#what a typical ungrateful man

[aengelren]

Oh I came for you alright

[randomdragonfires]

Kalopsia | One Shot

Text Divider by @saradika-graphics

Kalopsia (n.) The delusion of things being more beautiful than they really are.

SUMMARY | She associates the words with brighter days and happier memories that she’ll never get back. And yet, when he utters them into her ear, they've never sounded more tainted and wrong - but she'll tell herself they aren’t, until the lies become truth.

PAIRING | Daemon Targaryen x Reader

WARNINGS | 18+; smut; DD:DNE; penetrative sex; dubious consent; exhibitionism; forced prostitution; canon typical sexism; infidelity; angst; ambiguous and unclear motives for sex - both Daemon and reader are fucked up people in this story, and there is much about their mental conflict that may be quick to trigger someone. Please read with caution.

WORD COUNT | 8.8k

A/N | This is a dark fic with heavily triggering themes. Please don't hate anon me. Thanks. :)

SHE REMEMBERED THE DAY SHE MET HIM. 

It was a hot summer’s day when the sun had burnt her through her dress, leaving her sweating and reaching for a drink of water every few moments. He was a vision - flying through the skies of Pentos on the Blood Wyrm, with his beautiful wife, the lady Laena Velaryon right behind him as she rode the historic wonder, Vhagar. They were a wandering couple, and talk about them had been rife in the Free Cities - dragon sightings were feared, what with the Rogue Prince’s reckless nature making people assume that he’d bathe them in dragonfire for his personal amusement. 

She remembered seeing them fly out of Pentos the first time, to tour the other Free Cities. This was almost a year ago. By the time they’d come back to reside with the Prince of Pentos, the lady Laena had suspected that she was with child. Based on what she saw of the royal couple, Prince Daemon, in his own way, was appreciative of his wife.

But being appreciative of his wife certainly did not mean that Daemon Targaryen was in any way blind to everything else around him. It was this fact that had led his eyes to her.

A striking purple, and they had met her melancholic, unmemorable ones from where he stood as the Prince of Pentos barked orders and asked her to see to Lady Velaryon’s every need. His gaze held a very peculiar combination of condescension and amusement for those around him, and she was pulled to him, in the same way that fishes were to the sea. Her world seemed to melt as she looked at him in all his Valyrian beauty - it stunned her. 

He took one leisurely glance at her - beginning his perusal of her, neck to navel. His eyes rested for a moment longer between her legs, and she’d never forget the way her thighs quickly met under her skirts in a desperate attempt to keep herself contained.

It had been a long while since she felt anything but the fleeting sense of sadness that had taken over every part of her since she had lost it all and ended up in this city. And now, as Daemon Targaryen lingered - nay, took over her line of sight, she felt something more, more, more. 

She did not know what to think about the slow storm brewing in her mind, so she chose to disregard it for a time. This was royalty, and this entire matter was well and truly beyond her weight. She should not bother with the likes of those who were higher and mightier - those that would never choose her and harm her with no regard.

But the intense wildfire-like heat that passed through her body was hard to ignore, especially given the potent lack of it in the last many years. It scared and excited her in equal measure, and regardless of the possibility of danger, she could not help but be drawn to him. She felt like an ungrateful, wanton whore for lusting after another woman’s husband - a very good woman, she would soon find - but how could she reject the man who had woken her passions once more, after she thought they were long lost to her? All with just a single look, no less?  

It was often said that the Targaryens were closer to Gods than men. With their dragons, intoxicating eyes and intense gazes, she was inclined to agree. 

It was why she brought him his bathwater and helped him with his bath every morning after his dragon ride; why she scrubbed at his scarred skin with the washcloth even though he was in no need of assistance. She cleaned his chambers, and continued to do so even after he’d stepped in and burned her with his stare. Of course it burned, he was the blood of the dragon after all.

She found herself bringing his heated bathwater despite the flight of stairs that she had to brave while carrying the weight. She helped him in and out of his clothes everyday, listening to his commands like a mindless soldier who only did what she was told. She always looked for him, even in a chamber of more than a hundred people - her young girl’s gaze, flitting about - trying to find his spun-silver hair.

Whenever she caught his gaze, he was already looking.

She supposed she'd never get tired of the heat pooling in her belly whenever she was in his presence - or how her hands found their way inside her already dampened smallclothes whenever she pictured him with shut eyes at night time.

Perhaps that’s why she felt like it was a long time coming when he creeped up behind her, hand holding her in place as it snaked around her waist. His palm flattened against her stomach and the other held her neck, squeezing just enough to make the heat rush to her cheek and between her legs. He brought his nose down to the side of her neck, laughing darkly as they breathed each other in, and she let a small whimper escape her lips.

“What took you,” she breathed out before adding, “…so long?” He responded to her meek attempt at a question with a sharp bite to her neck and a growl, effectively silencing her voice and awakening the fire in her once more.

“Don’t be too loud, you’re going to wake my wife,” he whispered before turning her around to meet her eyes.

Those words should have woken her up and brought her to reality. She should have awoken from her wistfulness and tossed her fantasies where they’d bother her no more. This was a married man, a married prince. 

This was wrong, wrong, wrong.

But the blood rushing through her veins, the excitement of being coveted and central to a man’s gaze - it excited her in ways that she had never been before. The allure of him was hard to ignore, and by the looks of how eagerly his hands were slipping under her haphazardly hiked up skirts, he felt the same way too.

She’d missed this feeling - this feeling of being alive and full of life. The prospect of excitement and a renewed zest for life, after all she had been through, had only pushed her towards him a lot more. 

Wrong, wrong, wrong.

She was blind to the dangers of the man, and she'd never been happier to remain ignorant. She did not want to want him, and she hated that she did. She did not say yes to his command, or emphatically agree. She simply took his lips in hers and sunk her fingers into his hair, reveling in the feel of his rough hands holding her backside in a tight grip.

She may not love him, and she did not like him. But she wanted this, she needed this. She needed to feel something, anything at all. She supposed that there’s something that he wants too - though she does not know what.

She soon found that there was very little in their burgeoning arrangement that would favor her fantasies, and that Daemon Targaryen simply did not care - for anyone.

“WILL YOU BE NEEDING ANYTHING ELSE, MY LADY?”

Laena Velaryon is undoubtedly one of the most beautiful women she’s ever laid her eyes on. She is also one of kindest souls she’s ever had the courtesy of encountering - which is why her guilt eats at her tenfold whenever Daemon seeks out her company.

She wants to say no. She wants to say no each time.

Initially, it was an infatuation that was within her control - but the day she had indulged and let her body overshadow her mind, it had become a bit much. Initially, he had sensed her hesitation despite her being welcoming. He’d plied at her with sweet words, each syrupy sweet and meant to break through her doubt. 

She melts each time, her weak will giving in like water slipping through her fingers.

Conflict is a funny thing. Each time his hands pin her wrists above her head as he takes her for all that she is, or when he’d let a finger slip through her smallclothes and glide through her folds, she wants to say no. She wants to be the good girl that her mother believed she was, but the pleasure was too much. The high that he takes her on each time is too much to ignore, too good to pass up on.

She wants to say no. The words wait at her throat, but refuse to tumble out of her lips.

It is wrong, but she wants to feel pleasure. She wants to be reminded that she is a woman worthy of pleasure, and she feels good- no matter how guilt-ridden - each time his cock sinks into her. No other man has wanted and loved her like this before, and despite the horridness of it all, she finds that she cannot say no - no matter how hard she tries. 

However, she doesn't know what he wants. Daemon Targaryen wears his intrigue as well as he does his arrogance and condescension. She never knows what he wants - but she also worries that she may not like what she finds.

She will find out soon.

“That will be all, my sweet,” Laena says. The exhausted smile she wears as she cradles her hugely pregnant belly makes her want to throw herself at her feet and cry for mercy - but she is too in deep. How could she tell Daemon she didn’t want to share his bed anymore? How could she, when his power and famed temper may just harm her? 

I’m sorry your husband fucks me each night. I’m sorry I like it. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

What right does she have, after allowing it all these times? What right does she have, after enjoying it each time? She doesn't love him, but in those moments, she loves what she feels. The regret that follows is gut-wrenching, but she chooses to indulge each time. It was a blind and burning desire, and it is this very same wave of emotion that compels her to follow his instructions, blind and eager to please.

A servant walks into the room and looks towards the window, eyes flitting about and nervous. “The Prince Daemon has asked to see you, lady.” Her tone is apologetic, and when Laena Velaryon stands, she feels herself crumble to a thousand pieces. When she is half-stood, the Valyrian beauty realizes it is not her that her husband wants to see tonight.

“Go. He doesn’t like to be kept waiting,” she murmurs. A heavy sigh escapes her lips as she sits back down, the weight of the impending babe taking a toll on her.

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

She is ashamed of the peculiar heat pooling in her belly as she walks out, unable to meet Lady Laena’s eyes. The walk to Daemon’s chambers has her head facing the floor as some of the other servants eye her and whisper the words.

Homewrecker. Whore. Concubine.

She wonders about how she could still want him after all the irreparable damage that she’s taken in her mind. She wonders when her lack of spine would dissipate, and when she’d be able to reject him outwardly and speak her mind. She wonders when she’d be able to make up her mind and stand by her decision.

She hates that she enjoys it, she hates that she’s at the center of it all. But he brings her to her peak effortlessly and with such intensity that she forgets for a moment, for just a moment, how wrong all of this is.

She pushes the door open and gulps at the sight of a half naked Daemon Targaryen sitting at the edge of his bed, hands pumping his cock with no urgency. The languid movements and his haphazard state of undress - his linen undershirt doing little to hide the lithe muscles underneath - make her head spin. He is yet to touch her.

She watches, his presence magnetic as he pulls her attention easier than he should. His gaze then finds hers as she stands frozen near the door, his breath a mangled mix of moans and groans as his hand refuses to relent. He looks at her as he continues his movements on his cock, and her thighs slap together while she folds her hands just below her breasts, pushing them up above the neckline of her dress.

A drop of sweat trickles down the side of her face as she makes her way to him, each step feeling labored and long as she positions herself between his legs. Her view of his cock is undisturbed and clear, and she hates that it is the most beautiful one that she’s ever seen. Slightly leaning to the left, the girth of it impresses her each time he pushes into her, making her feel fuller than ever before.

She continues to watch his hands move, movements as slow as ever. Her eyes are fixated upon the light silver hair that marked a path below his abdomen, and the veins that marked their way through his erect cock. The glistening white pearly drops of seed on the tip called to her, and her mouth began to water. 

“Take it” - he grunts through his pleasure - “off.”

She’s been in this position long enough to know what it means.It is one thing to lust after a man from afar, and another to be fucked by him. It is neither safe, nor ideal for her to be using her mouth on a Westerosi Prince whose wife was only one door away. And yet, they’ve been giving each other company for almost a year. 

She works through the laces on her front one by one, her focus on his almost black, dilated pupils. He wants her, and she wants him. It is seemingly simple, and yet it is the most complicated entanglement she has ever known.

He’s never been the most patient man to grace these halls, and it is evident as he stops the hand on his cock and stands up. He reaches for the dagger on a tray of fruit by the table, and swiftly cuts through the loops in a series of flicks. Each time the dagger cut through, the stray threads flew about and he dusted them off with the same disregard and impatience. 

“You’re going to take my cock in your mouth like the good girl that you are,” he growls. Candlelight illuminates his face as his dagger makes its way through the fabric, revealing her soft skin and exposing her breasts to him.

Wrong, wrong, wrong.

And yet, as the cool metal of his dagger grazes over her nipple ever so slightly, the fire in her burns bright. Her fear dictates that she say no and run before it can spiral into something beyond her control, but the faint waves of pleasure that cause the dampness between her thighs  keeps her there - almost as though her legs are stuck in quicksand.

The dress pools at her feet and she steps out of it, his hurried hands removing her shift. And when they stand, facing each other - and she wishes this was something else.

She wishes this was a simple and innocent love affair. She wishes that this was a man she could love, one that would love her just the way she would. She wishes that there was more comfort to be gained from this than the highs of the pleasure in itself - It will never be enough for her.

She reaches forward and kisses him flush on the lips, devouring his as she slips her tongue in. He bites into her lip and she tastes the copper of the blood bubbling through; he grabs her by the hair and pulls her up to meet his eye. “I said -”

“Please. Please, just… Please. Let me have this.”

He leans back and assesses her for just a moment before swooping in and taking her lips in his, no questions asked. And when he kisses her so, she can try to convince her little girl’s heart that this - what they have - is a lot more beautiful than it is meant to be.

The kiss makes her think that this is what the heavens would feel like, should she ever manage to meet the caress of a lover who’d love like she could, like she wants. A gentle and calm hand, a kind disposition that would care.  But it does not last long. He is quick to wrangle her mouth away and join her forehead to his, breathing in the scent of her as she closes her eyes and wonders how this could ever be what she wants, wrestling with the contrasting realization that she has not been loved like this, not ever.

But is this love, really? This cannot possibly be love. No. She’s known love before. It is simple, easy and comforting. Nothing about this is. 

She wants it just the same.

It is this thought that occupies her mind as she gets down on her knees. The stone cold floor and the ridges grate at her knees almost immediately, moving slightly as she bobs her head back and forth. She slowly but surely adjusts to his length, choking a little and allowing the spit to pool in her mouth, dripping down to her chin by the side of her lips. If she didn’t know better, she’d have mistaken him gently wiping it off with the tip of his thumb as affection.

She grabs his thigh with one hand and massages his stones with the other, her head continuing to bob back and forth relentlessly. His hands grasp at her hair, keeping the stray strands at bay as she reminds herself to breathe through her nose. She moves almost mechanically, forgetting him and his towering figure as she wonders. What do I look like to him? On my knees and eyes pooling with tears? 

It is a common saying among the common folk - A King’s child will be royalty, and a whore’s child will be a whore. She is the daughter of a whore, and she hates that the words may hold true for her too. 

Mama wanted for me to be more. Dignified and happy. She should not have died and left me alone.

She remembers a time when her mother had brought a friend of hers from the whorehouse back home. Her mother was a favorite amongst the nobility, and she’d entertained both the then-Prince Viserys and Daemon.

She’d become with child soon after, and had her. The idea of either man possibly being her father is sickening to her, given the position she now finds herself in. Of course, it will not matter much to them, with their Valyrian blood and queer customs - but it makes her want to cry her eyes out and worry about the kind of sickness she must inhibit to want Daemon Targaryen as much as she does despite the knowledge, despite the wrongness of it all. Her only consolation is that she has no Valyrian features. There is no way of knowing for sure, and she chooses not to entertain these thoughts while being aided by this realization. 

“Good girl. Go on,” he moans. His voice immediately brings her out of her reverie, and the words are enough to send her conflicted conscience spinning on its head.

Good girl, good girl, good girl.

Her mother called her a good girl many times before she died. The connotations of the word when they tumble out of Daemon’s lips make her want to retch. He probably believes that the tears are because of her choking on him, but she knows.

Those words meant much and more to her once upon a time, but not anymore. The loss hurts her more than it should. A lost childhood, a happiness that slipped through her fingers through no fault of her own. A much happier and carefree time that is now out of her grasp.

Her thoughts are interrupted when Daemon pulls her up - a thread of spit flowing out of her lips as she adjusts to an empty mouth - and pushes her, caging her between him and the cold stone wall.

Good girl, good girl, good girl. 

WHENEVER SHE THOUGHT OF THE TIMES that she got called a good girl, her mother was always the first to come to mind.

The city of King's Landing - she’d spent almost her entire life there before running onto the ship to Pentos - sprawled around them like a tapestry woven from the threads of countless lives. Towering structures of stone reached for the heavens, casting long shadows that danced across cobblestone streets worn smooth by time. The bustling crowd, a mosaic of colors and voices, flowed like a river through the labyrinthine alleys. The scent of roasted meats, exotic spices, and the ever-present stench of refuse mingled in the air, creating a symphony of odors that was, somehow, comforting in its familiarity.

Her mother worked at a whorehouse nestled amidst the chaotic and filthy heart of the Street of Silk. It was a place where laughter and merriment battled with sorrow and desperation, where secrets and pleasures were shared over wine, closed curtains and weak beds. As a child, she was vaguely aware of the nature of her mother's work, but she didn't fully grasp its complexities. What she did understand was that her mother often came home weary, her shoulders burdened by the weight of the world - or by bite marks and blooming violet bruises.

"Why would anybody bite you there, Mama?" she had asked once. Her mother had only chuckled, but she did not look happy. It always worried her. The bites always looked red, angry and painful.

It was the same bite mark and a line of violet bruises on her mother’s shoulder that she focused on today as she overheard her speak to her friend - another whore who worked at the same whorehouse. She watched as her mother exchanged quiet words with her friend, their voices a hushed whisper as they discussed their day.

“He does something magical with his mouth, Brenna. You would not believe it!” Her mother’s friend looked very happy as she giggled and recounted a story that she caught pieces and fragments of. The mother herself did not look happy, however - the little girl knew when her mother wasn’t happy. Don’t ask how, she simply did.

“I suppose I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

The evening sun painted the walls with warm hues, and as the other woman departed, her mother sank onto the edge of the bed. a far-off look in her eyes and a heavy sigh on her lips. 

Without a word, she fetched a basin of water, warm and soothing, and knelt by her mother’s side. Gently, the child removed her boots and began to massage her mother’s tired feet, her small, untrained hands working diligently to ease the discomfort to the best of her ability. The older woman closed her eyes, and a soft smile graced her lips as the tension in her muscles began to melt away.

In that moment, she saw her mother as more than just a tired whore; she saw her as a woman who carried the weight of their little world on her shoulders. The love she felt for her was immense, and it swelled within the child like a river after a storm. But the bite marks and the bruises still looked painful, and they still scared her.

And so, the child’s curiosity got the better of her, and she let the question slip from her innocent lips. "Will I have to work there too when I'm grown up? At the whorehouse?"

Her mother’s eyes flickered open, and a shadow of sadness crossed her face, barely noticeable but unmistakably obvious to her daughter’s young heart. She took a deep breath and then, with a gentle smile, replied, “Perhaps you won’t have to. Maybe you'll find a husband who'll love you more than anyone has ever loved me."

"But I love you a lot, Mama," the young girl said, her voice filled with innocence and devotion.

With a tender sigh, her mother pulled her close, wrapping her arms around her as if to shield her from the harsh world beyond that she was yet to see. 

If only.

"And I love you, my sweet child," she whispered, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. "You are such a good girl. You’re my little girl."

In that moment, the girl felt a profound sense of pride in being her mother’s daughter, in the simple act of bringing comfort to her tired soul. The city of King's Landing may have been a tumultuous sea of chaos, but in that room, with her mother's arms around her, she found her anchor, her safe harbor, and a love that she hoped would guide her through any storm.

HER BACK PRESSING INTO THE STONE WALL MAKES HER SHUDDER.

The cold sensation grating against her skin and the eerie chill of the night air make her weak in the knees. Daemon Targaryen’s cock moves against her cunt like it belongs there and nowhere else - the irony of that thought while his wife waits for him in her chambers close by is not lost on her, but she cannot deny how strongly she feels that the man is made for her.

Even if he truly was not.

His lips are immediately on hers, and she devours them for all that they are worth. She enjoys being kissed - it helps her feel wanted by him.

Even if she knew he did not.

Her hands move to the hem of Daemon’s linen undershirt, pushing it up, up, up until it is carelessly thrown halfway across the chamber. She only has one moment to get a look at his naked figure before he pushes against her and cages her between his towering figure and the wall once more. The feeling of heat passing through the pair of them and the smell of sweat and sex is intoxicating to her in a way that she struggles to put into words. Her cunt is wet with arousal as she whimpers into the kiss, allowing him to slip his tongue into her mouth. 

Time stops when they kiss. She supposes it is a beautiful thing, no matter how wrong it was.

Do things have to be right for them to be beautiful anyhow?

Her breasts are flush against his chest as he takes a hold of them, pinching her nipples until they hurt and she gasps into his mouth. He does not stop, however - her pain only seems to spurn him more, and she is ashamed to find that she is aroused as well. One of her hands travels above his neck and she tightly grips onto the root of his hair, pulling until he is in just as much pain and pleasure as she is. The other moves over the scarred planes of his back, almost as though she was mapping out a route to paradise.

The feeling of his cock pushing against her wet cunt sends waves of pleasure coursing through her, the blood rushing to her head and making her feel hazy. She lets the touches take her to the Seven hells - both the man and the circumstances making that their only possible destination.

She wonders if Laena Velaryon wishes for that too.

His cock pushes into her, stretching her walls so wide that she fears he may just split her into two. She needs a moment to adjust and he is generous enough to let her have it as his lips descend onto her neck, leaving her staring blankly at the bed as she breathes heavily. She cranes her neck just a little as she lets his cock settle in her.

And then, he moves.

She often believes that she lives with an aching sense of yearning and pushes through each day finding something to leave her feeling fulfilled. It is an empty feeling really, and the only time she ever feels like she is not a living shell of a woman is when he takes her. The feeling of being filled by him is one that always takes her by surprise - but unlike the other times that she's been taken unawares, this is something she welcomes.

“Yne drējī sȳrī jiōrā, talus. Sepār otāptan, sepār ñuhys ēdruryssy iemnȳ.” [You take me so well, niece. Just as I believed you would, just as I imagined.]

He always says these words whenever he enters her, and she never manages to retain them long enough to ask what they mean - the high of her peak always leaves her mind feeling like melted gold, taking away any chance for coherent conversation. 

Is he referring to someone? Is he appreciating her? Is he saying that he loves her? Somehow, she knows it is not the latter. She won’t have to try and remember to ask tonight - she would find out soon what it is he has gotten out of this all these days.

Every thrust is punctuated by grunts and moans, with both of them hungry for more. She meets every single one of his harsh thrusts as one of her hands slips in between them both, circling and pressing onto her pearl like her entire life was dependent on the pleasure that came from it.

It made sense. The pleasure he gives her each time is what keeps her alive.

Each brush of his flush pink tip against a rough spot inside her cunt makes her eyes roll back in pleasure. He hits it with each thrust as he pounds into her, face always wearing a mask of pursuit - but of what?

What does he want from her?

Her hand on her pearl and his cock in her is swiftly building a pool of heat in her belly - no, not the blazing kind, but a warm kind. It builds, builds, builds and she flies, flies, flies until she can’t go any higher, and she lets herself go limp in his arms as her peak takes over her entire being. 

“That’s it….” He grunts, pushing into her while punctuating each thrust with his words as he relentlessly pushes into her. “Good girl. Dāeremās, sȳres riñus iksā.” [Let go, you’re a good girl.]

She sees red as the pleasure washes over her, vision becoming hazy and rendering her incoherent for many a moment before she manages to bring herself back down to earth. And as the sights around her become clear again, she clings onto him and breathes while looking over his shoulder.

The world looks newer and brighter each time she comes down from the highs that he causes. And in this moment, his last words hit her like the stone wall that she stands in front of.

Good girl, good girl, good girl.

How can a pair of words remind her of what she was then and is now, all at the same time? How can these words hold so much power that they’d coax her into paradise and leave her there, lost and wanting for more, more, more?

She leans back and holds herself straight, looking into his eyes for only a short moment as she gathers herself. It is a deep sea of bright violet and she drowns, drowns, drowns.

She's been drowning in him and trying to catch her breath for a long while now. She's not sure if she wants to be saved - she wants a hand, and pushes it off too.

What does that mean for her?

Good girl, good girl, good girl.

The memory forms in her mind as Daemon Targaryen moves them both and turns her around to make her see out the window - fully naked. She braces herself with two palms holding onto either sides of the window as he pulls her backside to him and spreads her wide, leaving her glistening and sensitive cunt open for him to take once more. His hand moves almost softly over her rear as he enters her once more, this time purely to chase his own release.

“Good girl.”

KING’S LANDING WAS BUSTLING WITH TRAVELERS THIS TIME OF THE YEAR, and she was now fourteen summers old.

She had blossomed into womanhood, her youth adorned with beauty and a vague innocence - yet tarnished by the harsh realities of her life. She toiled at a tavern, where raucous patrons screamed sweet syrupy words at her, attempting to lure her away with their promises. 

“I’ll show you a good time, lass! C’mere!” The man at the table said, patting his thighs and indicating that he’d like for her to sit on his lap.

She had witnessed her own mother endure such advances, and now, as a grown woman, she was the object of many a man’s desire. She was both confused and intrigued, for the attention made feel disgusted yet wanted at the same time.

On one seemingly uneventful day, she counted her earnings - four copper pennies - and began to try and do the addition to determine how much more she would need to settle her mother's debt with the ominous madame of the whorehouse that her mother worked at. Her brother was meant to bring home his pay too tonight, and the sum of their combined efforts held the promise of lifting their family from the pit of debt that had ensnared them. As she left the tavern to head home, the weight of her responsibilities hung heavily upon her young shoulders.

Along her path back home, she encountered a pair of inebriated travelers, their intentions dark and menacing. They seized her arm, grip threatening to harm her fragile spirit. In the midst of her fear, a figure emerged from the shadows, a protector amidst the dangerous chaos. It was Brynden, her brother’s Riverlander friend - she has secretly admired him for years. As she held onto the stone walls of the roads for dear life, he  confronted the drunken men and drove them away from her.

She could not help the slight blush on her face as he checked if she was alright. Her mother once told her that she might find a husband that would love her - is this what love is?

Her young heart believed that it was.

Once he was sure that she was alright, Brynden brought her the news that he’d wanted to tell her. Her brother, it appeared, had squandered his earnings on ale once more and now lay incapacitated on the side of the Street of Silk after finishing an afternoon at a whorehouse. Determined to shield her mother from disappointment, she rushed to her brother's side, her heart pounding with a fervent resolve.

The smell of baked treats and food soon morphed into fragrant yet strong oils, wafting from half-naked women hoping to get a man to pay for their cunts. As she looked around, she finally found the whorehouse that her brother frequented. 

She found him in a pitiful state, his speech slurred and incoherent as he mumbled in his inebriated stupor. Anguish welled within her; he would not be bringing any money home this time either. But despite her frustration, she could not help but love him. He was her brother, and the bonds of blood ran deep.

Gently, she guided him through the winding streets, their journey fraught with the weight of her responsibilities and the uncertainty of their future. He babbled on, his words a testament to his gratitude and admiration for her sense of duty. 

“You’re a good girl, sister,” he’d said, his voice trembling with affection. “Good girl.” She pressed a tender kiss upon his sweaty forehead, her love for her brother transcending any and all disappointments. 

As the night unfolded into dawn, she herself succumbed to the embrace of sleep, her brother beside her, a fragile moment of solace amidst the tumult of their lives. When she awoke, he was gone, vanished into the shadows of the city, never to be seen again. Her heart ached with longing, but she never harbored resentment. She waited, and in her waiting, she remained faithful to the last words her brother had spoken to her. 

Good girl, good girl, good girl.

In the years that followed, she missed him every day. Her mother's health deteriorated, the weight of their struggles taking a toll. But she persevered, striving to be the good girl her brother believed her to be, even in his absence. 

Those two words became a guiding light, a reminder of the love they shared, of what she always hoped to be.

THE COLD AIR HITS HER SQUARE IN THE CHEST, and she is made aware of how exposed she is.

Daemon’s apartments are located at the topmost floors of the Prince of Pentos’ home. From where she stands, with her naked figure holding onto either side of the window as he takes her from behind, she has a clear view of the city at night. Logs of fire are lit and fitted onto stone walls on the roads, and the blurred fiery orange is visible to her as she looks down at the city that saved her. Any passerby close to her can crane their neck up just a little, and see her naked in all her glory, from neck to navel. 

Her breasts bounce as Daemon’s cock moves in and out, shining in the moonlight that her figure now obstructs, keeping the light from entering the dimly lit chamber. She lets out a strangled moan as he bullies her spot with each thrust, grunting and moaning in a mix of pleasure and exertion. The sweaty sheen on her forehead dries in the chill of the night air, and her line of sight is unstable with the way her head moves with the rest of her body.

“You like this, don’t you? For the entire world to see you spread out and wanting like this…” he says, with his lips nibbling on her ear enough to make her scream. “For them to know that you are mine. Fuck, fu-uuck!”

Mine, mine, mine. 

Is it such a bad thing to be? In this moment, as she rolls her eyes back at wave after wave of pleasure and the rapid heat blooming in her belly once more, she supposes it is. She will hate herself for wanting this when they are done for the night - but she’ll cross that bridge when it comes. 

Or burn it.

“Fuck,” she whispers as she loses herself. The shame of being put on display for every common man and woman to see is non-existent, but her heart drops at how she hates that she likes it.

A whore’s daughter is a whore too. How quickly had she given in, after all that she had done to escape a fate that wasn’t her doing?

With one particular thrust, she pushes forward a bit more than expected. She worries that she’s going to fall, fall, fall - the drop would be deathly steep and long.

She imagines what the fall would be like if her grip wasn’t tight. Her naked form falling down with her hands unable to find any purchase, flailing about as she is suspended in the air. She’d probably see all the bricks and windows in close view - perhaps, someone leaning against another window may scream as they notice her falling to what she hopes would be death, naked as her name day.

Would she be able to live it through if she miraculously and unfortunately survived that fall?

Almost as though he sensed her fear of slipping, Daemon’s hands move away from the loose grip they have on her waist. One hand snakes around her breasts and his forearm presses into her pebbled peaks, while the other cups her cunt and covers it from the cold completely. A fresh wave of arousal takes over her as he groans at the wetness that now coats his palm. The sudden warmth of his hand has her whining and moaning for more, and she moves, riding against his palm, wanting for more, more, more. It would seem that they are both insatiable tonight.

Daemon picks up the pace, his movements speeding up as she senses his desperation for release. She feels his cock hit her all the way up to her lower belly as the coil builds once more, giving her the excitement as she anticipates the sweet pleasure of release once more. She almost gives in right then, knees buckling and legs almost melting as she feels herself fly high, higher and higher still once more. Her peak washes over her in an instant as he pushes deep, her cunt only protected from the stone wall below the window by his palm.

It is a particularly long wave of pleasure that takes over her, making the hairs on her body stand upright as she struggles to stand on her own. Fire courses through her veins and her face is flushed as she finally smiles, drinking in the intense pleasure as Daemon’s thrusts get slower and slower until he spills in her too - a mix of grunts and moans as he falls apart.

The heady mix of sweat, slick and seed dripping down her thighs is enough to make her hazy and feel light in the head. Her head seems as though it is filled with cotton as her thighs quiver, making her experience relief like never before and she wants to turn and kiss him, hope to let the delusion that he loves her fester in her head a bit more and give herself the luxury of feeling genuinely loved for just a while as he-

“Good girl, Rhaenyra.”

His hands have moved away and he quickly pulls out of her, making her move forward. The stone wall hits the dark mound covering her cunt as she winces at the sudden emptiness - from both between her legs and her heart.

She’s lost her home, her memories, her happier days and a life that she loved. She’s lost enough and more for a lifetime. Daemon was never hers to be considered a loss, and she knows it too. And yet, as the realization that even his sex-addled, ill-meant compliments weren’t hers to own washes over her, she finds a lone tear slipping from her eye.

The salty taste on her lips feels like home.

Good girl, he’d said. To whom was he saying it, really?

TWO YEARS HAD PASSED SINCE HER BROTHER WALKED AWAY FROM THEIR LIVES, leaving an empty space that seemed impossible to fill. She was now a fully grown woman who was struggling to make ends meet in the bustling streets of King's Landing. Life had grown harsher with each passing day, and now, a shadow of illness loomed over their humble home.

Her mother had fallen ill, a fever that refused to break. She was too sick to continue working at the whorehouse, so they lived on scraps while the young girl’s earnings went toward settling their debts. She couldn't afford the services of a maester for her mother in the capital city, and the local healer's herbs offered little solace. Still, she continued to scrape together every copper she could find, pouring her earnings into the apothecary's pouch in a desperate attempt to buy her mother some time and relief.

Debt was a relentless specter in their lives. The madame of the local whorehouse hounded them incessantly, demanding the repayment of their debts. Her once cozy home felt increasingly suffocating, its walls closing in around them as they fought to survive.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the room, she returned home to a sight that sent a chill down her spine. Her mother appeared more sickly than usual, her brow damp with fevered sweat. She rushed to her mother’s side, her heart pounding with fear. She pressed her palm to her mother's forehead and felt the searing heat.

In her delirious state, her mother noticed her efforts to help and laughed softly, her voice a mere whisper. "Thank you my love, you’re a good girl," she murmured weakly, her eyes glazed with fever. The girl's heart ached, and she did what little she could to ease her mother's suffering. She prepared a hot bowl of soup and fed it to her mother, tears welling in her eyes as she watched the warm liquid spill from her mother's lips.

Good girl. The last words her mother had said to her. 

The night passed in anxious vigil, but by morning, her mother was gone. She had wept bitterly, her tears soaking the tattered bed linens that held the memory of happier times.

Days later, the madame of the whorehouse came knocking, a cruel glint in her eyes. She had no sympathy for the loss, only an insistence that the debt must be paid. With ruthless determination, she thrust the girl into her mother's role, forcing her to walk a path that her mother had promised she’d never have to.

“Maybe you'll find a husband who'll love you more than anyone has ever loved me,” her mother had said once. The words had no power or weight as she braced herself to welcome the lustful drunks of King’s Landing with a closed heart and open legs.

Distressed and terrified, the girl found herself in a living nightmare. The once-bustling brothel became her prison, and her innocence was sacrificed to repay a debt she had not incurred. As the first man walked through the doors that fateful night, she realized that her life had taken a dark and irreversible turn, and there was no escape from the cruelty of King's Landing's unforgiving streets.

She remembered looking at the ceiling as she whimpered, the pain of being taken for the first time making her well up in earnest. The bed made a series of creaking sounds as she let him have his way with her, and the gold coin that he’d flicked at her abdomen afterward shined like nothing she’d ever seen before.

“Gold?” she whimpered, unable to recognize the shiny metal. She looked at the coin in awe, and the man laughed cruelly. 

“Maiden whores are worth more than the usual,” he said. 

In all her years living in the stink of the city, she’d never felt dirty - but she did now.

With each night, she caged her heart and saved up the money. On some days, it’d be a penny and on some others, it’d be a silver stag. Every coin saved would buy her escape and freedom. And one night, she finally ran. 

Five silver stags for a journey aboard the first ship she could find. To Pentos.

Her job as a chambermaid at the Prince of Pentos’s home came to her as a kitchen maid took pity and took her in. For months, she’d safely worked and made more money. They provided her with a little chamber that she shared with the other maids, and food so her belly would never feel empty. She’d escaped the brothel and she wanted to believe that she’d made her mother proud. She didn’t know if she was happy, but she was her own person again - it had to count for something, regardless of how empty she felt.

Three months later, a silver-haired Rogue Prince made his descent on the palace grounds, atop the most terrifying dragon she’d ever seen - awakening what was dead in her once more.

DESPITE HOW ROUGHLY HE’D HANDLED HER JUST MOMENTS BEFORE, she felt as though she’d been doused with cold water.

Rhaenyra, Rhaenyra, Rhaenyra.

She’d believed that she was a blot of shame on Laena Velaryon’s marriage, but it would seem that a silver-haired princess - the Realm’s Delight, his niece - was doing far worse in her absence.

Had he been taking her from behind, hoping against hope that if he closed his eyes and thrusted enough, he’d be able to picture her? 

She turns around, the thrill of being put on display while in the throes of pleasure wearing off of her. She walks over to the table near the fireplace with unsteady steps, and slips on the robe that he’d discarded - possibly before she’d stepped in. The wine pitcher invites her with open arms, offering her the comfort of ignorance and forgetfulness as she tries to wrap her head around finally finding out what he’s wanted all this time.

She wanted to be able to feel something, and he wanted to feel her. Neither of them wanted each other, and she supposes that the field is now even. Somehow, she feels a bit more powerful with the knowledge that she wasn’t just someone that he took mindlessly, but was someone who helped him satisfy what she now clearly sees as his guilty desires.

She must have known. Rumors of whores being asked to call him uncle as he fucked them dizzy have floated about before - she thought they were lies, but now she’s seen firsthand how true they are.

He was married to a woman whom he probably wishes was someone else. He was straying from his marriage vows with another woman, not even the one who he wished for. She wonders if Rhaenyra Targaryen knows how deeply she is wanted and loved. 

She wonders if she will ever be loved the same way. A whore's daughter will also be a whore. Is she a whore now? Has she become what she tried to escape? And worse - does she genuinely enjoy it? 

They accompany each other in silence, the only noise being the cacophony of thoughts in their own heads. He slips into his soft trousers and sits on the edge of the bed as she passes him a goblet of wine. She sits opposite him whilst nursing her own goblet, simmering in her thoughts as she muses about her life’s journey - from a mere happy tavern wench to a prince’s solemn bed warmer.

There is a knock on the door that brings both of them out of their reverie. The servant slips in when Daemon mutters his permission and she takes in the sight of them both before looking to the floor and murmuring words that are inaudible.

“Speak up, girl,” he says. As the servant maid breathes in, she has a startling realization. His Valyrian words, the ones that she did not recognize or understand - were they for Rhaenyra too? She does not plan on asking. She supposes she’ll never know.

“Lady Laena has begun her labors, Prince Daemon.”

The servant scurries out, leaving the door half open as Daemon throws his head into his hands. She sets the goblet aside and stands in front of him, taking his head in her arms and letting it rest on her robe-clad abdomen. Her hands run over his hair in a soothing motion, almost in a lover’s embrace. Almost.

In this moment, she can tell herself that what they have is more than just sin and adultery. In this moment, she’ll tell herself that what they have is not dirty, but beautiful. 

“Go. She needs you,” she murmurs, the words once again reminding her of the precarious position she finds herself in. He walks away after dressing himself, and in the wee hours of the morning, the Prince and his wife welcome twin daughters - Baela and Rhaena.

Only four days later, she finds herself being summoned to his private apartments once more. She is now about to fuck a man who had not one, not two, but three girls in his life that he would disregard when he takes her - all in delusional pursuit of a woman who is half a world away. She hates what she is about to do, and she hates that she is already wet and wanting. 

She wants him. Despite it all, she wants him.

Wrong, wrong, wrong.

Her mother and brother called her a good girl, once upon a time. Would they say the same about her now?

Somehow, she knows that the answer is not something she'd want to hear.

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MASTERLIST

[warping-realities]

Familly Group Chat

Written version of my last video. At some point I'll make one of the first one too! Hope you like it!

Michael was one of the many “middle kids” of John and Louise Bennet; in fact, he was the 4th of 7, just a few minutes younger than his twin brother, Tobias, with whom he shared that typical inscrutable and unexplainable bond that only twins have. Even though the relationship among all seven Bennet boys was super strong, having been raised under the strict rules of the holy Catholic Church by their parents, they were all scattered across the country, so the only way to keep in touch was through the family group chat on an app. That morning, the 23-year-old blonde man, skinny but toned from constant running, had just finished taking a hot shower and putting on his favorite pair of skinny black jeans, which his modern startup job not only accept but even endorsed as part of the dress code. He was about to start brushing his teeth when a new message notification popped up on his phone.

“Message from Tobias, here we go…” he muttered to himself, knowing his twin would only send a message at that hour if it was to roast someone. And sure enough!

“Hey bro, did you see the good morning message Mom posted in the family group?”

“Not yet, man.”

“Well, brace yourself! I have no idea where she finds this stuff!”

As he opened the family group while heading to the kitchen to make his usual black coffee, Michael couldn’t help but chuckle at the cheesiness of the good morning image Mom had sent.

“Dude, do all moms have a group to share this crap?” he typed to his brother in the private chat.

“Has to be! But you better reply, you know how she gets… soon she’ll be whining about how she raised seven ungrateful kids or some nonsense,” Tobias replied. Thinking about that, Michael rushed to respond to their mom. Louise was really kinda needy now that only the youngest still lived with her. However, when he opened the family group, he couldn't help but laugh out loud at the reply Tobias had sent—an even tackier image than the one their mom sent.

“Dude, you’re the worst! Where the hell did you find that image to reply to her?” he shot back to his brother.

“Well, maybe I’m in the mom’s group!” He replied before sending something completely different. “Hey, what’s going on? Someone saved as Dad 0.2 just join the group. What the hell is this?”

Hurrying to check that message, Michael quickly opened the family group and was shocked to see an unknown person had joined, which shouldn’t be possible without an access link or an invite from one of the group admins, their parents. The private convo that followed between the brothers was frantic and freaked out.

“Dad 0.2 removed Mom from the group… what’s going on?”

“I don’t know… how does someone just waltz into a private group and kick someone out???”

“Dad 0.2 changed the group name from Bennet Family to Bradley Boys! What the hell is this?”

“He’s sending a video, what’s happening???”

“I don’t know, bro, let’s just open it and see.”

The video showed a dude in his forties, but he looked really good for his age, easily passing for someone younger if it weren't for the crow's feet around his eyes that showed he was used to smiling, and his extremely muscular physique screamed years of hardcore workouts. With light brown hair and a well-groomed beard, he was rocking just a pair of sweats that showcased his powerful muscles in a spacious but Spartan room, with minimal furniture or decor.

“Alright, guys, it’s time to send our good morning videos! Who’s next? How about you, Jeff? I’m dying to rest my head on those muscle pillows of yours, babe!” the stranger said, flexing his arms.

“WTF?? You seeing what I’m seeing, Tobias? And who the hell is Jeff?” Michael quickly texted back to his brother.

“I have no clue, man, this is so weird… wait a sec… Dad 0.1 just sent a video, what the hell is this?”

“I think we better check it out…” Michael shot back before opening the video from the contact that also showed up for him as Dad 0.1.

“I’m dying to see you too, Buck! Counting the seconds until you’re back, babe. The bed feels empty without you here! Who’s next? How about our firstborn? It’s on you, Wyatt!” That was impossible; the face on the screen was undeniably their dad, but he had gained a solid 50 pounds of muscle and lost a good amount of fat. Not to mention the carpet of hair that now covered his formerly smooth chest.

“Is that really Dad? No way… how?” Tobias sent back.

“I don’t know, man! This is so bizarre… how did he bulk up so much… it doesn’t make sense… and who the hell is Wyatt?”

“He mentioned firstborn… but no… that can’t be…” Tobias typed before they both received another notification. Upon opening the video, they were in for another surprise.

“Hey there, bros! Ready for a new day? I’m already warming up waiting for my workout buddy—where you at, Maverick, little bro?” said the muscular dude, barely in his thirties, dressed all in black and flexing in a gym locker room.

“Dude… that’s Will!!! But he’s never set foot in a gym,” Michael texted Tobias. William, the oldest of the bunch, was about to turn thirty, and he had the chubby physique of an accountant used to long hours behind a desk, drinking coffee and munching on donuts—that was literally his life… or should be. But if there was anything that video showed, it was that Wyatt had never put a single sweet in his mouth.

“I don’t even know what to say… but there’s more coming!” Tobias replied, apparently just as stunned. As the new video arrived, they rushed to look.

“Ha! I’ve already left you in the dust, Wyatt! Looks like the baby bro is now the big bro! Don’t take too long, or I’ll be late for school, and my coach is gonna flip, right, Griff?”

“Dude, that’s Martin on steroids! That kid looks like he’s tripled in size! Is this some kind of prank? Some deep fake?” he asked in shock. Martin, the youngest, was already a more athletic kid, being on the wrestling team, but with that size, he’d be better suited for the offensive line on a football team, if he wasn’t already too big for that, and who the hell was this coach he was talking about?

“Michael, I’m just as lost as you. But it looks like this isn’t stopping…” Tobias commented as another video popped up in the group.

“You’re gonna have to do a ton of push-ups for not calling me Coach Bradley, kid! No Griff or Griffin while I’m your trainer! And if you’re late for school, it’ll be suicide day! Speaking of late, where the hell are you, Chase? Bet you left Hunter hanging at the beach.”

“Tobias, that’s Gordon! How the hell is he a coach? He’s a math teacher!” Michael texted in disbelief, seeing their second oldest brother looking way older than he should, with thinning hair as if he had been overdoing the steroids, which seemed totally possible, he thought, seeing the massive bodybuilder rocking just boxer briefs and a tight tank top, flexing his powerful muscles in some dimly lit room.

“Tobias? Tobias? Damn… there’s more coming!” Michael texted anxiously as he opened the next video.

“Ha, you know me too well, bro, but The Chaser is on the scene, Hunt’s got to face me!” That was Carl, but just like the other family members, he had gone through a transformation that left him almost unrecognizable. He had turned into a mountain of muscles covered by a thin layer of bronzed skin, clad only in a tiny yellow short, shades, and a backwards cap. Sitting in a car, flexing his muscles and grinning. Michael didn’t even have time to send a new outraged message to Tobias when another video came in.

“Too bad I’m already way ahead in my workout, little bro! You sure you want to take me on? Hehehe. Speaking of challenges, which twin’s gonna fire the next shot? Trey or Micah?” said the bronzed, muscular dude sporting Hugh’s modified look, the brother just below the twins in age. Watching this, Michael’s shock wore off, and he resumed chatting with his twin.

“What the hell is going on??? What are they doing at the beach? They should be in college!” But the reply didn’t come. Worried, he called out for his brother.

“Tobias? Tobias?”

“Who the fuck is Tobias, bro? I’m already sending my video, Micah! Big T is once again taking the lead! At least The Grand Finale is all yours!” was the twin response.

“Tobias, you guys must be messing with me!” Michael sent before opening the family group, where his brother had just sent another video.

“Trey here, leaving the little twin eating dust as always. And like always, I can’t tell what’s more badass, the view from my window or the sight the girls get when they check out my bod! What do you say, Micah, who’s used to seeing pretty much the same thing when you look in the mirror?” said the guy who in no way could be his twin brother, while grinning and showing off his muscular physique in front of his sunny apartment window. Totally lost, Michael sent a message to him.

“Tobias… Trey… I’m not doing any of this, this is insane!” he sent without realizing that autocorrect had changed his brother’s name.

“Dude, we’ve been doing this for years! It’s a Bradley tradition, what’s the problem now? You know how our das freak if we don’t join in. One of them is gonna call you if you don’t send it soon!” he replied. And Michael didn’t even have time to formulate a response to that new absurdity.

“Crap, video call from Dad 0.1,” he muttered to himself, refusing to pick up. But it seemed his phone had a mind of its own because the altered version of his dad popped up on his screen without permission.

“Micah, your dad is far away and wants a video from his boys. Trey just told me you don’t want to do it. What’s the harm in sending it? All your brothers already have, don’t be a buzzkill,” said the man with a serious and slightly disappointed expression.

“Dad, I… what the hell?” Michael started to respond, only to be cut off by the sudden entrance of a third person in the call. How was this possible? How was all this even real???

“Chill out, Jeff! I think Micah’s scared of looking like a weakling in front of his brothers.” It was the guy from the other video, grinning and crossing his arms while looking at Michael with a mischievous glint in his eye.

“What??? I… no… weakling!” For some reason, that challenge sparked something inside him, a primal urge to show what he was capable of, and even more, to show that man what he could do. He wanted… no, he needed to prove himself to that man. Show one of the most important people in his life that he wasn’t some weakling!

“You’re gonna see who the weakling is, Dad!” Micah shot back with a grin before sending his own video.

“Last of the Bradley boys here, you bunch of exhibitionists!” he said, shyly smiling. Unlike his brothers he didn't like to show off his physique without a greater purpose, he kept hitting the gym for the joy it always brought him, mainly because it was something that connected all the brothers and their two dads. The boys didn’t know who was whose dad, and to them that didn’t matter one bit. The Bradley boys were a united front; even though each had their own place, they all worked together at the gym their fathers had founded many years ago, even those who had other jobs like Griff or were still finishing school like Maverick. Even when it came time for college, they preferred to stick around instead of crossing the country, which was why Hunter and Chase still lived with their fathers. Their upbringing had been liberal, but there were still well-established boundaries of respect. Even though a much greater degree of freedom was present now that they were all adults, provocative acts had become more common, with the guys and their parents occasionally sending more explicit videos. In fact, the bond among them was so strong that whenever one of them was away for some reason, it had become family tradition to send those good morning videos.

“We’re looking forward to your return, Dad!” he said in the group, joined by his brothers and other father. They were answered by Buck, affectionately known by all as Dad 0.2.

“I’ll be back this weekend, boys, and I want the whole family together! But until then, at least we’ll have our little moments every morning. To wrap it up, here’s one last video from me for you to think of me as much as I think of you!” he said, winking and provocatively massaging his pecs.

“Come on, Dad! We don’t need this at this time of the morning,” was the response from his sons, even though they were all exactly the same kind of man as Buck Bradley.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Like a Stone 1

Warnings: non/dubcon, power dynamic, age gap, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: Loki, Tony Stark (Professor AU)

Summary: your work as a TA is complicated by more than your advisor. (tall reader)

Part of the Bad Professors AU

Note: Please leave some feedback and reblog <3 As always, I love to chat with you all. 

The day begins unfortunately. You are a stickler for details but by some carelessness you end up at the wrong office. Rather than Laufeyson, you’d stumble upon Odinson and his rather stuffy office mate. If you think someone is uptight, they must be. 

Still, the mistake doesn’t set you behind. You approach the correct office door and double check the placque set in the wood. Dr. Laufeyson. Hm. One day you will wear the same title. 

You knock lightly and stand staunchly in wait. Even without your rigid posture, you are tall. You never pay that attribute much attention until someone points it out, often with a childish joke about the altitude or the like. 

You wait and when no answer comes, you knock again. 

“Yes, do come in,” the impatient bark from within tightens your muscles. Well, this is a great beginning. 

You turn the handle and let yourself in. It’s not very polite not to answer your own door. Well, he hardly has to worry about your evaluation, no, the situation is quite the opposite. And you shouldn’t be ungrateful, you fought for this opportunity. 

“Hello,” you enter and linger at the threshold, “open or shut?” 

“However, you like,” the black-haired man doesn’t look up from the book on his desk. 

“Right, Dr. Laufeyson, I believe we were scheduled to meet. I’m Primrose. Your TA for this session.” 

“Yes, yes, I’ve it all ready. The green folder there,” he gives a slight tip of his head, a gesture that puts your eyes to the corner of the desk. 

“Thank you, sir,” you approach and put your hand on the folder. “I thought maybe you’d like to go over the duties.” 

He stays as he is, shoulders curled forward, his lithe and long figure hunched over the desk, his beakish nose pointed down. Only his green eyes move. His black tresses are bushed back so the spirals cluster behind his neck. 

“They are listed inside. Along with the syllabus and what I expect of you in terms of classroom duties and lesson planning,” he remains fixated on the pages. You’re slightly irked by his indifference. 

“I understand,” you lift the folder and hold it to your chest. The buttons of your blazer press into you. “Well then... I suppose it was nice to meet you.” 

“You will send your first lesson plan tonight and I will return my feedback,” he flips the page, “no time to waste then.” 

First lesson? You withhold a blanch and nod. He isn’t very accommodating. You wouldn’t expect less given the lot of professors you’ve encountered, but you though being a TA, he might have more interest in you than some dusty tome. 

“Thank you,” you turn on your heel and bite down on your irritation. 

You pull the door shut and it isn’t until you’re alone in the hallway, that the disappointment hits you. You’re not an optimistic person. You define yourself as a pragmatist and yet, that was not what you expected.  

You've been dismissed, disposed even. If he were not effectively your boss, you might go back in and let him know just that. Yet if you did, what good would it do? Men rarely hear above their egos. 

You lower the folder to your side and march down the hallway. Your heeled boots echo around you and down the stairs of the foyer. You come out and shield your eyes against the glare reflecting off the paned walls of the engineering building. Typical, yet the arts and humanity buildings look as if they could fall to dust. 

You twist around but the light blinds you from seeing the other body headed in the opposite direction. You stagger back as the folder falls from your grasp and the papers flutter all around. You wince and quickly bend your knees to gather the mess before it can all blow away. 

A chuckle crackles in the air and you glance up at the older gentleman you ran into. 

“Apologies,” you say as you swipe up the papers, moving awkwardly with bent legs. 

“Not at all, sweetheart,” he steps on a page to keep it from riding the wind. “Here, let me help ya out.” 

He bends to shuffle a few papers into his hands and holds them out. You take them and shove them into the folder with the rest. You huff and stand. He does too. You’re taller than him and would be even without your heels. He looks up at you with a glimmer in his dark eyes. 

“Wow, glamazon, love the look, sweetheart,” he winks. 

You narrow your eyes as you take in his groomed goatee, his silvering hair along his temples, and that arrogant crooked smirk.  

“I’m not your sweetheart,” you snip. “Thank you for your help.” 

You hug the folder and sidestep him. Or try to. He moves with you and blocks your way. 

“Well, you could try being sweet,” he goads. 

You back up and look him in the face. You don’t know how to respond to that. Most men don’t bother and when they do, they get one sneer from you and run. 

“Step one, smile,” he purrs. 

Your lips curve but not upwards. You teethe the inside of your lip and lock down your anger. First Laufeyson, not this character. 

“Pardon me,” you say at last but as you try to pass, he hooks his arm around your waist and pulls you in front of him. 

“You don’t gotta be shy. You a freshman? I can show you around,” he offers. “Wanna see my office?” 

You calmly put a hand on his shoulder and shove until his arm slackens. You back up and set your chin. Your nose flares. 

“I am not a freshman and I’m not interested in old men. Good day.” 

Instead of trying to push past, you turn and stomp in the other direction. Your legs are long enough, you can outpace him. Easily. Not to mention his age. 

Just another unexpected turn. You’ll just have to go the long way. Not ideal since you have a lesson due in only a few hours. 

[rushtoprove]

our little secret

part one: revelations

pairing: aemond targaryen x f!reader chapter: 1 rating: teen and up word count: 4k+ summary: aemond promised to take you as his wife when the time was right and you had no reason to doubt him. but when news of his engagement to cassandra baratheon is announced, and your name is left ruined by his nightly visits to your chamber, you have no choice but to flee from the shame you have brought upon your family and to run from the man you love. but not all is as it seems warnings: sexual references and nsfw scenes. period typical misogyny and course language. chapters: 1 / 2

From the moment you were born, you were told your only importance was how successful your marriage would be for the furtherment of your family. Your older brother would inherit your father’s titles and his lands, but all you had was a dowery that you could not touch for it would belong to your future husband. You were told that the only skills you needed were to please the men around you in hopes that they might take a liking and to learn the customs that make a good wife.  

“Your future depends on tonight. Every eligible suitor shall be at this ball, and you must present yourself perfectly. Do not let your family down.” You felt your mother tug your hair with extra force as she readied you for the great feast to honour the king on his name day. 

“Yes mother.” You whispered, desperate for her to approve.  

“We have spent much gold on this dress so do not make it needless. We will not have you come back without a suiter again.” Taking in the bright blue silk that pressed tightly against you, forcing your chest to push up further than you thought possible, you bowed your head in obedience. You wished to tell her that every other gathering only presented halfwits and morons, but you would never dare speak to her that way. She would tell you to be grateful that the men had looked at you and that their house name would provide stability and protection. She would curse you for being ungrateful and spoilt, making it much easier to simply keep your mouth shut. 

“I shall make you proud mother.” You wanted to. Gods, all you wanted was your family’s love and gratification, but you would not be looking for a suiter tonight. You would not allow the Lannister lord to sneak you to the gardens to talk, nor would you allow the Baratheon boy to whisper sweet nothings in your ear. The cousin of the House Strong would not be allowed to read you his poetry and you would certainly not allow the first-born Tyrell to steal a kiss is the dark. No one would court you, for you were taken. You just needed time to explain it to your family. They would not understand just yet.  

“Come. You are ready for them to see you, and what a sight you are.” Submissive to your mother’s order, you stood and followed numbly behind her. The walk to the hall was a blur of noise and colour. Your father always had to be leading, standing tall in front of the courts. You all belonged to a small house, nameless years ago, but your father had built his power through his cunning ways. But as powerful as he considered himself, your house was still a small one meaning you were one of the first to enter the hall. Not many were there to see your entrance, but your father kept his head high and his strut powerful. You admired his dedication to the role. 

“I am sure your mother has told you what is expected of you tonight.” His fierce gaze did not waver as you quickly ducked into a curtsey. 

“Yes father.” Your family had told you of their expectations since you came of age, but they had fallen into the habit of repeating it whenever they were with you. For a year, you had remained without a suiter and your family were blind to the reason. They thought you too plain to keep any man’s interest, and too dull to be admired.  

“Good girl.” No one suspected it you who was keeping the admirers away. That you would tear up the love letter’s that would arrive in the aftermath of these feasts, or that you would decline the company of countless men without fail. Some even found themselves threatened with fire and blood, but it was not you who terrorized them so. 

“The Lannister Lord was quite taken with you after Princess Helaena’s name day celebrations. Perhaps try and make him remember that affection.” Your brother tried to spur you on affectionately, hoping his advice would help you. Again, you simply bowed your head and cast down your eyes.  

“Here., He comes!” Your mother hissed, quickly reaching out and tugging your cheeks to brighten them. Your father instantly stood to attention while your brother quickly squeezed your arm in fondness. Not one cared that Jason Lannister was a year older than your father. 

“You shall shine bright tonight little sister.” He whispered in your ear before nudging your forward. Your whole family bowed in respect for the higher born lord, but he paid no attention as he shamelessly stared at your breasts. 

“Ah my little dove! You disappeared so quick the last time we met! I thought to never see you again!” Without permission, he pulled your hand roughly to his lips. He may have been more considerate if he not already drowning in his cups. 

“My apologies Lord Lannister.” It was challenging to not turn up your nose in disgust and turn away from the proud bastard, but you remained passive under the gaze of your blood. He was still yet to look at your face. 

“I hear the royal family are meeting so they shall not be attending for a little while longer. Let us dance to fill in the time.” You wanted to decline, but your heart squeezed at his words. The smallest reminder and you were caught in your own mind. Senselessly you agreed and repressed the shiver that ran down your spine as he grasped your waist and dragged you to the centre of the dancefloor. Other couples joined to line up beside you and Jamie Lannister finally lifted his gaze from your chest, only to stare at Cassandra Baratheon’s beside you. You watched as she lowered her gaze and giggled, slyly looking up at him from beneath her eyelashes. She was good at this little play.  The music jolted everyone to attention, and you slowly moved to the beat, dreading the feeling of Lord Lannister’s hands in yours. It was not his touch that you wished to feel right now. You only cared for the touch of another.  

“King Viserys Targaryen, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, Prince of Dragonstone! And his wife Queen Alicent of House Hightower!” The dance was holted and the courtiers fell into a silent bow as the announcement was made. You felt your breath catch and against your will, your neck craned to find a glimpse of who you had been desperate to see.  

“And their children! Prince Aegon Targaryen, Prince Aemond Targaryen, Prince Daeron Targaryen and the Princess Helaena Targaryen!” The family stepped forth into the hall, hands clasped behind their back as they walked straight through the parted crowd. No one dared to look too long, out of fear they may disrespect the royal family, and you too kept your eyes firmly downcast. You heart grew louder in your ears as the echo of footsteps grew closer, before stopping altogether as you gazed them walking in front of you. 

“They better have poured my wine.” You heard Prince Aegon moan as he came to walk past you. 

“You drink more than a Braavosi seahorse.” The sound from Prince Aemond was something you often longed to hear and left goosebumps all over you. The deep voice was enough to have you blushing, thinking back to the scandalous things he had whispered to you the very night before. 

This was your secret. Aemond Targaryen, the second prince to King Viserys, and the proud rider of the fierce dragon Vaghar, was your lover. Every night he would take the secret passage to your chamber and claim you, over and over. He would worship your body and be floored by your mind while praising the gods they had sent you to him. He adored you, and you him. But it had to remain your little secret. Your family would not believe you would be able to capture a prince, no matter how high they wanted you to marry. 

That’s why you prayed no one saw him extend his finger to brush through your hair as he walked by you. 

“Please! Be relaxed!” The king laughed. Releasing a breath, everyone went back to standing straight and watching as the Targaryen family took to their seats. King Viserys began a speech, thanking all those who had come to attend his celebration, and you tried to pay attention. You truly tried. But Aemond had yet to move his gaze from you, leaving you blushing and trying not to make eye contact for too long. It had been a year since you had given yourself to him, and yet it still left you dizzy as if it the first time you received his attention.  

“Aegon sure loves his cups.” You had forgotten that Jason Lannister remained in your presence and flinched as he whispered into your ear with his foul breath. He leaned against you, making you almost buckle under his weight in shock. It was impossible to miss the way Aemond’s gaze darkened. You tried to politely move away from the man, but you could not leave your position without him falling to the ground. For the rest of the speech, you tried desperately to ignore the weight, and the smell, of Lord Lannister and instead tried to remember something else to take your mind of it.  

Watching Aemond draw his goblet to his lips, you remembered the feeling of his tongue making its way down your naked form, the feeling of his mouth on your most sensitive parts. The feeling of ecstasy as he made you crumble beneath it for the fourth time that night. The memory of last night made your experience much easier to bear. 

“Now let us dance and be merry! Let us have some music!” The band were quick to restart the song, and everyone scrambled to take their places. It was a flurry of skirts and elbows, everyone desperate to fulfil the wishes of the king. You were dragged to your spot by Lord Lannister, who you did not know could even stand straight. Quickly readying yourself, you paid no attention to who lined up beside you.  

“Thank you for dancing with me.” A sweet voice laughed beside you, as you flattened your skirt and pulled at the cuffs of your sleeves. You felt ridiculous in such heavy layers during the summer, but your father thought keeping the coverage would show your purity. 

“Anything for you sweet sister.” With a jolt, your head swung up to see Aemond standing proudly, leaving Jamie darkened by his shadow. You had yet to see Aemond dance in public as he had only danced with you twice, privately, and under the influence of too much wine. His eye remained staring at you, and you couldn’t help the smile that crossed your lips. Only you would have noticed the way his lips also curved upwards. 

“Princess Helaena. Prince Aemond. It shall be an honour to have you as our dance partners.” Lord Lannister was breathless at the sight of Aemond, as may often were. The respect he had gained from his fighting skills and philosophies often either intimidated or attracted the court. You quickly bowed in agreement. 

“A pleasure.” You whispered. Helaena simply giggled before holding out her hand to her younger brother. You mimicked the move to Jamie and watched Aemond tense as your hand was squeezed much too tightly. The band began the music once more and everyone began moving in sync. You did not allow yourself to get too close to the Lannister, but the moment you spun into Aemond’s arms you felt yourself be pulled flush against the prince. The proximity could easily be seen as a part of the dance, but everyone was blind to the way both your bodies were alight with the familiar feeling of desire.  

“I do not intend to spend too long here my love. I do hope you intend to leave soon.” His voice was hushed as he pulled your body up and spun you around to the dance. 

“Whatever my prince desires.” You breathed out as your mouth leant close to his ear. He spun you so that your back was pressed tightly to his chest and lifted your arm to trail his fingers along. 

“You know what I desire. Make sure your servants make your bath than retire for the night. I will take care of the rest.” 

+++ 

It was not two minutes after your maids did retire that night, that the hidden door into your room swung open widely. You had no time to prepare before Aemond had you wrapped up in his arms and his hand tangled into your hair. 

“You look fucking delicious in that dress.” He moaned as he moved his face to bury into your chest. You laughed and tried to push him away mockingly but took delight in the way he pressed his lips tightly against yours. You sighed at the feeling and cherished the way you felt him relax in a way that he would only do for you.  

“You may take me as many times as you like tonight Aemond, but I need to bathe first. Jason Lannister spilt his wine all over me.” You cursed that you had to break away from his kiss, but the stickiness of your skin was unbearable. 

“I should have cut him down right then and there. How dare he touch what is mine?” Aemond hissed but you both fell silent. How was he to know? No one was aware of your arrangement yet. Aemond first needed to gain permission from his family to have you as his wife, a proposition which you had accepted long ago. It was hard to find the right time, however due to the king’s ailing heath and rising tensions amongst the royal family. You did not mind. You would wait a lifetime for him. 

“Come and join me my darling. I want to wash your hair.” You ignored the heaviness of the room, and instead walked backwards while guiding him by his hand. He smiled lovingly at you and brought your hands to his lips.  

“I crave nothing more.” When you reached the tub, he moved to stand behind you and began to unlace the back of your gown. He could not go two seconds without kissing the back of your neck. 

“Pay attention! The bath will get cold.” You tried to reprimand him, but your eyes screwed shut in pleasure to which he took great delight. It took longer than it should have, but when you were both finally bare you watched as he lowered himself into the water. His eyes raked over your naked form as if he was seeing it for the first time. 

“Moulded from the gods.” He breathed out in reverence. Once upon a time, his attention was overwhelming. Now you were filled with nothing but bliss. You joined him but kneeled before him instead of laying against his chest. 

“Do come closer I might catch a chill.” He frowned, making you giggle as the steam that rose from the almost scorching water almost made it impossible to see one another. 

“Not until you are as bare as me.” Biting your lips, you placed your hands on your thighs and stared at him expectingly. Aemond held your gaze for some seconds, before humming begrudgingly.  

“Fine. But you take it off. I wish to use my hands elsewhere.” Crawling forward so you leaned on top of him, Aemond grabbed your hips and quickly nipped at your shoulder. 

“Ow.” You cried out in fake shock as your hands moved up towards the back of his head. Fumbling around, you loosened his eyepatch enough so that you could slip the leather off his head. He did not break eye contact as his missing eye became exposed, and in its place a perfectly carved sapphire. Delicately running you finger down the side of his face, you pressed a small kiss on his scarred eyebrow. 

“Perfect.” Your sigh was enough for him to pull you down to him and yet again pull you in to a feverish kiss. Aemond allowed his hands to clutch desperately at your body before flipping you over. Holding your breath, you felt both your bodies submerge under the water, but he refused to break the kiss. You cried out in shock and could not stop laughing as you broke through the surface. 

“Are you trying to drown me?” You giggled as you pushed your soaking hair from your face. He smiled lazily at you as he reclined back into the bathtub, slowly tugging you with him. 

“Well, you needed me to soak my hair for you to wash it did you not?” With an eyebrow raised expectantly, Aemond pushed forward the rosewater left behind for your own hair. No one would know the way Aemond was behind your closed doors, and you were devoted to keeping it your little secret. You moved to sit behind him and allowed his body to relax into yours as you began massaging your fingers a top his skull. It was a comfortable silence as you washed him and with closed eyes, Aemond moaned at your touch. 

“I must admit something to you.” He only spoke once you had rinsed his hair and his voice was nothing more than a whispered. 

“What must you confess?” 

“I discussed my future proposal with my father.” Your fingers stopped for a second, before hesitantly running down the fallen strands. 

“What of it?” You whispered. You were no fool. You knew that the royal family would not simply allow their son to marry such a lowborn lady. But you could not help but hope for dear life that they had. 

“I have requested that I chose who I shall wed. And he has agreed.” Pushing Aemond forward, you stared at him with widened eyes. 

“You jest.” You glared at him but could not slow your beating heart. Shaking his head, Aemond clasped your hands together with sincerity. 

“Not of this. I have given much to my family. This is all I have asked for and he says it is to be granted.” 

“You're making a fool of me.” Pushing Aemond away, you quickly climbed from the bath and wrapped yourself in a gown, concealing yourself from his gaze. He was quick to follow, calling for you as he followed to your bedroom. 

“You think me a liar?” Grasping your shoulders, he turned you to face him. His heart broke at the sight of the tears that had fallen down your cheeks. 

“You are a prince. You will not be allowed to marry me.” You tried hard, but a sob racked your body and you desperately tried to spin away from his sight. His hands firmly kept you facing him. 

“I told you long ago that I would marry you. And when have I ever broken a promise? We are made to fit against one another my love. Without you I would lose half my heart, half my soul! I will not allow you to be taken from me and I have made it clear to my father! He has agreed! I swear it on my mother’s soul! You shall be my wife and you shall be the mother of my children! I would not jest of my love for you.” You could not speak for all that left your mouth were cries. Bundling you up in his arms, Aemond tightly pressed himself to you. 

“You are my love. My light. If I am not with you, I shall die the most painful death, I just know it. I love you. I promise you this. You shall be my wife.” 

You believed him. 

+++ 

The next day, you found yourself nervously pacing your families' quarters, awaiting your father. You brother stared at you as if you were a mad woman, but your mother was too caught up in her own excitement. She could not believe her husband had been called to a private audience with the king. 

“Gods. What could it be about!?” She clutched her pearls as she too paced around the room. Your brother simply sat upon the couch, amused by the women in his life.  

“I hear the master of coins is to retire. Perhaps father is to be offered the position.” He put forward the idea casually, but your mother burst into hysterics at the mere thought. You, however, knew what was being said. You had wished Aemond had given you time to explain to your family the relationship you shared with the young prince. It would surely come as a shock. 

“WHERE IS SHE!?” You father’s voice shook the doors from the mighty boom. Everyone jumped in shock. 

“What...” 

“WHERE IS THAT FUCKING WHORE!?” The very words struck you and you felt your insides crawl. You were instantly nauseas. You knew if you were truly engaged to a prince your father would have wept with pride. Doing your best to suppress your dread, you assured yourself.  

Aemond had promised. 

The doors burst open, and everyone watched in horror as your father strode in and grasped your shoulders tightly. 

“You wench!” He cried out before tossing you towards your brother. He leaped to his feet to catch your stumbling form. 

“Father I...” 

“You have shamed this family! You have RUINED YOURSELF! YOU ARE TARNISHED! WHAT SANE PERSON WOULD WANT YOU NOW! YOU FOOLISH FUCKING WHORE!” You father’s words cut deep, and you instantly began shaking. Desperately looking between your family members, you felt your breath quicken and your mind began to race. 

“Lord husband? What is the meaning of this?” Your mother cried as she moved to grab his arm, but your father simply twisted from her and pointed his finger close to your face. 

“Your whore of her daughter has bedded Prince Aemond! The word has gotten to his father the king!” Your mother shouted in disagreement, but you felt your brother’s supportive grip loosen. 

“Father please I...” 

“He has banished you! He has requested I take you from the Red Keep this very instant! He says he is ashamed of such debauchery taking place beneath his ceilings!” You cried out at his words, and tried to stumble away, but your father would not allow you. 

“There must be some mistake!” Your mother tried to protect you, but your brother spun you to face him. Wiping away your tears, he looked at you in sympathy. 

“What did he promise you?” Your father shouted at the question and quickly took to pacing the room. 

“He loves me.” Your voice was a whimper, leaving you unable to defend yourself against your father's onslaught. 

“He desires you little sister. He is incapable of love. He is a man with royal tastes. He is just like his brother.” You began shaking your head at his mocking words and struggled to free yourself from his tight grip.  

“You do not understand! He loves me. He promised he would...” You began sobbing before you could finish the sentence making your brother click his tongue in pity. 

“Do you not see? You’ve been tricked. Did he promise your marriage? He is an heir to the throne! The marriage of a Prince is a political matter. You think he would simply be allowed to choose you as his wife? What would you offer the throne? You are a fool. He has tricked you sister and left you shamed.” You moaned in disagreement at the taunting before yet again trying to break his hold. Crying out in anger, you began kicking backwards. 

“You do not understand! He has been promised! He is to marry me!” 

“He has fooled you. You are disgrace by his actions.” 

“No! I must see him! He has requested my hand! He asked his father to marry me!” You heard your father scoff at the words, and soon he began laughing hysterically. The noise made your heaving chest rattle even louder and you desperately shook your head. 

“He is not here you wretched fool! Listen to your brother! His marriage has been planned for months now! All the court knows! Everyone but you because you have been too busy hiding yourself from the truth of the matter. You have acted as a lovesick fool and now our family name must pay the price.” The mocking was met with your desperate rejections, but your body began to weaken. 

“No.” You whined out in anguish. 

“Aemond Targaryen has ridden with Lady Cassandra Baratheon.” You whimpered now, still shaking your head at your fathers' cruel words. 

“Please.” 

“For he wishes to ask her father for her hand directly.” Collapsing to the floor, you became numb to your mothers' sobs and your brothers tuts. Your father leant down to your crippled form and roughly took your chin so that you had no choice but took look at him. 

“Yes. Prince Aemond is to marry. And you are to be banished from his sight for the rest of your years. You are ruined my daughter. You are a shame on the family name. There is a carriage that is to take you on a ship, and from there you shall sail to Dorne. You shall live away from the mess you have created. Perhaps it mercy the king has sent you away from the scandal that shall no doubt brew. You are an embarrassment and a fool.  We hope to never see your whore of a face again.” Your father’s cruel snarl shook you, but you felt yourself falling further and further into a depression.  

You thought of Aemond’s promise. You thought of his laughter and his kisses. You thought of the feeling of his hands on your skin, his lips on yours. His whispers of their future. But everything seemed to be crumbling inside your memory. How had you allowed him to lead you on for over a year? Had it all been an empty promise?  

Did he ever truly love you?  

next chapter

[rocknroll7575]

Jaune's Mom...

*RWBY+NPR eating lunch*

Ruby: Hey... Where's Jaune?

*Jaune bursting through the doors and running over to his friends*

Jaune: No! No! No! No! No!!! *Quickly hides amongst his friends*

Pyrrha: Jaune? What's wrong?

Jaune: M-My Mom's here in Vale and she wants to visit!

Weiss: How is that a bad thing?

Ruby: Yeah! What's wrong with your mom coming to visit?

Jaune: *looking at them terrified* You guys don't get it! Mom is the scariest woman on the planet! You think Goodwitch is terrifying!? Wait till you meet my mom! Oh I hope she doesn't bring them here as well!

Yang: *chuckles* Your mom's scarier then goodwitch? I ain't buying it VB

PA System: CODE RED! CODE RED! I REPEAT! CODE RED!

Jaune: Oh god she's here!

*Suddenly, the doors of the Cafeteria burst open and everyone turns to see a woman who had a grey military coat draped over her shoulders, underneath the coat was a red business suit with a tube skirt, see through leggings, and black high heels. On the right side of her face and neck was a large scar that covered a large portion of visage. Held in her mouth was a cigar that he took a large puff on before removing it from her mouth and letting out a large puff of smoke*

?: Jaune... I know you're here... Stand up so I can see you.

Jaune: *remains sitting down as he's sweating bullets*

?: I SAID STAND UP!!!

Jaune: *Stands up* YES MA'AM!!!

*The Woman, who was no doubt Jaune's mother looks in his direction and and walks toward him, arriving behind her was a large man, who looked like the typical bodyguard with a scar going across his face, and behind him were four other people, who looked like an odd bunch*

?: *looks Jaune up and down* You seem to be doing well here... tell me, how's this place been treating you?

Jaune: Just fine!

?: Good, Ozpin hasn't done anything has he? Or what abut Glynda?

Jaune: *Shook his head* N-No! They've been really kind m-mom!

?: *smokes again* Good, now then... I think Revy has something to say to you *smirks*

Jaune: Oh god please-

*Jaune get's punched by a woman who who has dark red hair in a ponytail, wore a black tanktop and very short shorts*

Revy: Leave without saying goodbye huh!? Didn't even take those guns I bought for ya here! Ungrateful little shit!

Jaune: I-I'm sorry Aunt Revy!

Revy: You better! None of these little fucks better be a better shot then you, ya hear!?

Jaune: *nods rapidly*

Revy: Good!

Rock: *Sighs* Well at least that's over *Steps forward* How are you doing, Jaune?

Jaune: *Smiles at Rock* Doing great! Glad to see you again Uncle Rock!

Revy: Oh, you're happier to see me than him huh?

Jaune: *Nervous*

Dutch: Let the kid be, Revy, he's already having a heart attack as it is

Pyrrha: Um... excuse me? Who... are you?

?: *Looks at Pyrrha* You must be Pyrrha Nikos *Turns to Nora and Ren* That makes you Nora Valkyrie and Lie Ren

Pyrrha: Yes Ma'am

Nora: Right-o scary lady!

Ren: Nora...

Balalaika: *Smirks* A pleasure, you can address me as Ms. Balalaika, I'm Jaune's mother, as for the man with me, he's my bodyguard, and those four are Revy, Rock, Dutch, and Benny, members of the Black Lagoon company.

[causeitsagame]

Some good old-fashioned h/c

For @hajihiko, since there was nothing to read <3

"No, we cannot tell Makoto," Sonia insisted, and coughed up a wad of phlegm. "He puts himself at great risk with every visit."

"I know that," Hajime said, and traded the phlegm-y handful of palm fronds she'd grabbed along the way in favor of an actual tissue. After some time spent on the real islands, Makoto had asked them what else was needed for their recovery. The list was fortunately brief, but did have some small but critical items, like a pressure control valve for surgical anesthesia. Somehow, he'd managed to find the whole requested collection in the broken world out there.

"And so we cannot appear to be ungrateful," Sonia continued. She snorted, drawing a drooping bit of snot back up into her reddened nose. "Accepting necessary trade-offs without complaint is a part of negotiations and aid."

"It's Makoto," Hajime patiently countered as he led her back into her room. Other nearby doors were also closed, but she'd decided that she felt well enough to help prepare some broth for the others. It hadn't gone well; he'd found her slumped over in the kitchen. "He's not going to get mad if I clarify exactly what he brought to the island with him."

"No, we mustn't blame him," Sonia said weakly as Hajime steered her toward her bed.

"It's not blame. I just want to know."

"You mustn't," she insisted again as she let herself be maneuvered under a light blanket. Though the day was typically warm outside, she shook.

"…Fine," Hajime lied. "I won't call Makoto."

Sonia smiled gratefully up at him through reddened, watery features.

"Feel better. I'll check on you soon, all right?"

She nodded, coughed again, and curled up on her side.

With a reassuring smile, Hajime walked off to call Makoto.

"Sorry, I didn't realize," Makoto said on the video screen, and wiped roughly at his nose. Now into recovery, he had the pale, desaturated color scheme of a heavy illness draped over his otherwise sunny demeanor. "I didn't feel bad until I was already leaving. How are people doing? Do you need more medicine?"

"No, we're good." Hajime gestured over his shoulder, and coughed. "There's plenty of medicine in the clinics around the islands."

Makoto hesitated at Hajime's deep, rough cough. "Is it expired, though?"

"On the packages? Sure. In reality? Slightly reduced efficacy, easily adjusted for with a larger dose." Hajime coughed again against the back of his hand. "We're good."

"Okay," Makoto said uncertainly. "Call me again if you need to, all right?"

"We're fine." Hajime waved him off. "I should be able to toss this off pretty easily, and I can look after everyone else."

"Well. Okay. But seriously, you can call me."

"And we always appreciate it," Hajime assured him, and with a grateful nod, cut the call. Okay. Time to check on everyone else.

Akane complained, which was a good sign; she'd been the first to succumb, and her laying so still and quiet in bed had unpleasantly reminded everyone of the Despair Disease. "I've gotta have something more than just water," she griped as Hajime handed her a bowl, filled from the pot Sonia had left simmering.

"Broth," Hajime corrected. "And do your eyes feel all weird and prickly?"

"Yeah."

"Right. We need to get more fluids into you, first thing. That'll help you recover as quickly as possible. And if you need fluids, this is better than just water, right?"

"Yeah," she admitted, and drank some. "I guess."

"Okay. Drink some more of that until you feel better, and then real food is on the way." That encouraged her enough to treat the broth as an actual meal, and after a quick temperature check, Hajime moved on.

"I feel gross," Kazuichi whined.

Hajime turned to cough into his shoulder, heavy and deeper in his chest than when he'd talked to Makoto. It felt like it echoed inside him like a timpani, and Kazuichi had an eyebrow raised when he turned back to the man.

"You sound gross," Kazuichi added.

"I'm fine," Hajime insisted, and held up a stethoscope. "I want to listen to your chest."

Breathing was hindered by the sputum that this illness had brought to their respiratory tracts, but fortunately, it didn't sound any worse than yesterday. Kazuichi must be currently going through the worst of it, which meant that recovery was right ahead. "Cough for me into this," Hajime instructed, handing over a tissue.

Kazuichi did, and made a face as Hajime inspected what he'd coughed up. "And that is gross."

"The infection is on the mend," Hajime dryly confirmed as he tossed the tissue in a nearby bin. "And you're welcome. I'll bring soup."

"…Did you make the soup, or…"

"Sonia."

Kazuichi's grimace deepened as much as his illness-exhausted muscles would allow.

"She knows how to make a decent vegetable broth, by now. It tastes fine. Really. Be back in a sec."

Outside Kazuichi's cottage, Hajime felt a deep, insistent pressure build up in his chest. He hurried away from the open window, far enough that the noises he was about to make would blend into the rush of waves on the shore.

The cough ripped out of him painfully hard. He could feel it dislodge substances inside him that shouldn't be there; the illness everyone else was dealing with had also settled into his own respiratory tract. With another few deep coughs, Hajime cleared his throat and stood. His immune system was part of his generally improved body. That, along with his medical knowledge, meant that he was the best-suited person on this island to look after everyone else. And so he'd do exactly that.

"Hey," Hajime quietly called out as he entered the last cottage. He'd stopped by the kitchen for Kazuichi's broth, and another bowl of it was still in hand. "How are you doing?"

While Hajime was the best-suited to throw off an illness, Fuyuhiko was expectedly having the roughest time of it. He'd succumbed soon after Akane, but while she'd rebounded enough to complain and regain her appetite, Fuyuhiko remained a quiet, pliant lump under his blankets.

Silence in return to his question twisted an anxious knife in Hajime's chest. Suddenly fearful, he leaned over Fuyuhiko's still form.

And then he coughed on him, deep and loud.

Grimacing, Fuyuhiko stirred and looked up at Hajime with an accusing eye. "What?" The question was deep, raspy. Between damage from days of coughing and the illness his body still fought, his voice had dropped half an octave and most of its volume.

"Just checking on you," Hajime said. "I brought this. Can you sit up?"

Fuyuhiko flicked his gaze to the bowl Hajime held, then away. It was a silent but clear 'no thanks.'

"You need to eat," Hajime insisted.

Illness weakened people, and Fuyuhiko apparently dealt with illness about as well as he did with anything that made him feel weak: it pissed him off.

He'd been even more uncooperative than Akane. Although she'd fortunately rebounded quite a bit after the pods, giving her some physical reserves, Fuyuhiko had been an easy target for the disease clawing through everyone's system. He'd been left nearly motionless, only able to manage the short trip to the bathroom without exhausting himself. He relied on Hajime for food, medical attention, and anything else, and it infuriated him.

"The faster you recover, the faster you can get out of this room," Hajime pointed out. "And you're not going to recover if you starve yourself."

Fuyuhiko didn't want to agree with that, clearly. Fortunately for his pride, he could simply stay silent.

Hajime sighed. "Would you just—"

He barely set the bowl down in time before another cough ripped through him, doubling him over. He felt his abdominal muscles clench hard, almost like he was vomiting, as his airway was forcefully cleared. He gasped when he regained control of his breathing, felt his throat catch again on some of the mucus coating it, and fell into a second helpless round of coughing.

"One second," Hajime wheezed, and wiped his teary, bloodshot eyes.

In Fuyuhiko's bathroom, Hajime wiped down his face with one tissue and coughed hard into a second. The sputum had tinges of color just like what he'd inspected on Kazuichi: the infection was finally settling into Hajime's lungs, too. But it was mild, only there in small streaks, and so there wasn't any need to worry. Certainly, he was in much better shape than any of the rest of them, especially Fuyuhiko.

When Hajime exited back into the main room, Fuyuhiko was making an awkward attempt at the soup left next to him.

"Oh," Hajime said in pleased surprise, and cleared his throat again. "Need any help?"

Fuyuhiko eyed him speculatively. "No. Hey. Is there any medicine I should be taking?"

Hajime's eyebrows further rose. Fuyuhiko had rejected most of his suggestions before this, saying he didn't need it. "Yeah, there are a few different things I'd like to put you on."

"Go get 'em."

Not about to argue with a patient suddenly cooperating, Hajime did so. On the way, he stopped twice more to double over, hacking and coughing until tears squeezed out of his eyes.

Two days later, he tried to get out of bed to monitor everyone's recovery, and… couldn't. Hajime's muscles were tired like he couldn't remember, and every breath was thin and labored. He could feel the heat and humidity of the islands laying across his skin like a slimy, stifling weight, and yet the core of his body felt chilled and vulnerable. Hajime pulled a blanket over his shoulders and curled inward on himself.

Ten minutes passed, and his door opened under Sonia's mostly-steady hand. "We knew it," she sighed. "Yesterday, you were clearly on a steep decline."

"How's everyone doing?" Hajime asked. Or tried to, anyway; the words came out all mumbled.

"Good enough to check in on you!" Kazuichi promised, walking in with a bowl of soup. Behind him, Akane carried three thermoses, presumably full of the same.

"No," Hajime protested, seeing them all up and walking around. "You need to." His medical assessments weren't coming together like they had, and so he struggled with finding the instructions to issue. "Cough. Tissue."

"We're all clear," Kazuichi promised with a big thumbs-up. "Just normal snot, no infections."

Sonia smiled awkwardly. It was a curious mixture between celebration of their improved health and not wanting to have physical matters mentioned. Princesses weren't raised to acknowledge bodily issues, presumably.

"Oh." Well, that was good. Hajime let out a few rough, hacking coughs again, then found the next words he'd been struggling for. "Where's Fuyuhiko?"

As if cued, the man brushed past Kazuichi. Unlike everyone else, who appeared well on the path to recovery by now, Fuyuhiko was clearly still in the grips of the illness. He at least looked better than he had, though, even as he had a light blanket clutched around him and would probably go straight back to bed. "You probably know which one of these to take, yeah?"

Hajime managed a faint smile as more than a dozen different medications were deposited on his nightstand. The pile included every medicine he'd pulled for Fuyuhiko, along with what must be every other medicine that Fuyuhiko had decided looked even remotely related when he made his own visit to the nearest clinic. "Yeah. I see what I need."

"Good." Fuyuhiko found a small smile of his own, though it was an odd-looking expression after their collective illness had torn so deeply into him. "When I saw you acting like a dumbass, I figured I'd better heal up fast."

"M'not a dumbass," Hajime protested.

"You will stay in bed for the next three days," Sonia proclaimed, bringing the full weight of her lifelong training to bear. "We will not permit you to further exert yourself, Hajime, and will look after you as you have looked after us."

Hajime opened his mouth, took in everyone's visibly improved states, and closed it. That… that didn't sound too bad. "Okay," he relented. "But Fuyuhiko'd better do the same." Fuyuhiko had improved, yes, but 'can stand and walk, only with great effort' wasn't exactly reassuring.

Instinctive stubbornness slammed into Fuyuhiko's expression, and he opened his mouth to argue.

"Get back into bed," Hajime said, mostly into his pillow, "or I'll get up to check on you."

"…One more day," Fuyuhiko accepted, clearly with great reluctance.

"Fine." Hajime coughed. "Someone get me three pills from the. Bottle with the uh. Uh. Green cap." Sonia stepped forward toward the bottles, and Hajime admitted to her, "I called Makoto."

"I assumed as much," she sighed, though it came with a smile. "Will you need help with these pills?"

"Yeah, I'll need help sitting up," Hajime said, and saw Akane head his way to do so as Sonia disappeared into the bathroom for a glass of water. At the doorway, Fuyuhiko actually let himself be led off by Kazuichi.

As he felt Akane carefully tilt him up from the bed, Hajime sighed and let his eyes fall closed. Her grip was steady and sure, and Sonia sounded confident as she rattled off the (expected) name on the requested bottle, wanting confirmation before she administered it.

Obediently, Hajime opened his mouth for the first pill, and swallowed it down with the mouthful of water she then offered. And then again, and again. Sonia's voice next promised that she'd check on Fuyuhiko as the day went on, too, and so there was no need for him to worry.

Reassured, Hajime nodded as Akane arranged him back under his blanket. "Thanks."

His instincts began to rattle off all of the checklist items he should tackle, but for once, Hajime ignored them.

For now, he'd let someone else be in charge.

[piinksdoll]

→ [Victimology | Aaron Hotchner]

Pairing~ Aaron Hotchner x Fem!Bau!Reader

Genre~ fluff/angst/slightly suggestive

Word Count~ 2.3k

Warnings~ typical criminal minds gore, slight sa

a/n~ k so this part has slight sa and unwanted touching so if youre sensitive for that PLEASE DNI aldo MINORS DNI!!!! also this is not proofread so pls dont come for me!

part 1! part 2!

At the hotel

(Hotch’s Pov)

I watched her leave, a sudden sting of nervousness crawling up my spine. It wasn't like me to worry like this, to feel this unsettled, but something about the lack of her presence made it impossible to ignore. I clenched my jaw, forcing myself to remain composed, but the gnawing concern wouldn’t relent. Every instinct I had was screaming that letting her out of my sight was a mistake, and I hated that I couldn’t shake the feeling that this time, something was different, something was wrong.

I rushed out of our shared room, heart beating twice as fast, to JJ and Emily’s. I knocked softly on the hotel room door, my hand trembling at the thought of anything happening to Y/n. “Hey Hotch, what's happening?” Emily opened the door, the sound of her voice distant as I tried to voice my concern. 

“Is Y/n here? She said she was coming to get something from you guys and it's been a while. I just wanted to check in.” The furrow of JJ’s brows made my heart sink. “Hotch, she's not here.” I shook my head, not wanting to believe their words.

“I'm going to get Morgan, Reid and Rossi. Hotch. We will find her.” I heard Emily’s voice reassure me but still I couldn't shake the feeling in my gut. 

At the Unsubs house

(Narrator Pov)

Y/N's eyes fluttered open, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she struggled to lift her head and make sense of her surroundings. Her legs felt weak, almost as if they might give out beneath her, but she pushed herself to stand, forcing her body to cooperate. She scanned the room, desperate for any clue that might tell her where she was.

(Y/n’s Pov)

I scanned the room in front of me, taking in the elegant details. The floor-to-ceiling windows, the marble dining table, the white kitchen. It was the kind of place that seemed untouchable, the last place you’d expect to find a killer. ‘How could someone who lives like this be capable of such things?’ I thought.

A voice broke my trance. “Finally awake, are we?” It came from down the hall, and I turned to see a tall man emerging from the shadows, a slow smile spreading across his face. “I’ve waited far too long for this moment.”

My heart pounded as confusion washed over me. “What...what's going on? Who are you?”

He let out a quiet laugh, gaze dropping to the floor for a moment before meeting mine. “Who I am isn’t important. But you… you are exactly who I’ve been waiting for.”

“No,” I stammered, squeezing my eyes shut, willing myself to wake up from this nightmare. “No, I’m not. Why are you doing this? What did those other women ever do to you?”

He moved closer, sitting down on the couch across from me, his expression hardening. “Those women… they weren’t you. They didn’t understand, didn’t appreciate everything I was offering. They were defiant, ungrateful.” He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. “But enough about them. This is about us now.”

He leaned forward, his gaze fixated on me with an unsettling intensity. “You, though... I knew the moment I saw you that you were different,” he murmured, almost reverently. I took a step back, trying to maintain distance, but there was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide.

“You don’t have to do this,” I pleaded, my voice barely above a whisper. “I’m not who you think I am.”

His expression hardened, a flicker of anger crossing his eyes. “Don’t say that,” he snapped, voice low and dangerous. “You’re exactly who I’ve been waiting for. You just need to believe it.” He reached out as if to touch my face, and I flinched away, heart pounding in my ears.

“Please,” I tried again, desperate to find some semblance of reason in his eyes. “This isn’t love. It’s not real.”

He let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “You’ll understand soon enough.” He stood up, towering over me, I felt my breath catch. “But first, we need to make sure you don’t end up like the others.”

At the precinct

(Narrator POV)

The team all assembled at the precinct after discovering that Y/n’s missing. "Earlier, we asked Garcia to look into any males who recently went through a divorce, but what if we're looking at this the wrong way? What if, instead of a divorce, the unsub's wife or girlfriend passed away? It would explain a similar sense of loss but with an entirely different emotional catalyst." Aaron nodded at Spencer's words

“Alright Garcia, get me names of every male ages 25-35 who's recently had a death of a wife or girlfriend.” Aaron’s voice rang through the phone “Yes sir I've got a few. James Sterling lost his wife last mo- oh wait nevermind his wife was blonde.” 

Aaron let out a frustrated groan, raking a hand through his hair. “Hotch, don’t worry. We’ll find her,” Derek said, echoing Emily’s earlier reassurance. Just then, Penelope’s voice crackled through the phone. “I got a hit!”

The team snapped to attention, every ounce of their focus now on the speaker. A sudden wave of relief washed over Aaron, his shoulders dropping as the tension he’d been holding onto began to melt away.

“Alright Thomas Peters, a 27 year old male recently lost his fiance. They were together for 4 years. He proposed to her in Central park, they had their first date at the cafe in Greenwich Village, and she lived in Brooklyn.” Garcia rattled off, “Alright baby girl what's the address.” Derek cut her off “Yes, 5468 9th Avenue!” Penelope’s voice rang out with urgency, and just like that, the team sprang into action. Before they burst through the door, Rossi placed a hand on Aaron’s shoulder, stopping him. “We’ll find her, Aaron,” he said, his voice steady and reassuring. “And when we get her back, do me a favour, take your girl on a date. You both want to. Just do it.”

Aaron’s eyes flickered with surprise, a brief moment of hesitation in his expression before he nodded, the weight of their situation still heavy on his shoulders. But there was a flicker of hope there, too, a glimpse of what could be if they succeeded. Rossi's words hung in the air, a promise and a challenge, pushing him forward with a renewed determination.

At the Unsubs house

(Y/n POV)

"You're so beautiful. The things I want to do to you," he murmured, his voice dripping with a twisted sense of desire. A shiver ran down my spine, every word making my skin crawl. I took a step back, but he matched it, inching closer with every retreat I made, trapping me in this terrifying dance. My back hit the wall, and I froze as he caged me in with his arms.

“No. Please don’t,” I squeaked out, my voice barely above a whisper, but he only smiled, an unsettling gleam in his eyes. His hand slid up my thigh, and I could feel the warmth of his touch seeping through the fabric, my heart racing in pure panic. He leaned in closer, his breath hot against my ear.

“Shh, don’t fight it. This is what you were meant for,” he whispered, and I felt a surge of desperation rise within me, every instinct screaming to push him away.

He took my wrists into one hand trapping them. I moved my face away avoiding his lips. I felt hot tears rolling down my cheeks as I shook my head. Aaron please get here “Don't worry darling, you’ll learn to love it.”

I let out a scream, the sound tearing through the silence, but it was cut short by a sudden, searing pain. My head snapped to the side, and I tasted the sharp tang of copper on my tongue, warm blood filling my mouth. Dazed, I blinked through the tears stinging my eyes, trying to gather my thoughts, but the pain was all-consuming, grounding me in this horrifying reality. “You whore, I'm giving you everything and you're still an ungrateful bitch!” his voice ripped out in anger. 

(Narrator POV)

“Alright Prentiss, Reid sides of the house. Rossi, JJ back door. Me and Morgan will go in through the front.” Aaron felt his voice shake as they entered. Derek kicked down the door allowing the swat to head into the house first.

(Y/n POV)

Just as the last sliver of hope slipped away, I heard a loud crash and the front door burst open. "No!" Thomas roared, his grip tightening painfully around my hair as he yanked me up, forcing me to my feet. I gasped, the room spinning, but through the haze, I saw them, Aaron and Derek, weapons drawn, eyes wide with a mix of urgency and fear.

"Let her go," Aaron commanded, his voice steady but edged with a fury I’d never heard before. Derek took a cautious step forward, hands raised in a calming gesture.

“You don’t want to do this,” Derek said carefully, his eyes locked on Thomas. “It doesn’t have to end this way. Just let her go, and we can talk about this.”

I felt the cold press of a blade against my throat, and I stiffened, a small cry escaping me. “Don’t come any closer!” Thomas warned, his voice cracking. I could feel his entire body trembling behind me, the grip on the knife unsteady. “I’ll kill her! I swear I will!”

“Thomas, look at me,” Aaron said, his tone softer now, soothing yet commanding. “You don’t want to hurt her. She’s not her. You have a chance to stop this, right now.”

For a moment, I thought it might work. Thomas’s hand wavered, his breathing ragged, and I could feel the tension easing, just slightly. But then his grip tightened again, the knife digging in a little deeper, and I winced, feeling the sting of the blade bite into my skin.

“No!” he screamed, shaking his head violently. “No one else understands! No one else-”

The shot rang out before I even registered Aaron moving. One second, Thomas was there, holding me captive, and the next, his body jerked, the knife slipping from his grasp as he collapsed to the floor. I stood there, frozen, my knees buckling as I felt the warmth of Aaron’s arms wrapping around me, pulling me to safety.

“It’s over,” Aaron whispered, his voice steady even as I felt him shaking. “You’re safe now.” I glanced up at him “I was so scared Aaron. I'm sorry. I should've stayed in the hotel room.” I cried out. He shook his head as he brought me to the ambulance. “No, don't you dare apologise for what that monster did to you.” I sobbed on his shoulder.

On the jet home

(Narrator POV)

The team made their way onto the jet, Aaron helping Y/n every step of the way. He mulled over Dave’s previous words. Seeing her leaning on his shoulder, asleep beside him, her hair fell beautifully in front of her face. Her glossed lips parted softly as she let out soft breaths. Seeing her so peaceful made his heart swell with comfort. 

At Quantico

(Narrator POV) The team landed and without wasting any time, they made their way home leaving Aaron and Y/n alone at the office. 

“Hotch I can drive myself home, it's not a big deal.” Y/n tried to reassure Aaron, her tone light but persistent.

“No,” Aaron replied firmly, his eyes never leaving hers. “I don’t care. I’m taking you home, and you’re taking the next week off.”

Y/N scoffed, a defiant smile tugging at her lips. “Hotch, are you serious? I need one day, two at most.”

Aaron shook his head, stepping closer until there was barely any space between them. He took her hands in his, holding them with a care that made her heart skip a beat, as if any tighter grip would break her. He met her eyes, and for a moment, he was lost in the warm amber depths, his own expression softening.

“Y/N, please,” he began, his voice thick with emotion. “The moment I realised you were missing, I felt the same helplessness I felt when Haley-” His voice broke at the mention of his late wife, and he closed his eyes for a second, trying to regain his composure.

“Aaron, you don’t have to,” Y/N interrupted, her voice gentle, her hands squeezing his, offering comfort even in her own fragile state.

“No, I- I want to.” He thickly swallowed, gaining his voice to speak once more “When I thought I lost you, I felt something I hadn't felt in a long time. I didn't think I'd feel this way for anyone else in my life.” His confession hung in the air, raw and unguarded, and Y/N could see the vulnerability in his eyes, the way he was silently pleading for her to understand.

A smile tugged at Y/N's lips, her heart swelling with every word. Aaron took a deep breath, his voice trembling slightly as he continued, “Y/N, I love you. I know this is a lot, and I don’t expect you to feel the same way, but-”

She didn’t let him finish. In one quick move, Y/N reached up, pressing her lips to his, silencing his doubts with the kiss she’d been holding back for so long. For a moment, Aaron froze, stunned, but then he melted into her, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her closer, as if afraid she’d disappear if he let go.

The two pulled apart, both breathless, and Aaron’s eyes softened as he whispered, “Y/N, will you-” But she interrupted him again, a playful smirk dancing on her lips. “Yes, Aaron. Now shut up and let me kiss you.” Without giving him a chance to respond, she pulled him back in, capturing his lips with hers, feeling his smile against her mouth as he wrapped her up in his arms once more. 

As the two made their way home Aaron kept glancing over at Y/N, a soft smile tugging at his lips every time their eyes met, as if making sure she was still there, still real.

tag list~ @yourfavoritefangirl

[cxrdycxps]

Habit • Chapter One

Habit Masterlist • Ellie Masterlist • Next Part

☢️ Drug Use • Slurs • Canon Typical Violence • AFAB reader • she/her pronouns • no use of y/n ☢️

Ellie had gotten into the habit of visiting Shimmer every morning before whatever rotation she was on. She’d spend an hour or so with the horse, mucking out her stall and giving her a brush.

This routine made sure that she’d walk by Joel’s house around the time he’d be waking up. It was a pure coincidence that this happened.

For the last three mornings Joel had been out on his porch with a cup of coffee before Ellie would walk by. This was a new development.

As were you.

It was well known Joel would sell his kidney for a half of a bag of coffee beans. He didn’t share coffee, not even with his brother. So Ellie had to wonder what on earth you’d done to earn the steaming cup in your hand, three mornings in a row, sitting by Joel’s side.

You were new to Jackson, arriving on the back of Tommy’s horse half starved and scared out of your mind. The doctors couldn’t tell if you were unable to speak because of a physical or a mental reason, but no one had heard you utter a word.

That was until you had started hanging around Joel. However that had happened.

“Heard they’ve been staying with Joel at night.” Dina muttered on the fourth day Ellie had found the pair on the porch, the pair of them sitting with Jesse. Dina had followed Ellie’s line of sight to where Joel and you had joined Tommy and Maria. “Think they’re sleeping together?”

“Dina, what the fuck? You think Joel is fucking someone our age?” Jesse asked in shock and Ellie’s nose scrunched up in disgust.

Who cared? Who gave a fuck if Joel just fucking collected people to care about only to lie to them?

Ellie cared. Ellie had to warn you. He’d only let you down in the end. And then he’d lie to your fucking pretty little face about it.

So she put a plan in place. Joel had an overnight patrol coming up with Tommy. You’d be alone in his house. It was the perfect opportunity to warn you what he would do.

Instead of ambush you at night Ellie left her house twenty minutes early and paused outside Joel’s house. You were already on the porch, steaming cup in hand and staring off into space. You only snapped to focus when Ellie cleared her throat.

“Hey, I’m Ellie, I uh-“ Ellie paused when you rose from your seat and casted her the dirtiest look Ellie had ever seen. You scoffed, making your way inside and slamming the door. Hard.

Ellie stood at the garden gate, her mouth wide open in shock. The look of hate in your eyes had surprised her so much she didn’t know how to react.

She wasn’t sure if she was mad or embarrassed. She settled on a little of both as her cheeks flamed and her fists clenched. How dare you look at her like that? You were the one fucking a lying, old man. You weren’t the one who had Joel and then lost him.

Ellie made her way to the stables and attempted to make sense of it all in her head. You didn’t even know her! How could you feel so strongly about her?

Unless Joel had told you something. Maybe he had spun the story in his favor. Maybe he was mad Ellie didn’t appreciate him ruining a chance of a normal future for the whole world just for her stupid brain.

He had obviously made Ellie out to be the villain in his story. The ungrateful bitch who wouldn’t talk to her savior.

Ellie had worked herself into a right rage by the time she had finished brushing down Shimmer. Which was just in time for Tommy and Joel to ride in and dismount.

“Hey Ellie.” Tommy yawned through her name, rubbing a hand down his face. “How are you doing?”

“Fucking fine.” Ellie told him through gritted teeth, watching Joel remove the saddle from his horse. “Your new fucking girlfriend is a grade A bitch, Joel.”

Joel looked up in surprise but Ellie didn’t care. She left the stable almost at a run because the anger was leaving and making room for more embarrassment. Had Joel really found a match in someone who hated Ellie?

Did he hate her for how she reacted? Was there any other way she could’ve reacted? So many people had died for her immunity. Obviously she wouldn’t be happy that Joel had taken that decision from her.

“Ellie!” She didn’t turn at the sound of her name. “Now hold on. I’m talking to you, Ellie.”

“Well don’t. Go back to that bitch on the porch. Don’t talk to me ever again.” Joel stopped in his tracks when Ellie did, still keeping his distance. “Share your stupid coffee with her and sit on your stupid porch swing. And tell her all your old man fucking stories. Tell everything to that bitch.”

“Ellie, you don’t understand.” Joel sighed and Ellie scoffed. She’d heard that before. She never understood according to Joel.

“Yeah. Keep telling me that. I get it, I’m too fucking dumb for Joel Miller logic.” Ellie laughed bitterly. “Guess that’s why you wouldn’t let them have my brain. You were afraid there wouldn’t be one.”

“Ellie, come on now.” Joel sighed and Ellie only shook her head. She turned on her heel and walked away. She didn’t have to put up with that shit.

///

“So tell me again. You guys broke up because you liked his family too much?” Ellie asked Dina, brushing elbows with her by the bar.

“No. But that’s part of it. I feel like we’re only together because I like his family so much. It’s like I wanted to find a family any way I could.” Dina told Ellie and hey, as an orphan, it made sense.

“Hey Seth, can I get two more please?” Ellie ordered before turning back to Dina. “So what are you gonna do now?”

“I don’t know. It’s like, I want to find someone new, get out of this rut I’ve been stuck in. But I don’t want to hurt Jesse like that.” Dina sighed, her hand over her face as Seth placed two glasses in front of them both.

“Jesse is a big boy. You’ve gotta look out for yourself.” Ellie nudged her with her shoulder and Dina dropped her hand, looking up at Ellie. “Go out there and take whatever it is you’re looking for.”

“You mean that?” Dina asked and Ellie nodded, taking a sip of her drink. She wasn’t paying attention until Dina reached up and pulled her into a kiss.

Ellie reared back and blinked at Dina until the sound of Seth cursing caught her attention. “Fucking dykes.”

“What the fuck did you just say?” Ellie asked, turning to face the bar man. “Say it again.”

“I didn’t say nothing.” Seth scoffed and Ellie shook her head.

“Yes you fucking did, now say it again before I come across that bar and beat you fucking stupid.” Ellie slammed her hand on the bar, watching as Seth leaned towards her.

“I called you both fucking Dykes.” A hand shot between Ellie and Dina, hitting Seth with an audible thud. Joel grabbed Seth by his collar and Ellie sighed.

“I don’t need your fucking protection Joel. Jesus.” Ellie left the bar, forgetting all about Dina in her anger.

“Youre so fucking cruel, you know that?” Ellie turned her head quick enough that she heard a pop and stared at you where you were stood with a cigarette between your lips.

After a second the smell hit and Ellie realised not a cigarette, a joint. She rolled her eyes, annoyed on top of everything else, that you had managed to find weed when no one else could since Eugene died.

“Cruel?” Ellie asked and you rolled your eyes. “You think I’m cruel?”

“I don’t think it. I know it. He fucking puts himself out on the line for you over and over again and this is how you treat him?” You scoffed, flicking the end of the joint away. “You’re an ungrateful bitch.”

“Oh fuck off. Just cause he’s fucking you doesn’t mean anything.” Ellie snapped. “You don’t have a clue what happened.”

“You’re a fucking idiot. He was standing up for you and your little girlfriend.” You sighed and shook your head. “You still don’t have a clue.”

“And you think you do?” Ellie asked, stepping closer. You only rolled your eyes and matched her, stepping closer until you were chest to chest. “You think you have a fucking clue what I’ve been through? Dina isn’t my fucking girlfriend and Joel isn’t my fucking dad so he can stop pretending.”

“Cruel.”

Ellie wanted to punch you in the face. She wanted to make you hurt in all the ways you and Joel had hurt her. Ellie wanted to smack you around like you deserved.

She’s not quite sure why she kissed you instead.

///

Someone was knocking at the door. Someone else was groaning. Ellie’s eyes flew open.

“Oh shit, fuck.”

Ellie didn’t have clothes on. She had a pile of clothes on the floor but she had no clothes on. Jesse was knocking on the door. She was late. For patrol.

She kissed Dina.

She yelled at Joel.

Another groan made her wince and she looked over her shoulder to find you with a sheet around your waist and no clothes on as far as Ellie could see.

Another knock.

“Cmon Ellie. We’re already late and we’ve got infected up north. Joel and Tommy headed out early.”

[lokidokieokie]

Healing Hearts

Summary: your typical enemies to lovers plot, except it’s only one-sided… and Y/n's Bucky's physical therapist/nurse.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Nurse!Reader

Warning(s): brooding Bucky, mentions of physical therapy, other than that nothing else I can think of...

Bucky Barnes had always been a solitary man. He preferred to keep to himself and avoid unnecessary interactions with others. So when he woke up in a hospital room, with a perky nurse named Y/n assigned to him, he knew that he was in for a long and frustrating recovery.

From the moment Y/n walked into his room, she was like a ray of sunshine. She was constantly talking, asking him how he was feeling, and offering him unsolicited advice on how to speed up his recovery. Bucky found her incessant chatter annoying and intrusive, and he made it clear that he wanted her to leave him alone.

"You don't have to talk so much, you know," Bucky grumbled as Y/n tried to engage him in conversation.

She smiled brightly. "I'm just trying to keep you company, Mr. Barnes. I know it can be lonely in here."

Bucky rolled his eyes. "I don't need company. I need to heal and get out of this hellhole."

Her smile faltered, and she looked hurt. But Bucky couldn't bring himself to care. He had more important things to worry about than hurting the feelings of a chatty nurse.

As the days went on, Bucky found himself becoming more and more irritated with Y/n. She was always there, hovering over him, and he couldn't escape her constant attention. He started to resent her presence, even though he knew that she was just doing her job.

One day, as she was helping him with his physical therapy exercises, she accidentally brushed against his metal arm. Bucky winced, and she immediately pulled back.

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Barnes. Did that hurt?" she asked, her voice full of concern.

Bucky gritted his teeth. "Yeah, it hurt. What did you expect, with that clumsy move?"

Y/n looked at him with hurt in her eyes. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you. I'm just trying to help you get better."

Bucky glared at her. "You're not helping. You're just getting in the way."

She sighed. "I know you don't like me very much, Mr. Barnes. But I'm just trying to do my job. I want to make sure you're getting the best possible care."

Bucky scoffed. "Yeah, right. You just want to make yourself feel better. You think that if you can fix me, you'll be some kind of hero."

Y/n looked hurt and shocked by his words. "That's not true, Mr. Barnes. I don't help people to make people think I'm the hero; that I'm some sort of saviour for humanity. All I want to do is help people, that's all."

Bucky shook his head. "Save it for someone who cares. I never needed or wanted your help."

As the days went on, Bucky's attitude towards Y/n didn't improve. But despite his constant complaints and snarky remarks, she never gave up on him. She was always there, by his side, offering him words of encouragement and support.

One day, as she was helping him with his physical therapy, Bucky felt a twinge of pain in his leg. He winced, and she immediately stopped what she was doing.

"Are you okay, Mr. Barnes?" she asked, her voice full of concern.

Bucky looked up at her, and for the first time, he saw her in a different light. He saw the kindness in her eyes, the determination in her voice, and the genuine care in her actions. He realised that he had been wrong about her all along. She wasn't annoying, she was kind and caring.

Bucky felt a strange feeling in his chest as he looked at her. He couldn't believe that he had been so blind to her kindness before. She had been nothing but patient and supportive towards him, even when he had been rude and ungrateful.

"I'm fine," he muttered, feeling embarrassed by his outburst. "Sorry for snapping at you."

She smiled warmly at him. "It's okay, Mr. Barnes. I understand that you're in pain, and it can be frustrating."

Bucky nodded, feeling grateful for her understanding. "I guess I've just been a bit of a jerk to you, haven't I?"

She shrugged. "It's okay. I know that you didn't mean it."

Bucky sighed, feeling a weight lifted off his shoulders. "Thanks for being patient with me, Y/n. I really appreciate it."

Y/n grinned at him. "Of course, Mr. Barnes. That's what I'm here for."

From that day on, Bucky's attitude towards her began to change. He found himself looking forward to her visits, and he even started to engage in conversations with her. They talked about everything from the latest movies to popular music trends, and Bucky found himself enjoying her company more and more.

One day, as she was helping him with his physical therapy, Bucky realised that he didn't want her to leave. He wanted her to stay with him, to keep talking to him, to keep being there for him.

"Y/n," he said suddenly, as she was packing up her supplies. "Do you want to grab a coffee or something after your shift ends?"

She looked surprised, but she smiled. "Sure, Mr. Barnes. I'd love that."

"Call me Bucky, doll."

Bucky grinned, feeling a strange warmth in his chest. He couldn't believe that he was actually looking forward to spending time with the woman he had once despised. But as he looked at her, he realised that she was more than just a nurse to him. She was a friend, a confidante, and maybe even something more.

As they walked out of the hospital together, Bucky felt a strange feeling of hope. Maybe, just maybe, he had finally found someone who could help him heal his damaged heart.

A/N who doesn't love the enemies to lovers trope? It's personally a favourite of mine 🥰

tagging the usual...please lemme know if you'd like to be added or removed.

🏷 @thewaithfuckingannoyme @evelyn-kingsley @moonlight-ee 

[hadesoftheladies]

Girlhood Is Surveillance

In the imaginations of most men, oppressive policing is done by a military force or officers of a district. Men are deployed, with weapons and uniform, to enforce the will of the state. They use violent means (or the threat of violence) to intimidate. Certain words are banned by the government and uttering them risks being locked up, done away with, killed.

Yet, the most powerful, pervasive, and far-reaching form of surveillance is the reality for most girls.

Oppressed groups typically go through more surveillance than the oppressing class. They are viewed with more suspicion, afforded less allowances, and must work harder to prove themselves worthy of basic rights. The government is aggressively involved. They mandate what schools can teach, what media houses can publish, what public speakers can say.

For girls, surveillance starts before they can walk. This kind of surveillance is an extension of the surveillance her mother endures from her peers. She is dressed appropriately in pink, in bonnets, in frills and baby bows. By the time she is five, she is policed by her closest relatives. She may or may not be allowed to run shirtless like her brothers. Especially when her uncles are there. She must not wear nail polish or she must play with makeup. She must wear tutus and dresses.

This also happens to boys, but in a much different way. The reason I describe girlhood specifically as surveillance is because in a patriarchal, pornified world, the boy's body is neutral, that is, not provocative. Not insulting.

The female body, on the other hand, is semiotically significant. It is a symbol of sex, of desire, of lust (at least as a man experiences it) and thus is wicked, crude, and crass. The girl is surveilled because on the streets, in the home, by anyone who looks at her, who she is is interpreted to be provocative. In other words, her femaleness, naked or evident, is hate speech. Or impolite language. Language that polite society cannot be seen to be having. Her shoulders, knees, hands, thighs, breasts, are pornography.

This is just a fraction of the surveillance of girlhood.

As she grows up, she learns there are ways she must sit, things she must not know, things she must not say, and things she must wear. Her mother (and sometimes father) are the chief police on these things. They watch her, check her before going out, frisk her to make sure the skirt is not rising above her knees, the hijab is in place, etcetera.

On the streets, the girl learns, that she is also being watched by others. Men whistle at her as she walks to primary school. She learns how easy it is to be shamed as a girl. By teachers, strangers on the road, girls in school, boys at the playground. For having hairy legs, a crooked (normal) nose, a bare face, a face that isn't bare, too much height, too big boobs, too small boobs, thin lips or full lips, a flat butt, a butt that shows, etcetera.

She censors her womanhood when it comes. For if her brothers or father see her blood in the toilet, that is her body once again being provocative. Perhaps she becomes aware as a teenager, of the inequality and injustice. If she speaks out, she will be met with a host of police ready to put a stop to it. Her best friend will say, "Some women like looking beautiful. It is not a crime to want to be beautiful. You are judging me." Her mother will say, "Girls libidos don't matter. Sex is not for girls to enjoy, but for men." Her father will say, "Don't worry your pretty little head about things you don't understand." They will all dismiss, all shame, all hush her. They will call her ungrateful, a lesbian (which means social outcast, unnatural, inhuman, wrong), a radical, or a child throwing a tantrum. All of which are threats, whether or not they recognize them as such.

This policing system does not need the use of officers or the military much because the narrative is in society's consciousness. The people will police deviants themselves after the government tells them what the deviants look like and gives them the stakes of noncompliance. This kind of surveillance is also older than the government, if not as old as it is. It's oldness makes it that much more difficult to notice and resist.

The people who love you become the police. They will snitch on you to their peers if you do not conform. Your mother will tell your aunts and grandmother. Your father will joke about you with your brothers. Your sister will tell on you to the popular girls. And these are not the worst kind. Most girls, like every other animal, every other human being, will go the route with the most ease and the best chance at survival.

They will conform. They will cross their legs. Do their hair according to their age. Paint or not paint their nails. Wear the hijab. Wear skirts that go over the knee. Wear the pink. Curl their hair. Smear the lipstick, eyeliner, mascara. Put the powder and glitter on themselves. Wear the heels and stockings. Kiss the boy, etcetera.

And now, because they've been told how closely they're being watched, for their looks, whether their clothes are appropriate or not, whether their mothers are happy or not, whether their brothers feel threatened or disgusted by their pads or their tomboyishness or not, whether they are excelling too much in sports or academia or too little, whether they are smart or not, whether they are fat or not, whether they are acceptable or provocative or not . . . it becomes of paramount importance that they surveil themselves. Because they are in a hypervigilant state. They are in survival mode.

Girls are their own self-police. Harsh on every angle and feature. Because they have been told that people pay special attention to them everywhere they go. And to some degree, this is true. Everyone is easily insulted by femaleness, because femaleness is provocative. Please note, not femininity, femaleness. Femininity is camouflage because it signals conformity. Agreeing with the narrative that insists that the female body is the symbol for sex or motherhood. That the female body is pornography. The women that flaunt their bodies and say, "I am sexy and want you to know it!" are conforming. The women that hide their bodies and duck their heads to show meekness toward their God are conforming. None of them challenge the assertion that the female body is by-default provocative, an invitation to sex, shameful.

Now, surveillance has expanded. You see girls tilting their heads in one direction on their cameras because they believe this is their best side. They all have makeup or makeup filters. That thin their faces and enlarge their eyes. That make their lips a little fuller. They gag themselves and retch up nutrients and food in order to keep themselves safe. Obsessed with beauty and meekness because it is their livelihood. What secures them in society.

And yet . . . does it? Little girls are killed for a little hair showing from beneath their headscarf. Young women are murdered by the men whose advances were rejected. Toddlers are whistled at by grown men on the street. Teenage girls are the sex symbol of the generations in TV shows, movies, music videos. Mothers starve their girls, physically and emotionally abuse their girls, to keep them compliant. Girls have burn marks, scars, wounds from conformity. They have blistered feet and bra lines burned into their ribcage.

The government is not inactive, either. It does not punish femicides. It mandates forced birth. It regulates population by regulating the human female, rather than the male that has been left to run amock. Who starts these pregnancies and is responsible for any statistic for violence in the general population. It ensures that women need men to survive the economy. It ensures that women are successfully sold and bought for the economy. The pimps need their money, after all. And the president needs the pimps. The oligarchs need their workers, too. Workers need mothers to create them and wives to sustain them. Girlhood is the governments business.

A girl will blame herself for how her boyfriend treats her, for being raped. She will then, instead of looking at the world, at the perpetrator, will police herself and other girls around her even more aggressively. Violently.

Surveillance is most powerful when privacy is destroyed and the person made into a data point to be exploited. Girls do not have privacy, for their private parts are taboo discussions in public life. They are offensive discourse and so must be suppressed and regulated.

Girlhood is living under the most extreme and powerful form of surveillance, where everyone is the girl-police, including the girl herself.

[mytyldotwav]

FREEEEEEEESIAAAAAAA

Freesia is a song from Guilty Gear XRD. But it could have been released in Strive and still hit just as fucking hard. That's because it's applicable to multiple aspects of the story.

Sol Badguy is one of the most powerful characters in the GG universe. At least, he's in the top 10 (probably??). Despite that, he's a grown man who is a grief-stricken mess and has questionable direction to his life.

In my opinion, this song is best interpreted as coming from Frederick. Not Sol, the Badass god-like gear that has saved the world on several occasions. Frederick Bulsara, the man that lost everything important to him.

The start of Freesia is someone reaching out to Frederick. Because really? Frederick does a lot of brooding and self-isolation. He wouldn't reach out to someone otherwise. His head isn't in the clouds, it's in space, drifting aimlessly amongst the stars.

But everything is fine, Frederick says. There's enough air for at least 2 people where he's at, and he's alone. So everything is ok. Frederick, or more accurately, Sol, has everything he needs. He's achieved great feats normal humans only could dream of achieving. He's reached greater heights than anyone ever has, and yet? Something is still missing.

There's enough air for 2 people up there. Boundless information. Wisdom beyond that of any normal human. But there's enough air for 2 people. And he knows why, but he can't bring himself to say it.

"The whole world is kind to me"

Yes, Sol has reason to be happy. Everyone has rewarded him for saving the world. Everyone appreciates what he has done in some way, and every day brings fresh start. The world has been ushered into a new era of peace; but there's someone missing. But Frederick can't bring himself to tell anyone what it is.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry..."

It'd be ungrateful for him to imply something was missing, or that something could be wrong. Sol apologizes, but laments his cowardice.

This next portion feels more like Frederick reaching out, or at least telling someone in passing about how miserable he is:

"The world may crumble down with just one piece missing"

Now, he is (to the best of his ability) trying to be genuine and honest about how life's trials have affected him. Frederick is saying that if he can't get that one thing back, if he can't reach his goals, why continue? Without this thing he's been pursuing for DECADES, actually being obtainable, his life has no purpose. He's just a shell of a man looking for comfort in the past.

This is where the dam breaks. This is where Frederick and Sol's lives converge into one. Frederick Bulsara is Sol Badguy and vice versa. He can't pretend that his reasons for fighting and living don't come from a place of loss and pain. He's not just bounty hunting for money, not just traveling the world because he can. His emotional strength isn't there because he's fixed all of his problems. His experiences have made him physically stronger, but mentally? He's exhausted and desperate for rest. Everything he has done up to this point has been for Aria Hale. But if she's gone, everything falls apart. There is no point.

That's why the song is named Freesia. A Freesia is a flower from South Africa that is commonly seen at weddings. They typically convey deep trust, friendship, thoughtfulness and sometimes purity.

And then the line hits. You know the one.

This moment in the song is an outburst of love, both platonic and romantic. This is the moment where Sol can't hide that he's still Frederick. He's still human. And damn it, he still loves that woman-- as Aria or Jack-O.

"Here I am" is a resignation. He tried ignoring the emotions building up inside of him for so long, neglected his humanity, acted as nothing but a weapon for so long, and he is tired. The mask falls off. He is finally allowing himself to be vulnerable and honest with the world.

Sol isn't proud of it.

He shouldn't have isolated himself for so long.

He shouldn't have lied about his emotions.

He shouldn't have pushed so many kind people away.

If he had done those things, maybe there would be less blood on his hands. Maybe he would have lived a more normal life.

But he knows that's not true. Aria meant too much to him. Sol would still miss her as desperately, even if he continued down a different path.

Yes, he had reasons to feel the things he felt. But at the same time, there were also so many people willing to help him start again. and he sees it now, as clear as day. Aria had been his world for so long. But he was missing so many beautiful things because of it. Frederick had spent so much time trying to save Aria that he became single minded in his endeavor. It led him to become isolated. It kept him from living his own life and that's what Aria wanted for him so badly. She didn't want to weigh on his mind, she wanted the happy memories of them to help Frederick continue living.

So the apologies tumble out again for the last time.

Frederick was surrounded by, and floating through galaxies. Worlds of people surrounded him and yet everything was touch and go. A passing greeting. A quick handshake. Knowing glances. He had recognition, respect, power, and yet, when the fight was over? Sol would leave it all behind again and move back to Aria. But that isn't what she would have wanted.

Reading through the lyrics, I initially thought Frederick was saying that he couldn't protect or save Aria, and that was what the final line meant. But I believe that's not the whole message. Frederick wasn't able to prove himself to Aria: Sol didn't keep living on like she wanted him to. He forgot her final wishes in his grief, and for the first time, he sees that. Now, finally, Frederick is ready to fulfill them.

• ○ ● Thanks for reading! ● ○ ●

[stromuprisahat]

Abusers’ responses to a possible breakup

Siege and Storm- Chapter 19

Ghosting, simmering and icing are colloquial terms that describe the practice of suddenly ending all communication and avoiding contact with another person without any apparent warning or explanation and ignoring any subsequent attempts to communicate. ... The term has also expanded to refer to similar practices among friends, family members, employers and businesses. The most common cause of ghosting in a personal relationship is to avoid emotional discomfort in a relationship. A person ghosting typically has little acknowledgment of how it will make the other person feel. Ghosting is associated with negative mental health effects on the person on the receiving end and has been described by some mental health professionals as a passive-aggressive form of emotional abuse or cruelty.

But, but Mal DID tell Alina he's done with her! They had an argument!

One-sided, in which he didn't care about what SHE has to say. And once he has time to cool down, he proceeds with the method described above. If we're acting as if their co-dependence should be labelled relationship, decision to end it shouldn't be made by a single party during a temper tantrum with no input tolerated from the other side.

Not to mention they're supposed to be friends so close they're almost like a family. Do I need to write this isn't how you treat either?!

Pathetic. Of course he has to be regularly getting drunk and into fights. He's a manly man- how else would he express his emotions? What else would daily remind Alina, what she did to him?

Why Does He Do That?: Inside the Minds of Angry and Controlling Men (Lundy Bancroft)

When hangover and beaten? Aren't we still pretending he's representing Alina?! That he's fit to PROTECT HER, when needed?!

And Malyen's punishment for her lack of enthusiasm works splendidly.

Alina's own issues already made her stay away from other Grisha, she's drowning in tasks she isn't qualified for, and Malyen's silent treatment isolates her further.

I'm sure it will make her realize how ungrateful she has been. How a little more effort on her part isn't such a terrible price for some company.

Perhaps now she would agree to that target practice.

[headingalaxys-spicy]

Hey! I really like your stories. How would a Yandere! Alfred react to his S/O already having a kid from a previous relationship? (Maybe kid doesn't like him and compares him to their father?)

Ooooh one about complicated relationships :) Here you go anon! Enjoy <3

Alfred F. Jones is the type of man who can take things in stride. This type of situation would be one of them. He’s smart enough to know that you’d be a package deal when you became his target. He would gladly take on the role of stepfather & would even do his best to be way better than your former lover. After all, that's why you’re not with your previous (husband/wife). 

Toys, outings, paying for afterschool activities, etc., will all be tools for him to get close to your kid and build a bond of sorts. Alfred will ask subtle but prying questions about why your previous relationship didn’t work for your kid. What are your greatest fears? What's your extended family like? Things of that nature. All of this information will be used for the nefarious purpose of never being able to leave him. After all, children do take some of their parents' psychology. Alfred will observe the child's behavior to gauge how difficult it will be to manage them. 

This is also highly dependent on the kid's age, which is a huge part of how Alfred will manage them. 

(0-5 years old) Oh yeah, he has time to make your kid love him like a real dad. Manipulation will be easier since the kid isn’t working with much mental capabilities yet. 

(6-12 years old) Now that your kid knows how to say “no” & be independent to a degree this is where things will begin to get tricky for Alfred. However, he still has the upper hand. He’s already braced himself to hear the tried and true hallmarks of being a pre-teen just beginning to discover themselves. 

“You’re not my real dad!” 

“I hate you!” 

Alfred of course, won’t behave violently like he’d typically want to. He’s worked far too hard for you to be within his trap. So he can last, however, many years until your kid reaches that magical age of 18 before he will try to alienate you from them. But trust me when I say he has already begun to plant seeds of discontent meant to get you detached from your child when that day comes. 

He does end up having a lot of joy derived from punishing your kid. Things like not receiving allowances, watching television, playing video games, or having cell phone access—you name it—your child probably had it taken away. Alfred did have a conversation with you, and the both of you did agree that he should have the ability to punish your child since all three of you did live together. It is his home originally, so Alfred has a great deal of leverage. 

However, 12-13 in most U.S. states, children can vocalize who they’d like to live with. So, if you’re child hates Alfred at some point during an argument, he will shout out:

“You hate it here? Fine, you little brat, you can live with your real dad (or mom) since you’re so ungrateful!!!” 

(13-18 years old) Holy hell, will the tension be high if you’re all living together? It’s a new life change for them. This will be especially bad if the kid doesn’t like Alfred. It’s not a situation that can last for long. This works in Alfred's favor. He will push the kid to want to live with the other parent. You’ll have visitation that will start off at being every weekend; then it will slowly diminish to every other weekend, then once a month, and so on. 

This space away from your former child will give Alfred the time to tie you down with his own children. During this time, he’ll get busy subtly telling you how your kid from your previous relationship hates you. Alfred will sew the doubt about your child's love for you. Alfred will have more to stand on if your EX also has a new S/O; he’ll compare you subtly to substantiate why your kid doesn’t love you anymore.

[hyperfixatedcatlover]

The Beauty's Rebirth - Chapter 2: Mother Agent

Hey y'all! Sorry this took so long to get out! Please cast your votes! I will write all paths but I will write them one at a time so I want to know what you all would want!

TW: Child abuse, starvation, mentions of being trafficked, MDNI

I do not support or condone such behaviors in real life, this is purely fiction.

Prologue - Chapter 1 - Chapter 2(You are here)

In modeling, there is a term models are aware of. This term is "Mother agent." The mother agent is the agency or the person that discovered you.

'It's funny,' you think to yourself on the way to your house ship - as one of, if not, the most famous models in the galaxy, having a nice apartment that can also travel the stars was exceedingly helpful - 'my mother agent is more of a mother than my actual one.'

The craft driving you home is silent on the inside, but the silence is thick. The typical post-filming headache has set in, restarting the typical routine of these gigs. You smiled, you waved as you went to the dressing room, you took the expensive dress off and put on another nice, semi-less stifling outfit, waved as you went to the car, continued to wave out the window as the car drives away until you were finally out of sight. In these moments of traveling while the pressure in your skull causes the intense desire for pure, uninterrupted quiet, your mind can't help but drift. And drift it does, into the dark recesses of your brain where the memories of your childhood are.

'Mother always hated my beauty, I wonder what she thinks of it now.' Your mother was always jealous. At just five years old, the curls in your hair and the smile that shone seemed to tell her that you were much more beautiful, something she couldn't be. Of course it had to be your fault, of course she needed to punish you for it, of course she needed to starve you when you were seven to keep your figure, of course she needed to train you in acting docile and submissive, though that may have been the malnourishment that caused you to not ever speak up. Mistakes were met with harsh punishment,

"It's for your own good, you ungrateful spawn!"

You shake the memory out of your head, instead choosing to remember the kind woman at the modeling agency, which was small and didn't have that much money who took a chance on you. Poor, starving, freezing you, who she gave a roof over your head and a job, who listened to the story of your parents selling you off to become a concubine to a man thrice your age on another planet, how they faked your death at home. The woman who taught you what you needed to know. In your reminiscence, you to see something out of the corner of your eye. You catch sight of a light blue planet with golden swirls in various parts. Gold and blue… The colors cause your brain to remember someone, someone you miss dearly. I wonder how those two are doing.

The Halovian boy who was only a year older than you, and his sister who was two years your junior, the Oak Branch of The Family. They were the only two people who ever made you happy. At one of the events you were allowed to go to at just nine years of age, you got lost and began to cry no matter how hard you tried to resist it. It was at that point when a boy of slightly shorter height than yours and his much smaller sister found you. When I looked into the young boy's eyes, I felt seen. You were friends ever since, though your meetings were few and far between from how your families kept you busy.

Mr. Wood must have given him some freedom now, I know Robin is a singer, and Sunny most likely is in charge of something back home. If I can even call such a place home.

Childhood friend musings aside, your aircraft has landed in your garage, and you step out waving Charles, your Chauffer, goodbye as you scan your fingerprint to unlock the door. As you step into the home, the mewls of your cherry pie and lemon merengue pie snacks cause you to giggle as the hop towards you like they haven't seen you in months, despite only having been gone for five hours. You pat their heads and go to the master bathroom and shower, scrubbing the makeup, hair spray, and whatever else they put on your skin and in your hair. As you exit the bathroom, now wearing a satin nightgown, you see the snacks waiting for you on the bed.

Oh those cuties, I wish I could stay with them all day.

You join them on the bed when you get a message, your mother agent.

'Hey, you have a couple days off but before you go to bed, you need to hear the options to decide what your next shoot is. I'll get your answer tomorrow so you can think about it.'

'I get to decide?'

'My assistant's system glitched out and crashed, causing three events to be scheduled at the same time. I'll handle the fallout, but you should pick what you want to do.'

'Oh, okay! What are my options?'

'First option is that you could go to a planet, called Belobog, which recently made contact with the IPC and do a shoot there to increase tourism.'

'I guess I wouldn't need heavy security as most people there won't know who I am.'

'True, but you'll still have some. The next option is a shoot on the Xianzhou Loufu. An indie designer you've modeled for in the past is launching a line of traditional hanfu-inspired nightgowns and wants you to model a few, some are a smidge risqué, however.'

'I think I've shown more skin than was you're implying, I'll be fine if I go that route, but what is the last option?'

'You don't have to go to this one, I will make sure your reputation with this brand doesn't sink.'

'What do you mean? You're freaking me out a little bit.'

'The last option is with a major brand, they have a new clothing line with vintage clothes with a modern twist. The shoot will be in Penacony.'

'Oh.'

'My thoughts exactly. I'll let you think about what you want and talk to you tomorrow. Goodnight, sleep well!'

Mother Agent has gone offline

You set the phone on the nightstand and ponder.

Do I go somewhere new and help a planet's economy? Do I go to a smaller designer and give them more reputation? Or, do I go home? Where do I go?

After some tossing and turning, you fall asleep, dreams not reaching you, just a voice telling you to fly free. When you wake up, the snacks are ready for food. As the coffee brews and the snacks munch, you pick up your phone, having made your decision.

'I want to go to…'

[theweeklydiscourse]

I think one of my biggest grievances with ACOTAR is how the family dynamics is written and how the author offers no explanation at all, just expects the readers to move on. Feyre's father not even acknowledging the existence of the youngest daughter who was keeping them all alive, nesta's general cold indifference to feyre's life and an obvious preference for elain (we honestly don't see any prove of that aside from some words, typical of sjm) should've been explained by now yet we still don't get an answer for any of it and if we do the books as well as the fandom gaslights you into thinking you're just "hating" "move on" or "feyre forgave so it's okay" like idc about forgiveness I just need answers! I think the readers totally deserve to know why the main freaking character was treated in such an abusive way as by her family when their treatment of her is what shapes her and her falling for the first man who took care of her, a direct consequence of their treatment. Your MC's backstory is too important to just brush off like that.

Nesta's strained relationship with Feyre was such a huge part of her character like she was almost defined by that so it absolutely boggles my mind that she and feyre don't have a single meaningful conversation that gives the readers some answers and of nothing else then a resolution (kind of what we got in book 1 before sjm destroyed it). I feel like it's the lack of resolution between the sisters Nesta & Feyre in particular, that has made the fandom so divided.

But their relationship isn't the only such thing, SJM has a habit of mentioning things that absolutely should matter and then forgetting about them just because wasn't feeling like it. For instance: the weird triangle between Cassian/Mor/Azriel, how Cassian was pissed that Mor never went back to him after one time and her telling him to not "be her keeper" in acomaf (or was it acowar?) none of it is ever explained. As soon as Cassian as a new shiny mate all is forgotten and we're all supposed to move on to without getting any proper answers. It's so frustrating to read a book like that yk. No wonder the fandom is ready to implode.

It’s not just a lack of resolutions because there are resolutions to the emotional conflicts between the Archerons, the issue is that Maas consistently rescinds the development that occurs throughout the story to instead write indulgent and gratuitous retreads of emotional beats that already happened.

But the true issue at hand here, is that it just doesn’t make any sense.

Sure, if we take the family dynamic in ACOTAR at face value then yes, it’s horrendous for Feyre who is essentially running herself ragged to support a family of spoiled and ungrateful individuals. Taking it at face value would mean accepting the plausibility of Feyre, a young illiterate amateur huntress, supporting 3 other adults for 5-8 years with her efforts alone. But I don’t believe that scenario to be plausible, and Maas does not do a good job of convincing me that the Archeron family dynamic is believable.

The family dynamic is manufactured for the deliberate purpose of serving ACOTAR's wish-fulfillment narrative. Feyre's suffering is supposed to be indulgent and gratuitous because it makes the eventual reward of luxury and power in Prythian that much sweeter. The problem though, is that Maas expands upon established characters later on in a manner that contradicts her initial characterizations of them. So, she doesn't consider that readers actually remember previously established concepts and characterizations and feel the friction of the story's retroactive continuity. So even when Feyre DOES forgive her sisters, readers feel frustrated because the conflict never stays buried for long (because Maas constantly retreads the same plot threads) It’s not surprising that many people cannot let go of Nesta’s previous mistakes when the narrative is still grasping onto it with a cold iron grip for NO REASON.

Also, Nesta’s obvious preference for Elain is not only nonsensical, but never truly explained. I could believe it if maybe Elain was sickly and Nesta took on the role of her protector, or if they had a degree of separation from Feyre like a significant age gap, were half-siblings or if Feyre was adopted, but there’s nothing like that in the text. I just find the idea that Nesta would treat her youngest sister like chopped liver while prioritizing the elder to be unrealistic and unnecessarily frustrating.

You’re right about this lack of resolution being a factor on the division of the fandom. People debate and argue over what information they’re supposed to take seriously and remember and what can be disregarded due to its inconsistency.