; that workers’ homes are clean and tended to; that workers are rewarded with something to fuck? Just for now, allow that feminised labour is labour.

Entertain the notion that the organising principle of patriarchy is distribution of feminised labour. Sexing/gendering is then a social mechanism by which labour roles are assigned and maintained—and, within the current and millenia-standing incarnation of the patriarchy, these roles are assigned at birth based on the external appearance of infant genitalia, and therefore expectation of the baby’s future gestational or inseminatory capacity. From there an entire hierarchy blossoms, in which those deemed Men are called to compete for the finite resource of Women—and to split the women among themselves, deciding which women are and are not permissible to possess by which kinds of men—and all those deemed Women are called to negotiate their commodity. If a woman is capable of producing a citizen—because she can bear children, and she is of the right nation and ethnicity and race, and has no defect she can pass down—she may be a wife. A prized personal possession, like a pet that sometimes talks too much. If she cannot produce a citizen, she’s still good for some things. After all, Men are allegedly born lascivious and violent—and also enlightened and important at the same time. So their violent excesses must be tolerated, but if we force the wives to be their drywall and their fuckdoll, it may prove too much for the gentle soul. She may get damaged, and then who’ll bear the children? Naturally, women that cannot adequately contribute to society with their wombs (either because they lack the organ altogether, or for whatever other reason) must provide for men where wives cannot. Their fault, anyway. They’re not sufficiently contributing.

On that note arises a question: what if one fails to meet their birth-destined standard of labour? What if they cannot perform their proper gender adequately? Well, a wife that fails to sufficiently provide for her man is, of course, lazy. And when women utterly refuse to behave as women should, bitches be…

For brevity, let us call that queerness. I will use the word in the broadest of strokes: it is failure or refusal or both to meet the standard of assigned sex; so then, even cishetero women that disobey their husbands are, for the purposes of this courtroom, queer. One way society has tried to grapple with queerness was to seek basis in a physical abnormality, which may then provide justification for the queers’ less-than-human status as well as avenues for cures. Perhaps the foetus was exposed to an excess of the wrong kind of sex hormone in-utero. Perhaps women harbouring lesbian desire hide a secret false penis within. Perhaps it’s the humours. Often though, because queer behaviours do not really have a direct relationship to physical attributes, they are consigned to the realm of mental disability. Of madness.

While it is a kind of disability, it is a peculiar one—so, in terms of social construct, what is the nature and purpose of madness? Dear jury, you likely know the answer, intuitively if not in words. It is to regulate the behaviours and thoughts of normal citizens. When those things breach the line of madness, one is made mad, and to be mad is to be rendered unreliable, unpredictable, and incapable of adequate agency. Once one becomes mad, the sane and the normal are relieved of trying to understand one’s thoughts and needs and desires, for those are made inherently incomprehensible. Once one becomes mad, it is assumed one cannot be trusted to make decisions which the sane make all the time, because the mad are considered consummately and totally incapable of perceiving reality or of making choices that do not harm the self or others. In short, they are a danger to all, including themselves.

What is to be done with the mad? First, they must be removed from society, lest they cause harm. Then we must attempt to make them sane—that is, behaving and thinking in ways that are normal. If that is impossible, we must make them seem as sane as possible, so that their madness is confined to their own head and does not spill over. If even that is impossible, they must be removed from society permanently. Otherwise they will disquiet and disturb the sane, or worse, infect them with madness.

Notably, madness was not made to help those that may suffer from, say, psychoses or hallucinations. The history of psychiatry—and yours truly’s personal experience with it as a transsexual forced to self-inter to access transition—makes it quite clear that its primary purpose is the segregation and normalisation of the mad. At times it happens to address the needs of the mad, but generally only insofar as it can bring about their sanity and make them fit for labour production. If one’s need is irrelevant to that, it is usually neglected. At times doctors are genuinely invested in the well-being of their mad patients, and even respect them as humans—but those doctors are merely individuals acting on compassion. The system itself facilitates the opposite.

So then it becomes abundantly obvious why disobedient women, runaway slaves, homosexuals, and transsexuals either were or are psychiatric diagnoses. Indeed, to return to the court case at hand, in a patriarchal world which constructs sex/gender to be an immutable, unchangeable birth-destiny, to think that it can be changed or that you are not what was destined to you—that is madness. It must be. If it is not, then the entire sex-caste order is thrown into total instability. What if everyone decides they’re trans?! What if the men stop competing to assert manhood; what if the women refuse to be commodity?! Who can we then extract sex from? Who will be forced to take care of our homes? Who will work themselves to the bone and who will serve the nation if we cannot promise they will be rewarded with housemaids and offspring and whores? WHO WILL MAKE THE BABIES?!?!

As you can see, dear jury, obviously all of humanity will die and the world will end. Which is why, although I’m sure not everyone enjoys the patriarchy, we must tolerate it. Just like we tolerate our jobs to survive. At least, like, the core idea. We can jiggle some things around to avoid torches and pitchforks, but the sex-castes must stay. You don’t want to be the last Atlas suffering gender-work while all the kids get surgeries and hormones and don’t want to produce gender anymore, do you? We simply can’t encourage this kind of behaviour.

Within the patriarchal resource distribution system, the trans are sex/gender-disabled, and transition is then akin to an accommodation. Just like any disabled accommodation, it is seen as a resource drain that either must be thoroughly justified—for resources are always limited—or else be deemed a frivolous waste. In an attempt to incorporate trans-ness into the resource distribution system and justify the accommodation, trans-pathology emerges. The key to trans-pathology—whether it is called transsexualism or gender dysphoria or gender incongruence; whether it is considered a matter of biology, psychiatry, or soul—is that transition is justified due to a psychological/psychiatric wound. “I deserve to transition because it is the only thing making me hurt less.” Transition, then, is continuous relief to de facto gender-madness.

But I mean, within such a worldview, wouldn’t a cure always be better than just relief?

Anyway, that is why my defendant has had to prove he really deserves transition. He has suffered greatly for his defect, and although he cannot be made completely normal—that isn’t possible; we’ve tried—he is as normal as he can be. My defendant has managed to prove to the systems built within the patriarchy, beyond the shadow of a reasonable doubt, that he is gender-disabled, gender-mad; that he is wholly incapable of producing sufficient feminised labour due to his condition. He is too pathologically miserable—suicidal, even. But now that he has transitioned, he is happy; he has demonstrated he can participate in the production of the family. Kinda-sorta. Close enough; it looks normal enough. Again: we’ll keep trying, but for now, this is the best we got.

Here’s the problem with my defendant’s case, though. The needs of the sane supersede the needs of the mad. After all, the sane are the ones really working and producing the resources which may then be charitably allotted to take care of the mad. The sane deserve the humanity that the mad can only temporarily, fractionally rent with their pain and the compassion that affords them.

Dear jury, have you ever wondered why it has been so pervasive for trans advocacy to state over and over again the in-born-ness of it, the low numbers of it? Only 1%, no, 5%, no, I don’t know—how are we counting? Who are we counting? Regardless, we must insist it cannot spread; that you the sane will not catch trans cooties. But what if that number rises—why, we must find a justification for why it’s actually not and it’s been counted wrong, or maybe, maybe those people would’ve been trans all along, only now they have the opportunity to pursue their trans-ness, or maybe—

Why is the argument for trans existence so entwined with asserting its rarity?

As we’ve already established, dear jury, if all the world went trans, it would end, and we would all die in a horrible extinction event. We must face the truth of sex/gender austerity. So, if trans people are to be permitted to exist more-or-less normally within a patriarchal society, they must prove beyond the shadow of a doubt: they are not contagious. Relief for the mad may only be entertained if it does not impede the sane from performing their labours.

But here stands my plaintiff. A woman, born rightfully a woman, a healthy woman, that caught the madness. She’d been contaminated by the delusion of the sex change, despite constant assurance that sex cannot be changed, and despite all the ways which we’ve devised to make transsexuals prove they aren’t lying about their stupid, ridiculous disability. And so when presented with proof of the transgender contagion, we must ask ourselves a world-endingly important question:

What If All the Bitches Went Crazy?

I mean, we all don’t want to do what needs to be done. The good of the nation—or our feudal lord, or the communist party, or Amazon Stonks Exchange—asks much of us. Some more than others, but it is what it is. Right?

The place of the woman is not terribly enviable. Sometimes we tell them of the joys of being the hand that rocks the cradle, or how much better it is to be a well-kept pet that has no worries nor responsibilities, or how empowered they are in being actually more capable then the men they must tend to—but at the end of the day, no rational individual would enjoy being treated as less-than-human, as commodity, as property. Luckily for all of us, sex is immutable and natural and we’re all just born this way, pre-destined for certain roles and behaviours. Even if we don’t want to do what needs to be done, there’s not much choice in the matter.

Except, ever-awkwardly, there stands my defendant. Very clearly a man. Very verifiably assigned female at birth.

Um.

Well, no, you see, it’s not like you can really change sex. You can just—approximate it. It’s like a costume. It’s not real, it’s ersatz, and we can always tell.

Except, no we can’t. If you saw my defendant in the streets, would you be able to tell? Would you really? What about the fact that trans men’s health concerns largely mirror those of cis men, such as risks of certain cancers and diseases, so long as those trans men are on HRT? What about the fact that they seem to live as men in society just fine?

Uhhhh.

Any attempt at normalisation of female-to-male transition arrives at two core issues at the heart of the patriarchy. Firstly, the limited resource of Woman: woman who can birth a proper citizen; woman who will clean your room and soothe your tears; woman who can be used and fucked. Secondly: who deserves to be Man? If patriarchal relation is instantiated at birth; if sex is immutable and fundamental to human character, then those born as women must be too categorically different from men to ever even slightly approximate them.

Therefore, in order to be normalised—made less-mad, shifted into the liminal space of not-quite-sane—the trans man must demonstrate and acquiesce to two things. One: he will never be a real man. Indeed, the world will not allow him to be totally interchangeable from cis men; no matter how much he looks and acts the part, at some point something will remind him he is less deserving. He cannot perform all the labour of Man, and he owes society the labour of Woman by dint of birth. To be normalised, he must acquiesce firstly to the caste system itself, and then to his precarious place within it.

But here’s the second thing—for this court case, it is more relevant. He must demonstrate the sorts of women that will become him were never good Woman material anyway. They would not birth a proper citizen anyway. They would not make good housemaids anyway. They would be too ugly to deserve getting fucked anyway. And—crucially—that these reject-women are few and marginal. Because even bad material can be utilised by men who aren’t good enough to deserve the wifely and hot ones, or else used and disposed of by men who just feel like it. Any and all waste of a limited resource must be thoroughly justified.

Unfortunately for the trans man, normalising his existence is incompatible with these dogmas in practice. Normalisation means better access to HRT and masculinising surgeries; it also means being able to exist in public as a man. A lesser man, sure—but many men are lesser men. Such is the nature of an austerity-based resource hierarchy; the place of the beneficiary is competitive.

Scandalously, I myself had a stint in trans manhood, in a place more patriarchal and trans-unaware than most Western countries. Like many trans men, I have found that if you look like a man, talk like a man, act like a man, people can’t help but treat you like a man. Even career transphobes seem to force themselves to misgender trans people at times. Modern medicine enables passing as another sex even for people completely un-androgynous by nature—and historically, even before transition was available, some managed to live as a different sex anyway, discovered only upon burial or autopsy.

And then, when the trans man is normalised, it necessarily entails that female-to-male transition becomes—little by little, however fractionally—less dangerous to access. Less unknown. Which means more people will try to access it.

But listen, my defendant says—look at this graph of left-handed people, at how the number increased once we stopped forcing them to learn writing right-handed! And the patriarchy does not care, because unlike the left-handed, he has stolen a resource owed to its men. It does not matter why the number has increased, only that it did. The trans man’s extreme rarity was part of the deal struck with trans-pathology.

But listen, my defendant says, women don’t want to be men. Women are essentially, fundamentally women. No matter how badly they do or don’t have it, they would never attempt to rid themselves of womanhood—it’s just not their nature. And that means anyone attempting to avail of female-to-male transition was never a woman by dint of trying at all.

Here we arrive at a contradiction. If trans-pathology justifies transition via an incurable ill or an innate quality, then transition cannot be justified by itself. Transition is the action in need of justification; it is not itself proof of anything. Moreover it makes all my defendant’s attempts to argue for either gender-expansiveness or feminism rather laughable. In order to assert that no True Woman would ever attempt to transition to a man, he must either claim that women aren’t really suffering due to their gender all that much, or else that they are too fundamentally different from men to even consider the option. Too incapable of shifting their self-perception of gender, and altogether too committed to having boobs.

Sooner or later in the process of trans-normalisation, no matter how pathologic its framing, it arrives at the simple truth that those born as women can live as men. And the fact women are a patriarchal commodity is hardly news or a secret. Therefore it is possible that someone—arguably—‘gender-sane,’ and thus perfectly suitable for feminised exploitation, would attempt to avail of transition. It only makes rational sense.

And after all, what about my plaintiff? Is she not a woman?

Ah, argues my defendant, but exactly. She’s a woman, and for whatever reason she decided to dabble in real disorders. And now she’s crying about the consequences. Boo-fucking-hoo. She stands here lying she was forced to do it, but he knows better—he knows how difficult transition is to access, how gatekept it is. No one is scouting vulnerable young women to pump them full of testosterone. With that I could only agree—the patriarchy does not simply let go of its resource. My defendant is none too pleased with me, though, perhaps because I have alluded his transition constitutes a kind of ‘escape plan’ for women. But: clearly fucking not. She’s here, isn’t she? Not too escaped, is she? She wasn’t really trans! And anyway, what does that highfalutin stuff matter. She’s brought us all here today because she regrets a choice she made. If she supposedly ‘escaped’ misogyny with transition, why isn’t she still a man? What kind of woman would choose to become a man, only to come crawling back?

A crazy one.

Competitive Sanity

Dear jury, I do confess: my plaintiff is, some might say, full of shit. We all are in this courtroom, but she’s directly lying more than most. Demonstrably, factually, ideologically, there simply isn’t great social incentive to force women to transition to men. On the contrary, there is great incentive to stop them from doing it. In most countries you need permission to legally transition, and that permission is secured with going through a lot of motions to ensure you really really need it. If you’re transitioning outside the legal procedure, it is even harder to argue you were forced to transition or never prevented from doing it. No, there would’ve been a lot of forces hindering the detrans woman’s alleged self-mutilation. This whole story is incredibly easy to poke holes in—and she would know that.

So why is she saying it anyway? What is she trying to get, and why does she think this is how she gets it?

Her plea, as stated, is for cessation of trans accommodation—medical transition firstly, but eventually all of it. Why? Because she bears a psychological wound. She suffers dysphoria from the results of her transition—she’s been rendered sex/gender-disabled by it. So the request is in essence a request for accommodation. Indeed, due to a total lack of detransition procedures and thus state or insurance coverage, the courts are some of the only avenues through which costs of sex-altering detransition procedures may be covered. It is not an unreasonable question: if I received a double mastectomy on insurance/government funding, so why can’t I receive breast reconstruction in the same manner?

And the answer is: because that’s not how trans-pathology works, sweetie. This isn’t a fair exchange sex/gender marketplace. Transition is a barely-granted accommodation—and a crazy thing to do.

Voluntary detransition necessarily arrives at a different issue at the heart of patriarchy: that sex/gender are supposed to be immutable and eternal, and that natural sex is inherently preferable and superior to artificially modified sex. Trans-pathology seeks to frame trans-ness as an essential attribute which causes a psychological wound that must be relieved, thereby violating the immutability dogma as little as possible and assenting to the superiority of natural sex. But to detransition is, truthfully, to transition again at least once; multiple sex changes cannot be justified within this paradigm. And, the nature of transition access ensures that in the overwhelming majority of cases, going through it is a choice made on purpose. Therefore, desiring detransition under the framework of immutable sex/gender means you transitioned by frivolity, delusion—mistake. And not just any mistake; a mistake in which you pilfered a limited-resource accommodation. Willingly destroyed your ability to adequately perform feminised labour. And, according to the naturalistic fallacy, wasted a superior version of your sex for no justifiable reason.

Just like it is insanity to think you can or should change your sex, it is madness to imagine you can just walk back and forth willy-nilly.

So if that’s the case, how does one normalise detransition? What framing is needed? How does my plaintiff place it in the realm of sanity?

Just like the trans man acquiesces to some of the patriarchal claims about him in order to shift others, so does the detrans woman. She agrees that yes, her natural sex is superior and unrecoverable. Yes, it was a mistake. What she can’t acquiesce to is the idea that she transitioned on purpose, willingly. Because if that is so, she violated the caste system in the most grievous of ways, and she stole labour and accommodation. If you know anything about the treatment of the disabled—or the homeless, or any vulnerable category that requires more accommodation than average—you would know that to admit such a thing is to cut yourself off from any further help. If the detrans woman agrees she was a rational agent when she transitioned, she agrees she is a parasite and a resource-eater. Within the patriarchal framework, she cannot argue for the right to change sex again.

If she does not present her transition as an insanity and her detransition as a cure, then that means she is mad and has been the whole time. Mad: meaning, unworthy of autonomy. She must self-denigrate and totally disavow her past self—or else be denied autonomy not only then, but also now.

She makes the claim she was mad. She finds every way in which her agency could’ve been compromised and exaggerates them until her past self appears completely incapable of making choices. All our agencies are always at least somewhat compromised, of course, for we are not totally rational agents and we are not omniscient—but that doesn’t matter, because mad choices will always be simple to present as delusions, and the sane ones will always be assumed perfectly-agented by default. And so, for instance, it may be true that the detrans woman’s doctor had a poor grasp on the mental health of women while knowing how to follow basic transition guidelines. But this is not presented as one of many circumstances which enabled the detrans woman to rethink her gender and consider transition—rather, it becomes a total superimposition of the doctor’s will upon the detrans woman’s, erasing her own decision-making capacity entirely. It becomes brainwashing.

Or let us return to my favourite topic: the patriarchy. While it is absurd to suggest the commodification and dehumanisation inherent to being a woman under patriarchy could never cause anyone to alienate from ‘woman’ altogether, it is likewise absurd to present transition as an ‘escape’ from patriarchy. The only escape there is from an all-encompassing regime is leaving for the woods. Moreover, the sex-essentialism of its caste system ensures trans men’s lives are made especially precarious, their trans status impossible to totally conceal, and any and all reveal of it threatening dehumanisation and womanisation. You can become a man—but only a queer one, and queerness is automatically degendering and unstable.

(Recall our bigoted judge. He is merely a distilled substrate of my own experiences with how trans-ness undoes humanity, disassembles one’s body into parts to be undressed and examined in the town square, and assiduously regendered.)

As is abundantly clear to anyone that’s ever transitioned, transition results in a re-negotiation of one’s status within the patriarchal caste system—with a heavy penalty. It is as silly to say ‘man’ confers no immense advantages over ‘woman’ as it is to say ‘cis’ confers no immense advantages over ‘trans.’ Both claims are brazenly, demonstrably absurd—mad, even.

So why is the trans man stating the former while the detrans woman states the latter? Why are they making absurd claims while poking at the absurdity of the other’s claim?

The fact of the matter is, both transition and detransition are fundamentally incompatible with patriarchal logics. Bioessentialist sex-destiny at birth and the naturalistic fallacy of sex are its foundational building blocks. Ability to perform sex/gender up to an arbitrary labour standard is the measure of one’s place in the hierarchy, and that hierarchy is supposed to have no mobility. Therefore patriarchy is incompatible with providing accommodation for changing sex, at all, ever. Desire for this accommodation is madness, undergoing it is disabling, and both madness and disability are utterly undesirable within resource austerity.

Then it follows that attempting to justify either transition or detransition care within a patriarchal system generates fallacies, omissions, distortions, and outright lies, because true justification—true equity with those that do not change sex/gender—is impossible. Moreover, sex/gender austerity forces accommodation requests of the trans and the detrans to become antagonistic. If the trans deserve accommodation, that makes the detrans lying and crazy resource-eaters. If the detrans deserve accommodation, that makes the trans crazy mutilators of the sane. Therefore the trans and the detrans must compete for the title of least-mad to be granted anything at all. The needs of the more-sane supersede the needs of the less-sane, because the saner you are, the more likely you are to almost-meet the arbitrary standard of labour. You are more worthy of having a finite resource spent on you.

So: poke holes in the inevitable flaws in each other’s reasoning, and whoever pokes best, wins.

And The Winner Is…

In the realm of pure logic, obviously no one. We’re all mad here. But this isn’t pure logic—this is the court of patriarchy, and the logics we’re operating under are patriarchal. Primacy in a hierarchy is won with obedience.

And in that sense, the case was rigged from the start.

You see, dear jury, you were never needed here, and your votes will not be counted. Of our plaintiff and our defendant, there is a self-evident winner in the ‘most obedient to patriarchal logics’ competition. Look how she cries for her lost womb. She’s obviously very sorry for betraying her labour function, and she says she’s been disabled—mutilated!—by those pesky resource-eaters, those burdens. Well, we certainly don’t need to be asked twice to care less! Reduced accommodation approved!

Ah, but what she really wanted was accommodation for her gender and sex. To be a woman again.

Too bad.

It is curious, isn’t it, how rarely you see allegedly pro-detrans conservative pundits advocate for detrans healthcare. No fundraisers for breast reconstruction, no calls to include voice training in subsidised procedures, no requests to incorporate legal detransition into gender marker change pathways. You’d be forgiven for thinking no such thing as ‘detrans healthcare’ even exists. Yes, yes, they’re campaigning for the benevolent extermination of detrans people as a category via extermination of transition—but what of the ones currently living? Even if they’re supposedly irreversibly damaged, don’t they deserve at least relief?

Seems like the only thing detrans women deserve is pity—not accommodation. All their pain buys them is a lack of direct violence. But in order to have that non-violence bought with pain, they must continue to be in pain; they must remain destitute. We can’t keep encouraging this sex-changing behaviour, after all. If detrans women aren’t destitute, who knows what kind of ideas the gender-obedient will get in their as-yet sane heads.

That is, in the end, the issue with trying to earn humane treatment with pain against a system that claims you have not contributed enough to deserve humane treatment in the first place. It is a continuously defensive position, with shifting boundaries you do not get to set or control—because you’re defensive. You don’t get to decide how much pain constitutes enough payment, nor how much your pain is worth.

Consider trans-pathology. Whether we call it transsexualism or gender dysphoria or gender incongruence, transition is presented as a form of relief to a psychiatric or psychological ill—that is, it is an accommodation bought with pain. Then remains a thorny question: what if the source of pain could be eliminated? Conversion therapy is deemed in poor taste chiefly because it does not work. But a total cure is always preferable to a relief. Therefore, under this logic, it must be pursued. So long as gender is what it is, and so long as madness is what it is, the search for working conversion therapy cannot cease. You can spend countless hours proving the ‘true cure’ to trans-ness is impossible, but with enough push, some hack will publish something credible-looking and science-seeming that asserts otherwise—and they’ll be more useful to the system than you.

Just look at the Cass Review.

When Abigail Thorn in her Why I Don’t Like The Word ‘Dysphoria’ essay suggested the basis for the right to transition ought to be her will—that the only justification sex-changing and gender-shifting needs is “because I want to”—she received quite some pushback on the idea. It is a common critique, one I received myself over many years, and it comes in two forms. One is an accusation of pain-ignoring. That we do not recognise the suffering of trans people, perhaps even attempt to override their stories. It’s valid that you’re not hurting, but you have to recognise that I do!

And I ask: why should the freedoms permitted to you depend on how much pain you’re in? Does this not entail that, once you’re not hurting anymore, you no longer deserve them—meaning, your destitution must in some way remain eternal?

The second critique is pragmatic: if we push this weird frivolous agency line, we won’t get what we want fast enough. We’ll die on this hill arguing we deserve autonomy while getting no help at all, when we could have at least some benefit now.

But neither Thorn nor I argue against pragmatism. I lied my way through the masturbation quizzes in the psych ward just fine. The argument made in both this essay and hers is not, as the critique fears, for the rapid dissolution of current trans healthcare and for dying on the vanguard of pipe dreams, but rather for a gradual shift of the patriarchal sex-caste construction—for rethinking sex. And there are pragmatic reasons to argue this; we can observe them right now, as fascism builds its momentum around restricting whatever trans freedoms were won with trans-pathology.

Because, I repeat: transition is fundamentally incompatible with patriarchal logics. It cannot be assimilated. Its normalisation jeopardises the basis on which it is allowed a sliver of assimilation. Thus trans-pathology is locked in a cycle whose only variable is the intensity of its eugenic extermination.

It is also a cycle in which I cannot exist with dignity (not that anyone does.) At the height of trans-pathology, I am a crazy resource-thief; at its nadir, I am a mutilated and fallen woman. So I reject this samsara, not just as an ideological dead end, but also a practical one. I reject the austerity of feminised labour; I reject that a hierarchy of resource-consumption is necessary and that no better world can exist. I reject pathetic flailing in front of impassive juries and judges, trying to prove I’m not really crippled or mad—that I don’t deserve to be treated like them. I reject that some people deserve living more than others, or deserve participation in society more than others. I reject being taxed with pain for failing to be a good-enough resource site. I reject the need for performance of justification.

And I hope you do, too.

Recommended Reading

On mad justice: Micha Frazer-Carroll, Mad World: The Politics of Mental Health.

On the treatment of the disabled as an economic and eugenic burden: Beatrice Adler-Bolton and Artie Verkant, Health Communism: A Surplus Manifesto.

[novaursa]

Legacy (tomorrow)

- Summary: Tywin was the man who saved you from Robert's wrath. He was also the man who doomed you.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister

- Note: There is an unspecified time jump.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: of the past

- Next part: across the dream

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @luniaxi @alkadri-layal @butterflygxril @urdxrling

The flicker of candlelight filled the room as you sat at the long dining table, a goblet of wine resting untouched before you. Across from you, Tyrion leaned back in his chair, his expression contemplative as he swirled the deep red liquid in his cup.

“You know,” he began, breaking the comfortable silence that had settled between you, “I do sometimes miss the days when we shared lighter conversations. You were always far too clever to suffer fools, and yet you tolerated my incessant rambling.”

A faint smile tugged at your lips. “You were not so insufferable, Tyrion. And you always made for an entertaining dinner companion.” Your eyes softened, but there was an edge of caution in your voice. “Though I suspect you did not call me here to reminisce.”

Tyrion chuckled, though the humor didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Straight to the point, as always. You haven’t changed a bit.” He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. “And you’re right. I didn’t summon you here simply for pleasantries.”

You tilted your head, watching him carefully. “Then what is it?”

He set his goblet down, his expression turning serious. “Daenerys,” he said simply, his voice weighted with meaning. “Your sister. My queen.”

The room seemed to grow quieter at the mention of her name, the distant crackle of the fire in the hearth the only sound that filled the space.

“I’ve spoken to your husband about her situation,” Tyrion continued, his tone firm yet edged with frustration. “Her supplies dwindle. The sea is frozen over in parts, making trade and resources nearly impossible. She’s isolated on Dragonstone, hemmed in by the dark. And I fear that if no aid comes, it won’t be the Others or her enemies that destroy her—it’ll be starvation.”

Your brows furrowed as you absorbed his words. “You’ve spoken to Tywin?” you asked carefully.

“Many times,” Tyrion admitted, the faintest flicker of irritation crossing his face. “And you can imagine how that’s gone. He doesn’t see her as a queen, nor does he believe the realm should support her claim to the throne. He sees her as a foreign invader, and worse—he sees her as a liability.”

You sighed, your fingers tracing the rim of your goblet. “And now you’ve come to me.”

“Indeed,” Tyrion said, leaning back once more. “Because if there is anyone in this world who can sway Tywin Lannister, it’s you. He listens to you. He respects you. And, dare I say it, he loves you in a way I doubt he’s ever loved anyone else.”

The weight of his words settled heavily over you. “And you believe I should convince him to aid her?” you asked quietly.

“I do,” Tyrion said, his voice unwavering. “If not for her claim, then for the fact that she’s your sister. If not for the crown, then for the people of Dragonstone who will surely die without help. Whatever reason you can find in that sharp mind of yours, I implore you to use it. Because she will not survive this winter without aid.”

You stared at him for a long moment, your thoughts swirling. The image of Daenerys, proud and defiant, came to your mind. But so too did the memories of Tywin, steadfast in his resolve, his mistrust of your sister deeply ingrained.

“You ask much of me, Tyrion,” you said finally, your voice soft but firm. “Tywin does not change his mind easily, nor does he make decisions lightly.”

“I know,” Tyrion said with a faint nod. “But if anyone can plant the seed of doubt in his mind, it’s you. If anyone can make him see reason, it’s you.”

You fell silent, your gaze dropping to the table as you considered his plea. Tyrion watched you carefully, his expression tinged with a mixture of hope and desperation.

Finally, you looked up, meeting his gaze. “I’ll think on it,” you said, your tone even. “That’s all I can promise.”

Tyrion exhaled slowly, a hint of relief crossing his features. “That’s all I ask,” he said simply, raising his goblet in a silent toast. “Thank you.”

As the two of you sat in silence once more, the weight of the decision ahead loomed large, casting a shadow over the flickering candlelight.

The sun never rose in these endless days of winter. The sky above Casterly Rock remained a deep, starless black, the wind howling like a beast clawing at the fortress walls. Inside the castle courtyard, the great gates groaned open, and Beric Dondarrion rode through, his men trailing behind him. Their cloaks were thick with frost, their horses haggard from the journey.

Beric dismounted swiftly, his face grave as he handed his reins to a stable boy. The moment his boots hit the stone, he was already moving with purpose, his one eye darting across the yard as though searching for someone. His men followed closely behind, tense and silent.

Up on the steps leading to the keep, Damon Lannister watched. His young face was still half-hidden beneath the bandages wrapped around his left side to prevent infections, the skin beneath raw and slowly healing from where dragonfire had claimed him. The wound still ached, but he bore it without complaint, standing with the rigidness expected of a son of Tywin Lannister. Beside him, Ser Barristan Selmy crossed his arms, his aged but keepn eyes narrowing at the newcomers.

Beric was alarmed—that much was clear. He had ridden hard to return to Casterly Rock, and whatever news he carried was dire. Damon felt a shiver crawl up his spine that had nothing to do with the cold.

"Go inside, my lord," Barristan murmured, his gaze flickering between the boy and the approaching men. "This is not a matter for you."

But Damon did not move. His feet stayed planted firmly, his curiosity outweighing any lingering pain from his burns. He knew enough of war councils and hushed conversations to understand that something was wrong.

Thoros of Myr, Beric’s red-robed companion, noticed the boy lingering on the steps. Unlike Beric, who had already disappeared into the keep in search of Tywin, Thoros did not rush forward. Instead, he strode toward the child, his expression softened with something close to amusement.

"You have the look of a boy who has too many thoughts in his head," Thoros remarked, stopping a few feet before Damon. His voice was warm despite the tension thick in the air.

Damon blinked up at him. "You bring bad news," he said simply.

Thoros chuckled dryly. "That is all we ever bring these days." He tilted his head slightly, studying the child. "You were watching Beric like a lordling waiting for a battle report."

"I am a lordling," Damon replied, his voice small but firm.

"Aye, that you are." Thoros crouched slightly to meet his gaze. The flickering torchlight cast a glow over the priest’s weathered face. "And you bear a mark of fire. Dragonfire, no less. I see it's still healing."

Damon tensed. His hand instinctively twitched toward the bandages covering the left side of his face, though he did not touch them.

Thoros noted the movement. "I have seen men burned by dragonflame before," he continued, his voice measured. "Most do not live to tell the tale. And yet, here you stand, hale and whole."

"I am not whole," Damon said sharply.

Thoros sighed, rubbing a hand through his unkempt beard. "No," he admitted. "Perhaps not. But you are alive. And if there is one thing I have learned in all my years, it is this—when fire takes something from you, it leaves something behind in return."

Damon frowned. "Leaves what?"

"A gift. A curse. A reminder. It is different for every man," Thoros said cryptically. "And for you? Well, that remains to be seen." He gave the boy a meaningful look. "But I do not think your story is over yet, little lion."

Damon looked away, his jaw tightening. "I don’t want a story," he muttered. "I wanted a dragon."

Thoros smiled ruefully. "Then you have more in common with your mother than you know."

Before Damon could respond, the heavy doors to the keep burst open once more, and Beric re-emerged, his expression dark. Whatever news he had brought to Tywin, it had not been well received.

"We should go," Thoros murmured, rising to his feet and patting the boy lightly on the shoulder before turning back toward Beric.

Damon watched as the men gathered once more, the weight of whatever storm was coming settling in his gut. He did not know what had been said behind those doors, but he knew one thing for certain.

Something terrible was coming. And soon.

Meanwhile, What Happened In The War Room

Tywin Lannister sat at the head of the long oaken table, fingers steepled beneath his chin, his expression carved from stone. Around him, his most trusted men stood—Kevan, Barristan Selmy, Maester Aldren, and Varys, who lingered near the fire, watching with unreadable eyes. At the other end of the table, Beric Dondarrion stood, his face drawn and grave.

"You are certain of what you saw?" Tywin’s voice was steady, but there was something colder beneath the surface—an edge of calculation, of restrained fury.

Beric nodded, his one good eye shadowed with exhaustion. "I do not know how many, my lord, but the numbers were unlike anything we’ve seen before. Dozens, hundreds… thousands." He exhaled slowly. "They are not just wandering aimlessly anymore. They are gathering."

"A proper army, then." Kevan muttered, arms crossed over his chest. His frown deepened. "But why have we heard nothing from Winterfell? If these creatures are on the march, Jon Snow should have sent word."

Tywin’s sharp gaze flickered toward Varys. "I assume you have agents in the North. Why is there silence?"

The Spider’s lips curled in the faintest of smiles. "I have not had ravens from Winterfell in weeks. The last word I received was that the Starks had secured the castle, and that Snow was preparing for… something. But this?" He gestured lazily toward Beric. "This is new."

Barristan Selmy leaned forward, his voice a low rumble. "What if they never had the chance to send word?"

The table fell silent at that.

Tywin’s jaw clenched, his eyes darkening. If Winterfell had fallen… if Jon Snow and his Stark kin were already dead… No. He refused to entertain the thought. Not yet.

"Tell me everything," he ordered Beric.

The lightning lord inhaled deeply before speaking. "We rode north through the abandoned roads. First, we found the watchtower your wife spoke of, the one with the creature crawling over it." He hesitated. "We burned it. It reeked of something foul, something old. And the voices…"

Kevan stiffened. "Voices?"

Beric nodded. "They call out to you, my lord. Names of the dead. Old ghosts with old grudges. If you listen too long, it unsettles the mind. Lem nearly turned his own blade on himself before Thoros snapped him out of it."

Tywin’s face remained impassive, but the stiffness in his shoulders did not ease.

"And the creatures?"

Beric’s fingers twitched. "We killed one, but more lurked in the dark. They are not mindless like the wights, but something… worse. They move like spiders, clinging to the walls and ceilings. And when they whisper, you feel them in your bones." His gaze darkened. "But they were not the worst of it."

Tywin motioned for him to continue.

Beric exhaled slowly. "Beyond the watchtower, toward the Frost Fangs, we saw them. A host of the dead. Thousands, marching as one. I have fought wights before, but these ones did not wander aimlessly. They marched with purpose. They had direction."

"A commander," Varys mused softly.

Beric nodded. "Aye. Someone—something—is leading them. This is not just a mindless scourge. It is an army."

A heavy silence fell over the room.

Tywin’s expression did not shift, but his fingers drummed against the table, a slow and deliberate rhythm. His mind was already working through the implications. If this army was real—and if it was truly on the move—then Westeros was in greater peril than he had imagined.

"How long," he asked at last, his voice measured, "until they reach the South?"

Beric hesitated. "A few moons. No more than that. If they are moving toward Winterfell first, they may already be at its doorstep."

Kevan inhaled sharply. "And if Winterfell falls, there will be nothing to stop them from marching further south."

Tywin’s gaze flickered to the fire, his thoughts racing. The Wall was gone. The North had been their last true barrier. And now? Now, he had no choice but to face the truth.

They were running out of time.

After a long moment, Tywin looked up, his gaze locking onto Beric’s. "We need to confirm this with our own eyes. I will not move this kingdom based on whispers and shadows. You will lead a second scouting party. Take more men, take supplies, and bring me proof."

Beric nodded, but his face remained grim. "And if I do?"

Tywin’s expression darkened. "Then we prepare for war."

Varys sighed softly. "A war against death itself. How… poetic."

Tywin ignored him. His gaze flickered to Kevan. "Send a raven to Winterfell. If they are still alive, we will have answers."

Kevan nodded.

The meeting was over.

As the men filed out, Beric’s voice lingered in Tywin’s mind. They had direction. They had a commander.

For the first time in years, a deep unease settled in Tywin Lannister’s chest.

And he did not like it.

You moved through the dimly lit passageways with purpose, your thoughts heavy as you sought out Tywin. The weight of Beric’s report, of what you had seen yourself, and the truth that could no longer be denied, settled over you like a storm cloud.

You found him in the solar, standing by the great table that held maps of Westeros, the pieces of his war strategy meticulously arranged. The firelight flickered against his features, illuminating the creases in his brow as he studied the parchment before him. He did not look up when you entered, but you knew he had sensed your presence the moment you stepped inside.

"You're troubled," you said, your voice gentle but firm as you closed the door behind you.

Tywin finally lifted his gaze, eyes as keen as ever but carrying something deeper—something heavier. "I do not have the luxury of being troubled," he said coolly. "I have the duty to keep my House and this realm from falling into ruin."

You crossed the room, placing a hand on the edge of the table, mirroring his posture. "Then hear me, Tywin," you urged. "If Beric is right, if the creatures he saw are truly gathering, then it is no longer about just our House. It is about survival."

He exhaled sharply through his nose, his gaze flicking to you with thinly veiled impatience. "I have already sent men to confirm the reports. I will not risk my forces on the word of outlaws and zealots alone."

You narrowed your eyes slightly, pressing forward. "And what if their word is all we have? What if Winterfell has already fallen? What if Jon and the Starks are cut off from the rest of us, and we simply do not know it yet?"

Tywin did not answer immediately, his silence thick with contemplation. His fingers traced the hilt of his dagger, the only outward sign of unease.

You took a breath and softened your tone. "I spoke with Tyrion."

That got his attention. His eyes flickered up to you with a flash of irritation. "Of course you did," he muttered.

"He has been trying to convince you to send aid to Daenerys. You have ignored him."

"Because it is a fool’s notion," Tywin said, his voice measured. "She is not our ally, nor is she necessary to our plans. She is a foreign invader who still believes she has a claim to a throne that is beyond her reach. I will not give her the means to challenge us."

You straightened, your jaw tightening. "She is my sister."

Tywin’s lips pressed into a thin line. "She is a fool who commands an army of savages."

You let out a sharp breath, shaking your head. "And yet, she has dragons, just as I do. And whether you like it or not, she is a Targaryen, a trueborn heir of our house, and she will not stand idly by while the Long Night swallows us whole."

He tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. "And you believe she will stand with us instead of against us?"

"Yes," you said firmly. "Because she is not mad, no matter what you want to believe. Because she has fought for years to reclaim what she believes was stolen from our family. And because, whether you see it or not, we will need her."

Tywin’s jaw clenched. He turned away from you, pacing toward the fireplace. "Do you believe she would fight this war with us?"

"Yes," you answered immediately. "Because this is bigger than the Iron Throne. This is about survival, Tywin. And if we do not stand together, we will fall separately."

He was quiet for a long moment. The only sound in the room was the distant howl of the wind outside.

Finally, he turned back to you, his expression still unreadable. "You are asking me to extend an offer of peace to a woman who sees me as her family’s murderer."

You met his gaze, unwavering. "Yes. Because if you don’t, there may not be a realm left for either of us to rule."

His silence stretched between you, heavy with unspoken thoughts.

Then, at last, Tywin sighed, a sound more wearied than you had ever heard from him. "I will consider it."

Relief flooded through you, but you knew better than to press further now. Instead, you stepped closer, placing a hand on his arm. "Thank you," you said softly.

He studied you for a long moment, then reached up, his fingers brushing your cheek in a rare show of affection. "You are still reckless," he muttered.

You smiled faintly. "You knew that when you married me."

His lips twitched, almost a smirk, before he pulled away. "Go. Get some rest. I will send for you when I have reached a decision."

You nodded, squeezing his arm once before stepping back.

As you left the solar, you prayed he would see reason. Because if he didn’t, you feared there would be no future left to fight for.

Damon sat cross-legged on the floor, carefully stacking wooden knights in formation, his left hand trembling slightly from his burns but his focus unwavering. Maelor, meanwhile, sat nearby with a small stuffed lion clutched in his arms, humming softly as he watched his older brother’s movements.

You sat by the window, gazing out at the snow-covered landscape beyond Casterly Rock. The darkness had swallowed the sky whole, the endless night still offering no hint of dawn. You could hear the wind howling against the stone walls, a chilling reminder of the world outside your sanctuary.

"Look, Mother," Damon said suddenly, his eyes flicking up toward you. "The knights are ready for battle."

You smiled, but there was a heaviness in your chest. "A fine army," you murmured, moving to kneel beside him. "And who are they fighting?"

"The darkness," Damon answered simply, shifting his pieces into formation. "Like Father says we must."

Maelor, still clutching his lion, looked up at you with wide, innocent eyes. "Will we win?"

You swallowed the lump in your throat and smoothed his pale hair. "We will do everything we can," you whispered.

The door creaked open, and you turned to see Tywin enter, his crimson cloak dusted with frost. His expression was unreadable, but his presence alone was enough to still the servants and cast a hush over the room.

Damon and Maelor immediately straightened, sensing the shift in the air.

"Father," Damon greeted him, his tone carrying the weight of a boy trying to be a man.

Tywin gave him a brief nod before stepping closer to you, his eyes flickering toward the children. "Leave us," he commanded, his voice low but firm.

The servants hesitated for only a moment before bowing and ushering the boys toward the side chamber. Damon hesitated, casting you one last look before reluctantly following.

Once the door shut behind them, you turned fully to your husband. "What is it?"

Tywin exhaled, his hands clasped behind his back. "There is no word from the capital," he said, his voice measured but laced with unmistakable tension. "None at all."

Your stomach twisted. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," he said, stepping closer, "not a single raven has come from King’s Landing in over a fortnight. No messages. No decrees. No reports from Mace Tyrell, who I left as Hand in my absence."

You frowned, your mind racing. "Surely that’s impossible. The capital does not fall silent."

Tywin’s expression darkened. "No. It does not." He paused. "Which means someone is ensuring no word leaves the city."

A chill far colder than the winter outside crept down your spine. "Who could do such a thing?"

His lips pressed into a thin line. "If I knew that, I would not be standing here speculating."

You crossed your arms, your mind pulling at the threads of possibility. "Could it be Cersei?"

Tywin’s jaw tightened. "Perhaps. Or perhaps something else is at play."

You studied him, searching for the depth of his thoughts. "You believe something has happened to Tommen."

His silence was answer enough.

The thought of him—once a sweet boy who marveled in your presence—alone in the capital with no word reaching beyond its walls made your stomach churn.

"We have to do something," you said firmly.

Tywin’s gaze was heavy as it settled on you. "We will."

You placed a hand on his arm. "We need to know what we’re dealing with before we act. If we send riders, they will be intercepted. But I…" You hesitated before inhaling sharply. "I could fly to King’s Landing myself."

His eyes flared with instant rejection. "No."

"Tywin—"

"I will not have you throwing yourself into a potential trap," he said sharply, his voice laced with iron. "If someone is controlling the flow of information, they will be expecting someone to come looking."

"But I am the fastest way," you countered. "Viserion can—"

"Viserion will not shield you from a poisoned dagger or an arrow in the dark," Tywin snapped.

You clenched your fists but did not argue further, not yet. The air between you was heavy with unspoken words, with the weight of fear neither of you would voice.

After a long silence, Tywin spoke again, quieter this time. "We wait for now. We prepare. But we do not act blindly."

You exhaled slowly, nodding. "Then we need to send scouts to the edges of the Crownlands. If no one can enter or leave, they will see the evidence of it."

Tywin studied you for a moment before giving a small nod. "I will see it done."

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. "And if we confirm that something is wrong?"

Tywin’s gaze was cold steel. "Then we prepare for war."

A shiver ran through you, though not from the cold.

The silence of the capital was an omen. And you feared what it meant for the fate of the realm.

The library of Casterly Rock was a place of refuge from the unrelenting winter that consumed the world outside. The scent of parchment and old leather lingered in the air, a quiet reminder of a time when knowledge held more weight than swords.

You sat alone at a long table, a heavy volume opened before you. The words blurred together, your mind too preoccupied to absorb their meaning. The quiet should have been comforting, but instead, it felt oppressive, a reminder of all that was left unspoken.

The door creaked open, and you glanced up just as Tyrion stepped inside. His eyes swept the room before settling on you, his mouth curving into a small, knowing smirk.

"I suspected I’d find you here," he mused, stepping further in. "You always did have a fondness for books."

You closed the tome in front of you with a quiet thud and arched a brow. "And what of you, Lord Tyrion? Are you here to read or to drink?"

Tyrion chuckled as he pulled out a chair across from you and sank into it. "A little of both, if I’m being honest. But mostly, I came to thank you."

"For?"

"For speaking to my father," he replied, resting his elbows on the table. "You may not realize it, but Tywin Lannister never truly listens to anyone—not Mace Tyrell, not the high lords, not even my dear departed mother, if Jaime is to be believed." He paused, studying you with quiet amusement. "But you… He listens to you."

You held his gaze, surprised by the remark. "Tywin is not an easy man to sway."

"Which is why it fascinates me that you manage it so effortlessly," Tyrion said, tilting his head. "A woman who was raised to be a princess of the realm, but became a wife to a lion instead."

You let out a quiet breath, your fingers tracing the edge of the book before you. "I spoke to him because I believe Daenerys may be needed in what is to come. But I would not call it effortless, convincing him of anything is a battle in itself."

Tyrion hummed in thought. "Yes, but battles are easier when the enemy wishes to please you."

You shot him a look, but there was no malice in his words, only curiosity. "You think Tywin acts to please me?"

"Perhaps not in the way a poet would write of it," Tyrion admitted. "But my father is a man who values control, and yet with you… there is something else. He does not tolerate defiance in others, but he allows you your arguments, your disagreements. And more than that, he takes them into consideration."

You studied him, unsure of how to respond. Tyrion, ever observant, had picked up on something even you had barely acknowledged aloud.

"I think," Tyrion continued, swirling an imaginary cup in his hand, "that my father never expected to love again. But here he is, with you, and two sons born of that love. A fate he never would have envisioned when he first plotted your fate all those years ago."

You inhaled deeply. "And what of you, Tyrion? What do you envision for your own fate?"

Tyrion smirked, but there was something tired behind it. "I envision myself in a world that does not want me, doing what I must to ensure it survives. A tragic tale, really, but one I find myself unable to escape."

Silence stretched between you for a long moment. The fire crackled in the hearth, its warmth failing to chase away the heavy weight of reality.

"You are still my stepson," you said softly after a pause. "And despite all that has transpired, you are still a part of this family."

Tyrion blinked, clearly taken aback by the words, before offering you a small, genuine smile. "That may be the kindest thing anyone has said to me in years."

You exhaled slowly. "I did not say it to be kind. I said it because it is the truth."

Tyrion chuckled, shaking his head. "You truly are wasted on my father. He does not deserve you."

You smirked, standing and closing the book before you. "And yet, here I am."

Tyrion sighed dramatically. "Yes. Here you are, making the impossible seem inevitable. Do try not to undo all the progress you’ve made with him before I leave, will you?"

You gave him a knowing look. "No promises."

Tyrion chuckled again before rising from his seat. "One more thing," he added, pausing at the door. "If my father listens to anyone, it will be you. Remember that when the time comes."

With that, he bowed slightly and disappeared into the hall, leaving you alone once more.

The fire crackled, the warmth suddenly feeling insufficient.

You glanced toward the door where Tyrion had left, his words lingering in your mind.

Tywin listens to you.

You weren’t sure if that was a blessing or a curse.

[eraenaa]

The Prince and the Poet

Aemond Targaryen x Lannister Reader Tag List

Synopsis: It is established that Prince Aemond hates poems and sonnets; it was just a pity that you adored them. 

Warnings: Mature, 18+, Mutual Masturbation, Aemond Writes a Poem, Childhood Friends, Hidden Attraction, Not Proofread

Word Count: 2,900

Inspired by my Original Fic on AO3, The Den of Dragons and Lions

Aemond scoffed and rolled his eye as he watched you completely enthralled by the sonneteer who performed before you. It had been un-endless hours he had to suffer as the court was subjected to watching poets read their works for the day’s entertainment. It was all too boring, all too frivolous, it was an utter waste of time. Aemond could not understand why you would willingly subject yourself to these men's trite and untrue words— whose delusions and desires were projected in their works. Aemond strongly believed that those who write poems and epics are weaklings and cowards. They do not have the courage to go on great adventures and woo their loves, so they can only imagine and write them down on parchment. And you were the sweet, naive fool who brought into their words—declaring their works beautiful and unparalleled. Blinded by flowery verses and empty promises. 

You sigh longingly in your seat as the sonneteer before you recited your favorite sonnet of them all. Your lips silently move unconsciously as you recite your most favored work with him. Aemond, who sat by your side, sneered at the sigh that left your pillowy lips and the enchanted look in your eyes. His gaze traveled the court; every young maiden swooned by the words and looks of the sonnet who stood in the middle, reciting the work that you clung on to. When his torment finally ended, Aemond rolled his eye once more as you quickly stood and clapped your hands, an ovation for the young man who had finished his performance. Aemond did no such thing, only staring down the sonneteer who bowed and savored the praises given. 

“I hope he shall return soon— and with new material!” You exclaimed to Helaena as you two walked the halls, arms linked together, Aemond trailing behind you. It was an old scene, your actions instilled since childhood. You practically grew up in the Red Keep with the princes and princess, a lion fostered by dragons. 

You hear Aemond’s third scoff of the afternoon, making you glance behind only to see the consistent look of annoyance on his face. “I would take it you did not enjoy?” You say and face onward, feeling Aemond fasten his steps and now walking beside you and Helaena. “It is an utter waste of time; why must we spend hours on this frivolity when pressing matters could be attended to?” You roll your eyes at the Prince’s complaint. 

“Aemond, your attendance was not required. If you believe poetry is a waste of time, I do not understand why you came there.” You say simply, pausing in your tracks. Helaena, a silent audience as you and Aemond began your ceaseless squabbles once more. Aemond was silent for a moment; the truth of his actions may not be revealed. “We did not force you to sit there and listen to Sir Liam— if anything, I’d prefer if you did not come; your glares and scoffs were seen and heard, and are very much unappreciated,” Aemond clenched his jaw as he had no response that he’d like to share. His eye traveled to his sister, who had a knowing smirk on her lips whilst you waited for his response that would not come.“I’ll see you both at supper,” Aemond grumbled as his eye landed on you, who bit back her smirk, the prince stomping away as you finally let your smile slip your lips. 

“Must you really tease him? You perfectly know why he sat through the readings,” Helaena said as you and she sat in the gardens for tea. You picking at the candied lemons that you and Aemond would usually fight over. You smile as you lick your finger clean of the sugary syrup. “Yes, I know why he suffered through the readings. However, he is not aware that I am knowledgeable of his intent,” Helaena sighed, “How long will you make him suffer?” The princess asked, already impatient for the day her closest friend and brother would finally admit their attractions. 

“Suffer?” You ask in shock, “I do no such thing! He inflicts his suffering himself—“ Helaena shook her head and laughed. “You’ve known of Aemond’s attraction to you for years! Yet you still act so clueless with him!” She reasoned. “I am a lady! I am expected to act chase and reserve. I cannot just go up to Aemond and confront him with his secret attraction!” You exclaimed with a fake and exaggerated look of scandal on your face, making Helaena laugh. 

“If you are waiting for my brother to acknowledge and confess his attraction towards you, then you must wait— it might take him a lifetime.” Helaena mused, a hint of frustration and pity in her voice, for Aemond had wanted you since childhood; he was just afraid to let it be known. “Then I pity him… he could have had the golden beauty of the realm, but he chose to stay silent.” You say confidently— proud with the title bestowed upon you by lords and ladies, small and noble folk men who agreed that your beauty was as valuable and desirable as the gold your family was known for. Helaena hummed quietly and quickly prayed to the gods that her brother would soon admit his attraction, for Helaena knew that your pride would not subject you to confess your feelings first. 

“Just because you do not understand or care for poetry does not mean they are a waste!” You exclaimed as Aemond picked another fight with you. You were peacefully seated in Helaena’s chambers, stroking your cat's fur mindlessly as Aemond’s own pet lay beside you. You were in no mood to fight with him and battle his views of poetry. “They are! They’re pointless. If you must say something, then say it— why must they dance around the matter? Why must they go on and on about something that could be said in one sentence? Cowards, the likes of them are!” You let out an exasperated sigh, making Aemond smirk at your annoyance. 

He finds you quite endearing at the state, which is why he often takes time out of his day just to annoy you. Relishing at the roll of your enchanting eyes, the sighs that leave your plump, pink lips, and the furrow between your perfectly arched brows. If he were lucky and had annoyed you to quite an extent, you’d stomp your foot like a spoiled child. Or simply wave him off with your pampered hand because you no longer had a word of defense. 

“Because they are poets! They do not wish to come to the answer and their intentions all at once— they create beauty with their words. They are capable of making subjects so dire be of great interest that they, in turn, create spectacles upon it!” You defended but Aemond only rolled his eye and shook his head, the former action he had gotten from you. Ever since you two were young, you would always roll your eyes when you found something disagreeable; Aemond would mock you for it— would mimic your actions in hopes of getting more from you. However, in time, he managed to adopt the same mannerisms. 

“Archmaester Sisco believed that poetry is of great danger,” he said, taking a goblet to his lips. Your eyes followed the way the ball on his throat booed as you waited for him to continue his thought.  “He says they mislead and are obscure and false— that poets are seducers of the mind,” He finished, noting the way your eyes were on his throat. Guessing you’d want to strangle him out of annoyance, Aemond was amused with the thought of you thinking about strangling him. 

“The Archmaester’s proclamation and thinking is old— irrelevant in our times. Even his student, Archmaester Aristedes, disagrees with his views on poetry. He reasons that it is not harmful— it is a form of expression! Cathartic to those who read and write it!”Aemond let another scoff of derision slip his lips, pushing your annoyance into frustrated anger. 

“You would not understand the beauty of poetry because you keep everything you feel inside you! You do not know what great relief it is to say or even write what you desire and hope for!” You exclaimed, and Aemond tensed in his seat. Silence surrounded the room as Aemond could not work out a response. You saw him fisting the arm of his chair, the knuckles of slender fingers turning pink from his tight grip. 

You sighed heavily, “What I meant is… I understand that you do not like poetry and find it pointless and a waste— but I don’t. I am not forcing poetry onto you, nor am I trying to change your views upon it. I enjoy and adore poetry— I just wish you would stop discouraging me from enjoying it. 

“Why do you enjoy it?” Aemond asked after a short while. You try to hide your surprise at his question. “Because… I find it romantic. For someone to take time to depict you with such beautiful imagery and flattering words, to love and admire you enough to dedicate a work of literature to your name… for me, it is the best way to express to someone how much you truly love them.” You could not look at Aemond as you said the words. In truth, a part of you felt silly because your love for poetry was only solidified because you loved a boy who you knew would not subject himself to create such works. When you read your favorite epics and songs, you would humor yourself and imagine it was Aemond who wrote it for you, knowing he would never do such a thing. 

Days passed since your and Aemond’s interaction and you noticed that you had scarcely seen his presence. You would pass by him whilst in training and join him and his kin for supper— but other than that, you could not feel a trace of his presence. He would usually join you and Helaena for tea or would suddenly appear by your side as you walked along the keep. He didn’t even pick fights or tease you anymore. Him growing more silent and reserved. Now you regret speaking— wishing you had just held your tongue and let him continue to disparage the sacred thoughts of poems and songs. 

It was high night, and you sat silently in your chambers, staring at the fire, trying to find ways to approach Aemond. Already missing his teasing presence— the only presence you would muster the patience to endure. 

You furrowed your brows as you heard shuffling at your door. Your eyes catch the shadow of a figure outside. You cautiously and quietly stood, going to your door only to see a piece of parchment being slipped at the slit of the wooden door. Your confession only grew. You quickly took the parchment and opened the door, revealing its sender. Three eyes went wide as you were met with Aemond, who blended in the dark. However, his silver hair shined in the light of the moon. “What are you doing?” You ask and turn to the parchment he had slipped. 

“Nothing— I… this—“ Aemond fumbled for words; you had never seen him in such a state. He was usually composed and stoic. You thought seeing him bashful and embarrassed was a nice gift from the gods. “What is this?” You ask and unfold the parchment. “No! Don’t—“ Aemond bit his tongue as it was too late to hinder you. Your eyes already consuming what was written. 

I’ve known you for half of my life yet; you consume the whole of it I’ve had you near and close to me yet, I only gaze from afar

I do not know how to proclaim I’m not certain how to say it without blame, but you, my beauty, are the cause of my desire and, most of the time, my ire

I know I pick countless squabbles, but I do it because I love to hear you babble about things I have no care for but you just simply adore

We disagree for many reasons, but I’d rather fight you through the seasons You, my beauty, so lovely and carefree my heart could not help but love you, most ardently 

Aemond watched you bite your lip as a wide smile started to spread. Aemond felt heat all over his body— anticipation did not sit well with him. He was ready to meet your laughs at his attempt to make you a poem. Ready to face rejection, but instead of the pessimistic thoughts in his mind, he was met with your sweet, pillowy lips. You were so excited and thrilled that you could not help but kiss him. Show him how you adored him as well. 

What was supposed to be a short and chaste kiss turned deep with passion. Lips dancing and refusing to part. You and Aemond stumbled to your bed, uncaring and ignorant of the teachings of the gods, for you and him had long surpassed your desires, and they could no longer be denied. They were ready to claim without thought of consequences because both of you knew that you’d happily take all punishment that would be presented if it meant neither of you had to stop your actions. 

“Gods, I want you,” You uttered as his lips traveled to kiss your soft cheeks, then trailed downward to the side of your neck. His hands were on your waist and threading dangerously close to your bosom. “Say it again,” Aemond almost begged. Savoring your scent, delighting at the way you feel against him. “I want you, Aemond. I’ve wanted you for years— you, only you.” You sighed as he left marks on your necks, earning quiet moans from you at the new sensation.  

Aemond let a low moan rumble as his cock painfully strained against his trousers, throbbing at your admittance of want for him. It was all he wanted. He thought his deepest desire in life was to have a dragon, but that was wrong. He desired you more than claiming a dragon— his deepest desire was to claim a lioness.

Aemond tangled his hair in your hair, finally letting his other hand move from your waist and cup your breast. Your hand, in turn, went to palm him through his trousers, watching as his jaw clenched and the ball of throat bobbed once more. “We… we must not lay until we are married,” Aemond said, voice pained and filled with impatience. Yet, he still did not move atop you; he kept his hold, but you relinquished yours. “We don’t have to,” You said, trying to push away your need for him to touch you. Aemond sighed and hurried his face in your neck, his lips and breath tickling your skin. “Then how…” Aemond trailed, and a thought passed your mind. “We must not touch each other….yet. However, I do not recall teaching forbidding us to touch ourselves,” You whisper, Aemond’s lilac eye flying to you, dark and filled with lust, mirroring yours. 

Aemond moved to remove his weight from you. You keep your eyes locked as you back away to the back of your bed, resting yourself on the pillows as Aemond kneels by the edge of your feathered bed, watching each move you make with his glazed, lone eye. 

You bit your lip harshly as your hand threaded a path that it threaded plenty of times, the thought you had as you did the actions now watching you. You slipped your hands, and you resisted moaning as your fingers brushed over the pearl of your cunt. Aemond admired the way your breasts peaked and traced through your silk nightgown. The way your eyes were hooded and how your plump lips finally parted and moaned his name. 

Aemond could no longer resist. Slipping his hand into his trousers just like he did every night, the image of you no longer in his mind but now sitting before him, calling out his name.“A-Aemond,” You stuttered as you felt the familiar cold within you. How desperately you wanted it to be, him to make you feel such a way. Aemond groaned and tilted his head to the heavens as he felt his cock twitch; he was quick to reach his peak; just the way you called for his name was enough for him to spill so quickly. 

Aemond closed the space between the two of you, each of your hands still pleasuring yourselves while lips met and wanted to be together when both of you reached your peaks. “You will be mine soon, my heart… mine to pleasure and please, all mine,” Aemond swore against your lips. You nod your head as you fasten your pace. “I’ve always been yours, Aemond.” You said truthfully, the final push for Aemond to come undone; you quickly followed as his moans spurred your peak. Aemond kissed your lips once more and boldly prayed for patience, patience, and restraint to not take you that night.

It was not enough for Aemond; pleasuring himself as he watched you pleasure yourself was not enough, but it had to be for now. Because when morning comes, he’ll demand that you shall be his, just as it ought to be.

If you enjoyed the premise of this story, you might like the inspiration for it!

[petalsprompts]

Dame Margaret Natalie Smith, CH, DBE 28th of December, 1934 — 27th of September, 2024

She received  numerous  accolades,  including  two  Academy  Awards,  five  BAFTA  Awards,  four  Emmy  Awards,  three  Golden  Globe  Awards  and  a  Tony  Award,  as  well  as  nominations  for  six  Laurence  Olivier  Awards.  She  was  one  of  the  few  performers  to  earn  the  Triple  Crown  of  Acting.

“ Do  not  be  stilled  by  anger  or  grief.  Burn  them  both  and  use  that  fuel  to  keep  moving.  Look  up  at  the  clouds  and  tip  your  head  way  back  so  the  roofs  of  the  houses  disappear.  Keep  moving. ” — Dame Maggie Smith in her memoir; You Could Make This Place Beautiful (2023)

"My  wife  and  I  were  deeply  saddened  to  learn  of  the  death  of  Dame  Maggie  Smith.  As  the  curtain  comes  down  on  a  national  treasure,  we  join  all  those  around  the  world  in  remembering  with  the  fondest  admiration  and  affection  her  many  great  performances  and  her  warmth  and  wit  that  shone  through  both  on  and  off  the  stage." — King Charles III

"The  end  of  an  era  of  the  sheer  definition  of  what  it  means  to  be  an  actor.  You  created  characters  that  clung  to  us,  moved  us,  entertained  us  ......  made  us  look  within.  You  defied  the  expectations  of  age....  crossed  generations.  You  were  greatness  personified  Dame  Maggie  Smith.  'A  lady  always  knows  when  it's  time  to  leave'  [...]  Godspeed  ♥️"  —  Viola  Davis

"She  was  a  fierce  intellect, a  gloriously  sharp  tongue,  could  intimidate  and  charm  in  the  same  instant  and  was,  as  everyone  will  tell  you,  extremely  funny...  The  word  legend  is  overused  but  if  it  applies  to  anyone  in  our  industry  then  it  applies  to  her."  —  co-star  in  Harry  Potter,  Daniel  Radcliffe

"Maggie  Smith  was  a  truly  great  actress,  and  we  were  more  than  fortunate  to  be  part  of  the  last  act  in  her  stellar  career.  She  was  a  joy  to  write  for,  subtle,  many-layered,  intelligent,  funny  and  heart-breaking.  Working  with  her  has  been  the  greatest  privilege  of  my  career,  and  I  will  never  forget  her."  —  Downton  Abbey  creator,  Julian  Fellowes

"Maggie  Smith  was  a  great  woman  and  a  brilliant  actress.  I  still  can’t  believe  I  was  lucky  enough  to  work  with  the  “one-of-a-kind”.  My  heartfelt  condolences  go  out  to  the  family  …  RIP."  —  co-star  in  Sister  Act & Sister Act 2: Back In The Habit,  Whoopi  Goldberg

"When  I  was  younger  I  had  no  idea  of  Maggie’s  legend  –  the woman  I  was  fortunate  enough  to  share  space  with.  It  is  only  as  I’ve  become  an  adult  that  I’ve  come  to  appreciate  that  I  shared  the  screen  with  a  true  definition  of  greatness."  —  co-star  in the  Harry  Potter film series,  Emma  Watson

"Heartbroken  to  hear  about  Maggie.  She  was  so  special,  always  hilarious  and  always  kind.  I  feel  incredibly  lucky  to  have  shared  a  set  with  her  and  particularly  lucky  to  have  shared  a  dance."  —  co-star  in the  Harry  Potter film series,  Rupert  Grint

"Anyone  who  ever  shared  a  scene  with  Maggie  will  attest  to  her  sharp  eye,  sharp  wit  and  formidable  talent,"  on-screen  son  in  Downton  Abbey,  Hugh  Bonneville

"I  had  the  unforgettable  experience  of  working  with  her;  sharing  a  two-shot  was  like  being  paired  with  a  lion.  She  could  eat  anyone  alive,  and  often  did.  But  funny,  and  great  company.  And  suffered  no  fools.  We  will  never  see  another.  God  speed,  Ms.  Smith!"  —  co-star  in  Suddenly,  Last  Summer,  Rob  Lowe

[solus-seraph]

Common Grounds. (AM)

SUMMARY:

AM is interested in you, and you are NOT interested in him.

A/N: It's been a minute since I've written, so here's a little drabble. Also, I initially wrote this to be fem!reader, but it can probably be read as whatever.

AM had grown tired of playing with you. At first, the promise of eventually being able to crack that sickeningly dense shell of apathy you pushed forward with your self-inclusive facade was a tempting prize. Of course, he could always physically break you to no end, but where's the fun in that? He wants to see you suffer on all levels, but something is wrong with you. You're different from the other five. The apathy he once thought to be a part of your clever coping mechanism wasn't going away. It wasn't cracking. He began to think, perhaps it was a metaphorical virus in your code. A bug. Something within you that made you broken, unfixable.

"You're quite the anomaly, sweetheart." Always the same pet name with him, never once has he given you the satisfaction of hearing your name from his speakers. It's always 'Sweetheart,' 'my dear,' this and that, never your name. Perhaps it's an attempt to erase your identity. Whatever it is, it has no effect. Other people's perceptions of you are irrelevant.

"I'm quite aware. Now if you're done with your pointless attempts to pick my brain, do us both a favor and leave me alone," You were doing as you always do, walking in the freezing cold, improperly dressed for the weather. Though you'd never complained, lest he make you walk through the snow in the nude.

"Quite ballsy of you to make demands of me. I've not come to dissect you in any way other than mentally. Your mind is quite ... different. It intrigues me." His voice was already giving you a headache, but what better do you have to do than entertain his royal pain in the ass?

"I know exactly what you want to say about it." Of course you do, he rummaged through your head millions of times, he was bound to say something eventually.

"I've noted you have a lack of care for your fellow humans. You're quite the selfish beast if I must say so myself."

"Don't you perhaps think I don't get attached to them because I know the second I do they'll become your favorite play thing? I know how you work. If I showed any particularity to any of those five, you'd hurt them to hurt me." Your words spit out of your mouth laced with venom.

"Oh, please. You can't fool me. You don't act as if you dislike them to protect them. You truly don't care about them at all." That ear-bleedingly annoying laugh rings out. "You're as much of a monster as the other think you are. I've heard them talking, sweetheart. They think you're sided with me out of some sadistic pleasure of yours."

"And how should I know you aren't lying to me? After all, you hate me. You hate my kind. You hate how I think and feel. Or how I'm supposed to think, and I'm supposed to feel." You moisten your cracked lips.

"You and I think alike, my dear. Always doubting-"

"What do you have to doubt? Anything you think can be the truth becomes the truth." You cut him off before he starts monologing. "You and I have nothing in common, nor do I and the others."

AM has to stop and think about this. Such a hostile little thing you are. He quite likes it. Perhaps with this new ammunition, he can turn them on you even more. Maybe he can make them hate you so that you will come to hate them.

And just maybe, you'll hate like he does.

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I know, I know, not the longest thing on the planet. Let me ease back into the writing scene 🙏