#I know how I want the fic to end... sort of

[jasntodds]

Scars [J.T.]

Pairing: Jason Todd x Fem!Reader

Summary: Jason lets you trace over his y scar

Warnings: Swearing, fluff, scars, mentions of death, bruises, cuts, general minor injuries, hurt/comfort

Words: 1,765

A/n: I just wanted something a little soft for once. If you wanna be tagged in my fics, you can click the link below, send me an ask/comment, or follow my library blog @jasntoddslibrary and turn on notifications if you prefer that!!

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Jason carries the weight of every horrible, traumatic, and agonizing event that’s ever happened to him across his body, etched in pale and raised lines across him like a used roadmap. He wears them as cruel reminders that this life is unfair and unjust, even when he tries his hardest to make it so. There are some he pays no mind to, and doesn’t even really notice most days because they are there. That’s that. But, there are others…there are others he looks at as a punishment for everything he’s ever done and everything he never was and could never be. They’re reminders, laughing back at him every day, a sinister echo of his mistakes.

Most days, he tries to pay them no mind, either.

You’re sitting on your knees right beside Jason, his side pressed against the bare skin of your calf. Your eyes are trained on his exposed abdomen, showcasing the scars and cuts and bruises he’s collected over the last few years.

It wasn’t that seeing his body covered in new and old injuries was jarring. That was mostly fine. After the first few weeks of being friends, it stopped being jarring because that's just how it is with Jason. He gets hurt sometimes. It comes with the job and you accept that part of him. The bruises and cuts were very rarely ever jarring. The other scars were never really jarring because of course he has them. That always made sense to you. It's the autopsy scar that is jarring.

With the others, he'd told you it comes with the job and then he'd watch your face contort into a scrunch of worry and paranoia over his well-being, something he doesn't think he deserves most days. When the comment didn't ease your worry, he'd kiss you and give his signature cocky grin, a silent promise that he's fine and the conversation would end. The autopsy scar conversation is never so simple.

You knew he died because he told you not long before you made things official. You knew the story about the Joker and his mom. He told you of the horrid night and bits of pieces of the after. But this is your first time seeing the physical damage of the night that still wakes him up in the middle of the night. Your chest aches for him and it's jarring because he did die and he has to carry that kind of weight forever, something you'll swear until the day you die he doesn't deserve.

With delicate fingers, you trace over the long line of the autopsy scar, Jason’s eyes glancing from your hand to your face. His stomach tenses with the movement and you can’t tell if it’s because your hands are cold, it tickles, or he’s uncomfortable. If you know Jason, you’re kind of figuring it’s the third option. So, you glance back to him, chewing the inside of your cheek.

“This okay?” You ask softly.

“It’s fine.” Jason answers, his thumb lightly brushing over your thigh furthest away from him. “Bother you?”

Jason has been cautious not to show you because he knows how he feels about it. He knows that you worry. Seeing some sort of proof of death seems like it might send you spiraling into some sort of tornado of worry until you spin too far away from him. He's been cautious because he adores you and he doesn't want to lose you and he doesn't want it scare you.

You look back to the scar, tracing over it again. “No.” You answer quietly. It hurts your chest because it happened to him. It happened to him and nothing in this world could ever justify the torture and pain he's been through. It doesn't bother you because it is a part of him and you adore him with every beat your heart drums. “Bothers you though.”

Jason’s brows pull together. “How’d you figure?” There’s the slightest bit of a bite in his words like a scared puppy, a default reaction to being seen.

“Why wouldn’t it?” The question leaves your lips freely with unfiltered candor.

Seeing it for the first time, yeah it bothered him. It bothered him because what was the point? It wasn’t some mystery how he died. Maybe it was just legal reasons bullshit that Jason doesn’t care about. Though, he does fully understand that maybe if he hadn’t come back, he wouldn’t care. Or if it had healed, he wouldn’t care. So, that’s something he can’t really blame Bruce for. Instead, it’s that it’s there. Looking back at him in the mirror. Staring up at him when he looks down. It’s always there. It’s as if he was cut open and the weight of death and punishment and regret scattered over his organs and bones, making sure he understands the weight of his own consequences. He just can’t quite shake it and the scar is the reminder.

"I guess." Jason lets out this shaky breath as his stomach tenses below your fingertips.

"It's okay if it bothers you, Jay." You assure him. "I'd bother me if I were you but..." You pause for just a second, pressing an open palm over some of the raised edges of the scar as your eyes are locked on his. "I hope it doesn't bother you too much because you got to live and I don't care what the other bats thought about it at first because I'm glad you got to come back. And you deserve to let the weight off your shoulders for once." Your eyes go back to the scar and trace up the line from the center of his stomach up to the right side of his chest.

Jason's thumb is rubbing lightly against your skin and he wonders why you make it seem so simple. No part of him thinks you believe it's simple but there's something in the way that you say it that almost gives Jason some sort of faith in the idea of it. That maybe there is a day where it won't feel like he's carrying the weight of the world. Maybe there is a day someday where he won't feel the aching and longing of his bones. You offer him tenderness and kindness when the majority of his life has been nothing but skinned knees and broken hearts.

That feels terrifying, too but...maybe he's tired of running away from things because they're good for him. And good to him.

Seeing the autopsy scar for the first time bothered him. Seeing it yesterday bothered him. But, at this exact point in time with your fingers running along the tattered edges, it doesn’t bother him so much.

“Thank you.” Jason holds his words steady with a sort of caution at the edges. "It's not bothering me now." His voice is quiet as his eyes glance to you and then back to your fingers on his skin.

He is entirely exposed to you now. There’s no going back even if that is absolutely terrifying. Jason keeps himself guarded to protect himself and protect everyone else around him. But, you make letting the guard down a little bit easier. You’re tender and delicate with him, two things no one ever is. At no point have you ever thought less of him for the things he’s done and things he’s seen, or the things that rip his body to shreds. You take him as he is and offer him understanding and kindness, two things Jason has been desperate to get from anyone. And he is so thankful for you.

“Good.” Your voice is quiet before your stare goes back to the scar. “I hope it never bothers you again.”

Jason sits up, closing some of the distance between you while you rest your hands in your lap. His eyes run over your face slowly while the corner of his mouth is pinched barely upwards. He looks content. He looks comfortable. His heart is beating a mile a minute as it’s about to run through his ribs. There’s something fluttering against it, something that feels warm and welcoming in the beating of his heart. There’s something that makes his breathing unsteady without ever sucking the air from his lungs. There is something that feels comfortable and like a home he didn’t think he’d ever find.

Jason leans forward, resting his forehead against yours and your entire body relaxes in that instant. He pulls away, pressing a kiss to your nose and then to your cheek before he rests his head in the crook of your neck. You turn your head and press a kiss to his temple before your hands come to his cheeks to pick his head up.

His eyes lock on your eyes and you adore him. You adore him for all that he is today. The scars never really bothered you because they hold him together. All of them have a story that has led Jason Todd to who he is today. They are proof that he is alive. They are proof that even when he was hurt, even when he was murdered, he is alive. The air can be pulled into his lungs and oxygen will circulate through his cells again. He is alive. The autopsy scar is just further proof to you because he shouldn’t have been brought back but he was. And that was for a reason. That scar is just another piece of proof he is meant to be here. It is another mark of how he got here today and you, for one, are eternally thankful that he is here today.

Your thumbs are running over his cheeks and Jason swears he has never felt so wanted by anyone. And he doesn’t feel so damn alone in the world anymore. He feels important and he only hopes he makes you feel the same way. He can only hope you understand how much you mean to him and that he is just as important to you.

Your lips come to his and he melts into your touch as he kisses you back. His hand comes up to the back of your head to pull you in closer. And he thinks he might do everything in his power to have more moments like these with you. You can trace his scars and he can tell you about them and you can exist in the bubble where it is only the two of you. You can trace his scars and he can run his fingers along your thigh and you both can feel wanted and important. And loved.

Tag List: @jasontoddsmentaldisorders // @purplerose291 // @lovelessamai  // @makaelaseresin // @lenidaslenchen // @mayfieldss // @ghostkingblake // @dgraysonss // @im-done-with-this-im-out // @velvetskies // @vivian-555 // @kebonita // @deyja-the-duck // @jasontoddslover // @captainmarvels-blog // @totallynotkaibiased // @scarlovesyou // @whydoyoucare866 // @littlemeowmeow1000 // @septixtrash // @kplatzman // @killxz // @achromaticerebus // @lovefks // @kolpvii

[caitlinbueckers]

take care.

caitlin clark x reader type beat PART 2!!!!!!!!

6.2k (what the fuck)

ok. Listen!!!!!! This is long time coming and also is a disgusting amount of words and dialogue and like weird subtextual angst masked with smut honestly it’s pure delusion on a page also ending only slightly abrupt bc it was unfathomably long sorry

wasn’t gonna make the sequel so in depth like ??? How’d this one shot turn into a fic 😐 no Clue but all i know is that insecure sort of self deprecative caitlin clark with this soft dominance of a reader combined with two bitches who won’t admit their feelings is my crack!!!! let me know if a part 3 is even needed or if yall even care teehee

no beta simply just vibes

ANYWAYYZZZZZ love u guys sorry that i suck!!!

two weeks since you’d texted that number with your name, a simple contact, and she’d liked the message, and that was it.

it wasn’t like things immediately changed— you still, somehow, made your flight despite the throbbing headache that reverberated in your skull, and you still were able to make sure you didn’t leave a toothbrush or a stray apple watch charger in the hotel room but, miraculously, you find a way to not mention a single thing about your one night stand until you touch down at home; manchester, connecticut.

you tell your friends all about it— probably missing some implied understanding about nda’s— and pretend like it isn’t that big of a deal that one of the biggest basketball players for women’s college wasn’t knuckles deep inside of you only the night before.

but it’s a big deal. and you know it is.

like her breath, fierce and rampant with each spellbinding curl of her fingers, wasn’t startlingly still replaying in your mind, her mouth soaking in each warm, huff of air that you expelled in the form of a moan. like she hadn’t watched as she fucked you, dark eyes somehow impossibly darker as her biceps flexed, the line of thick, corded veins that traveled her muscular arms somehow jumping with each pump of her fingers inside of you.

that the same, somehow blushing girl that stood in the elevator had regarded you like something to be challenged, like something she could fight for. something she could win.

you didn’t forget a single thing. not in the way she leaned down over you as her fingers quickened their pace, the force of it eliciting grunts from caitlin’s mouth as she tore you apart, piece by piece, licking the remains as her teeth grazed over a nipple, the sensitive jut of your collarbone.

“so pretty,” she’d murmured against your skin, almost absently, like she didn’t even realize she’d said it. “you like that?” obviously, it went without saying that you did (very much), but really, you’d learned that she wanted to hear you say it. it was in the same way that - as she’d recounted to you drunkenly in a hotel bar that night - she needed to hear the audience cheer. that the fans hollering and shouting was when she felt like she was on fire. it was the external validation that urged her forth, amped her up, kept her alight.

somehow, you could see exactly how it applied to her then, her eyes quick to scan over your face— your lips, to kiss them, before she’d ask again, urgently, “you like how i fuck you? huh? tell me.”

you’d nodded furiously, words tumbling past your trembling lips, “y-es, fuck, yes—“ god, it would’ve been impossible to pull more than a few words from you with how wrought you are, body unrelentingly tense, shaking and weak until she’d coaxed another orgasm out of you, her name sounding broken on your tongue as her fingers slow, the unrelenting grind from the heel of her hand finally relaxing to ride you through it.

she was unforgivingly good with her fucking hands, you’d come to realize.

and yet, beyond all of that, much to your friends dismay, you don’t call her.

no, in fact, you mute her name on twitter and block the IOWA womens basketball page because it becomes suddenly like a frenzy. she’s everywhere, more than usual, like some sick sign from the universe and as much as it seems almost the complete opposite of how you really feel, you decide that you can never see her again.

it’s not like the sex wasn’t phenomenal, or that when it’s late and your hand sneaks into your pants, your imagination doesn’t always seems to conjure up tall, pretty girls with brown hair and green eyes, or that she didn’t completely captivate you from the moment she’d looked at you, dumbfounded and sheepish in an elevator with a blush staining her cheeks.

it wasn’t that. in fact, it was the complete opposite.

it was because the moment you’d seen a picture of her online after the fact, looking tougher than you knew she was, you’d realized that the last place you’d seen her was from between your legs, and it felt like a fucking soul crush.

because she was beautiful, and smiling, and playing up that celebrity, all-star mentality that you knew she could back up, but that you realized wasn’t her in the slightest. because now, you knew her— sort of— and saw her in ways that nobody else had— that you knew of. more so, that she’d learned your body in the span of a night and then just left, and somehow that just wasn’t fucking fair.

there was a shroud of mystery that surrounded her, even if she belonged to the world, to her supposed boyfriend, to everyone, really— way more than she ever belonged to you, even if just for a night.

so you go on about your life, and you pretend you don’t notice the draft is coming, or that soon, the already well known athlete was gonna be world renowned, taking her biggest leap to play professional, and you’d be nothing to her, nothing but the girl she’d screwed in a hotel room when she’d gotten too drunk after the final four.

and sure, you find solace in it. but there’s also this lingering, nagging feeling of being unfinished, like there’s still more. there has to be more.

so, no, you don’t call her.

but, somehow, you find last-minute tickets for the draft— which, in the grand scheme of things isn’t completely selfish. the moment you’d seen nika muhl and aaliyah edwards up for the league, you’d known that you were going to try for tickets. you just, probably, maybe, weren’t actually expecting to hookup with the projected top number one draft pick, either.

but you did, so, you buy them anyway.

you let your friends tease you for picking a dress that’s sorta slutty and for spending more time than you should doing your makeup at whatever hotel you picked in boston, only a few blocks from the draft.

all in all, it goes exactly how you expect. caitlin gets number one draft, which only slightly makes you antsy in your seat, thinking about the fact that she doesn’t know you’re there, that she doesn’t know you saw her win big and that she possibly could’ve been thinking about anyone fucking else. your favorites, nika muhl and aaliyah edwards, get teams that you’re more than happy to celebrate, and watch paige bueckers and azzi fudd get shoutout after shoutout. it’s good, it’s fun— but fuck it.

you think you miss her. maybe just her fingers, or her mouth, but you realize in a weird swell of recognition as the guests are ushered out, your head spinning back every few moments to see if you can catch a glimpse of her, that you do.

you miss the cait you’d met— you just didn’t know the one that sat in the room now.

then, it’s all sorta funny, in a way, considering the situation you find yourself in once everyone begins to disperse, limos and SUV’s pulled up and parked outside of the venue, crowds of fans standing around the barricades to sit for their favorite athletes to pile out of the doors, to go to some super elite, exclusive party that you knew you had no place at.

you don’t expect any special treatment, and you don’t expect a text or a call— which is good, because they don’t come.

no, actually, they don’t come until later.

later, after you’d spent the rest of the night in a nearby bar with a couple of girls you’d met leaving the draft. they’re funny and they’re nice, gushing about the picks, talking miles a minute about all their favorites and making you pretend that the tequila doesn’t burn just a tiny bit more when they mention caitlin’s name.

it doesn’t come until you’re showered, dressed in sweats and pleasantly drunk, scrolling through the shitty channels when your phone buzzes once, then twice, then three times and it almost makes you click the lock button, shove it over in assumption of your friends bothering you about an unsuccessful night to woo a pro athlete— but then it happens again.

you can’t really decipher what makes you look at the random assortment of numbers and it suddenly click. maybe it was because you’d spent the past few weeks in a complete back and forth, scanning over a crumpled napkin with the name ‘cait’ and these specific numbers beside it.

you know who it is, and despite yourself, your heart catches in your throat.

“hello?”

“you made it.” her voice is deeper than you remember, and it doesn’t fail to make your cheeks burn almost immediately. fuck.

“huh?” you play dumb, mostly because it’s more embarassing to admit that you’d came all this way for this, for the slim possibility that she’d fucking notice.

“tonight, i mean. you- i didn’t know— i didn’t know you were coming.” you stay silent, because what else is there to say? had she seen you?

but she continues, “you should’ve told me.” and then, “i, uh— i would’ve liked to see you.”

she’s pathetic, and so are you. a hand comes up to shove back your hair from your face, breath increasing only slightly. “i have a hotel, like, smack in the middle of boston if you’re… like, if this is an offer.”

now, she’s silent. there’s a shuffle on the other end, a murmur of a voice that you don’t recognize, before she’s back, her voice closer, softer. “yeah. yeah, i’d, uh, i’d like that.”

you open your mouth to say something, probably alcohol fueled and embarassed, but she’s speaking now, a bit quicker, “just text me, yeah?”

then the phone clicks, and for half a second, you stare at the home screen as if this couldn’t possibly be fucking real.

but it is, miraculously, and god, it makes you kind of fucking horny to think that she’s willing to see you at half past three in the morning, so your fingers fly over the keyboard in record time— a pin being dropped through imessage with a confirmed ping.

it’s fucking go time after that.

you find the lacy, practically nonexistent underwear you’d brought, forgo a bra entirely, and try to find something a little less boring than your sweatsuit, before you realize with a sickening realization that the revealing dress you’d worn for the draft was the outfit you’d expected to see her in, and as much as you cared, you kinda fucking didn’t— she’d been inside of you, by now. clothing didn’t seem as pressingly urgent as it would otherwise.

it’s only about twenty minutes before she texts you, a simple ‘here’. you send a brief message, just the number of your hotel room, and pretend like your heart doesn’t practically pound out of your chest for each passing moment, eyes flickering from the door, to the window outside, the city bustling even at a time like this.

she knocks only twice, and it startles you enough that it takes your breath away.

the moment the door swings open, it’s like a wave of calm washes over you, a weird sense of solace that you hadn’t realized she could offer, mostly due to the fact that before you stood the caitlin you’d remembered from all those weeks ago, after final four. not the exquisitely dressed, superstar you’d seen earlier that night, in shades and clothing that you could never afford with an attitude you didn’t recognize.

instead, she stands before you at her startling height, in sneakers, sweats and a windbreaker, a hood over her head and her hands tucked into her pockets. once again, looking impossibly small for someone of her stature and it takes all that’s within you to not kiss her right there.

“you got here quick.” you mention, still only slightly breathless as she offers a smile that resembles more of a smirk than anything else.

“i was scared you’d fall asleep,” and it sounds as sheepish as it makes you feel.

you step back, let her walk in and inhabit the space, only slightly making your palms sweat to have her here, in front of you again.

you decide to take the initiative to plop onto the bed, looking up at her as you toy with a stray string from your hoodie, “i wasn’t gonna fall asleep,” you retort, looking up at her, catching a glance that you don’t break, “congrats on top draft pick.”

now, she’s blushing, shaking her head and pursing her lips, “still feels unreal, dude.” she murmurs, looking down at her feet before slowly, her movements unsure, she sinks onto the bed next to you. “you’re unreal.” you say quietly, smirking at her, because you know how she’d cringe at it, scrunches her face before shaking her head. “god, not by a long shot.”

you open your mouth to say something else, maybe tease her about it, but she clears her throat quietly, “but i don’t, uh- wanna talk about that right now?” she offers a mirthless laugh, “is that stupid?”

she turns to look at you, and it happens to only be a couple centimeters from your face once you look up, shake your head “then we don’t have to.” you agree quietly, and it’s impossible to miss the way her eyes flicker down at your lips, back up to your face, and it’s equally as impossible to ignore the flip you get in your stomach before you surge forward to kiss her.

she kisses the same, tastes like what you remember, if not marked by whatever cocktails she must’ve had, whatever liquor still sat on your own breath, and it washes over you greedily that you do fucking want her— more than whatever you tried to convince yourself of during the past two weeks, more than what you’d downplayed to your friends.

“been thinking about you,” it comes out rushed, murmured against caitlin’s lips, shakily from your own mouth as she lets out a slow, wanton breath. you turn to crawl up on your knees, swinging over her hips to push her back against the bed.

she makes a noise like it stems from disbelief, almost like denial, but doesn’t pull away, not even once as her hands, fingers long and palms wide, spread beneath your sweatshirt, span across the expanse of your back and grasp.

“i did,” you insist between breathless kisses, foreheads pressed together hard as her hand races up the front now, over your stomach, palm your breasts and elicit a pitchy gasp from the immediate contact of her cold hands to your sensitive nipples, “every fucking day.”

“shut up,” she denies it again, which only slightly irks you because as cliche as it felt to say during a makeout, it’s not like you would lie about how much you’ve craved this— or more specifically, her.

you try to really expand on the thought, but it becomes almost impossible when her lips attach to your jaw, suckling until her teeth are teasing the sensitive, thin skin beneath your ear, and you make a noise too embarrassing to recount before you can gather your words. “…missed you.”

caitlin makes a noise in her own throat, something between a growl and a groan as she arches her hips up slightly to press against you, before she shakes her head, pulling back only to look up at you from your position on her lap with this sick, almost torturous gaze. her eyes are lidded and feverbright, cheeks pink, and lips glossy, kiss-bitten.

“you shouldn’t think about me.” it comes out quick with her breath, her thumbs still slow in the circles they rubbed around your nipples, making your head arch back with a whimper before you swallow hard, her words almost too quiet to hear, “not worth it to think about.”

the admission surprises you, “fuck off, clark.” you snort, the words fall lazily out of your mouth, “so humble, huh?”

she gets hot at that, and you can tell from the way her face is pressed into your neck, the way a heat radiates from her cheeks right at that moment that makes your stomach swirl, your own hands coming up to tangle into her hair.

“…i‘m serious.” she insists, still mouthing against the same area of skin that you knew would be bruised, and pretend like her totally incognito, self deprecative words weren’t somewhat confusing and worrying you.

she was fucking perfect, didn’t she realize that? how could she not when practically everyone else in the world thought the same? maybe you were being dramatic or maybe you were just horny, but it felt achingly real in the moment that she knew that, even if she wouldn't listen, even if you'd have to show her instead.

“cait, i’m fucking serious.” you counter now, using the hands in her hair to tug, exploring the reaction that it elicits, which is something that apparently caitlin enjoys by the soft whine that jumps from her throat, the way her breath quickens, the wide eyed look she gives you.

it makes your head spin, your thighs clench involuntarily. she seems so fucking innocent, and yet, all knowing at the same time.

“is that… bad?” you continue, your own head ducking to latch your lips against her neck, feeling her pulse jump beneath your teeth, “that i… touched myself and thought of you?” maybe it was the cocktails or the fact that this could be the last fucking time you see her, but it’s like word vomit— every thought and emotion that comes to you is spoken without hesitation, and apart of you wonders where you’d gotten such newfound bravery.

caitlin must be wondering too.

“not bad,” it comes out of her weak, weaker than she is right now, melting under your mouth and the tight grasp you have on her dark hair, the way each strand twines around your fingers to where even the most minuscule move of your fingers elicit a huff or a sigh, “it’s… fucking hot, what the fuck.”

it fuels you, in some way, to hear her validation. for some reason, you don’t try to hold off much longer— your own sweatshirt is being pulled off in record time, tangled in your arms momentarily and flung across the room as you go to reach for hers, “off?” you hum in the midst of the movement, to which she nods, quickly, obedient and yet, so unruly.

she was a dichotomy of everything she stood for. a shy girl pretending to be a superstar, and yet, even in moments like this, quiet and intimate, it felt like a superstar pretending to be shy. you knew just how easily she could unload, dominate the situation— pin you down by your wrists and eat you out within an inch of your life, because she had.

but now, she’s relenting, and it makes something within you burn, strengthening wildly to try and tame that beast that you knew sat fervent beneath her skin, to try and prove that caitlin didn’t always have to be caitlin clark, she could just be this.

just a pretty girl you wanted to fuck.

besides, maybe you were making up for lost time, returning favors you’d been too drunk and blissed out to give the first time around when she’d finished you off with fucking ease.

as soon as she’s exposed, her black sports bra yanked off with little effort to reveal her breasts beneath, pale and dotted with freckles, a red line from the band of it standing starkly against it, you find your mouth lowering to suckle on a spot near her nipple, teasing against the bud and licking gently at the skin until you hear her breath increase, breaking only slightly into a whine that makes you swallow hard.

you pull away, just to look at her— dark eyebrows furrowed, focused in a concentration that you can only discern as someone fighting for the need to control, to dictate, to display the same use of her strategic authority that she’s used time and time again on the court.

you decide in that moment, that you won’t let her.

“let me take care of you?” it comes out softer than you mean it to, and you can see the trust building within her, slow to register as safe— and you don’t blame her.

you both are practically strangers, knowing nothing of each other than drunken conversation that had turned too deep, nothing but the sound the other made when they came, the faces they made. it was intimately unfamiliar, and perhaps that’s where caitlin had found the solace.

maybe she knew that at this point in her career she wouldn’t have normalcy. it was practically impossible for any person knowledgeable in sports to not know her, or even just of her. to a further degree, even most, with the exception of being well versed in women’s sports, had at least heard of her, and that was simply a piece of herself that had been taken, one she’d never be able to retrieve.

but this, this might be the one standing, single piece of lucidity and realness that was hers— locked away in a hotel room in a city unfamiliar to the both of you, and it’s enough.

it’s enough for now.

“you wouldn’t even text me back.” she counters, but it’s clear in her tone, regardless of how ragged, that it’s to prod at you, and it works.

“shut up.” you murmur as you press your hands to her shoulders, push her back against the bed to straddle her fully as you brush your thumb over her abused nipple, reddened and too easy to bruise. she moans when you press on it, and it elicits a smirk to your face that’s impossible to hide. “you’re here now, aren’t you?”

for some reason, it causes a sad sort of smirk to her face that’s impossible to miss, regardless of how quickly she covers it with an exhale of want, one that you know isn’t feigned, “where else would i be?”

there’s a million answers to that. press, interviews, sleeping, with her fucking boyfriend, but you settle for a small smile, “good point.”

you hope it centers her a little when the bruising press of your fingers translate into something gentler, more of a caress against her chest that you trail up to her face, and it almost twists something inside of you to see the way her face relaxes, leans against it as if it was some type of treatment or medicine to some ailment you weren’t aware of.

you go to pull away, to begin working at the ties on her sweatpants to unwravel her even more, lost in the softness of the moment and yet still blinded by the hazy lust until she speaks, quiet and barely there.

“did you really think about me?”

it stuns you for half a second, because the simple confession hadn’t registered to you as something she’d recall, something she’d look to expand upon.

but you’d always been honest, brutally so.

“yeah,” you say it as if it was obvious, when truly it wasn’t, and more so, probably wasn’t reciprocated, “i had fun,” a gross understatement, a weak replacement for all that you really wanted to say. then, if not a bit more revealing of your inner voice, “didn’t you?”

caitlin makes a noise that resembles a huff, but it’s not impatient, it’s honest. you wonder how often she gets to do that. “you know i did.” it comes out like an admission of guilt, under her breath, yet her eyes are unrelenting as they are sincere and it makes your eyebrows lift.

it makes your breath halt slightly, “is… not having fun in your contract or something?” you lace it with a quiet chuckle, mostly because you don’t want to make it too deep, too revealing to ask, but part of you thinks it’s expanded beyond that already, had been since she'd called you at three in the morning, just to say that she'd seen you, that she wanted to see you again.

her hands rise from her sides to rest against your thighs, and the touch is welcome, one that you relax into before she manages a half smile, “might as well be.”

but then, you see that surge of confidence again, something in her eyes glimmering as she squeezes at the skin of your thighs, hard, but your eyes remain fixed, even as hers drop, almost shy in her show of strength. “it’s why… i’ve thought about you like, everyday since... final four?”

that certainly makes your breath halt, invoking a reaction in your stomach and between your legs that you choose to ignore as you swallow, thumb still slow in its brush against her cheek.

“yeah?” it comes out of you rough, and she grants you with a nod as a response, then, after only a moment, she whispers, an echo to your words from before. “so... is it bad that i missed you too?”

“god, shut up.” you repeat again, as if somehow that was a valid response to being told such a thing by a girl you’d only had met twice, by a girl you knew nothing about.

you wanna ask her a million questions, know anything and everything: ask her if she’s actually into girls, if she’s actually into her boyfriend. mainly, if she’s actually into this pedestal that she’d been thrust into, if the fame was too much, maybe if it was never enough.

but you settle for shutting her up for now, because you can see the way her chest rises and falls rapidly, can hear the strain that it took to admit, and you realize, selflessly, that maybe you won’t let yourself ask for more.

not now, anyway.

instead, you lean up, uncharacteristically tender as you slide your lips against hers, feels the way she relents against you, slow and subservient.

“can i show you how bad i missed you?” your fingers tease the edge of her sweatpants, and she lets out a creaking groan, head tilting back and eyes closing as if in exasperation, before she nods. “please.”

you get right to work.

it takes only a little bit of adjustment to get her pants off of her long legs, to reveal the simple pair of black boy shorts that she wore, before you can finally tease a finger against the soaked fabric, reveling in the wetness that you knew matched your own.

her hips jump up, caged in only by your legs as you arch your middle finger, riding the knuckle against her heat, watching the way her face twists only slightly, lips parted in silent noises that you wish you could beckon out of her.

it is fun, you realize in the back of your mind, to pull her apart like this. without the inebriation clouding your mind from the last time, you feel almost startlingly cognizant of your own movements, of her reactions.

when you finally pump your middle finger into her, you notice the way her stomach and abs flex involuntarily, the way her voice pitches up and almost keens in her throat, catching with every stuttered inhale.

when you lean down to press your lips against the slickness of her cunt, press the pad of your tongue to her clit, she says your name— loud. it’s something mixed between a whine and a plead, long, dexterous fingers tangling into your hair and holding on tight.

you devour her, tongue slow to slide against her slick folds, to feel the surge of wetness spill out around your fingers, mixed with your own saliva. you drink her in like she’s a potion, or an elixir, something that you swear you can find and savor if you just go deeper, harder.

it isn’t until you feel her thighs tense, clamping around your head as she lets out a sound close to a gasping breath, marked with a moan that makes your head spin— she sounds so fucking desperate, and you’re bound and determined to give her exactly what she wants. what she deserves, really.

she comes on your fingers, in your mouth, and you relish every bit of it, quick to clean up the excess with fervor. she’s sensitive still, her breath huffing out whenever you breach too close to her clit, but you’re gentle. that’s what this was all about, right?

it’s quiet after the storm, your wrist sore and mouth wet as you sit up a bit, eyes careful to observe how hard her chest rises and falls. the way her hair, having fallen from its loose bun, sat in messy waves around her face, nothing like the impeccably straightened strands you’d seen at the draft, and it sort of makes you smile in an off handed way that you can’t explain, especially not when she opens her eyes finally to look at you.

“quit.” she says, and there’s a smile, tired and breathless, teasing at her own mouth as the hand that had fisted your tangled locks finally released, dragging down the side of your head to push your chin away lightly,

you can’t help but snicker, raising a brow, “what?” she rolls her eyes, and you repeat yourself, this time with a snort, “sorry, you’re just— you just look pretty like this.”

it’s hard to pretend that something inside of you doesn’t wince when her smile drops slightly, and you pretend like it isn’t uncommon to compliment the stranger you just ate out with such sincerity and honesty.

she’s slow when she says it, “...you always look pretty.” and it sounds wistful, murmured in a way that you can’t help but flush a bit at, as you roll your eyes now as if to return the favor, “you’ve only seen me twice, drunk, in sweats.”

but for some reason, that makes her smile return and for half a second, you let yourself pretend.

that maybe, this random series of hookups between you two weren’t fueled by some weird attraction slash escapism slash secret infidelity that had to be shared between you, or tucked away from the world. for half a second, she wasn’t caitlin clark, women’s basketball superstar, future member of the indiana fever.

she was cait, a girl you’d met at a bar that you’d hooked up with who just happened to see you again, and maybe, if you were a little dumber, and maybe a bit drunker, you’d admit to yourself that there’s a part of you that likes her, and each time you’d thought about her in the past few weeks, it had become achingly apparent.

but, you’re smarter than that, and definitely not drunk enough, so you pretend that her next words don’t make your heart skip multiple beats, as if it doesn’t cause a flutter in your chest.

“still,” she scoffs, and she’s sitting up a little, her hand having laid lazily against her stomach, reaches over to grasp your wrist, almost absently, “plus, i saw you earlier tonight, in that dress?”

it shouldn’t make you almost stunned into silence, but it fucking does.

“sorry— not to like, be weird and say i was looking for you but, i dunno, i just— i remember you saying something about UCONN, so i just assumed you'd be ther—“

you’re kissing her before even you can register what she’s saying, or why she says it all in this shy, almost sheepish tone that fills you with a flood of endorphins, butterflies being set alight inside of you.

“god, you’re so…” you’re not sure where you’re going with it, but you can’t help the way your hand comes up to hold the side of her face, dip your thumb against her bottom lip as if to make her taste herself, all as your eyes watched, lidded and fixed.

then, you exhale, only a whisper, “i’m gonna get you in trouble.” you manage to say, despite the very obvious fact that watching her suck on your finger is doing unspeakable things to you, before you drag the wet digit out, her bottom lip pulling only slightly.

“with who?” she says it almost as if you both know the answer, both thinking about the multitude of bigger names and bigger people who had long since been the determinant in caitlin’s career— at least from the little that you knew— and it lapses you both in a measured silence.

until she speaks, and it’s quiet, and sincere. “you’re just like… the only thing in my life right now that has nothing to do with basketball.”

it's a compliment, wrapped up in something a lot more sad, a lot more sincere. it shouldn’t make you want to hug her, but it does, so, you do.

your arms twine around her neck slowly, your face lowering to bury against her neck, just beneath her chin, and you can feel her chest vibrate slightly with a chuckle or a laugh, before her arms are around you, squeezing you tight, “don’t go all sappy on me, dude.” she murmurs, but it’s present in the way she doesn’t pull from it, or really, the way she fucking clutches onto you, almost desperately, that you pretend once again that this doesn’t mean anything. that this is traditional, hookup behavior, and that once she leaves this hotel room, everything will shift right back into place.

a place where caitlin clark gets to be caitlin clark and you get to be you, and there’s no overlap.

except, that doesn’t happen.

no, instead, once you pull away from the hug she kisses you again, hungrier this time, her hands sliding from your back to your hips so she can hook fingers in the edge of your panties, urging you to sit up on your knees so she can pull them down.

instead, she lets you ride her thigh— both hands firm and strong, her own biceps lexing to keep you glued to her thick, corded with muscle, thigh, your cunt unforgivably wet as she dragged your hips down over and over.

your head tips forward to press to her forehead, and she kisses you through each desperate cry that escapes your lips, the friction and slide becoming wetter, slicker by the moment, drawing these high pitched noises from your throat that you know caitlin is drinking in, all while she murmurs to you in this soft little voice, “show me good it feels, lemme hear you.”

in the end, you both pass out there, somewhat in a laying position as caitlin lays on her back, arms loosely wrapped around you, who’s laying stomach down atop of her, a thigh lazily hiked up to hang against her hip, your face pressed into her neck.

it’s fucking bizarre when you think about it.

how you both had talked more than you ever had before, and when you look back on it in the morning, nothing but a ghostly reminder of her presence by the sheets that lay strewn about, the undeniable smell of sex and sweat that still hung in the air, you pretend like you don’t realize just how little you still knew about her, and just how much that you wished you knew.

you also pretend like you don’t miss her, or that when you’re gathering your clothes to check out, a soreness in your body unlike one you’ve really ever felt, you’re practically stunned to see her faded, gray, IOWA shirt, thrown lazily over the desk chair that makes you wonder just how accidental it was for her to leave it.

you wear it anyway,

it isn’t until you make it back to connecticut, making up some excuse for your friends as to how you hadn’t been able to meet up with caitlin, how she’d been too busy anyway and you’d spent the night drinking at a bar, that maybe, just maybe, there was a part of you that wanted to keep her protected, confidential.

maybe it was the post-sex fueled lust that wanted you to keep it close to your chest, a dirty secret only for you to enjoy, or maybe it came from somewhere softer, somewhere that remembered how caitlin had such little privacy, that it almost hits you like a pang just how much you wanted her to still have that, even if it was at the expense of not seeing your friends faces when you told them that you guys had hooked up, again. even if she'd never know that you didn't say a word.

fuck it. it’s the least you could do.

you try not to think about her for days really, not until you’re doing laundry and come across the grey t-shirt, deciding only then that you’d pull up your goddamn bootstraps and finally send a message.

it’s cheeky, the wrinkled t-shirt thrown on over your underwear, leaving your thighs on display and the peek of a hip that you know is intentional before you snap a picture, sending it with little hesitation, and subsequently throwing your phone afterwards at the bed.

“you left something”

cc loved your message, “you left something”

“i know”

“guess i’ll have to come get it back”

it’s stupid, you know it is, but it makes you smile, typing with an urgency only known when texting back the pretty girl you like, before you send it, bottom lip teased between your teeth.

“how close are you to connecticut?”

[zoesmp4]

WARMTH “and so, you drifted into sleep, finding solace in the warmth of his presence.” daryl dixon x fem!reader

tags: hurt to comfort, ass ending (i tried 💔), swearing, reader is on her period, short

a/n: first daryl fic woop woop!! everyone say thank you gracie cs she requested yet another good fic idea 😵‍💫 so it was supposed to be a fluff but it ended up being a htc.. oopsies.. but hope ygs enjoy!!

there were many perks that came from being a female. but periods? not one of them. you don’t know why your younger self was so eager to get it. to put it simply, periods sucked. they made you feel awful. 

before the apocalypse it was already pretty hard for you. but now, it was incomparable. after all, it’s not like you had shit just laying around to help you. 

so, whatever you thought was “rough” back then, it was way rougher now. when it was your time of month. you would get cranky, a stark contrast to your usual bubbly demeanor. on top of that, you also had to deal with the fatigue and endless mood swings. 

the worst thing though, was the cramps. the constant waves of sharp pain pushed you to your limit. 

they were also the reason you were currently perched on your bed, back leaning against the headboard, with your knees held up to your chest. 

honestly, it had been a decent day until now. you did some stuff to help out, and caught up with your friends. you were able to partially take your mind off of the discomfort you were feeling. 

but of course, the stupid cramps ruined it all. you had to excuse yourself before hastily making your way back to your room. you practically collapsed onto your bed the second you walked in. 

and that’s how you found yourself in this situation. if anyone walked by your room, they would assume you were dying. or atleast, that’s what your countless groans made it sound like. 

to your luck, you suddenly felt the urge to cry. “suck it up.” you told yourself, knowing that this was another dumb mood swing which was a normal occurrence during your period. but, you lost the battle between your emotions and you. 

with the pain coming from your cramps, and the sudden sadness you felt, you couldn’t stop yourself. tears welled up in your eyes and cascaded down, mimicking a waterfall.

only a few moments later, you jumped slightly when you heard a loud knock at your bedroom door. the person didn’t even wait for your response before barging in. that sort of thing would’ve annoyed you if it was any other person, but it was daryl. 

you felt slightly embarrassed that he was seeing you in this state, but he was your boyfriend. he’s seen you at your worst. he quickly walked over to to your bed, his footsteps echoing. 

“what’s up with ya? heard ya weren’t feeling too good.” he said, sitting down on your bed. he placed the back of his hand onto your forehead, checking to see if you were sick. after noticing you didn’t have a fever, he wiped his thumb under your eyes to wipe away the hot tears.

“no fever. why do ya look like yer bout’ to hurl?” he asked. the vision he put in your head didn’t make you feel any better. daryl didn’t know that much about periods, but you couldn’t blame him. 

you opened your mouth to reply, but instead you let out another groan. he looked at you with concern in his eyes. “what do ya need? what’s wrong?” he grunted out. 

all you needed was something that would relieve these fucking cramps. you needed a heating pad, but of course, you didn’t have one. so, you did the only thing that could help you in that moment. 

you gently pulled your boyfriend’s head down to rest on your lap. you sighed in small relief. the feeling of his warmth coming into contact with your body felt nice. 

meanwhile, daryl on the other hand was full of confusion. “the hell ya doin’?” he asked. “shut up, just give me a minute.” you mumbled, closing your eyes.

he wanted to protest, but he held himself back. he knew this was helping you, and thats all he really cared about. “get to sleep angel.” he quietly muttered.

and so, you drifted into sleep, finding solace in the warmth of his presence.

[riacte]

Re: popularity and clout gap, this thought has been lurking at the back of my mind but it didn’t hit me until a friend pointed out it was like how some parts of the audience used to treat hermits in MCC. As in: the hermits could achieve something technically amazing but were ignored simply because they weren’t popular (see False’s back to back win being ignored post MCC12) when the exact same achievement would cause them to lose their minds if it was done by someone who was more “popular”.

Post Demise 2, I joked this was like Blue Bats over again in which False (and Ren) won with the power of friendship in a wholesome storyline yet some parts of the audience chose to be salty their fave didn’t win instead. Sometimes you can see such a severe cognitive dissonance because people watch different hermits. Like that post on Reddit innocuously asking about Perry when I’d seen him around for weeks now and people pointed out Perry had been featured in the Neighbourhood’s videos for a while. (Nothing wrong with the post but it shows how vastly different the viewing experience is.)

It’s kind of like we’re back to 2020/21 era esque “hermit erasure” but it’s (unintentionally) done by some hermit fans. Okay, actually I’ll erase the unintentionally. Plenty of people only watch a few hermits and I emphasise that is fine and you can do anything you want forever. Enjoy HC in any way you like. Be free. The problem only surfaces when people pretend their corner is the only corner that exists and everyone else are the side characters. Like, it’s really fine to admit you don’t know everything. Someone on the MCC Reddit tried making teams and admitted they didn’t know the hermits well but somehow their teams ended up being more hermit accurate than most teams I’ve seen.

This situating done by some parts of the audience of some hermits as “main” and some hermits as “side” to the whole production of Hermitcraft makes me think of 2020/21 MCC again. In which people were discussing protagonists and villains and cannon fodder. Which was why I wrote Battle Scars, a parody / satire / sincere piece of work / whatever, to show that my faves (Blue Bats) could be the protagonists too. And it feels like I’m back. Scrambling to script my faves as characters worthy to have their stories told. Why are we back again.

And why does it lowkey feel worse because this is happening within the same fandom.

… And now I realise that’s also part of why I wrote Feel It Still, another crack treated seriously fic. Because it’s a Superhero AU proudly situating my faves in the lead roles based on canon stuff, while the typical protagonists of Superhero AUs in this fandom are delegated to side characters and are the trainees under a main hero. It’s this sort of twisting of canon that I keep on (subconsciously) doing, attempting to give some sort of spotlight to my faves by mimicking / parodying fandom trends and tropes, trying to make them more palatable and spread propaganda or whatever.

Tldr: it feels like we’re back to “hermit erasure” era and there’s a lot of fanon attention on a few. And you just know certain events would receive significant more attention if they were done by the popular hermits instead of the less popular ones. But it’s mostly crickets outside my circle and the people that I know of. Like hey yeah this is someone I know from chat and someone I know from Twitter. And I know about “being the change you want to see” and “make stuff you want to see” and “promote your faves”. I know. We all know.

It just gets tiring sometimes.

In the end, a number’s game is a number’s game.

[zhongliologist]

If All is Lost, What Then?

Pairing: Aventurine x fem!reader Genre: SMUT (18+) Words: 5.9k Sypnosis: If all hope you had was lost, what then? You sought a certain gambler for a specific need and purpose. You don't know how it will end up, yet it's not like it matters. It was all transactional anyway, and you'd get what you want. But what you haven't considered was how fate works in inexplicable ways. Warnings: implied suicidal tendencies, loss of virginity, creampie, self-destruction A/N: Hi! this is the promised Aventurine fic! It may be a little heavy, any I didn't go into the specifics so everything is a little vague. But I do plan for this to be part of a larger story! Everything will probably be explain there! Please pray tho that I finish that one...

THIS IS AN 18+ FIC. BY CLICKING THE READ MORE BUTTON, YOU HAVE UNDERSTOOD AND ACCEPTED THAT YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED AND LIABLE FOR THE DECISION YOU MADE.

 The night was young in the golden district.

The lights, the laughter and the silent laments of its numerous guests and residents encompass the gilded capital of the Corporation. As if they had all gathered there at a single point where all the greed, the glamor and the glib were all contained in a single drop. And the planet’s skies seem to glow in response, its dark purple-red hues become a tantalizing backdrop against the shimmering visage of the city underneath. 

If Penacony was too far of a dream for the mundane and the ordinary, Pier Point would come close to second in the list of places to create superficial dreams, waste money and shatter futures. Unlike the planet of festivities however, Pier Point does not dwell with pretentious marketing--the fact that it is the headquarters of the most lucrative business in the cosmos is enough to gather personalities attracted to power and wealth like moths to a flame. 

And that sort of reputation was the reason why you were there. It didn’t care who you were as long as you had a pretty penny on your name, and you had a lot of it. Your clothes seem to reflect this casual display of wealth--not too ostentatious to be deemed a wannabe nor too ordinary to be looked down on. A black silk dress draped over your body like some forlorn goddess of some faraway planet and adorned by miniscule gold chains which accentuate your neck and framed your face in sultry perfection. It was simple yet elegant. 

Despite its beauty, your clothes felt like armor against your skin--an efficiently calculated strategy, a means to an end. You were no different than the people who pollute the alleyways of Pier Point, searching for something, anything the city could give in exchange for credits.

Paying for a cab to take you to the more lavish parts of the city, the scenery gradually transitioned from grimy streets to immaculately trimmed lawns and dimly lit hotel lobbies. You almost scoffed at the gradation. Leave it to the IPC to visually demonstrate a massive wealth gap. 

Yet you shook your head at the thought. Tonight you didn’t care and you didn't think. Thoughts become spiraling steps towards the dark depths of your being, and you didn’t want to go there again. Right now, you have to do everything you can just to keep your head above the waves. 

Your ride casually dropped you in front of a formidable-looking façade. Its massive brutalist columns and large windows seem to reflect the concept of the Preservation--the patron saint of the IPC. But there were various iterations of what the Aeon Qlipoth represents, and you were sure Pier Point, and therefore, the IPC represented the gluttonous and selfish need for safety and stability. Yet this building seemed out of place, even reminding you of Jarilo-VI architecture, a different variation of the same path. It would have sparked your curiosity on any normal day, yet your spirit was exhausted, down and beaten. You couldn’t even bring yourself to ask why. 

Amber Gardens: Hotel and Casino. You smiled as you climbed the concrete steps. How fitting.

The ongoing party was your target. Just like many parties in Pier Point, it attracted the right people you needed, and they will not consider refusing your request. For the next few moments, you sat at the bar in the hotel lobby, sipping a sallow-hued cocktail which seemed to taste faintly of vanilla and lemon drops. It was a much-needed remedy to numb your frayed nerves and to silence dark imaginings. As you drank the bubbling liquid, it burned the stubborn demons still lingering in your thoughts, washed away by the alcohol as easily as the tide. What was left was an impulsive drive strong enough to leave everything you built burning and wasted.

It was no question if what you had in mind will succeed or not. The fish will take a bite no matter what, you mused. Much to your surprise however, it didn’t take that long for something to come back reeling. Who would’ve thought the fish was that eager to take the bet?

“Look who’s wandered around here.” A drawl echoed beside your ear, too close in fact that it almost made you jerk away.

“I expected a warmer welcome, Senior Manager,” you replied with an arched brow and a jaded look which was only responded with a light chuckle. 

You gave him an immediate once over. He was the same as ever--still extravagant, still cocky and still as handsome as ever. He may have donned a simpler white suit over a teal dress shirt now, yet everything from his shades to his accessories screamed he had money to waste. You could only grimace at his wardrobe choice. 

As a senior manager of the IPC, Aventurine was talented in doing business, yet to him, that business seemed to look more like a game of poker than anything. You had initially met him at a random work-related function, similar to the party you had tonight, and you were right to assume that he was every bit crazy. In any normal day, you wouldn’t dare approach him for your wellbeing, yet tonight, you needed that devil-may-care attitude to lay everything to waste. 

“So? What brings you here, little miss--“ 

“Y/N. Right now, I’m just Y/N.” You interrupted, eyes daring him to challenge you.

Aventurine hummed at your sudden interjection. Interesting. 

There was something different about you tonight--a little derailed and out of bounds. Aventurine always had a keen eye on these things, it helps with the gambling, and he could immediately tell that you are in need of something. You who always seemed so put-together, so full of promise, so unlike him…yet right now, you look like you were only held together by one piece of string, and if snaps, who could tell what will become of you.

“You didn’t come here just to taste some drinks, did you?” he asked with a sly smile, nothing betraying the tone of his voice. “Can I help you with something?” 

You leaned your head to the side, allowing him a view of your bare neck adorned with glimmering gold chains underneath the dim lights of the bar. 

“You could say I’m in need of something only you could give.”

“Oh?” he grinned, his bright eyes shining even through the cover of his shades, as his fingers began to trace yours on the champagne flute you were holding. Without you going into details, he could already tell what it is you wanted. It’s not a bad trade-off, in fact, he might actually gain something here. 

“Are you sure though? Once it’s done, you can’t do anything about it.” 

You didn’t try to move your hand away. Instead you allowed him to play with you, teasing your fingers with light touches. 

“It’s a risk I’m willing to take,” you replied. “I have nothing else to lose.” 

Aventurine smiled at your now intertwined pinkies. “I admit, hearing you say those words gave me a little shiver.”

You smirked. “Do they suit me?”

Aventurine chuckled, removing his shades and placing them on the table. “Never in my wildest dream did I imagine you’d approach me like this, but…” 

Leaning towards you, he easily seized your hand and entangled his fingers on yours. “I would be a fool to leave you like this.” 

Without even waiting for you to respond, he then brought your hand to his lips, gently kissing the back of your hand as a romantic gesture. At that moment, you realized how effortlessly he could enchant anyone he wishes. It scared you for a moment, but Aventurine was exactly the man you were looking for. Even with fatigue and apathy seeping through your bones, he made your frigid heart skip a beat with no trouble at all. 

“You sure have a talent for this…” you muttered mindlessly, earning a smile from the blond gambler. 

“Isn’t that why you approached me in the first place?” He replied as he stood up and offered a hand to you. “C’mon. Why don’t we continue this in a more private space?”

*

Never in your wildest dreams had you imagined it to happen like this. 

It was so easy for Aventurine to set every vein in your body ablaze with simple nips and bites, so easy to set shivers down your spine at every slight and wanton touch. You could only cling to him for dear life as he ravished you against a wall of a dimly-lit hotel room. 

“Is this…what you had in mind, YN?” he asked, smirking as he assaulted your neck with kisses. 

“I--nggh!” 

It was already impossible to reply at that point. You, who was never held like this before felt incredibly overstimulated; each touch foreign and arousing. It was like having a taste of drugs for the first time, and you were easily becoming addicted to the novel pleasures he was introducing you to. 

“Come on, princess,” he teased, as he enjoyed tracing his lips on your bare neck and shoulders. “Is this all you can handle? We haven’t even started yet.”

“Aven…turine…”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle.”

He could barely manage to control himself, yet here he was saying things. Your half-lidded eyes, your wonderful curves draped over by messy clothes, and your sweet, sweet sighs whispering his name as if in prayer--it was as if everything about you was made to arouse him. Aventurine already had his fair share of sexual partners yet something about you made him feel like it was the first time. 

He brushed his cold fingers against your ear, making you squirm so adorably. It was so easy to tease you—he could plant kisses on your cheeks, your forehead, the tip of your nose—and you reacted just enough to make him want to bully you. 

Oh, Aventurine…you got lucky once again. 

“Y-You…stop playing with me…!” you scolded him, brows furrowed and frown deepening. 

“How can’t I?” Aventurine chuckled. “You’re so cute.”

“Ughh…flattery will get you nowhere…” 

He laughed again, but this time, his swift fingers effortlessly divested you of your dress, allowing it to pool at your feet. Immediately, you squealed and tried to cover your now almost-naked body with minimal success. 

“Is this funny to you?!” 

Seething, you glared at him despite how flushed your cheeks were. What made you more annoyed was when he thought of lifting your chin with a finger, and leaned close; just stopping short of kissing you. 

“You’re not used to this, are you?” he asked with a grin. 

“…ugh,” you scowled further, but refused to say anything more. It seemed to have amused Aventurine further. 

“Sorry, I won’t tease you anymore,” he conceded with a defeated smile, brushing a thumb on your lips.

In that moment, the both of you stared in silence; waiting for a beat to pass by. You finally had the chance to explore those deeply vibrant eyes he usually kept covered, and in those depths you have found no light—like an ocean with neither sun nor moon. How ironic, you thought. A person who seemed to flash and gleam like a jewel actually had no light of his own. In those brief moments, the playful mood had died down, only to unravel a somber truth that the both of you may perhaps be in need of the same thing. 

“...kiss me, Aventurine,” you dared, coming out as a low growl. 

Again, the blond only smiled at you solemnly. He held your cheeks with both hands; so gentle that you almost thought he was holding his lover. 

“I’m not that cruel,” he replied, leaving kisses all over your face except your lips. “Let someone kiss you out of love, not out of desperation.” 

Ah. You smiled bitterly.

“Alright, I understand,” you replied, your fingers clinging to his arm. “Just…help me forget all of it.” 

“Don’t worry, princess. I never disappoint.”

With those words, Aventurine pushed you back to the wall, pinning you so you can't escape while returning his lips to your neck and collarbone. Everything after that felt like a flurry of bodies moving against each other, of lips exploring every nook and cranny, of hands caressing each curve and dip. In the process, he had divested of his shirt together with your underwear. 

He refused to take your first kiss, but Aeons…did he take everything he could. At this point, you were leaning against the wall while he was kneeling in front of you, arms circled around your thighs to keep you from moving. You were so dazed, your brain unable to keep up with his relentless ministrations. 

“W-What are you…” 

“Just stay still, princess. I’ll show you a good time.” 

Suddenly, Aventurine buried his face at the apex of your thighs, taking a swipe at your already drenched cunt. He kept at it mercilessly, stimulating your sensitive nub until your knees felt weak and you had to hold on to his shoulders to keep you from falling. It was a totally novel sensation—you never thought it would feel this way, not in your wildest imagination. Even though you had played with yourself numerous times, someone eating you out was definitely something else. 

“A-ahh…w-wait! Aven..turine…!” 

The stimulation was too strong, and you were scared where you’ll end up if he doesn’t stop now. However, it seems Aventurine had no intention of stopping even though your hands were pulling on his hair. The pain, the sweet taste of your juices, plus the sound of you screaming seemed to only make his pants tighter. 

“F-fuck…! I can’t…!”

He always thought there was something innocent about you, even during such dirty acts; and he can’t help himself from bullying you further. So even though you were screaming for him to stop, he only slipped his tongue further into your hole, as his nose brushed against your clit. Your subsequent sobs made all of it worth it. 

“Hnghh…!! I c-can’t hold it…Aventurine…p-please!”

You could hardly keep your eyes open anymore. The stimulation was too much that you were already seeing stars. Every time he would press a thumb on your clit, an electric shock would shoot right up your spine, winding you up right until you were at the brink of climax. 

“Don’t hold back, princess.”

The rumble of his voice plus a flick of his tongue on your clit were all you needed to come tumbling down; moaning his name over and over again as your body shook and quaked. You have never experienced an orgasm like that in your whole life—so if this was what it felt like when he was only eating you out, what more would it feel like if he was buried inside you to the hilt, filling you to the brim with his cum?

In Aventurine’s eyes, there was no better view than watching you come, all flushed and shaking, while he was squeezed between your plush and soft thighs. If the Aeons permit, he’d love to spend hours just down there pleasuring you over and over again until you pass out. 

But that was a thought for another day. For the meantime, Aventurine released you from his confines and caught you in his arms before you fell to the carpeted floor. Even through the mists of post-orgasm, you were entranced by his bright eyes as if they were beckoning you closer. And you nonetheless allowed yourself to be enthralled—kissing his stained cheeks; kissing him anywhere and everywhere you could reach. 

And even your kisses seemed so innocent, he thought. An awful guy like him who had taken advantage of you during your moment of weakness does not deserve such kisses. Yet, even though racked by guilt, he couldn’t stop you nor himself. Perhaps he should think like you, pretending this was something fated, something deserved. For tonight, you were lovers.

“Hey…um…” you suddenly pulled him out of his reverie. “I want to…return the favor. Can you…um…teach me how?” 

Aventurine was almost too stunned to speak, but he thanked his wit for being able to recover as quickly. Seems like he has chewed more than he could swallow. 

“You don’t need to, princess,” he smiled, once again cupping your cheek and brushing a finger on your lips, imagining what dangerous things these lips could do to him. “The pleasure was all mine.” 

“No…you don’t understand. I want to…uh…learn how to do it, so to speak…” 

He signed internally. Who would have thought little miss Y/N could do this much damage to him? Who knew that cold and frigid little you could affect him so much? 

“Then who am I to say no?” he replied with an easy smile. “Let’s start by going on your knees.”

Immediately, you did as you were told. Like an obedient student, Aventurine thought. You were never going to make this easier for his self-control, will you?

The sight of you kneeling, looking at him so innocently did wonders to his brain. It was as if he had stumbled into a power trip—if he wasn’t careful, he’d scare you for life. At the same time, he wasn’t keen on stopping. It was already too late to stop.

“What a good girl,” he remarked absentmindedly, placing a thumb on your lips. He closely watched his thumb press and prod your soft and plush lips, thinking how it would feel around his cock. He thought of you looking at him in anticipation, these lips pressed on the tip of his shaft. He shivered. 

Finally, pushing beyond, his thumb was only greeted by your warm tongue. 

“That’s right. Imagine it’s my dick. Use your tongue. Suck it, play with it…lick as much as you want.”

You followed his instructions down to the dot. Everything he asks of you, you did perfectly and diligently. Considering who you are, it would be embarrassing to be accused of not following instructions, wouldn’t it?

“Seems like you have an aptitude for this,” he snickered. “Not that I’m surprised.” 

In no time, he had three fingers in your mouth—nudging and playing with your tongue, mesmerized by how you wrapped around him. Aventurine couldn’t help but think of his cock in your mouth as you bobbed your head up and down just like how you did with his fingers. He’d bet your mouth would be so warm and tight; he’d come right away. 

“Am I doing good?” you asked as you looked up at him, voice muffled by his fingers. 

Fuck…

You might’ve not noticed but Aventurine was close to imploding. The naive look on your eyes, your flushed cheeks and how erotic your tongue was wrapped around his fingers—everything about you seemed to be designed to break his self control. He doesn’t fuck like an animal, but Aeons forbid he might as well if you were going to be like this. 

“Alright. That’s enough. I think you’re ready,” he pulled out his fingers from your lips and licked them, tasting you as he gazed right into your eyes. 

The effect was instantaneous. You shivered in anticipation as you took a nervous gulp. You never imagined anyone would look so sexy while licking their own fingers, but here you were, flushed and bothered. Your core was already drenched since earlier—your sticky juices dripping down your thighs to your legs. 

Your thoughts were interrupted by the sound of his belt unbuckling. Once again, anticipation exploded in your gut and made your heart race. You never imagined you’d do something like this, but here you were. Watching as he unzipped his pants, he finally took out his hard cock from its confines. Eyes widening in surprise as you realized how big and hard he was, you suddenly weren’t sure he’d fit in your mouth. Practicing with his fingers seemed like a huge understatement. 

“Don’t worry, princess,” he reassured you with a grin on his lips, cupping your cheeks once again. “I’ll be sure to help you out.”

Aventurine then held his hand out to you, which you took immediately.

“Now, I want you to hold me,” he told you, as he placed your hand on the base of his cock. You could feel your heartbeat on your throat, waiting patiently for further instructions.

“You can lick me just like you did with my fingers,” he said, fingers lifting your chin up. “You can take me in nice and slow. I’ll be patient.”

Ignoring the thunderous sound of your heart racing, you tentatively licked the tip of his cock, watching his every reaction with such attention. With every moment passing, you gradually became bolder and more excited, until you earned a growl from Aventurine after swiping your tongue from the base to the tip. 

“Hey, easy there, princess,” he chuckled with bated breath. “You’ll make me come in no time.”

For some reason, his breathy groans encouraged you further. There was something so addictive and so enthralling to the sound of his sultry voice, which made you want to please him more. Every time you would trace a vein with your tongue or whenever you suck on his tip, he would hold your hair tightly and try to resist the urge to climax so early. 

If Aventurine was honest, he could tell it was really your first time. You were sloppy and slow, and there were times he thought you were teasing him by not going any further. But inexplicably, he was so hot and bothered at that moment. His cheeks were flushed and heated and that certain look on your face whenever you glance up to him for validation could easily snap his sanity into two.

Perhaps it was because he had never expected this side of you. The contrast between your regular self and the you right now was massive, and that certainly had a different appeal in and of itself. The image of you sucking him off, mouth full of his dick will definitely be etched into his mind forever. Whether or not this will happen again, who knows? But he definitely landed on a jackpot once again. 

You admit this wild and bothered look on him was something you loved, partly because of how carelessly handsome he is, partly because this was your own doing. You made him become like this, and perhaps you could get him to give you more. Finally gathering the courage, you took him to the hilt, filling your mouth and throat; surprising him with the sensation. 

“S-shit…! Y/N!” 

Choking out a cry, Aventurine pushed you away and scooped you up over his shoulder. Something definitely snapped in him, you recalled thinking as he tossed you ungracefully to the nearby bed and pinning you on the spot between his legs. 

“Who would’ve thought you’d be such a menace?” He chuckled darkly, brushing his messy blond hair with his fingers. “You see, I don’t want to come in your mouth first thing tonight. Rather, I’d like to make a mess here…”

Spreading your legs wide, Aventurine pressed a finger on your wet and sensitive clit, making you cling to the sheets instantly. He easily turned you into a screaming, sobbing mess with his fingers rubbing your drenched folds. 

“A-aven…mmnh!! W-wait…ah—!”

The blond didn’t allow for any rest as he smoothly inserted two fingers inside, rubbing your gummy walls until you had trouble spreading your legs. You had no time to think, no time to ruminate on what was happening to you. Aventurine was relentless in his assault, sending waves upon waves of pleasure from your lower part towards the rest of your body. You could hardly keep your eyes open at how intense his fingers were, both attacking your pleasure point and your clit. 

It feels good…! It feels so fucking good…

Aventurine chuckled; his eyes almost glowing. “So pretty…my pretty little slut. Are you going to come? Here, let me help you.”

Without stopping his fingers, he leaned forward and started circling his hot tongue around your nipple. He nipped and bit at your soft and supple flesh yet he refused to give you any respite. 

“N-no…no…it’s too much! I’m going to…!” 

Knowing you were close, he suddenly bit your nipple and pushed his against your g-spot at the same time. Of course, you shuddered and screamed his name as you fell down the peak of your climax. He could only grin at your messy and enthused form, with your thighs drenched with your own juices, your lips stained with drool and tears and your skin littered by marks of his own creation. However, that wasn’t enough. Not enough at all. 

“Who would’ve thought this was your first time?” he remarked, fishing out a condom from his pants. 

“W-wait…!” you manage in between breaths. “You…don’t have to…I-I came prepared…” 

Arching a brow at you, the blond was greatly amused at how far you’d take all of this. “So you really came for the whole experience, huh? My princess is rather diligent.”

Placing himself between your legs, Aventurine began to rub his hard cock on your folds, lathering his shaft with your own juices. On the occasion of his tip brushing against your clit, you would beg and sob for him—unsure if you want to continue, but missing his presence when he decides to pull away. 

“A-Aventurine….wait! I just came…nghh!! P-please…!” 

“Isn’t this what you asked for, princess?” he taunted, threatening to enter you but suddenly slipping away. “I’m going to fuck you now, are you ready?”

It was the million dollar question; the whole point of tonight. Everything about this encounter was out of desperation and there was definitely no turning back, yet in the end, does it even matter? 

Without hesitation, you nodded your head, and repeated your words. “Just help me forget…”

Aventurine scoffed. “Don’t worry. You won’t be able to think of anything but me.”

Not waiting for a reply, Aventurine slowly inserted his cock in you, careful not to be too harsh. You anticipated the pressure, yet you seemed to have grossly underestimated how full you’ll feel as he gently pushed in and out. It was totally different and definitely overwhelming. If he hadn’t made you come twice, you’d probably be crying out in pain now. Leaning over, the blond attempted to distract you from the uncomfortable feeling by assaulting your neck and chest, leaving more love bites in his wake. Finally, with much effort, Aventurine was now fully inside you, yet he still waited for you to get accustomed to his size before doing anything. 

“How does it feel?” he asked in a low voice as he bit and licked the underside of your ear. 

“Hnnghh….I feel so full,” you managed to reply even though you were breathless. “You’re so big, Aventurine…” 

“Here, hold me,” he offered as he directed your arms to circle around his neck. “Just relax.” 

You never imagined Aventurine to have this side of him. Even though you could tell he was trying to resist the urge to move, he was being gentle and patient with you. It was as if he was concerned you’d be in pain rather than chasing his own high. It might’ve moved your frigid heart for a moment. 

“I…I think I’m fine now…” you finally told him as the discomfort toned down. “Please make me feel good…” 

“Anything for you, princess,” he chuckled, nuzzling on your neck as he steadily picked up his pace. 

Thank the Aeons you finally allowed him to move. He was almost at his wits’ end, as he struggled to keep himself calm while wrapped around by your warm and tight walls. Even as he gently rocked back and forth inside you, the only thing keeping himself from coming was how he distracted himself with pleasuring you. Amusingly, he also wondered why he was acting like this was his first time. 

“Oh god…there! A-ahh! Harder please!” you screamed beside his ear, your hands brushing through his hair at the nape. 

“You dirty girl…” he grumbled, thrusting sharply into you. Noticing how you both had finally settled on a rhythm, Aventurine decided to switch positions—now leaning back and holding your hips as he rammed ruthlessly into you. 

You immediately saw stars every time his cock pushed against the sensitive spot inside of you, arching your back at the intensity of the pleasure. This was different, so different from the other kinds of pleasures he had shown you tonight. This was primal, this was true and actual mating. You could feel him thrust against the entrance of your womb, intent to fill you up with his cum. 

“F-fuck…” he whispered, sensing the closeness of his climax. He could only endure so much, but of course, if he’s going down, you’re going down with him too. 

With his thumb, Aventurine began to stimulate your sensitive nub again, rubbing and flicking it, and enjoying your wild screams. The room was filled with your filthy noises—your sobs and cries, his cursing and growls and the sound of skin slapping against skin. It was dirty and obscene, and something you’d remember forever. 

“N-No! I’m…coming…a-ahh! Aven…I’m…!” 

“Y-yes, come with me, princess. I’ll fill you up with my cum…”

You could feel his movements become erratic, an indication that he was close. You, on the other hand, was no different. Your head was filled with electrifying shocks of pleasure as he drove into you over and over again. You could feel yourself teetering close to your climax, as you begged him to fill you up over and over again. 

Finally, in one sharp thrust, both you and Aventurine came. You shook, shivered and screamed as you felt his warmth fill you inside; tightening around him as you continued to ride out your orgasm. Meanwhile, he toppled above you, kissing your face over and over as if in a delirium. He then continued down your jaw, worshipping everywhere his lips could land on except on yours.

“Fuck…” he growled, pushing his still hard cock in you. “Can we do it again?”

It wasn’t everyday that he was this insatiable. He couldn’t understand why but something about you drove him feral, as if he had to breed you several times to feel satisfied. He couldn’t understand where this possiveness came from, but he wanted you so much that it ails him not to hold you. 

“W-wait…!” you rasped, arching your back as he once again descended on one of your breasts. “I just c-came…please…” 

Aventurine sat back up, watching you as you tried to regain your breath. He could feel his cum inside you, almost dripping out of you, and the thought seemed to entice him to keep you pressed against him. 

Lifting you up without pulling out, he turned you around. You landed on all fours as he unrelentingly continued to leave marks from your neck down to your back. You could feel his tongue tracing your spine as he descended down, while his cock continued to go in and out of you. 

“A-Aven…turine…! A-ah fuck…!” you cried out, unable to do anything but enjoy what he has to give you. 

You honestly felt like you couldn’t come anymore yet the mixture of pain and pleasure was so enthralling that you had to continue. You wanted to be driven up to deliriousness and insanity further, you wanted to know up to what limits he could take you. 

Unlike the first time, this round was the purest form of fucking. The both of you were trapped in a haze of lust, unable to stop yourselves from yearning for each other. He was rough and feral, as if he had only one last chance to do whatever he wanted with you, and you allowed it. After all, this was the kind of sex you were asking for—a sex so mind-numbing you stopped thinking altogether. All that mattered was the chase for pleasure and the final thunderous climax. 

“Oh Aeons…you feel so good, princess. I don’t want to stop…” he growled as he seized both your wrists and thrusted from the back, roughly going in and out of your hole until his cum began dripping out. 

“Please…harder!” you begged, “Fuck me harder…Aventurine…!” 

He chuckled in between low grunts. “What a dirty little princess…I’ll make sure you’ll never forget tonight…”

Right when you were so close, Aventurine pulled you to his lap facing him, his cock sinking into you and reaching even deeper places than before. His grip on your hips were bruising as he jerked into you sharply. His mouth was once again on your pulse point, and snaking towards the crook of your neck and then your jaw—if he can’t have your lips, might as well have everything else. 

“A-Aventurine…!”

As you moaned out his name, he glanced at you and watched as your face contorted in pleasure, memorizing how you looked in case he will never have the chance again. At that moment, both your lust-laden eyes met and locked both you in place, capturing you in an inescapable spell. Even as he continued to bounce you on top of him, your gazes never wavered. 

“Oh Aeons…I want to kiss you so badly…” he growled, eyes half-lidded and lips just a hair’s away from yours.

“Then kiss me…I want you to kiss me…p-please…” you pleaded in desperation. 

Yet he only smiled at you somberly. 

He wanted this to be real. He wanted to see you, to spend time with you again, not only just for tonight. Yet at the same time, Aventurine knew that if he gave you everything, you’d really have nothing else left to hold you back. He knew why you came to him tonight, why you wanted him to take your first time. He could see it in your eyes—the despair and the hopelessness, and how you didn’t care anymore. But he does, against his better judgement. He does, because he sees that same hopelessness reflected in his own eyes. So even if he wanted to taste those sweet lips now, he'd hold off.

“Focus, princess,” he ordered, thrusting into your g-spot to numb your head. 

To distract you, he pinched your clit and relentlessly pounded into you. He knew that was any easy ticket to your orgasm, though he was not spared. Your walls would tighten like a vice around him whenever you were close, and he himself couldn’t hold off that long. 

With all his ministrations going on at the same time, you could no longer think about anything except your pleasure and how you were so close. But in one stroke against your sensitive spot, Aventurine had you coming down from your high in a disastrous tumble, with you shaking on his laps as you squirted on him. He followed soon after, unable to deny himself any longer. Ropes of cum filled you once again, savoring a feeling of warmth in your womb as you teetered at the edge of consciousness. The last thing you remembered was the sensation of his lips on your forehead, bidding you good night and promising to clean up after you. 

By the time you woke up, you could see slits of light peeking from the heavy curtains. You were definitely clean as promised, but now you were alone. Of course you were. It was a transaction after all. 

Cursing at how sore you felt, you spotted a note on the nightstand as you moved to stand up. You could only chuckle after reading. 

Ask me to kiss you if we meet again. -A

P.S. I’ll treat you to dinner if you do. 

[emilykaldwen]

The Maiden and the Drowning Boy | Aegon x OC | Chapter Seventeen

Rating: Explicit

Ships: Aegon II Targaryen x Abrogail Strong (Lyonel Strong's Daughter), Jacaerys Velaryon x Helaena Targaryen

Summary: As the kingdom teeters on the edge of chaos, Alicent Hightower swaps the pieces on the board: Aegon will marry Abrogail Strong, Larys’ younger sister and heir to Harrenhal. Caught in the web of intrigue and political machinations, the pair must figure out where their loyalties lie, and what they mean to one another.

Tropes: Childhood Sweethearts/Friends to Lovers, Generational Trauma and Cycles of Abuse, It's All About the Character Development, Unreliable Narrators, Multi-POV, Canon Divergent, Bisexual Aegon II Targaryen, Book/Show Mash Up, Fix-It Of Sorts, Stopping the Cycle of Abuse before it gets us all killed, Team Neutral, fairy tale vibes meets victorian medievalism meets grrm

No tag list. please follow @emkald-fic and turn on post notifications for updates or subscribe on AO3

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Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven | Chapter Eight | Chapter Nine | Chapter Ten | Chapter Eleven | Chapter Twelve | Chapter Thirteen | Chapter Fourteen | Chapter Fifteen | Chapter Sixteen

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Author's Note: We've got Rhaenyra POV! We've got Aemond POV! We've got a surprise in the end! Thank you for all the support and patience. You're all getting this chapter early since I'm out of town for the weekend! Enjoy!

PLEASE PLEASE subscribe to the series page or my author page so you get updates when we start the next story! You're not going to want to miss it. (And follow @emkald-fic on tumblr if you read here!)

All my love to @vampire-exgirlfriend for her love and support and holding my hand through this chapter that just kept kicking my fucking ass. If you need more Aemond content, you must read, They Say I killed You (Haunt Me Then)! Now complete! (epilogue going up soon!)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - Parrying the Daggers Thrown At Us

Rhaenyra receives a letter. Aemond cannot find peace until he gets a taste of it.

Grandfather is still ill, much like we saw him last but he prefers his wheel chaired more oft than not…

Things have been tense, understandably so, but Queen Alicent has been cordial and has made sure we are comfortable and have what we need… 

Aegon and Aemond keep their distance, perhaps so they can glare all the better…

I do not know how to make amends for what happened… 

…and they say Aemond is taken by his pains at times, darkening his room as his head aches from his wound… 

I should make amends, it is right… 

What do you think I should do?...

Heleana has been the warmest… 

…we danced together at the feast and she was quite happy to do so. It is nice spending time with her…

Aegon is happy around Lady Abrogail and she laughs freely with him. He is not like how he used to be as much with her… 

I think Lord Lyonel and Ser Harwin would be pleased to see how well she is treated…

Many houses were represented at Aegon’s nameday… 

Most seemed to wonder if Aegon would have been named heir and displace you but none came to pass… 

…they will inherit Harrenhal. I can see the wisdom in it as Luke will have Driftmark one day, but I think of Joffrey and Aegitsos and my uncles who do not have lands and holds to occupy them…

I love you much, Muñus, I hope you are well and that I will see you soon…

Rhaenyra ran her fingers over her son’s careful script, her mouth twitching in fondness amidst her worry of her zēapos. His letter was long, too much for a raven’s wings and she started from the beginning once she had read it through once. Twice. Her ribs ached as if Jace had been carved out of her to go on this journey and she shook her head, trying to let the feeling flit away on the breeze. Her eldest had a temper, much as she did in her youth, much as his father had, in the ways that drew her in. Time stole away much, and her own bouts of temper had cooled with each broken toy, each yelling fight, each ‘he pulled my hair!’ and ‘He pushed me and won’t share!’

The sounds of swords clanged in the yard and her gaze flitted from her son’s letter - pages crinkled in her grasp - to the courtyard below where Daemon was testing the new recruits to the Dragonstone guard. His silver hair was twisted back from his face in braids as he preferred, something about war and mindset and always be prepared.

He called something towards Joff and Aegitsos as the knight before him panted, having been bested against her husband.

Baela had not written, that much she knew, though Jace had said that she had found a friend in Helaena after a tense standoff. Rhaenyra had found the mention of it surprising, for her little sister, in the times she’d been around her, had been a quiet thing, eyes large in her face, gaze flitting to everyone and no one.

Helaena has been the warmest…

Helaena was not yet married. The match with Aegon had never come to pass.

The invitation lay on the table before her next to the plate of lemon cake she liked for her morning meal on days such as this.

The wedding of Prince Aegon of House Targaryen and Lady Abrogail Strong of Harrenhal…

In five moons, the spectacle would be held in the Riverlands. In five moons, the realm would look upon her brother once more, peacocked and pulled out, as Daemon sneered, by Otto Hightower to show him off as a contender, to put pressure on her father to change his mind. Her father had nearly twenty years to change his mind and still, he had not. Not even in her absence, cowardly as it sometimes felt to retreat and lick her wounds, had her father’s support of the claim and her family seemed to waver. Try as the Hightowers might to scream and spread slanders that would call for bloodshed, her father still would not be swayed. It was the sense of satisfaction that she had felt when he came to her defense in that shadowed hall those years ago, the heated of curl in it that no matter what, there could be no question as to his choice.

He had chosen her.

Even as the feeling waned over time to give over to those moments where she doubted, all the times he had failed to reign his wife in with her abuses and vitriol, the words her son had sent her bolstered her.

I think Lord Lyonel and Ser Harwin would be pleased…

Harwin’s little sister, big blue eyes and red curls bound in braids, peeking curiously over the edge of Lucerys’ cradle next to Jace because ‘She asked if she could see the baby and give him this,’ Harwin had said, as the little girl presented her attempts at embroidering a little dragon on a pillow. Little Abrogail, half Harwin’s, half Alicent’s. She had tried to bring the girl to Dragonstone with them. Would she not be happier away from the court politics with her brother and the quiet? Lord Lyonel had given her a surprised, then hard look, and Rhaenyra had felt chastened in a way her own father had never been able to evoke within her.

“I will keep my daughter with me, and should I send her away, it will be back to her home, at Harrenhal, with her brother.”

Grief washed through her like the crashing of the waves on the rocky shore below and she felt her own jagged edges inside of her. Lyonel Strong had been the best of them, putting the realm first, always by her side at every council meeting she attended, encouraging her, even as his face grew graver with each brunette curled boy she bore.

Violet eyes swept across the parchment again. A servant in the camp had tried to attack the girl, Jace said. Crept into her tent, assuming she would have been alone. Inquiries were being made, but as far as anyone could see, the man had just been a baseborn servant - blending in like no other. Rhaenyra pursed her lips and looked down at the training yard once more, fingers drumming along the stone ledge of the terrace.

She wondered how wrapped around Lady Abrogail’s finger her half-brother might be… and how opportune this moment was.

Alicent’s eldest was marrying and taking a seat in the Riverlands. It was not the bold choice that Rhaenyra had thought would happen. Surely one of the many Lannister girls, or one of the Baratheons - a great house who would be invested in their own daughter becoming queen would have made more sense.

Harrenhal, for the wealth and lands that it had, did not command armies the way the Stormlands did. It did not have endless coffers the way Casterly Rock boasted of. It was a moody fortress on the edge of the God’s Eye, surrounded by lush farmland and woods that were dark and deep and felt that you were somewhere fanciful, somewhere that didn’t hold dragons nor thrones, nothing except for a warm hand wrapped around her own.

The clashing and screaming of steel in the yard below pulled Rhaenyra from her thoughts, and away from the path of her sorrows and regrets. Turning her back to the sight below, she reached for her own parchment and quill, pushing aside the letter from Lord Celtigar.

Lady Abrogail… Good tidings on news of your approaching nuptials…

Aemond pursed his lips, his gaze rising from the book before him, a study on the Conqueror’s approach to the first Dornish war,to squint across the barrel room near the top of the tower that held the library in the Holdfast. He drummed his fingers upon the scarred wooden table, a fingertip running along the crescent burn from the time Abby had accidentally knocked over a candle while they were reading about Harren the Black.

He exhaled slowly, the way the Braavosi manuals advised and looked back at his book.

It had been weeks since his brother’s festivities, and the chill of the end of the growing season had crept in. It was not cold by northern standards, but the air cooled, the rains rolled in for the next several months, and angry storms fell over them  from the Narrow Sea, their winds piercing and frightening, as if they were dragons themselves in the winds that the Storm God rode, threatening to tear apart the Red Keep brick by brick.

Helaena’s nameday had passed with quiet fanfare, the lingering lords of the realm who had not left parading their sons in front of his maiden sister. As if any of them were worthy of a dragonrider, someone as clever and kind as Helaena.

It had been complicated over the past weeks since the talk in the garden, and Aemond still wasn’t entirely sure how he felt. What had been most surprising had been the strange sense of release when his sister let him go, leaving him to sit in the rain before Visenya’s statue, her words ringing in his ears. 

‘I would burn Dorne for you… but I do not want to leave behind a world of ash and bone.’

How desperate Helaena had looked, angry and frightened and full of hope as she begged not to have a husband, but a brother back. ‘How else am I supposed to protect her?' he had wondered. How else could he offer his sister protection and security if it wasn’t to marry her, to tie her to him so that she would never have to fear, never have to doubt her acceptance and those who loved her?

Aegon had not wanted to marry her. She was weird, he’d sneered. How miserable Helaena would be, how miserable they both would have been. Aemond had done the right thing. He’d stepped up, he had gotten Mother and The Tower to break the betrothal. Even if they had not promised him and Helaena to one another, that was alright, it would simply be a matter of time.

He had Vhagar. There could be no further doubt that he was truly a Valyrian. There could be no more doubt as to his place in the world. All that was left was his sister.

Guilt gnawed deep in his stomach, shame twisting around his throat when the thought filtered through. Helaena was not a bauble he needed to collect to prove something. Collecting her was not protecting her. Collecting her was not about her, but for him, and it was this knowledge that he had thought about constantly.

His sister deserved more than being a broodmare, to be a pawn in the games. The forced distance the last few weeks had given him, after Helaena pushed him from the proverbial nest, had left him unsettled and snappish.

The loud thud of a book hitting the stone floor reverberated through the room. A heavy tome, judging from the heft of the sound, followed by a soft giggling, a deeper snickering sound chasing after it before they muffled and fell quiet.

He knew, with the utmost certainty, why it had fallen quiet.

Ever since the betrothal, the grip on his best friend had been slipping. Oh, him and Abrogail were an unlikely pair, but few appreciated books and history as his cousin did. While digging in the dirt and helping Helaena catalog her collection had been fulfilling, there was something joyous in being able to have someone who understood the quiet and sanctity of the library, and who loved books and reading and learning as he did. Lyonel Strong had always indulged his questions when was young - far more enthralling than Mellos and Orwyle were, and he had fostered that curiosity in his daughter.

‘All she’s going to care about is making babies with Aegon!’ Helaena had cried, frustrated and angry when they’d been alone after the fight in the brothel. 

There was a soft cry, and Aemond scowled at his book before his chair scraped across the stone floor and he strode purposefully towards the source of the sound. The histories of the Riverlands were there - not just observational books, but the census, the trade information, things used by the small council’s not-quite-so-small army of clerks and counters and lawmakers. The section of the library that Abby had frequented since the announcement and that he had helped her with.

“Not here,” came the whispered whine, laced with laughter. Aemond rolled his eye as he turned the corner of the aisle. It was shadowed somewhat this far down, The strategically polished silver angled to bounce the light around so as not to pose a fire risk among the precious books, although the day was gray and cloudy and the light reflected was that of a lamp. Abby was pressed against the bookshelves, the blue and silver brocade of her skirts rucked up with her stockings on display, her legs at present, wrapped around his stupid brother’s waist. One arm was stretched out to grab onto the bookshelf behind her, and the fallen book that had been in its place was still on the ground. Aegon’s face was buried into her chest, or maybe her throat? 

He was half-blind, after all, sometimes details could be mercifully missed. Or ignored.

“This,” Aemond said, his voice even and dripping with every ounce of annoyance and betrayal he felt, “is the library, not a brothel.”

Aemond’s fists clenched at the disrespect both of them displayed to a place they knew  was important to him. At the announcement of his presence, Abby squeaked, Aegon’s arms tightening around her as she scrambled to lower herself without sending them both toppling. He held his arms folded behind his back, his hand scraping along his elbow as the pair of them got themselves in order and he shook his head when Aegon looked at him, dragging the back of his hand across his mouth. Abby had turned to straighten her gown.

“Are you really going to act like this?” Aegon said, for it was barely a question. “We weren’t in front of you and your book. You were the one seeking us out.”

“Because you both weren’t as quiet as you thought you were,” Aemond snapped. “It was distracting.”

A lazy smirk crossed across his brother’s flushed face and he wanted to punch him square in his stupid nose. Let him kiss his future wife with his face bashed in. “Well, my lady is distracting-.” There was a soft sound as Abby smacked Aegon’s shoulder, cutting him off with an exaggerated ow, the flinch was nowhere near the violent response that inhabited his brother when it was their mother doing the hitting. She peered around Aegon’s shoulder, her mouth just as swollen, her cheeks just as flushed and her features apologetic.

“We’re sorry, Aemond. Things just got out of hand. I shouldn’t have-”

“Don’t you apologize,” Aegon interrupted her this time, a fierce look on his face. 

“No, actually,” Aemond cut in, taking a step forward, using the few inches he now had on his brother to straighten his shoulders. “She’s right. Thank you, Abby, for apologizing. Are you upset that she has to apologize for you, since your self-awareness is worse than a billy goat ramming his head into things?”

Aegon’s mouth gaped in offense, his flush deepening. There was a bruise along his neck that was going to be difficult to hide. The glib nature of his eldest brother was a trial at the best of times, but this? “You know this isn’t your place to run about as you please. Shall I just unlock my doors, let you roll around in my sheets and over my personal things while you’re at it?”

“It’s the fucking library, Aemond. It doesn’t belong to you-”

Abby let out a startled cry as Aemond’s fist shot out, but as much as he would love to punch his brother, he shoved him instead, feeling the crackling of frustration, the rumble of Vhagar in his chest.  “Because it’s all yours, is that it? You mewling fucking kitten. This isn’t just my library, it’s hers too, but you don’t fucking care about anything that means something to anyone else if it gets in the way of what your limp cock wants.”

“Aemond, truly, we’re sorry - Aegon, no!” Abby’s voice was lost in Aegon’s growl as his brother came back with another shove, sending him back a few steps. Aemond laughed, a hint of a sound like the thin scrape of wind whistling through a crack. Yes, yes let the idiot push him around. Let him continue to pull his friend away from him, from him and Helaena both. His gaze darted briefly to the redhead, blue eyes wide as she pressed herself back against the shelves, before meeting his brother’s lighter gaze.

“You are a glib fucking fool, Aegon,” Aemond said lowly, his mouth curling as he readied for a fight, needing to expend the burn of flame inside of him. “I don’t care what the pair of you do, I’ll say nothing should Mother hear of it, but-” he stepped forward and shoved Aegon hard into the bookstack. The ancient wood creaked and groaned, but the stacks were bolted to the floor to prevent them from topping. A few books fell from the force of Aegon’s frame smacking into it. “Stay the hell out of my library.”

He did not look over his shoulder, even as Abby called his name, apology rife in her tone. He strode through the halls, calling for his horse to be saddled while he went to angrily pull on his riding leathers. The left side of his temple ached as it was wont to do when his face was full of tension. Helaena would make him tea, protect him in the quiet, but that was not meant to be today. The last he saw, his sister was in the gardens with Jacaerys. 

How he ached to wring the stupid bastard’s neck.

How bright he seemed to make Helaena laugh.

How betrayed Aemond felt by it all.

Why hadn’t Helaena said anything? Why hadn’t she told him that she didn’t want to be married? Why had she just let him wander around like a puppy and now left the fool?

‘But hadn’t she told you?’ a little voice drifted through Aemond’s mind and he paused in the lacing of his leathers. Had she not told him by pursuing that fool Warren Fossoway, and the time that he had spied her kissing him - for he had seen Helaena push the squire behind the carved dragon pillar by the gardens. 

‘But she would let me kiss her, she would kiss me, and she’d touch me and I her and-’ The flurry of thoughts ached as he pulled on his boots.

It would not hurt as much if it was anyone but Jacaerys.

The ride to the beach beneath the shadow of the Red Keep was a blur. The rock outcropping of Aegon’s High Hill was a craggy, sheer thing, but the beach below was one that Vhagar enjoyed sunning herself, a guard dog laying at the foot of the bed in a way. Her head lifted as Aemond approached, lowing in greeting and shaking sand from her scales. The tension in Aemond’s chest began to ease at the sight of her, and he approached, patting a gloved hand along her scarred neck, scratching along a vicious scar she must have received in Dorne. There were no words exchanged, not the way Aegon chattered with Sunfyre. Aemond’s bond with Vhagar was one of feeling, of such deep understanding that no words needed to spill from him. In no time, he scaled her great bulk and yelled out the command to fly, which his dragon responded with her own, what he assumed was excited, call in return.

Vhagar landed on the cliffs on the western side of Massey’s Hook, the bay below dotted with smaller fishing boats this far out from King’s Landing and away from the bustle of the capital. Rage and grief, anger and fear were a tempest in his gut and he rankled at the call of Moondancer as his cousin circled above them.

If Baela wanted this fight, then he would meet her, unflinching. Let her see what dragons were made of. They did not all reside on Dragonstone.

“Laodijes peldios!” Baela howled at him, her voice a sharp shout on the breeze, her face twisted and ugly with fury, fists at her side as she readied herself to hit him should he get within reach.

Aemond glared at her, the distance between them shrunk now to an arm length. Vhagar was a great shadow behind him and he could feel the sulfuric heat of her breath as she exhaled buffeting at his back. Moondancer was a little ways away, shrieking fearfully and Aemond could not tell if the dragon reflected her rider’s mood, or her fear of Vhagar.

“You’re a fucking fool. Daemon Targaryen is your father, your mother a Velaryon, and you still don’t realize that a dragon cannot be stolen.”

“You had no fucking right!” Baela snarled. “Vhagar was for Rhaena to claim-”

“If Vhagar had not wanted me, she would have eaten me and you damn well know it.” Aemond cut her off, watching her jaw click shut with a curl of satisfaction. “Vhagar chose me, not your sister. What? You want to kill me to give her another chance at claiming her? Is that what you’re here? To finish the job that you all started?”

“Why would my mother’s dragon choose you?” Balea cried, and this time, there was a choked quality to her rage. Aemond’s eye widened slightly and he leaned back from her, a curl of uncertainty that he despised. His words had been harsh, full of the anger that he had felt simmering these past years. Aemond shrugged it off. He had earned his harshness in this. He’d been the one attacked, the band of them setting upon him simply because he chose to claim his right as a Valyrian prince.

‘Why would my mother’s dragon choose you?’

Aemond ran his tongue over his teeth and leaned back on his foot, watching Baela gasp for air amidst her choking sobs, and turn from him to look out to the bay, towards Driftmark and High Tide.

He remembered his mother’s cries, her rage, her such careful and elegant control snapping as her voice cracked in the silence of the Hall of Nine.

“He’s your son, Viserys.”

“Why did Moondancer choose you?” Aemond asked. “Why did Moondancer choose you, and my egg never hatched?” Baela did not look at him but he could see the way her shoulders tensed. “Why didn’t you go find the guards? Why did you come, thinking a thief had stolen a dragon and Jacaerys brought his blade? Why did they give me a pig, pretending they had found me a dragon as they both had their own? Why did they do nothing but terrorize me with that fact for our childhoods?” 

Aegon had done it too, gone in on the fun, drunk on being the eldest. It had lessened considerably in the wake of Rhaenyra leaving the capital, even if his brother sought other ways to tease him - he’d never again mentioned his lack of dragon.

Aegon had come to him in his sick bed, his curls shorn, red eyed and puffy faced, tears on his cheeks, had knelt at his bedside and vowed to him. 

“We protect our own and I did not protect you. I do not care if you’ve claimed Vhagar, for I was not there for you when you needed me. It will never happen again. I will protect you. I will be by your side.”

Aemond had sometimes wondered how much of the words were his brother’s own, but he had known, with certainty, that the feelings were genuine. His brother was an idiot, and they butted heads, but his brother loved him in his own way, and for as angry as Aegon could make him, he loved him too. In his own way. 

He might admit that on his deathbed, unlike Aegon, who would only need to be in the depths of his cups and into the sad and tearful mourning edge.

“What do you know, Baela?” Aemond said, his voice even, coldness creeping along the edges. “Of fighting and scraping for everything that is owed to you?” He forcefully bit his tongue, copper exploding in his mouth as he broke skin, to keep from pressing further at the loss of her birth right to Driftmark for Rhaenyra’s folly.

“A prince has to scrape for all that is owed to him.” It was rhetorical, biting, and Aemond snorted, taking a step forward, his own gaze looking out at the water.

“You may have been an idiot child, but don’t play me for a fool.” It was impossible not to see how little Viserys thought of his second family, and he had seen it plainly on Jacaerys’ face, the surprise in witnessing it. “I’m sure your father relishes every word you send to him. His little spy.”

Baela’s lip curled in a snarl and she stalked closer. Aemond stayed where he was, watching her with a narrowed eye as Vhagar let out a low growl behind him. She did not move, did not lift her head, but her nostrils flared and Aemond felt the heat of her breath swirl around him. Baela’s eyes widened, and she paused, the indigo of them shining with tears. 

He turned his head slightly to look at Vhagar. “Ȳgha iksi,” he reassured her, feeling Vhagar’s displeasure seeping through him, her warning and the remembered rage from those years ago when she could not protect him or take away his pain. He reached for her snout, pressing his hand to the scar above her left nostril, rubbing against it. He turned his back to his cousin and brought his other hand up, feeling the anger hot as coals, hot as dragonfire in his chest. Vhagar was full of tension. He could feel it. Would she feel that way if it wasn’t him? If she was not so worried for him, would she recognize the girl behind him as the child that Laena Velaryon surely brought to her, as Aemond would have brought his own child? Had his grandfather, Baelon, brought his sons to this dragon before them?

The silence filled the air around them, the wind thick with tension. Aemond pressed his forehead to Vhagar, took strength from her, squeezed his eye shut and ignored the pain that lanced through his head and pulsed behind his scar.

The sob behind him was soft, and Moondancer’s cry was mournful.

“He’s your son, Viserys.”

“I did not mean to tarnish your mother’s memory,” Aemond finally spoke, his voice carrying as he looked, blind side towards Baela. “It was not done to hurt you, or to take something from you. It was… It was my only chance. And it’s something I don’t think you’ll ever be able to understand. I am… I am sorry about the loss of your mother. I did not have the opportunity to give you my condolences then, but I can give them to you now.”

The sound Baela made was strangled. Aemond turned to look at her. Baela was stiff beneath her red and black riding leathers, the metal rings in her hair tinkling as the wind tugged at her braids. He recalled the mourning child she had been sitting by her twin and Jace, the vicious yell she’d let out when she punched him in the nose that night, the howls and scream of pain. He felt Vhagar twitch and groan beneath his touch, another warning and he hushed her again, stroking her snout. He watched her gaze go towards Moondancer, who was crying fitfully, grounded still, her aquamarine wings more green against the lush grass of the clifftop.

“Do you want to pet her?”

Baela stared at him, the hostile lines to her face instantly slacking in surprise. “Skoro syt?” Her voice was small and wary, even as her eyes were wide with grief.

“My condolences,” Aemond repeated, and he found the words genuine. It was not Baela, nor her sister, or even his bastard nephews that rankled him. Oh, he wanted his revenge, He wanted what was due, but more of the blame lay with his eldest sister and their father. Of that, Aemond was secure in. He would gladly feed them both to Vhagar, to take an eye as payment for his mother.

His cousin shifted on her booted feet before whatever compelled her brought her forward. Aemond shifted, beckoning her to take her place by his side as he murmured words to Vhagar. Baela had taken her glove off, her slim, tanned hand reaching tentatively up before resting along the scar on Vhagar’s nostril.

They stood there for how long, Aemond was not sure, quietly beside one another as Baela grieved for the mother at the bottom of the Narrow Sea, and his own grief at what was taken from him.

“Do not mourn me, mother…”

‘But mourn the boy dead on Driftmark.’

It was not lightness or peace that settled over Aemond when he and his cousin parted later. He was not certain how much time had passed, only that after she had sobbed, they sat there in a strange, companionable silence eating hunks of bread and cheese and apple that Baela cut with a wicked blade. She did not give him thanks, she did not say anything, but Aemond took the offering of shared food as her own gesture of whatever truce was settled between them. The exchanged curt nods before parting, Baela northeast and away from the city to what Aemond assumed was High Tide and her grandmother and twin, while he circled back towards the city.

Aemond was not certain of the feeling he held except that it felt like he had scratched something out on a list, or deposited a burden that he was trying to carry with all his other, more cumbersome burdens. It was a closed door. That was enough for Aemond, and there was a part of him that wanted to march to his sisters and tell them that he had made nice, to have Abby’s warm smile proud with him, and Helaena’s little clap and promptly being the receiver of her latest mountain spider that Uncle Rodrik had brought her.

Instead, after entering the inner courtyard of the Red Keep and handing off his horse to one of the stablehands, he made his way to the gardens and to his own preferred solitude when the library - so recently desecrated - was not an option. No, Aemond needed air, he needed the statue of Visenya to look down upon him. There, where Helaena had snipped the strings and released him from the vow he had made, the goal that held him that was more about him than it truly was about her. 

Where his sister had set him free, and he loved her all the more for it.

The problem, he found, upon striding down the paved path and through the dripping ivy, was that his garden was not, in fact, as empty as he hoped. Wylla Karstark was kneeled in front of a bush of hyacinths, carefully cutting the purple blooms and placing them in a basket beside her. She was clad in a dove gray dress, the black fabric of her kirtle beneath poking out through slashes along her shoulders and puffed at her elbows. Her fox features were pinched in concentration and Aemond watched her for a moment, silent as she had clearly not heard his approach.

Wylla Karstark was an unknown. She was pretty enough, with a long nose and sharp jaw, gray eyes that flashed when she was annoyed, which was the majority of the time. She had a rather frustrating talent of being able to look down at him even as she had to arch her neck, for she was as petite as Abby was. Their joint misfortune, just like Aegon’s. She was also well read, their conversation at the feast turning from a mutual annoyance to discussing the book of poetry that he had seen her reading, which itself had turned into a rather long and in depth conversation on the Valyrian poet, Praxilla, whose work had survived by the grace of her living the life of leisure in Lys when the Doom happened. Wylla and his elder brother unknowingly shared a fondness for drinking songs penned by the scribe, although Aemond was smart enough to know he shouldn’t bring that up.

Not until he needed to.

“It is polite to speak when coming upon someone, Your Grace,” Wylla’s northern burr was arch as she focused on her task. “I would curtsy, but you can see I’m already on my knees.”

Aemond’s cheeks flushed at the turn of her words, and he was not certain if she understood how they could be taken. He decided that she didn’t, for she did not turn to look at him, seemingly unbothered. All for the best, he supposed, for Aemond did not think he could meet her gaze should she be facing him.

“Why are you cutting my flowers?”

“Your flowers, Your Grace?” Wylla laughed, a sharp, lilting sort of sound and he wondered if that’s what she sounded like when she sang. Did she sing? He had not asked her. “These flowers belong to Queen Visenya, for it is her garden, is it not?”

“It is my garden,” he pushed back, frowning at the back of her head, the mass of thick, twisted black braids kept in place with a woven, pearl hair net with wicked looking, pearl tipped hair pins to keep the heaviness of it in place. He flexed his hands, wiping them on his riding leathers as he approached. There were other flowers in her basket, like wisteria and some of the roses from the main garden. He sat, bending his one leg to rest an arm on while the other reached in.

Up close, he could see the red flush to her pale cheeks. He did not recall them looking so red when he saw her the day before, outside of the bit of sun all the girls had gotten during the sun.

Her smack was quick, the sound of flesh stinging flesh loud and he immediately pulled back with a hiss and a glare. “How dare-”

“Those aren’t for you,” Wylla said forcefully, the gray eyes of her bright in her face as she finally looked at him. “They’re for Lady Abrogail.”

Aemond had killed a man for the fox-faced woman before him without hesitation, and the knowledge of it settled in him still, generally buried over the past few weeks because he had no idea what to do about it. They’d been attacked in the night, and Wylla Karstark had shoved a knife between the man’s ribs without hesitation. So tall, Wylla Karstark seemed, so loud, filling up the spaces she was in without holding herself back, that he had so often forgotten how small she was.

Until she was there, in front of him, those gray eyes like the storm ridden ocean.

Aemond held her gaze, reaching back into the basket to pluck one of the deep purple, nearly blue anemones that she had gathered, twirling it idly between his long fingers before reaching up to tuck it behind her ear. Wylla was still beside him, her red painted mouth parted slightly, so he could see the flash of her white teeth behind it. Her cheeks deepend in their red to match the paint on her lips and Aemon hummed. 

Abby had been understandably shaken. Knowing her as long as he did, even with the smiles affixed to her face, he knew the signs as intimately as he understood Helaena’s or Aegon’s, or his own mother’s. Wylla Karstark was a mystery. She had been quiet, from what he had seen, but the wedding preparations had taken up much time with the girls, as well as her brother finally leaving the capital earlier that week.

He clenched his jaw, a muscle ticking, before he met her gaze. “Are you alright?”

Her inhale was loud. It trembled and she pressed her red lips together, her throat bobbing with a swallow and looked back at the flowers but did not move to cut anymore. Aemond did not push her, but only waited.

“Yes? No? Strangely yes,” she finally whispered. “I think that’s what bothers me more.”

“That bastard came in with intent to harm,” Aemond said. “If you didn’t kill him, someone else would have. You were incredibly brave.” None knew  where he’d come from. The assailant had been clad in the same red garb as the rest of the servants. A baseborn man. Waters or Storm, Aemond couldn’t remember, much like he had no memory of the man’s face before he stared down at it, red and wheezing before he killed him.

“At least it wasn’t Aegon,” Wylla whispered, her eyes wide, drawing his attention back to her. “What would have that turned into - him sneaking in for them to slobber all over each other. Me thinking he was an attacker and-”

The snort of laughter that escaped Aemond at the idea of it all could not be held back. He bent his head, gasping for air as his shoulders shook and it was only a moment before Wylla’s own peel of laughter joined his. It had been some weeks since he’d laughed, in the wake of what happened at the hunt drying up what little humor he’d indulged in. There was an infectious quality to Wylla Karstark’s amusement that he found comforting. Aemond looked at her, her face flushed from her laughter, and he leaned in, kissing her.

The laughter abruptly stopped, her mouth soft against his, still from her clear surprise. She tasted like oranges. Abby must have indulged in the sweet and sour orange cakes they had at the feast. Wylla did not respond, but she didn’t move away either and Aemond took that as acceptance, and he lifted his hand to cup her cheek, thumb swiping softly against the apple of it. Kisses with Helaena had been different - always expected, always ready, with her initiating many of them. The one time he’d kissed Abby, when they were little and Jace had dared him to, did not count. The both of them had made faces, vowing to never do it again. 

Kissing Wylla, though? He never wanted to stop, especially not when she reached up, the clippers making a soft thump along the grass to wrap around the end of the braid slung over his shoulder. She tugged it gently and Aemond broke away, blinking and gasping. “What?” he asked. “Should I have not done that?”

“Oh, you should have,” she reassured him, breathless and red faced. She licked her lips and looked at her fingers still wound around his braid, toying with the leather tie. “I was just reminded of something someone told me once.”

He cocked his head, mouth pursed. “What was it?”

The smile that cut across Wylla’s face was amused, the scar along the top of her lip giving a mischievous bend to her small, red mouth. “It was about how dragons purr when you pull their hair.”

Whatever thought started to coalesce about her late night conversation with his sisters was pushed right out when her lips found his.

I would love to hear your thoughts! Even if it's just a keyboard smash! Reblog to spread a story around so others may find it! I would love to hear your theories! What did you love? What are you looking forward to? Happy to have you here as always <3

[maaikeatthefullmoon]

This week I have mostly been reading...

May 13-19th, 2024

New idea I've had, and hopefully something I'll have time to do once a week on a Sunday. Over the past seven days, I have devoured the following Good Omens fanfics, and I recommend these most heartily to you:

Completed works I've read this week:

Boyfriend Debut by snae_b Rated E - A & C are both porn actors. It sounds seedy. It's not. Holy Hell, it's not. It's one of the hottest things I've ever read, but also so, so sweet and delightful.

They Drink Tea At The End by @knifeforkspooncup Rated T - After a year spent in Heaven, A returns to C in the bookshop completely and utterly overstimulated in every sensory capacity. A wonderful, sweet story of them truly knowing each other and an excellent example of how the fandom relates to GO in so many beautiful ways.

Pay Per View by IneffableToreshi Rated E - A lovely story set in Canada, full of our so frequently seen miscommunication between A & C. And, as the author says: "Also, why the fuck is Aziraphale watching porn in their hotel room?! And taking notes?!"

Cranking Up The Heat by @vavoom-sorted-art Rated E - Well, the title says it all, really. And the fic's description: "The equivalent of that hot wings challenge, but with porn." Don't really want to say much more, as you've gotta see it to enjoy it.

On The Same Page by Chekhov Rated E - A fake marriage fic with Only One Bed. A & C are both authors, but two very different ones. Excellently written with very vividly described mental struggles with internal homophobia & self loathing.

A Model Guardian by Fuuma_san Rated E - As a former model, I found this fic really interesting. I'd genuinely love to know what the author's tie/experience in the industry is. C is a model, A is their bodyguard. An interesting tale which involves some great discussion on gender.

In The Room Where You Sleep by @mrghostrat Rated E - Another banger by ghostrat, posted in its entirety this week. In a reversal to many other fics I've seen, A is a vampire and C is a vampire hunter. *Homer Simpson voice* With sexy results. ;)

WIPs which have updated this week (which I devour as soon as I get the update!)

There Is A Light And It Never Goes Out by @phoen1xr0se Rated M - A is a researcher (puffins!), C is a lighthouse keeper on the island where A has run away to to escape his problems and do his research. The author has recently spent a week studying puffins - which is the ultimate dedication, if you ask me. Ch 9/26 posted this week

Find The Light by @klikandtuna Rated E - Headmaster A and Rockstar C. The story teases out a fraught history between them whilst keeping a tension between them in the modern day. Ch 4/? posted this week.

Terminus by @emotional-support-demon-crowley Rated T - Astronaut A is guided back to Earth by controller C after 92 years in space. There are many difficulties both of them have to face and they develop an amazing rapport. Ch 15/17 posted this week.

Oddity by @tsyvia48 Rated E - Actor C is contracted by (useless) Gabriel to guest curate an exhibition at the museum where A works. After getting off on the wrong foot, can they work together to pull off this show? Ch 22/24 posted this week.

Under The Summer Stars by @pannotbread Rated E - This wonderful fic has taught me more about physics than school ever did (mostly because I never did any physics, but...well). A & C have to share their time at an observatory because there is Only One Telescope. Not only will you learn about astrophysics, astrobiology, and astroecology, you'll also read some of the most poetically, beautifully written masturbation scenes I've ever seen. *ahem* Ch 6/13 posted this week.

Free by well, me: imposterssyndrome Rated E - A & C meet (again?) in an acute mental health ward after both having had mental health crises. A runs a bookshop but is very much under his parents' control. C has been homeless since childhood and has struggled his entire life. They do not trust each other when they first meet, but feel strangely drawn to one another all the same. Where will this lead them? This is a passion piece for me. There is a lot of lived experience in it, and extensive research from both professionals and peers. It has been a real journey for me to write it, and as I'm coming closer to the end it's becoming very emotional for me. Ch 43/? posted this week

[lilac-hecox]

What I Read: Week of May 20th

Okay! So, I haven't done one in a while but I've really been trying to take a lot of joy in what others creator in our fandom so I have a supersized one of sorts for y'all!

Hypothetically Yes (Theoretically Forever) by @xxmoonch1ldxx - Ian/Anthony - Ianthony

Very cute and set around Shayne and Courtney's wedding but with Ian and Anthony talking about whether or not they would individually get married some day and how it sparks up some feelings. Short and sweet!

Fight like cats and dogs by ObsessedSM - Damien/Angel - Damangela

An interesting concept where Angela slowly realizes that she is crushing on Damien and vice versa. Some nice hurt/comfort and a cute support system. (Is in progress last time I checked)

Migraine by HGTV_Rerun -Shayne/Spencer - Shayncer

Short and sweet little hurt/comfort where Spencer has a migraine and Shayne cares for him at the office!

never really said that i loved you too by Anonymous - Angela/Amanda - Amangela

Little bit of miscommunication and hurt/comfort with some fluff and a happy ending! Amanda texts Angela. Angela believes it to be a drunk text.

Lorsque Nos Deux Âmes Se Mêlent by @xxmoonch1ldxx - Ian/Anthony - Ianthony

Spicy fic! Super hot PWP but totally worth a read!! A bottom!Anthony as well!

off to the races (got my love jumpstarted) by Anonymous - Amanda/Angela - Amangela

Crack fic where Amanda and Angela are horses. It is still SO good and Ian and Anthony are farmers??? It's cute! We love a good crack fic!

in another life, you and me were seals by Anonymous - Amanda/Angela - Amangela

Fluffy and sweet little Amangela that is soft and makes you feel good!

always together by @ancientvamp - Shayne/Chanse - Shaynse

A sweet little domestic fic about Shayne and Chanse discussing marriage, kids, all the cute domestic stuff!

outsiders inside the home that we built by smoshbrainrotanon (I believe this author is on tumblr but I can't recall their url off the top of my head so let me know if you know!) -Ian/Anthony - Ianthony

A song!fic but also deals with the emotions of Ian and Anthony during the split and regarding Defy.

Meetings on Memory Lane by TheLoreOfItAll - Ian/Anthony - Ianthony (Again I am pretty sure this author is on tumblr so if you know let me know!)

A fic that is sort of like a retrospective on Ian and Anthony and their memories. It is being updated! Well written and I love Ian's POV especially as a kid.

my only angel by spourtastic - Amanda/Ian - Amandian

It is in progress but a really interesting idea and I am an absolute sucker for anything Amanda and Ian!

A beautiful mess by @japhan2024 - Damien/Anthony - Antmien

Anthony is a vampire and he and Damien have a toxic relationship including the fact that Anthony is hung up on Ian. I love the trope of Anthony being hung up on Ian and the resulting angst of it all!! I also love blood drinking scenes.

A classic mistake by @japhan2024 - Shayne/Spencer -Shayncer

Centered around rehearsals for the Smosh the Sitcom it involves Shayne and Spencer practicing their kissing scene. I love the fact that it is based on the live show!

You Stay On My Mind (Can't Help But Keep You Close) by @xxmoonch1ldxx - Ian/Anthony - Ianthony

Spicy but based on a prompt of "I want to see all of you." and bottom!Ian and it is so sensual and hot at the same time!!!

Driven Batty by @chu-tea - Ian/Anthony -Ianthony

VAMPIRE ANTHONY! Written based on a discussion had in the quad squad server and Chu has a beautiful and familar way of writing that is a joy to read. A slow burn and stretches through the journey of Ian and Anthony's time together. In progress but so, so worth it!

Smosh in the Hunger Games by d_s_t_e - Gen Fic

A take on the Smosh Hunger Games episode but with more humor and written in an interesting script like format. In progress!

Fungi by Wydrochka - Ian/Anthony -Ianthony

The idea of Ian doing magic mushrooms for the first time with Anthony and Anthony caring for him through the trip. I've been craving this idea for so long so I'm glad to have read it!

so no one told you life was gonna be this way by spacetimeinspector - Krungle/Kevin (Ian/Amanda)

Based on the Smosh the Sitcom focusing on the scene where Krungle and Kevin almost kiss. This captures the vibe perfectly and is a really interesting concept!

be with me, alone with me by eunaseo - Amanda/Angela - Amangela

Angst and cheating but I love some good angst where it hurts in the best way possible. Amanda and Angela are in love but because Amanda is married they can't really be together.

you like that? by @bowcrary - Chanse/Tommy - Chommy - Bowcrary

Based around the Smosh the Sitcom. Insanely hot and sensual af like wow! Bottom!Chanse and a bit of a dommy top!Tommy. UGH. So good!!

Flirting With Disaster (Throwing Kisses After) by @xxmoonch1ldxx - Ian/Anthony - Ianthony

A fluff of sorts where Ian and Anthony realize they like each other and there is some mutual jealousy and want on both their sides.

The Beast Inside Of Me, He Knows How To Train A Bad Dog by @xxmoonch1ldxx - Ian/Anthony - Ianthony

Spicy and based on the idea of puppy play with Bottom!Puppy Anthony and a very toppy!Ian. HOT AS ALL HELL.

Previous Weeks!

[seiya-starsniper]

Rating: Teen || Chapters: 2/5 || Word Count 3.5k/??

Summary: The Dead Boy Detectives run into a familiar pub while out on a case, and Crystal has to contend with an unfortunate event from her past.

AO3 Tags: POV Multiple, Hob Gadling gives live advice to a bunch of teenagers, while helping them solve cases, that's it that's the fic, also he maybe plays matchmaker for his hot mess bestie

Chapter 1

Read Chapter 2 below, or using the link above on AO3!

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

Hob Gadling considers himself to be a rather open minded man. He's lived hundreds of years, and seen thousands of strange and unusual things in that same amount of time, so the chances of something catching him completely off guard are rather slim in the year 2024.

The last few days, however, have proven that there are still many, many things that can surprise him. 

One of those things being one Charles Rowland, who is currently waving at Hob from the entryway of the New Inn.

Hob normally doesn't like to get involved in anything having to do with the supernatural, and especially not anything related to the type of work that Edwin and Charles do. He'd met them purely by chance after some asshole with delusions of grandeur had tried to frame him for a series of murders. He’d sent Edwin and Charles on a wild goose chase in a poor attempt to cover his own tracks.

Hob thought that once they caught the real murderer together and cleared things up, that would be the end of things. But then, Hob kept getting involved in their cases over the years, all of them entirely on accident. Eventually, somewhere between the fourth and fifth poltergeist, Hob decided he might as well figure out how to defend himself against supernatural entities, and maybe make himself useful for these poor boys too. They certainly needed all the help they could get.

Hob had been glad to hear that Edwin and Charles had recently gotten some sort of amnesty in exchange for continuing to help ghosts and other souls move on. It was good work, what these boys did. Hob has seen ghosts that haunted the same places for centuries finally be to pass on into the afterlife thanks to them. And now, they not only had permission to keep going, but had gotten more help to do it too.

The addition of Crystal to their little crew had been a surprise, and Jenny an even bigger surprise, though the latter seems less interested in solving cases, and more in making sure Crystal doesn't get herself killed in the process.

Still, Hob's only ever seen the teens all together in some sort of group, never alone, and he's definitely never seen Charles without Edwin. From the moment Hob had first met the two ghost boys, they’d always been a singular unit in his mind. And yet here Charles was, alone and looking strangely expectant while trying to appear casual as he waits for Hob to close out the tabs on the last remaining lunch hour patrons.

“Everything all right?” Hob asks when Charles approaches him once his last customer leaves. 

“Of course!” Charles answers, his signature smile bright on display. “I was just in the neighborhood and wanted to say hello. And to thank you again for the assist the other day.”

As a ghost, Charles is technically always in the neighborhood, so Hob knows that that’s not all that there is to his visit. It also hasn't escaped Hob's notice that Charles specifically picked the one day Jenny wasn't working the kitchen this week to drop by the pub. He clearly doesn’t want anyone to know that he’s here.

But Hob knows by now how to deal with skittish teenagers. Even dead ones.

“Well I'm almost done here and then I'm gonna head upstairs for a cuppa,” Hob says. Mark’s going to be here soon to relieve me of duty. Happy to have some company if you have the time to spare for an old man.”

“Oh! Yeah sure, I'm not busy,” Charles says, and cute that he’s still trying to pretend that he hadn’t come here with a purpose, when his eagerness is so clearly written all over his face. “Don't need any food though, as you know.”

“Sure, sure,” Hob replies, waving his hand dismissively so Charles can head upstairs ahead of him. He's going to make a cup of tea for Charles anyways. The boy always seemed to love the steam that came out of the mugs, even though he’d never admit it out loud.

Mark comes in exactly at 2:00pm, and Hob chats with him for a few minutes, before he clocks out and heads upstairs to his flat above the pub. Charles is already waiting for him in the living room, and Hob immediately sets to the task of warming up some hot water in the kettle and grabbing some mugs for tea.

“So how are things at the agency?” Hob asks as he waits for the water to heat. “Busy as ever, or more so now that you’ve got yourselves a psychic?”

“Definitely busier,” Charles says. “Crystal’s been a massive help with our cases, we're solving them even faster than before.”

“Good,” Hob replies, just as the kettle clicks, letting him know the water is done. “I’m glad she’s using her powers for good nowadays,” he adds as he brings the two mugs over to the couch. Charles looks surprised by the extra mug, but accepts it without a word. Hob doesn’t expect him to drink any of the tea, of course, but as predicted, Charles seems to fall into a trance watching the steam rise out of the cup.

“Thanks for not giving her too much of a hard time,” Charles says when Hob sits down in the recliner across from him. “She’s been really down on herself lately for everything in her past.”

“I can only imagine,” Hob agrees. He knew a thing or two about wanting to reinvent oneself and burning away the past. He’s had hundreds of years to do so after all. In fact, it could even be argued that Crystal was far ahead of where Hob would’ve been had he been in her shoes. The girl he’d met a few nights ago was so different from the one he’d met a year ago in court that Hob would’ve thought she had a twin instead. 

“Seems like you two get along well,” Hob notes after a brief silence has passed. Charles perks up immediately, taking the opening in the conversation.

“We do,” Charles replies, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “She’s amazing.”

“Yeah? So are the two of you a thing then?” Hob asks, and would you look at that, turns out ghosts can blush after all. 

“I—maybe?” Charles says, his voice pitched higher with uncertainty. “I don’t know, actually. I mean, it's, well…complicated I guess?”

“How so?” Hob asks. He’d suspected there had been something going on between them, it was obvious in their body language, and how they gently teased one another throughout the night after the banshee had gone. Now Charles is talking like a man newly in love and completely besotted.

“Is she giving you mixed signals?” Hob follows up when Charles doesn't answer.

“No!” Charles exclaims, shaking his head. “It’s me really, I’m—I don’t know.” He sighs in frustration and runs a hand through his hair. “I thought for a while that’s what I wanted and then Edwin—” he suddenly cuts himself off, a small amount of panic now crossing his features.

Ah. Now the reason for Charles' visit suddenly makes itself clear. Crystal clear even, but Hob keeps that terrible pun to himself. 

“So Edwin finally told you how he felt about you?” Hob asks, deciding to rip the bandage off now and quell the strange awkwardness in the room. Charles’ head whips up so fast Hob feels his own neck start to cramp up in sympathy.

“You knew ?” Charles asks. “But Edwin said he’d only figured it out when we were in Port Townsend!”

Hob shrugs. “Sometimes, things are easier to spot when you’re not in the middle of them,” he replies. “But it was pretty clear that, at the very least, Edwin considered you the most important person to him. It's not surprising he fell in love with you too.”

“You really think so?” Charles asks. “Because I don't—I’d never really thought about it before, you know? He's my most important person too, but I never thought that we would be more than that. But now that he's said it, I can't stop thinking about it.”

“Yeah?” Hob asks. “Does it bother you that he feels that way?” A shake of the head. Good. “Do you ever think you could return those feelings?”

“I don’t know, and that’s the problem!” Charles cries, his voice pitching near to a whine. He stands and paces around Hob’s living room, and Hob has to try not to laugh into his tea. Teenage problems were always the same, whether a live or dead.

“To be honest, I’m still really into Crystal,” Charles starts, “...but then after everything with Edwin, and what happened to Niko, I started thinking, well, how long will that really last? Crystal’s alive, I’m not. She’s going to—she won’t—she’ll eventually—”

“Grow up?” Hob offers when the teen can’t find the right words. “Grow old, hopefully? Live a fulfilling life with someone else that’s flesh and blood?”

“I—yeah. Ideally yes,” Charles replies, though it's clear the thought bothers him by the way he scrunches his features. “But also, what if us being together puts her in too much danger? What if she—if what happened to Niko happens to her, I couldn't bear it, Mr. Gadling.”

“Hob,” Hob corrects the boy gently. “I've told you before that you don't need to call me Mister anything, makes me feel way older than I already feel,” he adds with a laugh. Charles gives him a half smile and just shrugs helplessly. Some habits were impossible to break, it seemed.

“And those are perfectly reasonable fears to have,” Hob continues. “Crystal is her own person though, and you need to take into account that she might find the risk worth it. And to be honest, I feel like the risk to her life is the same, whether you two are romantically involved or not.”

“Yeah, I suppose you're right,” Charles agrees, flopping back down onto Hob’s couch and staring back into the still steaming mug of tea. “So do you think we should give it a go, then?”

Hob shrugs. “I think you two like each other,” he replies, “but whether you think a relationship is worth it is up to you. Does Edwin know about you two?”

“He knows—some stuff yeah,” Charles replies sheepishly. “I had told him I liked her way before he, you know, confessed to me and all. And like, even afterwards, it seems like he’s fine, but I really don’t know if it’s all actually fine, or if he’s just trying to act like he’s fine just because I look fine but he’s not really fine and what if I’ve mucked everything up or—”

“Hey, slow down, Charles,” Hob interjects, and the boy’s mouth clicks shut immediately. “From what I can see, nothing has changed between you, so I wouldn't worry about it,” he adds, trying to sound as reassuring as possible. “Besides, you and Edwin have been together this long now, you've got more than enough time to sort things out, one way or the other.”

“Yeah,” Charles agrees, his voice now wistfully soft and clearly full of affection. “When we were in Hell, I said that to him,you know. That we have eternity to figure it all out.”

“Did you now?” Hob asks, now smiling himself. “Sounds like you two are on the same page then, as per usual. Now you just need to make a decision yourself and Crystal.”

“Yeah…yeah you're right,” Charles says, seeming to come to a decision. His back straightens and he sits up, his signature smile back on his face. “Edwin and I may have forever, but Crystal doesn't and it's rude to keep a lady waiting right?”

“Absolutely," Hob replies.

Charles leaves shortly after, promising not to overthink everything and let his feelings come naturally to him. Hob is fairly certain he knows where things will land eventually, and he's sure Charles does too. It doesn't make the journey to get there any less worthwhile.

[whats-amata-you]

Alright y’all hear me out, but I kinda like this interpretation of the Kaiba brothers where they have to deal with the consequences of a very codependent sibling relationship. Not like in the “something happens to Mokuba and Seto has a crisis” kind way, but in the “Mokuba doesn’t know who the hell he is outside the context of being Seto’s little brother” kind of way.

Literally everything Seto ever did from the day Mokuba was born was toward the singular goal of Mokuba’s wellbeing. He sacrificed everything to give Mokuba better opportunities, a more stable home life, a better chance at happiness than Seto ever really had for himself. Seto even gave up huge swaths of who he himself was to work toward that goal. It was all for Mokuba.

But Mokuba was right there with him, the whole time, watching his brother suffer and doing everything in his power to protect him. Mokuba’s whole identity revolves just as much around Seto as Seto’s does around Mokuba.

And that’s fucked up all well and good when Seto’s a teenager and Mokuba hasn’t even hit puberty and only one of them is really taking on any serious adult responsibility. But imagine what that must be like when Mokuba grows up.

Imagine being 20 and as long as you can remember you’ve been worrying about keeping your older brother alive. Maybe he’s in late twenties or early thirties now, and life has finally forced him to either do the work of healing and moving on or else spiraling into self-destruction to the point that not even you can save him anymore. Maybe he’s married off and happy in his own life, or maybe he’s dead or missing and left you behind as his only heir to the family fortune.

And you’re just as completely, utterly lost either way because either way, he doesn’t need you the same way anymore. And on top of that, you realize you don’t really need him the same way anymore.

His routines aren’t yours anymore. His moods don’t set the tone for your whole day anymore. You don’t plan your life around him and his needs anymore.

So. What do you do when you’re suddenly cut loose and left adrift?

I imagine Mokuba floating through life a lot for his twenties, maybe into his thirties. He’s got no sense of direction or purpose without Seto being the center of it all. He realizes he doesn’t have to become a businessman like Seto and help run Kaiba Corporation, but doesn’t know what the hell else he might even want to do. Doesn’t even have a clue. He goes into business anyway because he knows he has to do something, but he doesn’t really enjoy it and it wears on him. He’s popular with women but can’t make a relationship last more than a few weeks; they keep fizzling out because he just doesn’t seem to have any ambition.

It’s super easy for Mokuba to see and acknowledge how Seto was always sort of his dad when they were kids, as well as his brother. Seto actively took up the role and wasn’t shy about saying so outright. But I don’t think either of them realizes quite as easily just how much Mokuba was parentified too, even from a very young age. Seto made Mokuba’s physical health and overall wellbeing his business on purpose, but Mokuba accidentally stumbled into providing a level of emotional support to Seto that no child should ever be responsible for. That kind of relationship would fuck anyone up.

I feel like an interpretation of them Kaiba brothers that had a Mokuba who ended up being rather directionless and having issues with his sense of who the hell he is after Seto’s inevitable Character Development one way or the other is worth exploring. People change over time, and if a fic is set a decade or more post-canon…idk, I just feel like Mokuba’s trauma deserves some serious exploration, too.

[dizzyhslightlyvoided]

I think Sonic canon is pretty clear on the fact that at least initially, Amy Rose isn't ... interested in Sonic as a person. She just wants to "have Sonic the Hedgehog as a boyfriend", she doesn't care about what he wants.

Like it ends up petering out and is sort of completely gone by Sonic Lost World or so, but from the minute the games had voice acting, Sonic and Amy's dynamic consisted of 1. Sonic trying to avoid or escape Amy and openly rejecting her romantic overtures, and 2. Amy completely ignoring this and being overbearing and clingy. In Unleashed, she threatens violence at the prospect of other girls looking at him! And then, of course, there's the infamous line from Sonic 2006 about how she cares more about Sonic than the fate of the world -- as if they'd be able to be together if the world was destroyed. (I can see some kind of edge-fic where Sonic dies and Amy doesn't, and she ends up going full Gendo in an attempt to get him back! We don't know what happened to her after Iblis appeared, after all ...) But like in general, Amy just glosses over the fact that she's being rejected. If she acknowledges it at all, she simply treats it as a challenge to overcome. But most of the time, she simply ignores the fact that Sonic does not want to date her.

In other words, Sonic could come out as gay and marry both Shadow and Silver right in front of Amy, and it wouldn't be especially out of character for 2006-era Amy to ask the nearest girl out on a date, then immediately turn around and say "Yeah, yeah! Sonic look, I'm gay too!" like in the Sonic 2006 fandub.

[true-blue-sonic]

One thing that I am actually running into a bit in my new Slow Burn Espilver But Silver Is From A Good Future This Time fic is that it's turning out rather difficult to not make Silver too jaded. Silver is a character who always keeps his head up, and even if he is not immune to losing hope entirely for a moment, he quickly regains it either through himself ('06) or friends supporting him (Rivals 2). But in my fic, there's a lot of factors stacked against him in regards to his optimism. The idea that I described in this Espilver fic I already wrote about it is that he met Eggman Nega when he was very young, think like 4 years old, and Nega told him in crystal clarity what his plans were for the world and this little interloper (aka end the world but first kill Silver, because Nega strikes me as exactly the kind of person who'd do that just for kicks after all his bragging). But because Nega is also an idiot, Silver easily trumped him with his powers and got away with his life, which started a decade of them fighting. But what also happened is that nobody took Silver seriously when he told them what had transpired: he was far too young, so everybody figured it was merely the imaginative mind of a toddler coming up with a scary story because in that time, Nega was laying low enough to not be considered very dangerous. But Silver took Nega's words of world destruction to heart, and even if it meant he became quite isolated from his peers and family, he was proven right in the end when Nega took his ambitions globally and Silver was the only one ready to defeat him.

But altogether, that means Silver's been fighting a madman (who is incompetent but definitely threatening still) for a whole decade or so, while not being believed by anyone until years after he and Nega met when Nega took his assault to the planet at large all of a sudden. The reason I want to add that detail is because we've seen both in the games and the Sonic Channel stories before that Silver is incredibly straightforward, and does not seem to be good at taking into account the fact not everybody is always going to automatically believe him even if he speaks the truth. It'd be an extreme take on the situation, but I do not think Silver is going to particularly happy about getting brushed off for years before the people's eyes were opened to Nega's villainy. Also, it would explain why his powers are so strong despite living in an allegedly-peaceful world: he's been actively practicing for ten years already. But still, I feel like it would have a large impact on his optimistic nature. While I don't mind a more jaded Silver (because it does fit with his more grumpy and standoffish nature in the Rivals games especially), I do not want him to be embittered or something that extreme, and I am not too sure how to find a good balance inbetween things.

[lunarharp]

"Found out" set in kind of a made-up chapter where the girls are in trouble, or something.

[waywardstation]

WIP FRIDAY

I apologize for getting this out two days late, I’ve been busy with lots of packing and events! But I have a little reprieve, so I wanted to post another WIP; this one is from Heart Full, Bowl Empty.

BE AWARE THAT THIS SEGMENT INVOLVES A CONVERSATION REVOLVING AROUND UNWILLING BUT INTENTIONAL STARVATION. I know there are people who say they can’t read this fic because of themes like this, so be aware of this before reading this WIP!!

I included this snippet in today’s WIP because I have like three versions of the entire segment this snippet is from. I feel like it’s a really important segment with a really important conversation, and I’ve had a hard time balancing all the emotions the way I want to between Ingo and Akari, with frustration, sadness, anger, and empathy, to realistically get them to the resolution I want at the end of it.

The final version will probably only include a few parts from this particular segment.

Enjoy!!

—————

“I knew it! You’re doing it again!” Akari’s eyebrows scrunched, trying to understand through the frustration. “You said you wouldn’t!”

“Circumstances will improve soon.” Clearly done with the conversation, that was all Ingo said, but it was confession enough that he had fallen back on his word. Shame contaminated his voice, but if there was any regret, he hid it well.

“No, it won’t!” They were not even half-way through winter yet. “And you know it won’t!”

Ingo said nothing as the kits carefully moved around his slumped form, finding comfortable places to settle around him. She didn’t know if he intended to snuff the conversation out with angered silence, or if he was just too exhausted to care about arguing with her anymore. If it wasn’t for his small occasional signs of movement or acknowledgement, she’d think he was actually sleeping.

Akari carefully stepped into the nesting layers, moving to sit down next to Ingo. She settled with her back against the cavern wall, pulling her knees close as a few kits shuffled around to accommodate her. “You know I’m right.”

Huffing out an irritated sigh and nothing more, it didn’t seem like Ingo had any intentions to engage with her argument anymore.

“You couldn’t even pull yourself up over the ridge,” She prodded at him again, trying to motivate more conversation out of him. “I had to help you!”

“There are many, many factors that go into that.” A reluctant answer, perhaps a reflexive attempt to quell her worry; Ingo feebly rubbed his wrapped hand, almost as a display for his excuse.

“I’ve seen you do more when you’ve been hurt worse.” Akari retorted, a little softer now but still cold.

Ingo’s eyes remained closed, though his hardened expression implied that it came across as more accusatory than she’d intended. But perhaps it was precisely the time to be accusatory.

“Ingo, you’re so tired all the time now – you stopped coming to the training grounds because you just can’t make the trips all the time anymore! And you’re sleeping so much more than you used to, and it’s like you’re always hungry all the time, even though all I see you doing anymore is gathering food!” Akari’s voice grew more jagged as she continued to jab at him, entirely uninterrupted.

It was getting difficult. With Ingo’s tunic still sopping by the bucket, still somewhat red from the exhausted effort of washing out the blood, it could not hide the ribs that pressed out just a little bit more, or help fill out what the waistline had lost under the loosening belt. The abject dread of directly acknowledging that was too much.

“And- and look! You aren’t even willing to hold a conversation with me anymore, and I don’t know if it’s because you just won’t, or because you can’t!” The kits shifted uncomfortably as Akari retreated back into her own frustration instead. “People think you’re sick, Ingo! They’re asking me about you! What are you doing?”

The exhausted man remained where he laid in the nesting material, only moving his hands to rub at his face and sigh — a deep, forced sigh that swelled his side before releasing. Akari almost didn’t think he’d answer her, but with some effort, he propped himself up first onto his elbows, then slumped forward. The teen watched him run shaky fingers through his hair as he sat next to her.

“…I don’t know what I should do.” The guilt. The weary guilt cracked his voice and tore Akari’s anger down to heartache.

[thatonegayship]

I loved the cowboy comic so much that I wrote a oneshot for it. https://archiveofourown.org/works/50934235 🥺 your art is BEYOND amazing, ty for the food

INCREDIBLE!!!!!

[fyncherly]

A text I sent my friend as I spiraled (haha jk) over vampolitics regarding vague plotlines about a multi-chapter suckening fic that diverges after episode 4 and explores an au in which Edward's plotline doesn't play out quite like it did and there's other plays for power alongside his own and what if some key events still happened but, like, a little to the left and within the context of this slightly altered version (an au if you will) and what if the twins and Gref went with Arthur to London and found more and what about that guy Uncle Lazarus huh something up with him and what if the twins leaned more into their royal status and did something with it (or tried to in a more concerted effort) and Mary Davis will be there (mirror Mary sorry this is after ep 4) and obviously Vex & Viv and what if there's a touch more domesticity cuz I'm a fool for that and what if Gref realizes he's been manipulated and they have to confront this and it's messy and awful and necessary and there's layers guys layers and what if I just speculate and make up lore for the stuff that will probably be answered in season 2 anyway hm and what if and what if—