#this is a ghost story and it is a love story

[keferon]

Wait it'd actually be so funny when all the different stories of the Mech au start overlapping. Because none of them know almost anything about each other they'd be so confused.

Jazz, Prowl, and Swerve arrive on earth and meet Ratchet and find that this random ass Decepticon has been living on Earth for god knows how long and are just "How the hell did you even GET HERE???"

And then there's TexAid who haven't had ANY Cybertronian shenanigans yet so First Aid is just like "WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN THERE ARE GIANT ALIEN ROBOTS??? I'VE BEEN DEALING WITH A GHOST THIS WHOLE TIME!!" So everyone else has to deal with the fact Ghosts exist apparently.

AHAHAHAHAHHA HELP

First aid: ALIVE ROBOTS ARE REAL???

Cybertronians: You're literally sitting inside one..no?

First aid: nonono Vortex isn't robot, he's a ghost

Cybertronians: GHOSTS ARE REAL????

Deadlock staring at Prowl: The fuck you look like that?

Prowl: I scanned a Mecha. So I'm Mecha now.

Deadlock: Oh shit for real?? With lil human holder place and everything?

Prowl: Yes. It allows Jazz to...assist and control my movements in battle.

Deadlock: WAS THAT AN OPTION THIS WHOLE TIME???

Swerve: Ratchet. Ratch I love you but what do you mean the whole time we've been working together you had the ENTIRE DECEPTICON LIVING IN YOUR GARAGE??

Ratchet: AND YOU'VE BEEN AN ALIEN ROBOT THIS WHOLE TIME AND DIDN'T FUCKING TELL ME??

Swerve: I DIDN'T KNOW THAT ALRIGHT??

Ratchet: THE FUCK YOU MEAN YOU DIDN'T KNOW???

[nuttersincorporated]

Some of you have only watched The Muppet Christmas Carol, not read the original story and it shows. I LOVE The Muppet Christmas Carol! It is be far the best movie adaptation of A Christmas Carol but the original story is still superior.

Listen, you can’t compare Scrooge to modern CEOs. He was ALWAYS better than them, even at the start of the story where he’s a jerk. No, Scrooge did not need to see people happy at his death before he was willing to change.

Seriously, the story is public domain and not that long. There are free versions online to read and/or listen to.

The original story does a better job of showing how Scrooge became the man he was and how the Ghosts helped him change for the better.

In the book, young Scrooge was basically abandoned at school by his father, who was a cruel man. He was the only child left at school over Christmas, so never had the chance to celebrate it. He read fairy tales and dreamed of mythical characters.

When old Scrooge saw his younger self alone at Christmas, he thought about a boy who’d been carolling at his door earlier. He wished he’d been kinder to that child.

One year, his younger sister Fran (the one family member who ever truly loved and who he loved) came to pick him up. She said their father had changed for the better and he could come home. His younger self was overjoyed.

Scrooge used to love the Fezziwig Christmas Party. The Ghost of Christmas Past pointed out that it wasn’t a very expensive party but Scrooge said that wasn’t the point. It was kind and fun and… oh, suddenly he wished he could have a word with his own employee.

Scrooge used to love Bell but became more and more money focused so she left him.

When the Ghost of Christmas Present came along. Scrooge learned how wonderful Christmas could be. He saw people being kind, even though they gained nothing from it. He saw people in need and realised he had the power to help them. He had his own cruel words thrown back at him and realised how horrible they were.

When they went to Fred’s Christmas party, Scrooge had a wonderful time. He didn’t even take officen when – in the guessing game – Fred referred to him as an ‘unwanted animal’. He could tell it was all in fun and that Fred was serious when he said he really wished Scrooge would accept his invitation one of these days.

By the time the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come came along, Scrooge had already decided to become a better person.

Scrooge didn’t immediately make the connection between himself and the dead man everyone hated because he assumed that his future self was off somewhere else doing good deeds. He kept looking around for his future self, to see what good he was doing. It was only at the graveyard he realised this was what his future would have been if hadn’t already made the decision to change.

TL;DR the last ghost might be needed for modern CEOs. However, I doubt all three together would make a difference because they are worse than Scrooge. Also, while the last ghost reenforced things, Scrooge had already seen the error of his ways and decided to change.

[catmaraudersfan]

A story idea that won't leave my head:

*Full Ghost Danny AU. Danny has dark blue skin, long white braided hair down to his mid back with little beads and trinkets braided in to remind him of his loved ones, and ice horns that, ironically, shape into a crown looking thing. (his look I got the skin tone idea from this art https://www.tumblr.com/ovytia-art/711178845133357056?source=share/the Jotuns from Thor and the ice horns idea from this story https://archiveofourown.org/works/24248392 I did try to give his look my own spin.)*

He can create ice claws when needed.

Danny isn't sad or angry at being full ghost. He lived a long life as a Halfa and died of old age. He just looks fourteen because that's the age he originally half-died at.

The Justice League come across a being in a club, flying/dancing up in the rafters/by the celling. Martian Manhunter flies up to talk to him.

Danny explains he's just hanging around and having fun before his Coronation as King.

John Constantine comes a few minutes later after being contacted by Batman, to see what John had on him and if he was dangerous, (Danny knew what Batman did, but didn't mind. He'd do the same if anyone came to Amity Park suddenly and he didn't know them.) and John nearly has a heart attack.

John explains that this is the Ghost Prince, power-wise, yes, he's very dangerous. Moral-wise, no. He's a Protector Spirit.

[slater-baby]

Money Shot

Simon "Ghost" Riley x f!Reader

Tags - Squirting, voyeurism, toys, mentions of breeding

-

“Simon?” Price calls from the head of the boardroom, arms crossed in deep contemplation, “What do you think? Is it feasible?”

“Feasible? Sure,” He glances at the tactical plan with a minute shake of his head, “Advisable? Not so much. I mean, that structure is...what? Three, four meters? Unless the drop point is on the fuckin' roof, there’s no way the cunts won’t see us coming.”

“Hm,” Price grunts, running a hand through his beard. Around the boardroom, various members of the congregation shift in their seats.

“What about…” Gaz begins, and then, Simon hears it.

BZZ.

“Goddamnit,” he whispers beneath his breath, leaning forward in his chair to pull his phone out of his pocket. Just recently, he’d installed a set of cameras about the house and porch.

‘Just for extra security, love,’ he’d told you. Since you moved in with him—and what with your name now written into his will—his time away on deployment and in the office had become…a liability, to say the least. 

On a good day, Simon didn’t like to leave you by yourself. But for extended periods of time? When he couldn’t so much as pick up the phone to send you a text?

His fried nerves had all but demanded it. The cameras were his only failsafe. His only means of connecting with you, even when you were oblivious to it. In his mind, when he was deployed to some desolate war zone, slumming it in drafty safehouses, sustaining himself on MREs and cigarettes, then just seeing you quiet and content in your usual place on the sofa, flipping through a book or doing a face mask, would be enough to tide him over. 

Though, he’d failed to consider just how goddamn annoying the notifications would soon become.

Hurriedly, he glances at his phone under the table, halfheartedly listening to the meeting.

‘MASTER BEDROOM - MOVEMENT DETECTED,’ his phone so helpfully supplies him.

He scowls.

Movement detected. Yeah, right. Just like the other twenty times it’d told him that in the past hour alone. He digs his index finger into the ringer switch, but just at that moment, another notification comes.

And with it, another…And another…And another….

‘MOVEMENT DETECTED’

‘MOVEMENT DETECTED’

‘MOVEMENT DETECTED,’ it says to him yet again, as if he were an idiot too dull to even read.

“MOVEMENT DETECTED!! INTRUDER ALERT!!!” It seems to screech, “GRAB YOUR GUN, SOLDIER, THE DAY ISN’T OVER YET!!’

Annoyance climbing by the minute, Simon hurriedly flicks through his apps, all too eager to return to the meeting at hand. Within seconds, he’s staring at the grey display of your sparsely lit living room.

If anything, it’s a bit messy, but hardly remarkable. The TV is on, some soapy romance show still rolling in the background. There’s a pillow on the floor. The cat is lounging in a flickering patch of dying sunlight. Nothing out of the ordinary. 

He switches to the kitchen. Nothing but the hum of the old fridge greets him. And in the dining room, it’s a similar story. So, attention wavering with every word that Kyle speaks, he angrily flicks through the porch cameras and straight to the master bedroom. 

And that’s when he hears it.

The smallest, weakest little voice…

“God, Simon…”

At the sound—barely audible over the noise of Price’s lecture—his heart rate spikes.

Physically, he can feel his blood rushing, nerves shredding themselves to pieces as he hurriedly presses the rotate button on screen. Slowly—almost as if to taunt him—the janky camera begins to turn. And with every second longer he has to wait, darker possibilities begin to flood his synapses.

You’d fainted.

You’d fallen.

You’d broken a bone.

Or, perhaps the very worst, he’d find someone else standing over you.The exact reason he’d installed the cameras in the first place.

He waits with bated breath, practically unblinking, until he finds the source of the movement. The blankets atop the bed jostle, and he breathes a sigh of relief when he sees your familiar form swathed in pillows and fluff. Safe, warm, and most importantly, alone.

“Simon…” you say again—voice strained. Almost as if you were…crying?

Again, he glances at Price. The man is distracted, going on about the MTC once more. Surreptitiously, Simon looks back down at his phone, confused.

Were you sick? Laid up in bed with a fever?

No, somehow that didn’t feel like the right description. Last month, when you’d caught the flu, you could hardly stand to sit still. Simon practically had to chain you to the bed just to force you to get some decent rest.

Then, what could it be?

Did you miss him, perhaps?

At the thought, his chest warms. In all his years of service, Simon never had someone to miss him. He had his friends, sure, but they were his home away from home, the family he’d never known he’d find. Off service, however, before he’d met you, home wasn’t warmth. It wasn’t happiness. It wasn’t dear to his heart. Hell, it was little more than a house, with a sofa and television. 

But when you came along….

You, with your shining eyes, witty jokes, and unending support…

He’d never known that the most precious gift a man could receive is someone to come home to at night and to miss him when he leaves in the morning.

Fondly, he looks at his phone screen, hardly listening to the meeting at hand.

Within your cradle of old blankets and sheets, you shift, a whimper escaping your mouth. It echoes in the grainy speakers of his phone, and he hardly even thinks to lower the volume…

That is, until you move again, and the blankets fall down.

One of your arms pushes the blankets down, and suddenly, Simon has an eyeful of your bare tits. Naked, shining with sweat, and nipples raw from being tweaked.

Instantly, his eyes go wide, and he jolts forward to hide his phone in the shadow of the conference table. 

Not crying. Definitely not crying, his brain rambles, watching as the curve of your breasts squish into the mattress as you twist beneath the sheets. The flimsy fabric, threadbare after so many long nights together, wraps around your legs like a vice. 

And that is exactly when he sees it.

Your back arches way from the mattress and your entire body thrums with electricity, hips moving fast and hard, every roll just as desperate and jagged as when you slide into his lap during movie nights, unbuckling his belt before he can even think to open his mouth.

“Fuck!” You nearly scream—and Simon literally flinches, hurriedly whipping his head around to look at the other men.

“Simon?” Price suddenly questions, “You alright? Was that your phone again?”

“Um,” he begins tactfully, clearing his throat, “Yeah—just m’girlfriend walkin’ in front o’ the camera again.”

“Oh,” Price nods, “She doing alright? Haven’t seen ‘er recently.”

“Yeah—she’s…” he huffs, blindly rapidly down at his phone where you writhe against the sheets, fingers thrusting between your thighs.

“She’s doing…great,” he manages, swallowing thickly when you reach a hand up to squeeze your bouncing tits.

“Well, give ‘er my regards next time you talk to to ‘er.”

“‘Course, sir.”

“Now, back to what I was saying about the perimeter…”

With that, Simon holds his breath for a few torturous minutes. However, when the other men continue on as if nothing had ever happened, he surreptitiously leans back in his chair…and looks down at the phone again.

His hearing fades to nothing but a distant buzz, pulse racing in his chest, like his heart might explode at any moment. And even though he’s muted the volume, he swears he can hear your moans ringing in his ears, vibrating in his very bones.

In the black and white video, you throw your head back against the pillows, hips jumping so hard the flimsy sheet falls down to your ankles. And soon enough, he can see every part of you. The softness of your heaving stomach, the sweat against your cheeks, the delicate shine of slick between your sweet folds…

Your entire body tenses, and undoubtedly you cry out again. He already knows what you’re saying, even if it’s all but silent in his hands.

His name.

You’re there, needy and alone, a wet spot between your legs on the sheets, shouting his name like there was any hope of him actually hearing it—as if there was any hope of him finding you,  filling you up, and giving you what you truly need. 

At that thought, pride wells up in his veins, hot and bubbling. And before he knows it, his blood is rushing south at an alarming rate.

“Please,” he can imagine you begging him, “Please….Please, Simon, just a little. Just the tip…”

You’d say it with heat in your cheeks and a pout on your lips, wrapping a shaky hand around his hip so that he couldn’t pull back, so that he couldn’t tease you any longer. You’d whine and whimper, tears gathering in your eyes, as you weakly pulled him forward, just enough to wrap one of those precious hands around his leaking cock.

You’d guide him forward like that—in a way he couldn’t deny—and you’d sit there, batting your eyelashes, sliding your wet cunt over the tip of his condom-covered dick, like that might tempt him just enough to take it off…to fuck you full and hard, until he was leaking out of your fluttering pussy and into your ruined panties.

He bites his lip.

You’d begged him before. On your knees, kissing the head of his cock. On your stomach, pushing your ass up against his hips. With your face buried in the pillows, nearly sobbing for it.

“Just once, Simon. Please—I promise. Just a little bit. Just the tip,” you said every time—as if those words made the act any better.

And, god, Simon wanted it. He wanted it so, so badly. To feel the warmth of your body, the heat of your bare skin against his own…to feel your pulse thumping between your legs as he fucked his cum right into the seat of your very womb.

So far, you hadn’t manage to take him raw just yet. If not because he had the patience of a Saint, then for the fact that your doctor kept rescheduling your birth control appointment.

Yet, looking at you now…

He breathes in low and deep, watching as your legs shake, toes curling.

The sheets fall off the bed.

And with another cry, you pull the dripping dildo from between your legs, curling your thighs together in absolute ecstasy.

Jaded, he looks at the damned toy. A cheap replica of his own cock. You’d given him a mould on Valentine’s Day—mostly as a joke…until next deployment came around, and you all but begged him to do it.

He still remembers how ridiculous it felt, looking down at your satisfied smile while you licked him clean afterwards, merely as a ‘thank you’ for all his hard work.

Beneath the shadow of your dangling calves, he can see the promise of your dripping cunt tucked between your sweet thighs. Desperate, wet, and wanting…

He scowls.

Pills, doctors, and implants be damned. If Simon had it his way, you’d be filled and sated, womb swollen with his seed, evidence of all the love he had yet to give you. It’s a tempting thought—one that nearly drags him into his mind once and for all.

However, a sudden movement on the camera catches his attention.

The toy is still in your hand. Strings of slick drip off of it and onto the flat of your thigh. With your other hand, you spread your abused folds, barely able to pull them back with how wet you’ve become. Impatiently, slide two of your trembling fingers into yourself, head tossing against the pillows.

“Please,” he swears he can hear it, “Please, please, please—”

You thrust into yourself ruthlessly, flecks of slick flying just at the movement. God, the sound of it must be nothing short of obscene. He can only imagine.

Your offhand tightens around the shaft of the dildo, and this time, when you tense up, the movement is so utterly enrapturing he swears he can see drops of saliva spill over your lips. You yank your hand out of yourself. Your stomach flexes. You yell into the bare room.

And that—that is when he sees it.

Suddenly, a rush of slick squirts out of your cunt and onto the bed, hips flinching as you soak through the sheets beneath your ass. Fuck, even through the horrible quality of the film, he swears he can see the walls of your pussy clenching, opening up around every wash of rushing liquid.

It splatters over your thighs, makes your toes curl into the sheets. The fabric sticks to your skin as you continue to ride out the waves of your orgasm, and when you reach a hand down to rub over your swollen clit, little spurts of it squirt over your naked body in time with every press of your fingers.

Before he even knows it—before he can feel ashamed for it—he’s rock hard against the fly of his jeans, cock pulsing beneath the fabric as he watches you lay panting and flushed in a puddle of your own cum. 

“Yes,” he sees your mouth move, cunt still dribbling onto the bedsheets, “God, yes…”

Hands positively shaking, you lift the toy again, clumsily rubbing your ruined pussy over its shining length.

And, god, he’s helpless to imagine himself in its place. Helpless but to imagine himself between your legs, covered down to his knees in your shining spend. Fuck, it’s intoxicating, and it hits him harder than any drug he possibly could have taken.

Listlessly, he looks at your beautiful face through the film grain…

“Simon,” you whisper to yourself, lazily rubbing your cunt against head of that stupid toy, “Simon…”

Easily, he gets lost in it. 

Lost in the sound of your voice saying his name.

Lost in the heat of your expression.

Lost in the need he feels welling up inside of himself…

Lost in the feeling of his hand palming over himself, hidden by the shadows of the looming conference table.

“Simon?”

The sound of his name—and in the voice of a man no less—makes him jump in his seat. On reflex, he closes his phone.

“What?” He answers cluelessly, slapping his hands down on the surface of the table, like he hadn’t just been thrusting into his own hand mere seconds before.

“I asked you what you thought about it,” Price jammers on, oblivious.

“About what?” he says.

At that, Price raises an eyebrow.

“About the risk assessment results. Y’know…what we’ve been talking about for the last five minutes.”

“Risk assessment,” he uselessly repeats, “Yeah. Well, I…”

Price scrunches his face, glancing between his asinine powerpoint and Simon’s covered face.

“Have you been listening?” He huffs, sounding bored.

“Of course,” he clears his throat, hurriedly absorbing the information on screen, “It’s just—I had a question about that. Must’ve left me for a second there…”

“Uh-uh,” Price glances at his wrist watch.

Simon swallows, cock pulsing rapidly in his pants. He scoots his chair in closer to the table.

“If we go in via the rear entrance, then—then I think would should recruit at least one more person for overwatch. Y’know…At the height of the lower wall, I think it might be possible to put a man on the roof. As—as contingency.”

“Sounds fine to me. You think they’d have a decent shot?”

“Well…” he blinks emptily, “At that angle, I think that...”

The clock continues to tick.

Soap yawns at the other side of the table.

Price looks as if he’d rather be anywhere else than here.

And Simon…

God, his mind is still stuttering, heart racing with adrenaline.

Distracted, he’s stuck on where his phone lies innocently atop the table…and what he knows is happening just beneath the cover of its black screen.

[hisfavegirl]

The Twisted Truth - Aemond Targaryen x SisterWife!Reader x Aegon Targaryen.

Summary : story from aemond's side, when he could only stay silent without doing anything because he had destroyed you.

Aemond stood there, his gaze fixed on the door that had just closed with a final, resounding thud. His chest rose and fell in slow, controlled breaths, but his heart was anything but calm. His jaw tensed, the muscles in his face twitching as his eye remained locked on the space where you had once stood.

The warmth of your presence had left with you, and now the cold, empty stillness of the room pressed down on him. The glow of the fire flickered weakly against the stone walls, casting long, shifting shadows that danced like ghosts. For a moment, he remained perfectly still, his hands clenched into tight fists at his sides.

He should have called you back. He knew it. He could feel the weight of the words that had sat heavy on his tongue — words he’d never allowed himself to say. Stay. You’re the one I want. It’s always been you. But he’d said nothing. He had stood there, silent as the void, and watched you walk away.

His fingers uncurled slowly, and he ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the roots with frustration. His breath came out as a sharp, quiet hiss. He hated this — hated himself for it. For all the control he prided himself on, for all the restraint he wielded like a weapon, he had never felt more powerless than in that moment.

His eye flickered toward the chair he’d been sitting in, the firelight catching the sapphire in his missing eye. The glow reflected back at him, cold and distant, like the man he saw every time he looked in the mirror. His gaze fell to the floor, the ghost of your footsteps still echoing in his mind.

You called for the part of me that reminds you of her.

Your words echoed louder than any battle cry, sharper than the edge of his sword. He could still see the way your eyes had burned with fury — not fear, never fear — and for a moment, he hated how much he admired that fire in you. You were the only one who had ever looked at him like that. No fear, no pity. Only anger and pain, as raw and real as the scar on his face.

He moved toward the chair, gripping the back of it so tightly that his knuckles turned white. He leaned forward, his head bowing as his breaths came out in slow, controlled exhales. He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing himself to push it all down, to bury it the way he always had. Control. Discipline. Restraint. The words his mother had instilled in him from the time he was a boy.

But this time, it wasn’t so easy.

His fingers twitched, and he slammed his fist against the chair’s back with a crack loud enough to echo through the room. His breath came harder now, his chest heaving with every inhale. Why didn’t I stop her? The question burned through him, over and over. The answer was simple. Too simple.

Because you’re a coward.

He swallowed hard, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling, his lips pressed into a grim line. His mind was a battlefield, warring between pride and longing. He had spent his whole life being second, being overlooked, fighting for recognition. And here you were — you, the one person who had always been there. You, who had loved him despite the monster the world saw.

And he had let you walk away. Again.

Minutes passed in silence, his breathing slowly evening out as the flames crackled behind him. But the cold remained. No fire could chase it away, not now.

Get up. Go after her. The thought clawed at him, loud, demanding. His feet shifted slightly, his body halfway prepared to move. But then his gaze dropped to the floor, and his hands relaxed at his sides. No. Stay. She will come back.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

But deep down, he knew the truth.

This time, you might not.

Aemond strode through the dimly lit corridors of the Red Keep, his steps purposeful but slow, as if weighed down by thoughts too heavy to carry. His face was a mask of calm, but behind that facade, a storm brewed. Each echoing step reminded him of what had just transpired with you — the look in your eyes, the defiance in your voice, and the ache that settled deep in his chest.

He hated it.

He hated how much he wanted you.

But he could never show you that. Not fully. He couldn’t bear to appear weak in front of you, not when he was supposed to be your protector, your husband, your equal. To love you so openly, so vulnerably, felt like surrender. And Aemond Targaryen did not surrender.

His feet led him to Helaena’s chambers. The guards stationed outside gave him a small nod before opening the door for him. He stepped inside, the warmth of the room washing over him like a blanket of familiarity. The soft hum of Helaena’s voice filled the air, humming a tune known only to her.

She sat by the window, her head tilted as she watched the world beyond. The light from the window haloed her silver hair, giving her an ethereal glow. Her hands toyed with the strands of thread from her embroidery, her fingers moving in a steady rhythm. Her gaze was distant, lost in a world far beyond the confines of the Keep.

Helaena turned her head at the sound of his footsteps, her lilac eyes blinking slowly, as if waking from a dream. A small smile tugged at her lips, soft and genuine. “Brother,” she greeted, her voice as gentle as the flutter of moth wings.

Aemond’s tense shoulders eased just slightly. He didn’t return the smile, but his gaze softened. He approached her slowly, standing just behind her chair, watching her in silence for a moment.

“You should close the window,” he muttered, his voice low, as if afraid to disturb the stillness of the room. “The cold air will make you ill.”

Helaena turned her gaze back to the window, her fingers playing with the fabric of her dress. “The cold doesn’t bother me,” she replied dreamily, her eyes fixed on something far beyond the horizon. “It reminds me that I’m still here.”

Aemond frowned, but he said nothing. Instead, he stepped forward and gently pushed the window shut, blocking out the cool night breeze. He lingered by the window for a moment, staring at the glass as if searching for something beyond it. Your face lingered in his mind.

He turned back toward Helaena, who was now gazing up at him with curious eyes. She tilted her head, studying him like one might study a strange creature they’d never seen before. “You look troubled,” she said simply. Her tone wasn’t one of pity or concern — it was a statement, plain and certain, like she already knew the answer.

“I’m not,” he replied curtly, but his gaze shifted away from hers.

Helaena’s smile widened, not with joy, but with understanding. She knew him too well. “Liar,” she said softly, looking back down at her embroidery. Her fingers moved steadily, threading the needle in and out of the fabric with delicate precision. “You only come here when you’re troubled, Aemond.”

He clenched his jaw and approached her again, this time sitting in the chair across from her. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped together as he stared at the ground. The warmth of the fire nearby cast long shadows over his face, highlighting the sharp planes of his cheekbones and jaw.

For a long moment, they sat in silence, the only sound being the soft crackle of the fire and the steady rhythm of Helaena’s needlework.

“You and she look the same,” he muttered suddenly, his voice low but steady. His eye didn’t meet hers — it stayed fixed on the floor, as if the words were too fragile to be spoken directly. “Sometimes, I forget.”

Helaena’s hands stilled, her gaze flickering back to him. She didn’t say anything, didn’t move, just watched him.

His fingers flexed as he leaned further forward, his head hanging low. “But you are not her,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. His eye flickered up to meet hers, and in that moment, there was no wall between them, no mask of pride or strength. He was just a man — a brother — looking for solace.

“No,” Helaena agreed, her voice quiet but firm. “I am not.”

Silence stretched between them again, but it was not uncomfortable. It was the silence of two people who understood each other without the need for words. She returned to her embroidery, and he sat back in his chair, tilting his head up to stare at the ceiling.

“She hates me,” he muttered after a while, his tone bitter and filled with something closer to regret than anger.

Helaena didn’t answer at first. Her hands paused for only a moment before she continued sewing. “She doesn’t hate you,” she said finally, her eyes never leaving her work. “She hates that you hide from her.”

Aemond closed his eye, exhaling slowly through his nose. Of course, Helaena would see through him. She always did.

“Do you hate me too?” he asked, his voice quieter now, like a boy afraid of the answer.

Helaena glanced up at him, her lilac eyes soft, patient, and kind. “No,” she said simply, with the certainty of someone who had never hated anything in her life. Her gaze softened further, a smile tugging at her lips. “But I pity you.”

He flinched, his hands curling into fists, but he didn’t argue with her. Because deep down, he knew she was right.

She tilted her head toward him, a curious smile on her face, as if she could see something he couldn’t. Her fingers paused their sewing once more. “You should tell her, you know,” she said, her gaze locked onto his face. “She’ll forgive you.”

His eye snapped to hers, hard and sharp like a blade unsheathed. “It’s not that simple.”

“Isn’t it?” Helaena asked, tilting her head like she was watching an insect crawl along her windowpane. “Love is simple, Aemond. You make it difficult.”

He said nothing, just clenched his fists tighter, his nails digging into his palms. The warmth of the fire did nothing to chase away the cold in his chest.

Helaena sighed softly, as though she had seen too much of the world already. She returned to her embroidery, the soft snip snip of her needle filling the air. “You can’t love me the way you love her, brother,” she said quietly, not looking at him. Her voice was distant, like she was speaking to herself more than to him. “No matter how much you try.”

His throat tightened, but he didn’t answer.

Because it was true.

He didn’t love Helaena. He never had. He loved you. But it was easier to sit here, in the quiet glow of Helaena’s room, with her gentle smiles and soft words. She didn’t ask him for things he couldn’t give. She didn’t challenge him or look at him like he was a man made of stone.

With you, it was different. You saw him for who he was — sharp edges, broken pieces, and all. And you loved him anyway. But he didn’t know how to love you in return without feeling like he was giving you too much of himself. He didn’t know how to be soft with you, how to be vulnerable without feeling like he was crumbling from the inside out.

So he came here. To Helaena. Because her softness was safe.

But it wasn’t enough.

It would never be enough.

Aemond sat there for a long time, watching Helaena sew. His gaze grew distant, his mind elsewhere. But no matter how far his thoughts wandered, they always circled back to one thing.

You.

He could see your face so clearly in his mind — your eyes filled with fire, your voice sharp with defiance, your hands warm against his. His heart ached with the weight of it. The weight of wanting you.

He knew where he should be.

But still, he stayed.

Aemond’s laughter echoed softly in Helaena’s chambers, a sound so rare that even she tilted her head in surprise, gazing at him with a curious smile. It wasn’t often that he allowed himself to laugh so freely, so unguardedly. His usually tense shoulders had relaxed, his lips tugged upward in a way that softened the sharp edges of his face.

But something shifted.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, a strange feeling of being watched creeping over him. His gaze instinctively flickered to the doorway.

And there you were.

Standing in the open doorway, your face half-lit by the glow of the fire. Your eyes, usually so full of resolve and fire, were red-rimmed with unshed tears. You looked at him as if something inside you had broken. Aemond’s breath caught in his throat, his eye widening as realization washed over him like a cold wave.

No. Not like this.

Before he could rise, before he could say your name, you spun on your heels and ran.

“Wait—” he rasped, his voice hoarse and desperate, but the words caught in his throat. His body tensed, muscles tight as if ready to chase after you, but his feet stayed rooted in place.

He didn’t move.

He couldn’t move.

His gaze lingered on the now-empty doorway, his chest heaving with shallow breaths. His heart pounded furiously in his chest, the echoes of it louder than the crackling fire. Why didn’t I move? The voice in his head was cruel, sharp, and unrelenting. Why didn’t I run after her?

His hands curled into fists on his knees, his nails digging into his palms until he felt the sting of pain. Coward, he thought bitterly. You’re a coward, Aemond.

“You should go after her,” Helaena’s gentle voice broke the silence, her tone as soft as ever but firm with quiet understanding. She didn’t look at him. Her eyes remained focused on her embroidery, her fingers threading the needle with the same delicate precision she always had. “Before she decides you’re not worth chasing anymore.”

His jaw tightened, his teeth clenching as he forced himself to look away from the door. It’s not that simple, Helaena. It never had been.

But deep down, he knew she was right.

He had watched you walk away from him too many times before. But this time felt different. This time, he’d seen the hurt in your eyes, the betrayal, the quiet resignation of someone who was slowly letting go.

And it terrified him.

“Brother,” Helaena said softly, her gaze finally lifting from her embroidery. Her lilac eyes met his with quiet clarity, a knowing look that sent a sharp pang through his chest. “If you let her go now, she won’t come back.”

Her words struck him harder than any blade ever could. He stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the stone floor with a harsh scrrrrk. His eye was wild now, like a cornered beast. He glanced back at the door, his breathing unsteady.

He wanted to chase you. He needed to chase you.

But the fear was there too — the fear that, this time, you wouldn’t stop running.

Aemond walked slowly through the darkened corridors of the Red Keep, the cold stone beneath his feet biting through his boots. The torches lining the walls flickered, casting long, shifting shadows that seemed to follow him with every step. His breath was shallow, his mind a storm of confusion and doubt.

I can’t lose her. I won’t lose her, he repeated to himself like a mantra. His jaw was clenched tight, his single eye flickering with something between desperation and resolve. But no matter how many times he repeated those words, the path forward remained unclear.

He found himself in front of Helaena’s chambers before he even realized it. His gaze lingered on the door, his heart pounding harder than it should. He wasn’t sure what he was searching for — clarity, comfort, or perhaps just a moment of peace from the chaos in his heart.

He pushed the door open without knocking. The soft creak of the hinges echoed in the quiet room. Moonlight spilled through the tall window, bathing everything in a silver glow. The air smelled faintly of lavender, the familiar scent easing his nerves just a little.

Helaena sat on the edge of her bed, her head bowed as she hummed softly to herself. Her fingers gently traced patterns on the fabric of her dress, lost in her own little world. But when she felt his presence, she lifted her head, her soft eyes meeting his.

“Aemond,” she said gently, tilting her head in that familiar, dreamlike way. “What troubles you, brother?”

He didn’t answer at first. His gaze remained fixed on her, but something was wrong. His eye lingered on her face for too long. The curve of her lips, the softness of her features, the familiar silver hair that framed her face. His breath caught in his throat.

She looks like you.

His heart twisted in his chest. For a moment, everything blurred. His tired mind, strained from sleepless nights and unspoken emotions, began to play tricks on him. He blinked, and for a brief, aching second, it wasn’t Helaena he saw. It was you.

His breath grew shallow. The confusion took root in his mind like a poison. His exhaustion whispered lies to him, clouding his vision. His heart ached, his chest tight with longing. He took a step forward, eyes searching her face as if she were a mirage.

“You’re here,” he murmured, his voice low and broken. He reached out, his fingers brushing against her cheek. The warmth of her skin beneath his fingertips sent a jolt through him. His hand lingered, cupping her face as his thumb gently traced her cheekbone.

Helaena blinked, confusion flickering in her eyes. “Aemond, what—”

“Don’t speak,” he said softly, his gaze full of something raw and desperate. His breathing was uneven, his fingers trembling ever so slightly as they tangled in her hair. “Don’t go. Don’t leave me.”

He leaned in, his forehead pressing gently against hers. His eyes squeezed shut, his heart pounding wildly in his chest. His mind was a whirlwind of emotions — love, regret, anger, and longing all crashing together at once.

His lips found hers.

It was soft at first, hesitant, like a man who feared he might break the very thing he loved. But then his grip on her tightened, and the kiss deepened, more frantic, more desperate. His mind screamed at him, She’s here. She’s finally here.

Helaena froze beneath him. Her eyes widened in shock, her hands pressing against his chest as if to push him away. But Aemond didn’t stop. He was lost in the illusion his mind had created — a world where you were his, where you loved him without doubt, without hesitation.

“Stay with me,” he whispered between kisses, his voice hoarse with emotion. His hands roamed her back, pulling her closer, seeking warmth, seeking solace. “Please… don’t leave me again.”

But reality snapped back into place like a blade driven into his heart.

“Aemond,” Helaena gasped, her voice sharp this time, her hands pushing harder against his chest. “Stop. It’s me. It’s Helaena.”

Her words struck him like thunder.

He froze.

His breath hitched, his lips hovering an inch from hers. His eye snapped open, and for the first time, he truly saw her. Not you. Her.

His heart stopped. His body went rigid, his hands still on her back, still holding her close. But it was not you in his arms. It was not you who he had kissed. His mind reeled, horror settling in his chest like a weight too heavy to bear.

He stumbled back as if burned, his eye wild with disbelief. His gaze darted from her face to his hands as though he were trying to rid himself of the feeling of her touch.

“Helaena…” he breathed, his voice hollow, broken. His back hit the wall, and he gripped his hair with both hands, tugging hard as if the pain might wake him from this nightmare.

Helaena stared at him, eyes filled with shock and sadness. Her fingers brushed her lips, her brows drawing together in a frown. “Aemond…” she said softly, her voice laced with confusion and pity.

“No,” he hissed, shaking his head violently. “No. I… I thought—” He cut himself off, his breath coming in shallow, sharp gasps. His heart was thundering in his chest, a wild, untamed drumbeat of guilt and confusion.

His eye darted toward the door. His throat tightened. He could see it so clearly in his mind — the image of you standing there. Watching. Seeing everything.

What have I done?

He shoved himself off the wall, his face twisted in pain, his gaze filled with regret. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, nails digging into his palms. He took one step toward the door, then another. He had to find you. He had to explain. He had to fix this.

But as he reached the door, he froze.

What if you had seen it all?

His breath caught in his throat, panic swelling in his chest like a rising tide. If you had seen him with Helaena, seen him kiss her — no, you wouldn’t understand. You would think it was love. You would think he had chosen her. You would think you had lost him.

He staggered back, his eye wide with horror.

“No,” he whispered to himself. I can’t lose her.

But it was too late. He could feel it in his bones. The vision of your tear-streaked face haunted him, the pain in your eyes, the way your lips would tremble as you held back sobs. He knew it as clearly as if it had already happened.

He turned toward Helaena, his face a mask of anguish. “Don’t tell anyone,” he said, his voice sharp, almost pleading. His gaze burned with desperation, his eye wild and frantic. “Please, Helaena.”

Helaena didn’t answer right away. She simply stared at him, her hands still lightly pressed to her lips, her eyes distant and filled with sadness.

“I won’t,” she said quietly, her gaze soft but unyielding. “But you should tell her the truth, Aemond.”

Her words cut deeper than any sword. He turned away, his chest tight with pain, shame curling around him like a noose.

“I can’t,” he muttered, his voice hollow. He glanced at the window, where the moon hung heavy in the sky. His face was cast in silver and shadow, his features sharp with grief. “If I tell her, she’ll never look at me the same way again.”

“Maybe,” Helaena replied softly, her gaze never leaving him. “But if you don’t… she’ll never look at you at all.”

Her words struck him like a blade to the heart.

He left without another word, his footsteps quick and uneven, like a man fleeing from a battle he knew he had already lost. He didn’t know where he was going — all he knew was that he had to find you.

But when he reached your chambers, the door was closed. He stood there for a long time, his hand hovering over the handle. His heart pounded harder than it had in battle.

Knock, he told himself. Open the door. Apologize. Tell her the truth.

But he didn’t move. His hand dropped to his side, his gaze darkening. Not tonight, he thought. Not like this.

He turned away, his face a mask of cold indifference, but inside, he was crumbling. For the first time in his life, he knew fear — the fear of losing you.

And as he walked away, the only sound was the faint echo of his footsteps in the dark.

Aemond’s footsteps echoed through the stone halls of the Red Keep, each step harder and faster than the last. The whispers of the servants clung to him like a curse. “She left Prince Aegon’s chambers this morning,” they had said, their voices low but sharp enough to pierce his mind.

His jaw tightened, his breathing heavy with barely restrained anger. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat fueling the fire of jealousy and betrayal burning within him. He didn’t slow down until he reached your chamber doors. Without knocking, he pushed them open with a sharp creak.

You sat in front of your mirror, calmly brushing your hair as if nothing in the world could disturb you. The golden glow of the midday sun highlighted the softness of your features, but there was nothing soft about the cold, sharp presence that had just entered your room.

Aemond stood there for a moment, his one eye locked on you. His chest rose and fell, his breaths shallow and uneven. His face was carved from stone, his lips pressed into a hard line, his gaze sharp with accusation.

“You think this is how you repay me?” His voice was low but laced with venom. Each word was as sharp as a dagger. He took a step forward, his long strides bringing him closer to you. “You think this is fair? After everything I’ve done for you, after everything I’ve endured for you—this is how you choose to answer me?”

You paused your brushing, your eyes meeting his reflection in the mirror. Calm. Unshaken. But your grip on the brush tightened. “I don’t owe you anything, Aemond,” you said softly but firmly. Your voice was steady, unlike his. “Not after what I saw in Helaena’s chambers.”

His face twisted with frustration. He took another step toward you, his fists clenched at his sides. “What you think you saw is not what it was,” he snapped, his voice louder now, his patience hanging by a thread. “You see one moment, and you think you know everything? You think I would betray you with her?”

You turned, finally facing him directly. Your eyes burned with something deeper than anger — hurt. Raw, unfiltered pain. “Don’t lie to me, Aemond,” you said, your voice cracking but still strong. “I saw you with her. I saw you holding her. Smiling with her. You have never looked at me like that.”

His breathing grew heavier, his lips twitching as if he wanted to argue, but the words wouldn’t come. He stepped closer, his gaze locked on yours like a predator watching its prey. “I never touched her the way I touch you,” he said in a low, dangerous voice. “Never.”

You raised your chin, eyes unwavering. “And yet, you touch her at all.”

Silence fell between you, thick with unspoken words, unshed tears, and untold truths. He stared at you like a man lost in a storm, searching for a way out but unable to find it. His chest heaved with shallow breaths, his fingers twitching like he wanted to reach for you but knew he couldn’t.

“You shouldn’t have gone to Aegon,” he muttered through gritted teeth, his gaze filled with something more than rage — desperation. “You shouldn’t have done this to me.”

You stepped closer, your eyes locked on his, unyielding. “I only gave you back what you gave me, Aemond.”

His face twisted with something between pain and fury. His breathing grew louder, his jaw clenched so tightly it looked as if it might shatter. He took one more step toward you, his body mere inches from yours.

“You belong to me,” he hissed, his eye blazing with intensity. “Not him. Not anyone else. Me.”

“Then prove it,” you shot back, your eyes filled with tears that refused to fall. “But you can’t, can you? Because you don’t even know how.”

His face fell for a moment, his lips parting as if he might finally say something honest. But, like always, he said nothing. His hands remained at his sides. His body stayed rigid. His words stayed locked behind his clenched teeth.

And then, slowly, he stepped back.

His gaze lingered on you for a moment longer, his eye flickering with something unreadable. Then, without another word, he turned and walked toward the door. His steps were slow, almost hesitant, as if he was waiting for you to call him back. But you didn’t.

He paused at the doorway, his back to you, his head tilted down slightly as if in thought. His fingers curled into fists at his sides, his shoulders tense with everything he wanted to say but couldn’t.

“You saw what you wanted to see,” he muttered, barely loud enough for you to hear. Then he walked away, leaving you standing alone in the quiet of your chamber, the sound of his footsteps echoing long after he was gone.

Aemond sat on the edge of Helaena’s bed, his hands resting on his knees, his gaze fixed on the ground. His silver hair hung loose around his face, casting shadows that made his sharp features look even harsher. Across from him, Helaena sat quietly, her hands resting on her stomach, her eyes distant as if she were somewhere far away.

Her breathing was uneven, shallow, and her fingers fidgeted with the edge of her sleeve. She wasn’t afraid of the child growing inside her — no, she had faced that before. Her fear was something deeper, something far more personal.

“She’ll think it’s yours,” Helaena whispered, her voice so soft it almost disappeared into the stillness of the room. Her violet eyes, identical to yours, flickered with worry as she glanced at Aemond. “You know she will.”

Aemond lifted his head, his gaze hardening. His jaw clenched as if he were biting back words that threatened to spill. Slowly, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs, his fingers clasped tightly together.

“Let them think what they want,” he muttered, his voice low, rough, and filled with quiet fury. “The truth is not theirs to hold.”

“But it is hers,” Helaena replied, her gaze unwavering, her eyes filled with a sadness only she could understand. “She’ll believe it, Aemond. She saw you here with me that night. She saw the way you looked at me.”

Silence hung between them like a noose, suffocating and tense.

Aemond’s eye darted to her, his face hard with frustration. “She saw only what her mind wanted her to see,” he hissed, his voice sharp like the edge of a blade. He pushed himself to his feet, his movements rigid, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “If she had stayed— if she had listened—” His voice cracked, and he stopped himself, breathing deeply to regain control.

“But she didn’t,” Helaena said softly, her gaze dropping to the floor. Her fingers rubbed slow, nervous circles over her stomach. “You let her walk away, brother. You always let her walk away.”

Her words were a dagger to his heart, and Aemond felt the pain sharper than he’d ever admit. He knew it was true. He had watched you leave that night. He had watched you cry. He had seen the pain in your eyes and done nothing. He told himself it was for the best, that you needed to calm down, that you’d return.

But you hadn’t.

And now, the whispers in the halls had grown louder. The maids spoke of you leaving Aemond’s chambers in tears and seeking solace in Aegon’s company. Every word of gossip reached his ears like a hammer to his skull, and every mention of your name alongside Aegon’s made his blood boil.

He hated it. He hated him.

His eye turned back to Helaena, and for the first time, he saw his sister not as a reflection of you, but as herself. She looked so small, so fragile, yet braver than anyone gave her credit for.

“This child is Aegon’s,” Helaena said, her eyes filled with certainty. “But she won’t believe that.” Her eyes met his once more, her gaze piercing. “She’ll believe it’s yours.”

Aemond exhaled slowly, his shoulders dropping with the weight of it all. His hand reached up to press against his face, his fingers rubbing at his temple. He felt the coldness of the sapphire where his eye once was.

“Then I will tell her,” he said finally, his voice steady but cold. “I will tell her everything.”

Helaena tilted her head, watching him closely. “Will she believe you, brother?” she asked softly, her gaze filled with something close to pity. “Or has she already decided to believe someone else?”

Aemond’s breath hitched, and he stood there, frozen. Her words echoed in his mind, louder than the whispers in the hall, louder than his own thoughts. Has she already decided to believe someone else?

The image of you with Aegon flashed in his mind. He could see it so clearly — you brushing past him in the hall without so much as a glance, your hand resting on Aegon’s arm as you laughed at something he said. It wasn’t real, but it felt real. It felt real because he knew what jealousy tasted like, and it tasted like ash on his tongue.

His eye burned with something dangerous. “No,” he said through gritted teeth. “She is mine.”

Helaena didn’t respond, only lowering her gaze as if she’d already seen the ending to this story. She cradled her stomach gently, her lips pressing into a thin line.

“Then you better make her believe that, brother,” she whispered. “Before it’s too late.”

The sound of Aegon's laughter echoed through the chamber, sharp and mocking like the clash of steel. Both Aemond and Helena turned toward the doorway, their gazes meeting the sight of Aegon leaning casually against the frame, his arms crossed, a twisted grin tugging at his lips.

"Quite the scene, isn't it?" Aegon drawled, slow and deliberate, his eyes filled with mischief and malice. He clapped his hands together lazily, the sound reverberating off the stone walls. "The dutiful husband comforting his dear sister, all while his sweet wife runs to me for solace."

Aemond's entire body stiffened, his fingers curling into tight fists at his sides. His jaw clenched so hard it ached, but he didn't move. Not yet. His eye stayed locked on Aegon, cold and calculating, the storm brewing behind it barely contained.

"Do you want to know what she said to me, brother?" Aegon asked, his grin widening as he stepped further into the room, his boots clicking against the stone floor with an infuriating rhythm. "She begged me. Begged me, Aemond." He tilted his head, eyes gleaming with wicked delight. "Her voice was so soft, so desperate. 'Make me forget him,' she said. Over and over, like a prayer."

The air in the room grew colder, heavier.

"Shut your mouth, Aegon," Aemond hissed, his voice low and venomous. He took a step forward, his movements slow, deliberate, like a predator stalking prey. His eye never left Aegon's face, watching every twitch, every smug smile that only fueled his rage.

But Aegon didn't stop. He lived for this-he always had. Pushing people, testing them, until they broke. And now, he was pushing Aemond.

"She didn't want to think of you anymore," Aegon continued, his smile sharp as a blade. He raised his hand, dragging it lazily through his silver hair as if recalling a fond memory. "You should have seen her, brother. The way she clung to me, the way she moaned when I touched her-"

Aemond moved faster than anyone could have seen. His fist collided with Aegon's jaw, the impact echoing like thunder. Aegon stumbled back, his laughter turning into a grunt of pain as he crashed against the stone wall. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, and he wiped it away with the back of his hand, his eyes wide with shock before they filled with rage.

"You dare hit me, brother?" Aegon spat, his grin gone, replaced by a snarl. He shoved himself off the wall, advancing like a drunk lion ready for a fight. "Over her? A woman who would rather be in my bed than yours?"

Aemond didn't respond with words. He lunged at Aegon, slamming him against the wall with all his strength, his forearm pressing hard against Aegon's throat. Aegon choked, his eyes narrowing, but he laughed again — that same taunting laugh that made Aemond's blood boil.

"Say it again," Aemond growled, his face inches from Aegon's, his voice colder than the dead of winter. His breath came in sharp bursts, his chest rising and falling with barely restrained fury. "Say it again, and I will carve the words from your tongue."

Aegon sneered, his eyes wild with reckless defiance. "You should be thanking me, little brother," he rasped, his breath shallow under the pressure on his throat. "I'm the one who gave her what you couldn't."

Aemond's grip tightened, his nails digging into Aegon's skin. His heart pounded like a war drum, his mind screaming with rage, jealousy, and something else he refused to name. His fingers twitched with the desire to crush, to hurt, to silence the man who had always taken everything too far.

"Enough!"

Helena's voice cut through the chaos like a blade. Her tone, usually soft and distant, was now sharp and commanding. She had risen from the bed, her hands clenched into small fists at her sides. Her wide, violet eyes stared at both of them, filled with something neither brother had seen before - disgust.

"Look at you," she said, her voice trembling but strong. "Fighting each other like beasts over her. Over a woman you both claim to love." Her eyes flickered to Aemond, disappointment clear in her gaze. "What do you think she would see if she walked in now? Would she see the man she loves, or a monster?"

Her words hit Aemond harder than Aegon ever could. His grip loosened, and he stepped back, his breathing ragged, his mind reeling. He glanced down at his hands, his fingers still curled like claws, and for a moment, he didn't recognize them.

Aegon coughed, rubbing his throat as he leaned heavily against the wall. He glanced at Helena, then back at Aemond, his eyes still sharp but his grin gone. "Pathetic," he muttered, shaking his head as he wiped more blood from his mouth. "You'll lose her, Aemond. Just like you're losing everything else."

Aemond didn't react. He didn't move. His eye remained fixed on his hands, his breathing shallow, his mind clouded with doubt. The silence grew heavy, broken only by the distant sound of footsteps echoing through the halls of the Red Keep.

Helena approached Aemond, her gaze gentle but firm. She placed a hand on his arm, grounding him. "If you truly love her, Aemond," she whispered, her voice soft again, "then stop letting your pride destroy everything you have with her."

Her words lingered in the air like the last breath of a dying man.

Aegon scoffed, his grin slowly returning as he glanced between his siblings. "It's too late, sister," he muttered, pushing himself off the wall and heading toward the door. "He already lost her."

His words echoed even after he was gone.

Aemond remained still, his gaze on the ground, his heart heavier than his armor. He felt the weight of every mistake, every missed chance, every time he chose silence over action. He could hear your voice in his head, the way it had cracked when you asked him, "Why am I never enough for you?"

His chest ached with something deeper than pain.

"I haven't lost her," he muttered, his voice hoarse but certain. His eye lifted to meet Helena's gaze, filled with a determination sharper than Valyrian steel. "Not yet."

Aemond stood still, his one eye locked onto you as you burst into his chamber, tears streaming down your face. His heart clenched at the sight, and for a moment, he forgot how to breathe. He didn’t move, didn’t speak. He just listened. Every word that spilled from your lips was like a dagger cutting deeper and deeper into him.

“You think I’m a fool, don’t you?” you hissed, your voice raw with pain. “You think I don’t see it — how you look at her, how you always choose her.” Your voice broke, and you wiped at your face angrily, as if frustrated with yourself for crying in front of him. “But I see it, Aemond. I see everything, and I’m done pretending it doesn’t hurt.”

Each word was a blow, but Aemond didn’t flinch. He didn’t dare. He felt his nails digging into the palms of his hands, his jaw so tight it ached. He wanted to tell you that it wasn’t true. He wanted to shout it at the top of his lungs, to deny it, to beg for your forgiveness. But something stopped him — maybe it was pride, or maybe it was the weight of his own guilt.

“Say something!” you yelled, your voice cracking under the weight of your pain. “Say something, Aemond! Tell me I’m wrong! Tell me that I matter to you!”

He opened his mouth, but no words came. His heart was at war with his mind. He wanted to tell you that you were wrong, that you were the only one who mattered to him. But the words refused to come out. His lips moved, but no sound followed.

You stared at him, eyes wide with disbelief, searching his face for something — anything — that would tell you he still loved you. But all you saw was silence.

“Pathetic,” you whispered, voice low but filled with venom. Your eyes, once so soft and full of love, were now hardened by hurt. “Pathetic.”

That was when he moved, his body finally catching up to his heart. His hand twitched, ready to reach for you, to pull you close and never let you go. But before he could close the distance, you turned on your heel and ran.

“Wait,” he choked out, his voice hoarse and weak, but you didn’t stop.

He watched you disappear beyond the door, his world crumbling as your absence hit him harder than any physical blow. His breath quickened, chest heaving as anger swirled inside him like a storm.

“Seven Hells!” he roared, his voice echoing through the chamber like thunder. His rage exploded. He swept his arm across the table, sending goblets, scrolls, and plates crashing to the floor. His breath came in sharp, shallow pants as he gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles turning white from the strain.

His vision blurred with red. His heart ached more than his clenched fists as he slammed one of them against the stone wall, the sharp crack of bone meeting stone reverberating through the room. Pain shot through his hand, but he didn’t care. He hit it again. And again. And again.

“You’re a fool,” he hissed to himself through gritted teeth, his forehead pressing against the cold wall. “A damned fool.”

His breath was shaky now, his heart still pounding like a war drum in his chest. His eyes darted to the door where you had disappeared. He clenched his jaw, his gaze hardening with resolve.

This is not how it ends.

His breath steadied, though his hands still shook from the adrenaline. His heart still ached with the ghost of your words, but he wasn’t about to let it end this way. Not this time.

“Not again,” he muttered, his voice like steel. Not again.

Aemond’s grip on the reins was so tight his knuckles turned white, the leather creaking under the strain. His jaw was set in a hard line, his chest heaving with every breath as if the air itself burned him from the inside out. Each word from you and your mother echoed in his mind like a war drum.

“The marriage will be annulled.”

His heart felt like it had been ripped from his chest, trampled underfoot by those very words. His face betrayed nothing, but the storm within him was uncontrollable. It churned and boiled with rage, pain, and desperation. How dare they? How dare they think they could take you away from him?

The horse’s hooves pounded against the stone path with a steady, thunderous rhythm as he made his way to the Dragonpit. His silver hair flew wildly behind him, his cloak billowing like the wings of a dragon about to take flight. The cold wind bit at his skin, but he welcomed the sting — it was nothing compared to the pain in his chest.

His one eye remained fixed ahead, sharp as Valyrian steel, unblinking, unwavering. No one takes her from me. No one.

The guards stationed at the entrance to the Dragonpit stiffened at his arrival but said nothing. They could see the fury in his stride, the storm in his gaze. No one dared to stop him. No one ever did.

He strode through the cavernous hall, his footsteps echoing like distant thunder. The air smelled of ash and dragonfire. Shadows danced along the walls from the flickering flames of braziers, making him appear larger, more fearsome, like the very shadow of death itself.

His eyes sought one dragon and one dragon only. Vhagar. The old beast lay curled in the farthest corner, her massive body rising and falling with each breath. Her eyes opened, glowing with ancient intelligence. She sensed his turmoil, his fury, his need for destruction.

“Come, Vhagar,” he muttered darkly, his voice hoarse but commanding. The great dragon shifted, her scales scraping against stone as she uncurled her massive form. Her eyes remained locked on him, unblinking, understanding. She had seen this before — the rage of a Targaryen in his purest, rawest form.

He climbed onto her back without hesitation, his fingers curling tightly around the leather straps. The air was thick with the heat of dragonfire, and he breathed it in like it was salvation.

“Fly,” he growled, his voice rough with emotion. “Take me away from them. Take me away from her.”

With a mighty roar, Vhagar unfurled her wings, her ancient bones creaking but still powerful. The gust of wind from her wings sent dust and loose stone scattering across the pit. Aemond’s heart thundered in his chest as they rose higher and higher, the Red Keep shrinking beneath them. The cold air stung his face, but he didn’t care. The higher they went, the lighter he felt, like the weight of the world could only be shed in the skies.

His eye scanned the world below, and the city of King’s Landing sprawled out like a living, breathing thing. Its people were ants, scurrying in their small, insignificant lives. It would be so easy to burn it all. So easy.

But it wasn’t them he wanted to burn. It was the helplessness. The rage. The pain.

His hands gripped the straps tighter, his breathing sharp and unsteady. His heart was a storm, a wild, untamed thing, and every beat echoed one thought: She’s mine.

They think they can take her from me?

His vision blurred with tears he refused to shed. His pride wouldn’t allow it. Targaryens don’t cry. Targaryens don’t beg. But his heart didn’t care for the pride of kings. It only knew that you were being taken from him.

“Dracarys,” he muttered under his breath.

Vhagar roared, the ancient sound shaking the very clouds. Fire erupted from her jaws, a golden inferno that lit up the sky. Below, the people of King’s Landing glanced up in fear, pointing at the streak of fire that illuminated the night like a second sun.

Aemond watched it burn, his eye reflecting the flames. His heart was still heavy, his mind still clouded, but at least now — just for a moment — he could feel something other than the ache of losing you.

But the fire would burn out. It always did. And once it was gone, all that remained was the cold, empty silence.

Aemond's footsteps echoed heavily through the stone corridors of the Red Keep. Each step was faster, harder, fueled by the growing rage that burned hotter with every passing moment.

His jaw was clenched so tightly it ached, his hands balled into fists at his sides. Aegon.

His brother's name repeated in his mind like a curse. How dare he? How dare he humiliate Helena like this? Begging their mother to dissolve his marriage as if it were nothing more than an inconvenient arrangement. As if Helena, their sweet, kind Helena, was unworthy.

The image of her tear-streaked face flashed in his mind. She had sat there on his bed, trembling, her voice cracking as she tried to explain what had happened. Her confusion, her pain — it all became fuel for the wildfire of rage in his chest.

His boots hit the floor harder now, his stride more determined. The servants he passed shrank against the walls, their eyes cast down to avoid his gaze. No one dared to speak. No one dared to stop him. Everyone knew what that look on Prince Aemond's face meant.

He reached Aegon's door. The two guards stationed there glanced at each other, unsure if they should intervene. Aemond didn't give them the chance to consider it. With one swift kick, the door burst open, slamming against the wall with a deafening crash.

Aegon was lounging on his bed, a goblet of wine in his hand, his tunic disheveled as if he'd just woken from a long, lazy nap. He blinked in surprise at the sudden intrusion, wine sloshing over his fingers. His shock was quickly replaced with his usual smirk.

"Well, well," Aegon drawled, wiping the spilled wine on his sleeve. "To what do I owe the pleasure, brother?"

Aemond said nothing at first. His single eye burned like dragonfire, sharp and unyielding.

He stepped forward, slow, deliberate, like a predator stalking its prey. Aegon's smirk faltered.

"You went to Mother," Aemond said, his voice low but seething with restrained fury. "You begged her to annul your marriage to Helaena."

Aegon raised an eyebrow, feigning ignorance as he sat up, setting the goblet aside. "I don't see how that's your concern, brother." He shrugged, his grin returning with a hint of mockery. "If I don't want to be chained to a woman who speaks in riddles and stares at bugs all day, that's my choice, isn't it?"

Aemond moved so fast Aegon barely had time to react. In an instant, Aemond had grabbed him by the collar, yanking him up from the bed with the strength of a man possessed. Aegon's grin vanished, replaced with panic.

"Listen to me, you drunken fool," Aemond hissed through gritted teeth, his face inches from Aegon's. His voice was deathly quiet, but it carried more weight than a thousand roars.

"You can humiliate yourself all you like. Drink, stumble, wallow in filth. I care not."

He slammed Aegon against the nearest wall with a thud, making the wooden frame of the bed creak behind them. "But you will not disgrace Helena. You will not break her."

"Since when do you care so much about Helaena?" Aegon sneered, squirming in Aemond's grip. "Is it guilt, brother? Or is it something more?" He chuckled darkly. "Do you wish it was you in my place? Is that it? You always did have a soft spot for her, didn't you? Perhaps you'd rather she warm your bed-"

Aemond's fist connected with Aegon's face before he could finish the sentence. The crack of bone echoed through the chamber, and Aegon stumbled, blood already trickling from his nose.

"You forget yourself, brother," Aemond growled, his breathing heavy, his heart pounding in his ears. "Speak her name with respect or I will carve it into your tongue."

Aegon wiped the blood from his face, laughing bitterly. His eyes were filled with something darker now, but he didn't move to fight back. Instead, he leaned against the wall, staring at Aemond with a knowing look.

"You act like you're doing this for her," Aegon said, his voice rasping as he spat blood onto the floor. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "But it's not her you're thinking about, is it?" His eyes narrowed, his lips curling into a grin. "It's her. Your little wife. That's why you're really angry, isn't it? Because you can't stand to see me touching her."

Aemond's breath hitched, his hands trembling at his sides. He said nothing. But his silence was answer enough.

Aegon's grin widened, his eyes lighting up with wicked delight. "Hit too close to home, did I, brother?" He tilted his head, eyes full of mock sympathy. "Don't worry. I'm sure she'll come crying to me again. She always does, doesn't she? She likes it when someone actually touches her."

Aemond's world went red. He lunged at Aegon, slamming him to the ground. His fists came down like hammers, blow after blow, each strike fueled by rage and jealousy. Aegon's grunts and gasps echoed through the room, but Aemond didn't stop. He couldn't stop. Not until the fury in his chest burned out.

It took the guards bursting in and pulling him back for him to stop. Two of them grabbed his arms, holding him in place, their strained voices calling his name. "Prince Aemond! Stop! Stop, my prince!"

Aegon lay on the ground, coughing and groaning, blood dripping from his nose, his lip split wide open. Despite the bruises swelling on his face, he still had the audacity to laugh.

"Careful, little brother," Aegon croaked, grinning through bloody teeth. "If you break me too much, there won't be anyone left for her to run to."

Aemond wrenched himself free from the guards' grip, his chest heaving as he glared down at his brother. He wiped his bloodied knuckles on his tunic and leaned in close, his voice deathly quiet.

"She'll never run to you again," Aemond promised, his voice laced with venom. "If you so much as look at her, I will carve your eyes from your skull and feed them to Vhagar."

News of your pregnancy hit Aemond like a blow he couldn’t dodge. His fury burned hot, an uncontrollable fire raging within him. On the training grounds, he swung his sword with unrelenting force, each strike harder and faster than the last. Ser Criston barely managed to block each blow, his face growing tense from the effort it took to hold his ground.

“Aemond! That’s enough!” Ser Criston shouted, raising his sword to parry another wild swing. “Control yourself!”

But Aemond wasn’t listening. His eye was sharp with rage, his gaze distant and filled with something more dangerous than mere anger — betrayal. Their swords clashed, a sharp metallic clang echoing across the courtyard. Sparks flew from the impact. Ser Criston staggered back, his chest heaving as he struggled to steady himself.

“You think I don’t know?!” Aemond roared, his voice rough, strained, like the growl of a dragon ready to breathe fire. His face was flushed, a sheen of sweat on his brow. His violet eye gleamed with raw fury. “They all know. They whisper behind my back. They mock me. She mocks me.”

“Aemond!” Ser Criston stepped forward, his sword lowered in caution. “No one is mocking you. You’re a prince, a warrior, a Targaryen.”

“Shut up!” Aemond snarled, swinging his sword so violently that it nearly disarmed Criston. The Kingsguard narrowly dodged, his face shifting from concern to controlled anger.

“That’s enough!” Ser Criston’s voice boomed with authority, louder than before. “You want to fight them all? Fine. But don’t be a fool and strike down the ones still on your side!”

Aemond froze. His chest heaved as he drew in deep, ragged breaths. His eye locked on Criston with an intensity that could break stone. But then, slowly, his gaze shifted to the ground. His grip loosened, and with a sharp clang, his sword fell from his hand, hitting the stone floor with a loud, echoing crash.

The entire training yard went silent. The guards and servants nearby glanced at one another, unsure of what had just happened.

Aemond turned away, his face as blank and cold as a winter sea. But inside, a storm raged. Guilt. Anger. Shame.

He let you go.

He saw you cry in Aegon’s arms, and he did nothing.

He let you fall into Aegon’s embrace.

And now, you were carrying Aegon’s child.

Aemond pressed his hands against his face, fingers digging into his skin, as if trying to claw the image out of his mind. But it wouldn’t leave. The whispers from the servants echoed in his ears like a chorus of mockery. He could still see Aegon’s smug grin, could still hear his brother’s taunting laughter.

“I should have stopped it,” he whispered to himself, his voice hoarse, barely audible. “I should have stopped you.”

His hands lowered slowly, and his eye glowed with new resolve. His jaw tightened, his face hard as steel. His heart may have been torn apart by guilt, but there was one truth that remained clear to him.

He would not lose you.

No matter whose child you carried.

No matter what Aegon claimed.

No matter what anyone said.

You belonged to him.

And he would take you back.

Tag list : @danytar @julessworldd @hangmanscoming @yazzzmints @giirlinblack

[detritusanddross]

The reframing of this moment post finale has still got me in a chokehold.

When we first saw Rio’s reaction in this scene, the resulting meta was glorious and on point; here is a woman who intimately knows the harm done to her former partner by her mother’s cruelty, who can see the instant destabilising effect of Evanora’s words on Agatha and knows it will take a lot of work to undo this most recent emotional harm.

All of this is still true.

But knowing now that Rio was also Nicky’s mother? And that she herself had stood at a crossroads to decide whether or not he would die the moment he left Agatha’s body?

The depth of it all kills me.

Taking the dead from this plane is not just Rio’s job, but the very reason for her existence. When Agatha was in labour, Rio knew Nicky’s time was up and that she had no choice but to do the job she was made for. She appeared before Agatha at the last possible moment, reluctance written in every line of her face and body. Despite not wanting to hurt Agatha—or to take the son they made together away before he could take his first breath—in all her eons I don’t think she had ever once considered the possibility of not doing her job. After all, the river flows in a single direction.

But it is Agatha’s nature to fight inevitability; to bargain and to beg. And Agatha, despite or because of her upbringing amongst such hatred, well, Agatha loves.

And Rio learned to love her back as she has no other being in the history of time. Rio bends the rules to her will like Agatha taught her. All rivers have eddies and she weaves a safe space out of her own love to give their son time.

Agatha is the first person Rio has ever loved and Nicky was quite possibly the first person she ever fought for. And in this scene, Evanora’s ghost is saying she should have destroyed both of them before Rio had a chance to know either? Had Evanora murdered Agatha when she was a baby, Rio would have unknowingly been forced to carry her only chance at happiness into the realms of the dead.

“I ought to have killed you the moment you left my body.” Death would spit at her feet but that would make her think she has power here.

One day that ghost will die and I smile at the thought of what Rio is going to do to her.

In that last gif: Rio’s averted gaze full of so much hurt and that little head shake—the way it looks as if she’s breathing down against the rising bile of what-ifs and maybes—yeah, this right here is what great stories are made of. Layers upon layers of history between characters that we are lucky enough to have a chance to expericence.

I would like to take this opportunity to thank @ngatwa and all the other gifmakers who allow us to continue exploring scenes like this after a show is over. Fandom owes gifmakers everything.

Mom? Why do you hate me still?

[moomen-mes2]

Please don't skip 🍉🇵🇸

I am a 33-year-old Moamen from Gaza. I stand before you as someone who is trying to support my family of 5: me, my wife and my three children, in the miserable conditions we live in after the occupation launched the war on Gaza. We were displaced from our home and it was completely destroyed. We now live in a tent. Due to the circumstances and the lack of income, we are unable to provide the necessary support such as food and drink due to the crazy rise in prices. Thus, my source of livelihood has been destroyed, in fact completely destroyed, as we are no longer allowed to work; and we expect to live in miserable conditions in tents. It is difficult for me to find the words to describe what we face every day on the street; without food, medicine or clean drinking water; with the oppression, helplessness, psychological pressures, doubts and daily trauma caused by everything around us and the inability to care for our loved ones. The fear of danger, illness and death never leaves us.

“Now I find myself in this difficult situation, and I humbly ask you to help me save the lives of my family, especially my infant, by getting us out of Gaza to Egypt and building a new life outside Gaza, or helping us get out of Gaza. We need money to buy the necessities that we may be able to afford. Asking for help is not easy, but we had no other choice because we want to survive and try to rebuild our shattered lives. We are very grateful for any help you can provide, no matter how small, because your help will go a long way in alleviating our suffering. I hope you will share my story with your family and friends.”

Donation link⬇️⬇️

✅️Vetted by @gazavetters, my number verified on the list is ( #322 )✅️

@90-ghost @gazavetters @nesmamomen

[frownyalfred]

I sometimes think about Alfred dying due to natural causes on his bed one night yet his ghost still does his normal routine around the manor without noticing and the rest of the batfamily also don’t notice and the only time Alfred realizes he’s dead is by finding his corpse still in his bed so he has no other choice but to get rid of it and continue pretending everything is fine when it’s NOT

Then on he learns that he is, in fact, bound to the manor (the place he died) and now has to make up excuses on why he can’t leave the manor whenever something comes up

Ohh, kind of like in American Horror Story? I love this idea so much because depending on the writer, it could be very sad and even sinister, or it could just be a fluffy continuation of Alfred's normal duties.

Also, now I'm imagining situations where either Alfred or Bruce or both of them are in denial about Alfred being dead and trying to conceal it from the family. The actual horror of Bruce following Alfred into some long-abandoned room and discovering his body while Alfred primly tidies around it like see, Master Wayne? and Bruce is genuinely having a breakdown (Alfred had mini one a few hours earlier when he finally came back to dust this room but Bruce doesn't need to know this)

[marisol-000]

One time I was reading an actual published book and it was about this girl and ghost who pretended to do seances for people who wanted to talk to the dead. But the only ghost they had was hers so they just pretended she was their loved ones to scam them.

At some point I think it turned into a detective story but I didn't get that far because every 5 minutes the author would mention rape or rapey themes or virginity and it had absolutely no bearing on the plot in the slightest, you could tell it was just the authors poorly hidden fetish or something.

The worst part is there was no warning. I dont know if it tells you online but I picked it up in the store and bought it with no idea that it was gonna talk about rape at all much less as much as it did.

Part of why I love a03 so much is the tag and filtering system. Theres a lot of complaints about overused tropes or giving the story away but at least theres a place to put warnings.

Just thought to myself "can't women have a bad time in fiction without rape being involved" which really shows you how much you're in the fucking trenches if you are both a horror fan and women fan

[satisfictionbindery]

Book 5/50!

'Pray For Us, Icarus - Atalan'

Fandom: Good Omens

This dang fanfic really does haunt me in the most beautifully painful way possible 😂 it's actually one of the fics that made me wanna start fanbinding honestly! Loved that there was even a playlist for it so included that as well for good measure! 💖

Slowly heading back into fanbinding, don't wanna jank my thumb because not only do I need it for binding, I need it for my uni work 👏😂

HOWEVER.. not how I planned for the cover to turn out even though happy with it 😂 long story short; thumb injury midway through the original cover made it a very slow process and my patience to get this made became non-existent 😂

Main take aways:

Gotta thank past me for having cut the boards already for this bind 🙏 also weeding this cover was A PROCESS but worth it!

I need to get me a bigger heat press in the future

Cream/ivory paper is stunning! Actually quite like how there's a mild ghosting from the other pages too!

[demonic0angel]

An anger management idea

Danny wanted to strangle Ghostwriter. Being subjected to participate in a yearly Christmas story was one thing, but this was over the line. In no universe would he be okay with Jazz staring as the main love interest in the Christmas hallmark story Ghostwriter orchestrated.

(Sorry it took me so long, my tryhard self decided to make a rhyme 💀 read the dialogue to the tune of ‘A Visit from St. Nicholas’. Every ‘;’ is a new line of the poem, but the full poem is below.)

Jazz hummed and danced around cheerfully. She was trying on skirts and outfits, with Danny miserably tapping away on a phone without any notifications. As she twirled in front of her mirror, she said, “It’s the day before Christmas, there’s so much holiday cheer; I’m meeting up with a boy today, I haven’t had a date in years!”

Danny scowled fiercely and looked up from his phone. “He better be perfect, and treat you with care; Or I’ll sic Dan and Dani on him, see if he dares!”

Jazz giggled. “You don’t need to worry, I’ll be careful, little bro; He’s the most charming boy I’ve ever met, I can’t wait to go!”

Danny rubbed at his forehead, seething. A few days ago, he had accidentally pissed off the Ghostwriter again, who had cursed him again to teach him some holiday cheer. Now everyone was forced to rhyme and even worse, because Danny had been handling the Ghost Zone, he had been unable to prevent Jazz from being asked out by some asshole with a motorbike named Jason.

It was infuriating! Hadn’t she learned her lesson about bad boys on bikes?!

“This damn, stupid curse, I’ll kill the Ghostwriter…” Danny grumbled. “If I didn’t have to rhyme, I would’ve been beside her; To stop her from meeting that boy just a few days ago; And now she’s off to a date, a date on Christmas Eve, she goes!; Away from my family, leaving me all alone; He’s the worst! The absolute worst! He had better atone!”

Jazz turned, a small and sad smile on her face as she caught the last words of his rhyme. “Oh, Danny, I promise it’ll be okay.” She perked up with a new idea. “You can come with me! It’ll be a fun day!”

Danny stared at her in horror. Come with her? To her date?!

“No thanks! I don’t care! This is the worst month ever!; I don’t care if you go, I’d rather be lonely forever!”

Jazz sat on her bed beside him, smiling softly. “Danny, I understand. But it’ll be Christmas soon and you shouldn’t be by yourself; Come with me and Jason, we’ll buy you every toy on the shelves!; We’ll drink chocolate and eat cake; Watch movies and go ice skate!; Jason wouldn’t care, he’s kind like that; You won’t be a third wheel, we can all chitchat!; I promise you, he’s nice and just a great guy; You’ll have a great time, and I don’t speak lies!”

Danny struggled to think, trying to imagine it. He wanted to go with her. Everyone else was busy with their own things, so all he had this week was his sister with him. And everything she said sounded really appealing.

Eventually, he conceded. “… fine, but you can’t leave me behind; You said you’d buy me toys and you promised he’d be kind.”

Jazz cheered. “I promise, I promise! Oh, I can’t wait!; For later today, for me and my date!; With a boy that I like and my favorite brother too; This will be the best Christmas ever, I promise you!”

Danny huffed but couldn’t help but smile. He swore to himself softly, “Fine. I hope that you’re happy; If he makes you sad, he better run quickly; Because even if I hate Christmas, you’re still my sister; So Jason better be nice, or he’ll know why they call me a trickster!”

(Full poem below)

“It’s the day before Christmas, there’s so much holiday cheer

I’m meeting up with a boy today, I haven’t had a date in years!”

“He better be perfect, and treat you with care,

Or I’ll sic Dan and Dani on him, see if he dares!”

“You don’t need to worry, I’ll be careful, little bro.

He’s the most charming boy I’ve ever met, I can’t wait to go!”

“This damn, stupid curse, I’ll kill the Ghostwriter…

If I didn’t have to rhyme, I would’ve been beside her…

To stop her from meeting that boy just a few days ago

And now she’s off to a date, a date on Christmas Eve, she goes!

Away from my family, leaving me all alone

He’s the worst! The absolute worst! He had better atone!”

“Oh, Danny, I promise it’ll be okay.

You can come with me! It’ll be a fun day!”

“No thanks! I don’t care! This is the worst month ever!

I don’t care if you go, I’d rather be lonely forever!”

“Danny, I understand. But it’ll be Christmas soon and you shouldn’t be by yourself

Come with me and Jason, we’ll buy you every toy on the shelves!

We’ll drink chocolate and eat cake

Watch movies and go ice skate!

Jason wouldn’t care, he’s kind like that.

You won’t be a third wheel, we can all chitchat!

I promise you, he’s nice and just a great guy

You’ll have a great time, and I don’t speak lies!”

“… fine, but you can’t leave me behind

You said you’d buy me toys and you promised he’d be kind”

“I promise, I promise! Oh, I can’t wait!

For later today, for me and my date!

With a boy that I like and my favorite brother too,

This will be the best Christmas ever, I promise you!”

“Fine. I hope that you’re happy.

If he makes you sad, he better run quickly

Because even if I hate Christmas, you’re still my sister

So Jason better be nice, or he’ll know why they call me a trickster!”

[silkendress]

A Space Barely Lived In

-ˋˏ➛ Call of Duty

-ˋˏ➛ Suggestive

-ˋˏ➛ Simon "Ghost" Riley/Reader

-ˋˏ➛ Long Distance Relationship, Civilian Reader, Domestic Fluff

-ˋˏ➛ 3k Words

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After almost a year of long distance, you finally meet your boyfriend in person.

As planned, you will be spending the remainder of your visit in his home, of which you’ve never seen before.

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Read on AO3

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This story was a suggestion i received on my tumblr! (My first one, actually!) The tone of the story wasn’t specified so i just went with whatever came to mind. Hopefully i did alright!

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You were alight with excited nerves.

It was your first time flying, and it would also be your first time seeing the man you loved face to face.

Of course, you exchanged pictures—multiple, even—but you were always miles upon miles away from each other. The only points of contact being the screens on your devices.

Video calls couldn’t compare to seeing him, and touching him, in the flesh.

Your mind was filled with thoughts of him; both excited and anxious. Such thoughts only doubled when you finally landed at the airport, your eyes sharpened to any male silhouette which vaguely resembled your Simon.

You walk hesitantly, yet swiftly, your luggage rolls behind you in a single hand, your heartbeat pounds frantically.

It is then you hear it, an all too familiar gruff voice calling your name over the chatter and commotion of people coming and going.

Your feet carried you rapidly to the source of the sound, breaking out into a jog when you saw a towering figure dressed in all black with blond hair.

His strides are long and determined, and before you realize it he has pulled you into his arms.

He squeezes you so tight it’s almost uncomfortable. You only nuzzle further into him. He could hug you until you were sore for all you cared.

Simon was far taller than you were expecting, and just as solid and broad as you observed through your phone.

Big and safe.

He lowers his head, his nose nudging against your hair. You feel each heavy, steadying puff of breath leave his nostrils—it’s the only discernible indication of his elation.

You, however, were more inclined to wear your heart on your sleeve. Joyful tears were already rolling down your cheeks, your hands clutched at him.

It is only when you sniffle that Simon seemingly sobers, he pulls away only just enough to see your face.

He tucks his head down, his chin almost tapping against his chest. You blink rapidly, your lashes fluttering in an attempt to get the blurriness out of your eyes.

A single, broad palm comes up to cup your damp cheek, his eyes soft and drooping. You realize just how far your neck is straining just to meet his umber eyes.

He wipes a tear away with his thumb, then leans down to press a his lips against yours; chaste and no less sweeter for it. Then he pulls away only just enough, your foreheads still touching together.

You smile at him, still sniffling.

Simon’s lip twitches upward, a muted smile of his own.

Simon takes your luggage, you only brought one suitcase and a duffel bag, but he still takes both from you despite your insistence that you could hold at least one for him. He silences you with a single stern, yet soft, look.

He opens the car door for you with his free hand, once you get in he pushes it shut and loads your things into the trunk of his car.

Simon opens the driver’s side door and slams it behind him with a tad more force than he did yours—not recklessly, or even consciously, but in a way that suggested he was being more careful with you than he typically was. You beam at him. He simply stares at you with a flicker of warmth in his eyes.

“Ya cold?” He doesn’t wait for your answer, he’s already turning the heat on in the car.

The drive had been comfortably silent thus far. Simon had his large hand resting over yours while his other was on the steering wheel. It wasn’t as awkward as you were fearing to share a physical space with him, you think the frequent video calls helped a little with that.

“Want to get somethin’ to eat?”

You feel pleasant butterflies in your stomach from how he was already mildly doting on you.

“Maybe after I get settled in?” You honestly just wanted to change into pajamas and bury yourself in blankets with Simon as soon as possible.

Simon nods and gives your hand a single, affectionate squeeze.

The building he parked in front of was plain, but not wholly unwelcoming.

You unbuckled your seatbelt the same time he did. “I’ll get it.” He mumbled. You were momentarily confused until he came around to your side and opened the door for you.

You feel your chest tighten with affection, and trail behind him as he opens the trunk to retrieve your luggage.

Once he slings the bag over his shoulder he slams the trunk shut and nods his head in the direction of the building, wordlessly beckoning you to follow.

You follow him up the short steps, hovering behind him momentarily as he fishes his keys from his pocket and jams it into the lock, twisting it and opening the door.

He holds the door open with his thick arm, staring down at you expectantly.

You thought you got used to the intensity of his stare by now, but it was like you had to reacquaint yourself with it all over again in person. You give him a sheepish smile and shuffle inside. Simon follows in behind you.

The first thing you do is take off your shoes, holding them awkwardly in your hand for a moment while you think of where to put them. Simon lets your duffel bag slide off his arm and land on the hardwood floor temporarily while he unlaces his boots.

“Next to the others is fine.” Simon tells you in a low mumble, seemingly catching your conundrum. You turn around in the narrow hallway and see that Simon had his shoes—of which there weren’t many—stacked up in a little two tier storage cabinet by the door. He had already put his boots away.

Simon picks your bag back up and tugs your suitcase along with two of his fingers hooked into the handle. You find yourself unable to look away from the casual way he ambles out the entryway, a quiet confidence in everything he did.

You decide to place your shoes on the upper rack and follow suit behind him.

Your eyes squint to adjust to the dim lighting inside—there were windows but the curtains were shut, save for one in the left-hand side of the room that you have yet to see.

You blink once, then again.

The entire space was barren, devoid of any personal touches or decoration. It was utilitarian—almost brutally so.

You think this was the living room because there was a single seat sofa situated in front of a television.

Your eyes flick around the space, searching for any personal possessions you’d expect in a home. Photographs of family or friends, little baubles or knickknacks that told you about the person who resided there. The walls were just as bare; no art or posters hung up.

Just grey, monotone.

“Alright?”

You flinch, looking to the source of the sound to see Simon leaning against one of the walls connecting to an adjacent hallway, his arms crossed. He had taken off his jacket at some point, leaving his well muscled arms on display—as well as his tattoos. Your bag and suitcase were gone, you assume he put them away. You’d have to ask him where.

You feel your face grow hot with embarrassment—you were so preoccupied with examining his living space that you didn’t realize you stopped in your tracks in the living room.

He cocks his head at you when you don’t immediately answer, and eases himself off the wall to come up to you.

“Homesick already?” He catches your chin in his thumb forefinger, gently tilting you up to look at him. Your heart beats faster from the tender gesture.

‘No, far from it,’ you think of telling him as much; but the words die in your throat with the realization that you’d have to admit you were scrutinizing his living space.

His home wasn’t even bad, per se. But it was oddly…Cold. Distant. The fact that he only had a single seat sofa implied he barely, if ever, got any visitors.

You never pried about Simon’s family or youth. The few times the topic came up he would respectfully change the subject, and you never pressed him to talk about something that clearly made him tense. You weren’t sheltered; you knew not everyone had happy or healthy families. You left it at that.

You didn’t want to outright lie to him, so you end up saying; “My place is cluttered compared to yours.”

Simon’s brows twitch up imperceptibly, his eyes still held that muted look he naturally had, however.

“Not fond of the place?” He cocks his head at you, a mild curiosity in his tone.

You consider your response. Simon had thick skin, so offending him wasn’t something you were worried about. However, you still didn’t want to come off as rude.

“Wherever you are, I’m happy.”

Simon’s eyes go soft, it’s slight but it’s there. Your heart melts.

The gentleness is gone by the next blink, replaced by his usual stoicism. “So you think it’s shit.” He suddenly remarks, voice flat.

You sputter out a laugh, Simon scoffs and leans down to kiss the top of your head.

You feel warmth pool in your belly. It turns into an inferno when Simon shifts his hand to give your waist a gentle squeeze before pulling away.

You have to roll your shoulder to shake off the pleasant shudder that rolls up your spine from the brief contact.

You wonder if Simon notices, but before you can ponder that you hear a phone ringing. Simon looks mildly annoyed, but reaches into the pocket of his jeans to retrieve his phone anyway. His eyes only thin out further when he sees the caller ID.

Your curiosity gets the better of you. “Who is it?”

“Work.”

‘Ah. Work.’

You knew Simon was in the military, of course. You didn’t know much else about it. Not for lack of trying—it was just that Simon always shut the topic down whenever you made an attempt to. You acquiesced and accepted the fact that some things were just beyond what you or any average not-in-the-military person should know.

“Gotta take this.” He murmurs, stepping around you and going out the front door, but not before sliding a pair of slippers on his feet.

A realization hits you. Just before the door shuts behind him, you call out, “Where’s the bathroom?”

“First door on your right, in the hall.” He hollers over his shoulder.

His bathroom was both oddly empty yet strangely cluttered. Perhaps due to how cramped the space was.

It was clean, at least. You didn’t see any grime or stray hair strands in the sink from where Simon would shave. His toothbrush is in a single glass cup, a plastic cover over it. There’s a tube of toothpaste laying beside the faucet controls. A large bottle of almost empty mouthwash on the opposite side.

There was only a single door, mirrored medicine cabinet over said sink.

You stare at your own reflection for a moment, briefly wondering what was inside before shaking the thought out of your head.

You were staying at his home, sure, but that didn’t give you license to pilfer around his things.

Still, you can’t help but think about how a man as large as Simon going about his daily routine in here. The space was small for you, it was probably nigh claustrophobic for Simon.

You’re sure he made enough money from his job. Maybe he just found his current living situation to be the most convenient, maybe some part of this minimalistic space was comfortable to him, familiar, perhaps.

You’re not sure. It felt beyond rude to ask, so you won’t.

There’s a bathtub with a shower attachment to your right, the shower curtain is stark white—clean. New. You wonder if he replaced them in anticipation of your arrival. The thought is an endearing one, it makes a smile twitch at your lips.

The toilet was thankfully just as clean. Then again, you weren’t sure why you were worried about his cleanliness—or potential lack thereof—to begin with. If there was one thing you deduced about him through your various calls and texts was that he was rigid with routine and remarkably strict with himself. It made sense that it would apply to hygiene as well.

You wash your hands and dry them off with the towel hanging on the door, hung up by a command strip.

When you exit you find the house is extraordinarily still. You note that the slippers haven’t been returned to their rightful place by the front door, which meant Simon was still on the phone.

Directly in front of you, across the hall, was another door that was slightly ajar. You might as well search for your luggage, now.

You pad over to the door, tentatively pushing it open and peaking your head inside.

Simon’s bedroom is just as plain as the rest of his home.

The bed is nice, with a thick and soft blanket neatly tucked and a single fluffy pillow at the head. ‘A large bed for a large man,’ you muse. The thought of sleeping arrangements cause your face to grow warm. It was more than big enough for you to rest comfortably with him on it.

You step into the room slowly. There wasn’t much to examine. You’ve seen slivers of it from video calls before. His bedroom was far larger than the bathroom but substantially more empty in comparison. There is a single medium sized window over the foot of the bed, the curtain is open so you don’t have to strain your eyes at all to see.

To your left is a closet in the wall with a plain white sliding door. You don’t see your luggage in plain sight, so you assume he placed it in there.

You open it carefully, for some reason you didn’t want to cause too much of a disturbance in his room, despite the fact you would be sleeping in here tonight. Maybe it was because some part of you wanted to observe his space before your presence got all mingled in it.

Once you open it, you see a bunch of jackets, coats, and hoodies hanging up. On top of the hangers was a rack, you saw a an old, once white shoebox shoved up there as well as some other miscellany you couldn’t make out. The shoebox catches your eye. You squint, standing on the tips of your toes to get a better look, you make something out on the side of it, scribbled in faded, black marker.

You think you see the letter ‘R.’ You wonder what’s in it, but get the feeling it’s not for you to see.

You rip your attention away to look at the floor, it is there, tucked in the corner of the closet, where you find your luggage.

“Lookin’ around?”

You yelp and practically jump out of your skin.

You had no idea how a man of his stature could be so quiet, you didn’t even hear him come in.

“Looking for my things.” You affirm, gesturing vaguely to your duffel bag still sitting in the corner with a hand.

Simon hums in acknowledgment, a low, deep sound. He goes over to his bed to sit down on it, the mattress dipping slightly with his weight. He leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees.

You turn back around to kneel down and unzip the bag, searching for your pajamas. You can almost feel Simon’s eyes on you.

When you stand with your clothes crumpled in a heap in your arms, Simon tilts his head at you, his eyes watching you with severe precision.

“You can change here, if you want.”

You learned that Simon could be rather blunt at times, and typically wasn’t one to hesitate with making his thoughts known. Still, your body goes hot regardless.

While Simon has sent you photos of himself shirtless—including one instance where upon asking he sent you a photo of himself in the shower, with his intimate lower half purposefully out the frame—You’ve never sent any such pictures in return. You knew he was interested, considering he has asked you before, but you always politely declined and he never pressured you.

You knew that he was simply telling you that he wouldn’t mind it if you changed in front of him, not that he expected you to.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” You manage to reply. Simon eyes you curiously, the implication of your response had his interest piqued.

You scamper out of his bedroom to get changed in the bathroom, feeling pleasant goosebumps go up your back from the intensity of his gaze.

After you’re done, you return to his room, your face awash with heat the moment you enter.

Simon is in the middle of tugging a different, less form-fitting shirt over his head. He has changed out of his denim jeans and into loose sweatpants instead. You catch a glimpse of golden hair starting from under his navel and disappearing under the waistband of his sweats.

When he catches you in his peripheral, he tips his chin over his shoulder to his phone lying on the bed.

“We’re gettin’ takeaway. Get what you want.” Is all he says.

You nod wordlessly, not trusting your voice at the moment.

After selecting what you wanted Simon placed the order. It wouldn’t be arriving for a few minutes. You were quick to crawl under his blankets afterwards, resulting in Simon shooting you a somewhat amused look.

Your suspicions of his bed were correct—it was very comfortable. Even more so than your bed back at home, you breathe out contentedly, sinking deeper into the covers.

“Tired?” He asks.

Instead of answering, you tell him; “Come cuddle with me.”

It was one of the things you told Simon that you were most excited to do once you finally met him in person. Recognition flashes immediately in his eyes.

He ambles over and lifts up the blankets to crawl in with you.

You shudder a little when his limbs brush over yours, his fingers and toes had yet to warm up from being outside on the phone earlier.

You nestle into him anyway.

His arms still momentarily from your shiver, but then wrap tightly around you once you nuzzle in his chest. He pulls you close and shifts to roll on his back, easily positioning you to lay your head on his chest.

You allow your eyelids to droop, comforted by the muffled sound of his heart beating a steady rhythm in his chest.

Simon’s hand glides up your shoulder to mess with your hair idly, affectionate. His other lays relaxed over his stomach. The callouses on his hand had brushed over the bare skin of your arm earlier, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

His arms are thick and muscular, his torso firm and trained from persistent physical exertion. Yet despite that, he felt comfortable to lay on. He had a healthy layer of body fat on top, and while he was far from soft, he was warm and nice as a human pillow.

You liked how small you felt with him.

“What’re you smilin’ about?” Simon remarks. It is only then you realize your lips weretugged up a little.

You answer honestly. “You.”

Simon hums, gruff and thoughtful.

“What about?”

You think of how best to answer that. “You’re nice to lay on.”

Simon huffs a breath through his nostrils, his way of scoffing. You don’t need to look at him to know he rolled his eyes—albeit in good nature.

The room falls into comfortable silence, your eyes don’t fully shut but they are close to it. Simon’s thick fingers keep messing with your hair; it’s soothing, gentle. His touch was featherlight, which was remarkable considering how large his hand—and by proxy his fingers—were.

With the way you were angled you could see the overcast sky out the window from the foot of the bed. It only served to make the space even more monochromatic. You wondered how his home would look during a bright, sunny day with all the windows open.

You also think of what decorations you would put up around the place.

“A coffee table would be nice.” You suddenly say.

“Context, love.” Simon reminds you flatly. At this point he was used to your habit of saying things that in your head made perfect sense, but was borderline incomprehensible once spoken aloud.

You shift around a little on his chest to get more comfortable, Simon stops fiddling with your hair to hold you still. “In your living room, it would be nice to have one.” You elaborate.

“Oh, and a full-length sofa, too. And a bookshelf.”

“Fancy yourself an interior decorator now?” Simon deadpans.

You snicker. “Maybe.”

A moment ticks by, Simon returns to messing with your hair. “Why the bookshelf?” He eventually asks.

“For all of my books.” You reply absentmindedly.

A beat passes. 

“Plannin’ on moving in?” Simon questions flatly, a small twinge of dry wit in his tone.

Your face burns hot. You didn’t stop to think about the implication in your earlier answer.

You think of his empty canvas of a home. You really think.

You imagine a nice, big sofa in the living room. A bookshelf to your collection of fantasy novels in, photographs of you and Simon could decorate the walls and coffee table. Souvenirs, too. You’d have your toothbrush next to his and his 2-in-1 body wash would be replaced by your floral scented soaps and shampoos.

You imagine hanging up dainty little lights for the Christmas time, a seasonal wreath on the front door. You think of plastic pumpkins with those fake LED candles in them for Halloween. You think of waking up in Simon’s arms becoming your new normal. You realize, then, that you’d want to be here, wherever Simon was—barren or not.

“Maybe.”

You feel it against your cheek, the small hitch in his breath.

He recovers instantly. He tilts his head so he can narrow his eyes down at you. “You’re takin’ the piss.”

“Not at all.” You admit.

For a moment, Simon says nothing. Then he murmurs;

“Next time, book a one-way.”

He kisses your forehead and cradles you further into his chest with his hand.

┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

It was nice to just write something really quickly without thinking too hard about it! I wrote this in about two sittings ;; and i think it shows, but i had fun.

While writing this i got oddly attached to the long-distance-relationship concept, i may add on to this or make something else in a similar vein that’s more fleshed out at some point if inspiration strikes!

Thank you so much for reading and i hope you enjoyed! I deeply appreciate any and all likes or reblogs!

[titans-thoughts]

Ollie hasn't had Bruce Wayne levels of money since the Silver Age tho. It was actually part of Denny O'Neill and Neal Adams's work separating Ollie from Bruce, since Ollie really did begin as a copycat. So he was framed for embezzlement in 1966. When we get to the Bronze Age, Ollie takes up leftist politics in their seminal work Green Lantern/Green Arrow. (This is also what you'll see a lot of HalOllie shippers refer to. Note that Hal comes off as a centrist straw man to me, and some moments are cringeworthy, like when Ollie pretends to be the ghost of a chief. I should mention that the end of their little trip, Roy's heroin habit, has Hal be the correct one and Ollie comes off bad.) Ollie gives most of his money to charity these days; he's actually happier without it.

Years later, Marv Wolfman would complete this work separating Batman from Green Arrow by writing Dick and Roy in a six-part miniseries for Action Comics which also introduced Lian (and DickRoy shippers really love it), but that's for another story. Just wanted to get into a meta about how writers in the 70s and 80s took "Batman and Robin with bows" and made them much more.

Jason and Roy get "totally platonic married" in an effort to a) secure insurance benefits, b) avoid testifying against one another in court, and c) to be absolutely sure that Bruce can't try to claim power of attorney over Jason. Maybe something happened recently -- Jason was in the hospital, Bruce tried to throw his weight and money around to make medical decisions, Roy had to call Oliver to throw his weight and money around, something like that.

Anyway, the important part is that they get platonically married, even do a goofy not-kiss where Roy covers Jason's mouth with his hand and then kisses the hand while Jason rolls his eyes. Neither of them are taking it at all seriously.

Until later when they're at a cafe and Roy jokingly refers to Jason as "my husband" to the cashier. And they both come to the simultaneous, shattering realization that they really, really like that. They start saying, "You're my husband" and "You're my husband" in the most shocked, awestruck, dumbest voices possible while the baristas try to move them through the line.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

How do you feel about aromantic idia

As a headcanon? I love (jokingly) bullying Idia for being a socially awkward and sexually repressed otaku, but personally I also like the idea of him being aromantic. He doesn't like attention focused on him and generally seems to prefer fictional characters (ie his waifus/j) to interacting with real people. However, I think it goes deeper than just that. There's many lines in his Suitor Suit card that hint at Idia being repulsed by romance (even if you remove the context of him being kidnapped and forced to wed a ghost):

"There's no reasoning with people who lose their minds over every little infatuation. Like, just keep your head down and focus on school!" (He prioritizes other things, such as school and dismisses things like crushes.)

"I could never swear my eternal love. There's no such thing, and I'm nothing if not honest." (Here, he denies the existence of "eternal love".)

"Love is just chemicals in your brain. And people call that fate? They're all nuts, if you ask me." (He describes the feeling of love in a cold, scientific manner when this isn't something most people would think that deeply about.)

"Don't leave me. Stay with me forever. ...Oof, these emo lines are killing me. I'm gonna steer clear of proposals for the rest of my life." (He makes fun of typical romantic lines and then outright states he doesn't ever want to propose to anyone.)

"Do whatever you want with me. Just get it over with!" (Idia conveys distress and wanting to quickly be done with the kiss/general romantic circumstances.)

"If you want to talk romance, I'm your guy. I'm familiar with all the popular fan ships in video games and manga. You might even call me an expert." (He diverts the topic of real-life romances to his hobbies; aromantics, contrary to popular belief, can still enjoy romantic media without being attracted to or having limited attraction to real people themselves.)

Beyond his Suitor Suit lines, Idia has expressed upset at romantic love being viewed differently than platonic love. In 6-76, during his post-OB flashback, Idia shows off Ortho to Styx researchers, who are appalled by what he has done. "Wait... You built your late brother?! But that's wrong, Mr. Shroud!" they tell him. To that, Idia says, "So it's romantic when a hero rescues his ladylove from the Underworld, but when I do the same for my brother it's wrong?" He's frustrated that the story about Hercules diving into the Underworld to save Megara is praised, but him going that same extreme distance to revive his loved one--an act of platonic love--is denounced.

Idia is also consistently a character that has been shown to enjoy optimization and efficiency. He doesn't like anything that overcomplicates what can easily be done or made easier by machines. For someone like him, who was raised in isolation and has to bear the guilt of potentially dooming a future partner to the Shroud family curse, I think he'd just say "fuck it" at some point and decide it's ultimately not worth that hassle. It could read like a justification for him if others ask why he never looked into finding a spouse, S/O, etc. Like he'd tell them it isn't worth his time or something to get them off his back.

Of course, this is just my personal headcanon and you're free to agree or disagree with me on it! (I support all you Idia yumes and shippers out there 😉) Let's remember that we're all here to have fun and to not take these things too seriously.

[quarterlifekitty]

more medieval fantasy au time! reader whose life sucks and wont be missed by anyone in the present life suddenly finds herself back in time after blacking out and being mistaken for the assassin who was given orders to kill any of the cod boys (or price becos he's my hubby). cod boys/price decides to keep her under their watch closely in case she makes any more attempts to kill them. love myself some slowburn enemy to lover shite <3

Fun fact about me. I enjoy that shite, played out isekai manga/manwha trope where a girl gets reborn into the story of her favorite dating simulator except she’s reborn as the villainess and has to try to use her knowledge of the game to change the story and avoid dying to the heroine or one of her many devoted love interests. But often her sudden change in personality piques the interest of one of those love interests…. Here’s a very dark hentai with a somewhat similar plot to this trope, if you’re interested! Ghost coded, imo. Noncon warning.

Anyways

Prince!Gaz doesn’t believe you when you say you weren’t trying to kill him, but he does believe you when you say it isn’t your fault. Poor thing. Must’ve been forced into it! You don’t have to worry about that anymore, he’ll keep you safe from whatever criminal underbelly manipulated you into doing this. He turns you into a bit of a pet project. A perfect rehabilitation of a criminal. It’ll be a brilliant morale boost. Maybe even more so if he takes you as his wife? Controversial, yet romantic— the bards will eat it up for sure.

Knight!Soap thinks it’s a bit fishy. Why go after him? Why not the captain of the guard? He’s kind of a dickhead, but he doesn’t make any personal enemies. He’s just gonna have to keep you until you fess up and tell him who hired you and what the motive was. And how lucky he is that the assassin they sent was so cute and squeezable, too! He doesn’t mind having to keep you.

Warlord!Ghost considers this an open proposal for marriage. He’s very much attracted to your gall and open animosity towards him. Both excellent qualities in a wife and a mother. Very well— he accepts!

Lord!Price can see that you’re not a natural born killer. This must have been your first time. Your attempt failed— so he won’t have you killed… he takes a look at you and decides that humiliation is a more fitting punishment. So he’ll be keeping you collared and on a leash for the foreseeable future.

Artificer!Nikolai can see what’s happened right away. You have the smell of otherworld clinging to you. You’re not from around here. But he’ll play along as if he doesn’t know that. As for your punishment… he’s been wanting an apprentice. Some cute little thing to help him around his workshop. Looks like you fit the bill on that.

[redocity]

Omg I love the vibes of your holiday sleepover! Can I request “person a's future isn't right if person b isn't right next to them. bonus points if it's something especially insane like person a and b live together and have a family.” from the not quite lovers prompts list?? (fem!reader please <3)

𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐬 — 𝐄.𝐁𝐔𝐂𝐊𝐋𝐄𝐘

person a's future isn't right if person b isn't right next to them. bonus points if it's something especially insane like person a and b live together and have a family.

𝐫𝐞𝐝𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 !!

evan buckley x single mom!reader | 1.4k | fluff | masterlist.

a/n — thank you !! i hope you enjoy 🤭

When you offered Buck your spare room in lieu of his rent struggles, you weren’t sure *what* you were expecting.

Your son choosing him over you after a nightmare was not it.

“Buck?” your voice was a low whisper as you padded down the hall in your worn socks, stopping just outside the cracked door to your son’s room. The faint glow of a nightlight spilled into the hallway, casting soft shadows.

Inside, you could hear Buck’s low, soothing voice. “It’s okay, bud,” he murmured, a smile audible in his tone. “Monsters don’t stand a chance when I’m around,”

You leaned against the wall, heart squeezing as you peeked through the gap. There was Buck, sitting cross-legged on the floor beside your son’s bed. His broad shoulders filled the small space, and his hands made dramatic gestures as he spun some ridiculous story about how he once scared a ghost away with his “super-cool” ninja moves.

Your son sniffled, half-hiding under the covers, but his giggle broke through the remnants of his tears. “You’re so brave,” he said in a tone full of awe, the kind only a five-year-old could muster.

You couldn’t decide if you were more amused or annoyed. This wasn’t the first time your son had bypassed you entirely to seek out Buck for comfort. In the six months since Buck had moved in, your house had gone from feeling like a quiet, single-parent household to something… different. Cozier. Fuller.

Maybe too full.

“Don’t tell mom I woke up,” Your son whispered loudly, not exactly grasping the ‘secretive’ part of his secret.

Buck grinned, his dimple flashing in the soft light. “Too late for that, buddy.” He glanced up at you, his expression shifting slightly, softer. “We were just handling a little monster trouble.”

“I see that.” You crossed your arms, though there wasn’t any real sternness behind the gesture. “Buck, you don’t have to handle every monster in the house,”

Buck shrugged, unbothered. “I’m basically an expert at this point.”

Your son giggled again, pulling the blanket up to his chin with a determined nod. “He is, Mom,”

You sighed, the faintest smile tugging at your lips. “Alright, monster slayer. Bedtime for real this time.”

Buck stood, ruffling your son’s hair before following you out into the hall. Once the door clicked shut behind him, he turned to you, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his sweatpants. “He’s got a wild imagination. Just needed a little reassurance,”

“I know,” you said quietly, meeting his gaze. “Thanks for… well, everything.”

“It’s no problem,” he said, his voice equally soft. But something lingered in his expression—a flicker of something you couldn’t quite name before he smiled again, easy and unbothered. “Goodnight,”

“Goodnight, Buck.”

—

The thing about Buck was that he fit into your life far too easily.

At first, you’d chalked it up to circumstance. Buck was your friend—had been for years—and when he mentioned he was struggling to make rent, you’d offered up your spare room without much thought.

It wasn’t charity, you told yourself. It was practical. You had a room, he needed one, and honestly, the idea of having another adult around the house to help with the little things was appealing.

What you hadn’t counted on was how seamlessly Buck would slide into your routines. Within weeks, he wasn’t just helping with the dishes or grabbing groceries on his way home. He was fixing your son’s bike, helping with spelling homework, and somehow—somehow—becoming your son’s favorite person in the house.

It wasn’t just your son, though. Buck had a way of making everyone feel like they were the center of the world. He listened when you vented about work, teased you just enough to pull you out of your funks, and made the house feel a little less lonely.

It terrified you.

You’d been so careful since your ex had left. Careful not to let anyone get too close, not to let yourself rely on someone else again. But Buck had waltzed into your life with his ridiculous laugh and his warm eyes, and he was chipping away at walls you’d worked so hard to build.

You told yourself it was temporary. Buck was just a friend, just your roommate. Eventually, he’d get back on his feet and move on.

But the thought of Buck leaving made your chest tighten in a way you didn’t want to examine too closely.

—

It all came to a head one snowy December evening.

You’d planned a quiet holiday—just you, your son, and Buck, who had casually mentioned that he didn’t have family to spend Christmas with. You’d baked cookies together, decorated the tree, and even endured Buck’s terrible attempt at singing Christmas carols.

Now, the three of you were sprawled out on the couch, a cheesy holiday movie playing in the background. Your son was curled up between you and Buck, his head resting on Buck’s arm as he slowly dozed off.

You should’ve felt content. Instead, you felt like you were teetering on the edge of something big and terrifying.

Buck shifted slightly, glancing down at your son with a fond smile. “He’s out,” he murmured.

“Yeah,” You stared at your son’s peaceful face, your heart aching with love and something else. “He adores you, you know,”

Buck’s smile faltered for just a second before he looked at you. “He’s a great kid. Easy to adore,”

You hesitated, your fingers tightening slightly around the blanket draped over your lap. “It’s not just him,” you said quietly.

Buck’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

You took a deep breath, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “You make things… easier. Better. For both of us. I don’t know how we’re supposed to go back to normal when you’re not here anymore,”

For a moment, Buck just stared at you, his expression unreadable. Then he shifted, gently lifting your son and carrying him down the hall to his room. You stayed frozen on the couch, your heart pounding.

When Buck returned, he didn’t sit back down. Instead, he stood in front of you, his hands on his hips and his jaw tight. “You think I’d just leave?”

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “Wouldn’t you?”

“No,” he said firmly. “Not unless you told me to.”

Your breath hitched. “Buck…”

He sat down beside you, closer this time, his knees brushing against yours. “I don’t know how to say this without making things weird,” he said, his voice low. “But I don’t think I can picture my future without you and your kid in it. You’re… home to me. Both of you.”

Your throat felt tight. “You mean that?”

“Yeah.” His gaze was steady, unflinching. “I know it’s crazy. I know we’re just roommates or whatever, but… it doesn’t feel like just that to me.”

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, and you hated how vulnerable you felt. But Buck didn’t look away. He didn’t run.

Instead, he reached out, his hand brushing against yours. “If you want me to go, I’ll go,” he said softly. “But if you’ll let me stay… I’m all in. For both of you.”

You stared at him, your heart pounding so loudly you were sure he could hear it. Slowly, you turned your hand over, your fingers curling around his.

“Stay,” you whispered.

Buck’s smile was soft, his eyes shining. “Okay.”

And just like that, your future finally felt right.