#boxing golden era

[floralembarrassment]

Hi I love your jegulus fanfics. Could you do one with harry getting sorted and their reaction. Also, what house do you think harry would be in if he was raised by jegulus.

hi!! Thank you so much! To be honest I don't really see Harry in any other house than Gryffindor though I could easily be swayed by a soft wind. this one was fun to write though:

The Sorting (1/1) (jegulus raising Harry)

Remus pulled the mirror off his pocket. "Pads I swear to Merlin you have to stay quiet," he whispered into it.

He was sat at the teachers table, watching as the line of timid and excited 11 year olds filed into the great hall.

Sirius motioned zipping his lips, and when James and Regulus popped his head into the frame, Remus looked at him sternly. "Prongs," he cautioned.

"I know silence and then we get out away." James repeated the the rules.

Remus held them up secretly, so they could just see the sorting hat being placed on the child who was called before Harry. They all held their breath as they McGonagall called his name: "Harry Potter."

The great hall went silent, everyone watching and waiting for the chosen one, and the son of a war hero and a spy, to be sorted. Remus watched the mirror as Regulus took a deep breath and grabbed James' arm.

Remus was positive this was the longest sorting since Sirius', and he watched as his nephew held his eyes shut tight and muttered in response to whatever the hat was saying in his ears.

No one knew where Harry would end up, though they were pretty sure it was a 50/50 Slytherin or Gryffindor. Both of his parental lineages held long standing histories in those houses, but it was just as probably that he ended up in Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff.

But also like his fathers, Harry was incredibly loyal to his friends. Remus knew instantly that when the small curly hair girl and the red headed Weasley boy ended up in Gryffindor that's exactly where Harry would go as well.

And sure enough, after 5 whole minutes of silence, the sorting hat yelled out, and applause and cheers rang through the great hall.

Remus looked at the mirror where James and Sirius were jumping around and Regulus was trying to be annoyed but fondness was clear in his eyes, and Remus could have sworn a smile was creeping up his face.

Remus waved goodbye to Regulus, sharing an equally large eye roll at his husband and best friend's celebrations, then slide the mirror back into his pocket. Regulus would be fine, his son was already a great seeker after all.

Remus looked up at the Gryffindor table to see Harry sitting excitedly next to his two new friends, shaking hands with everyone around. Then he looked back to Remus and waved, and uncle Moony well he could help but be proud and nodded back in approval.

[fairmerthefarmer]

One time for character design practice I decided to draw Captain Drinian and also give him a sister except I’m not much of a writer so I don’t even have a name for her, all I know about her is that she’s an asexual lesbian, and like super strong or something.

Also I just want to believe that Lucy wasn’t the only woman on that ship the entire time.

[dira333]

Part of a Family - Shouto Todoroki x Reader

Don't look at me, I'm in my Baby Era - tagging @shoulmate

You’re not surprised to find a warm weight settled against your ribcage when you wake up, the golden morning light drawing patterns into white hair.

“Hey love,” you drag a hand through the mess. “Couldn’t sleep?”

Your son grumbles something under his breath, his hold tightening.

One look at the other side of your bed - empty and perfectly made - tells you everything you need to know.

“Did Papa wake you when he left?” You don’t miss the sniffle, no matter how well it’s hidden.

“So you found him gone when you came in this morning,” you guess, rubbing a comforting circle over his back. “Did you know he always checks in on you before he leaves?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Shouji whines, “Didn’t see him..”

“Neither was I. We can’t always be awake when he has to leave. Sometimes I think it’s better we’re asleep. You know we often make him late.”

You let your fingertips dance over the soft skin at his sides, smile when he fights the giggles trying to spill out of him.

“How about we make breakfast, huh? We can make Papa a Bento Box too. You wanna bring him his Lunch?”

Shouji considers it for a second before nodding. But he’s not that eager to get out of bed yet, climbing into your lap the moment you sit up.

You sigh, but you let him, curl your arms around his small body as he sinks into your embrace.

-

Shouji’s small for his age, and almost an exact replica of his father. Only the sides are reversed, leaving his hair white on the left side instead of his right. 

It’s no wonder that Shouto’s family is obsessed with him, no doubt trying to right some wrongs of the past.

“Momma?” Shouji asks, snuggled into you. “Can I get freckles?”

“Freckles?” You blink. “Why?”

“Can I?”

“I don’t know. Your Papa doesn’t have any. But we can draw some on if you want some for today.”

“You can draw them on?” He asks, astonished by this possibility. “Can I look like Uncle Deku?”

You laugh, swaying him left to right. “Sure. But I draw a line at green hair.”

He giggles as you pepper his head with kisses, blow raspberries against his cheeks.

“That tickles!”

-

“Look!” Shouji points at the banner across the street. “Uncle Tsuki!”

You nod, taking in the giant version of Hero Dynamight. “What do you think of his suit?”

“‘s ugly,” Shouji comments, sucking on his thumb. You’re trying to make him stop it, but so far to no avail. “Too much orange.”

“Hm? What colors do you like?”

“Blue, like Papa’s suit.” He thinks for a moment. “Purple’s nice too.”

“Yeah?” You brush a hand through his hair, mix up the white and red. “You like Purple? Do you know someone who wears purple?”

“Uncle Toshi,” he counts on his fingers. “Uncle…” You can tell he’s searching for the name. “Noru?”

“You mean Minoru? Yeah, he wears purple too… Now, do you wanna take my hand as we cross the street?”

He grabs it, his small fingers curling around yours. “Can we get ice cream, Momma?” 

So he has noticed the little ice cream cart sitting at the corner. 

“Maybe on our way back. We’re eating Lunch with Papa first.”

You watch as he bites his lip, considering it.

“But I want ice cream now.”

“I know Honey. Up…” You let him hop up onto the sidewalk. “But if we get ice cream now, we’re going to be late for Lunch. Papa’s waiting for us. And what will he say if we come in eating ice cream?”

“None for me?” Shouji asks, his eyes big and round.

“Yep. None for me. But we can ask him if we can come out and get ice cream together. Is that an idea?”

“Yeah,” he nods. “Papa can make the ice cream stay cold longer.”

“That he can do.”

-

“Look, I don’t have-” Shouto stops midsentence as he spots you in the doorway, the frustration on his face washing away. “I’ll call you back in an hour. Thank you.”

You doubt the person on the other end could get any word in before he ends the call, getting up from his chair.

“What are you guys doing here?” He asks. His smile is warm, and as always, a little tentative. It’s been years but he still doubs sometimes that this is all real.

“We made Lunch!” Shouji declares, pointing at the bag over your shoulder. “I cut the sausage!”

“You did? Amazing!” With one swift motion Shouto has picked him up, hoisting him up so that he’s sitting comfortably in his arms. “Hey there, Shouji. Couldn’t get my Good Morning Kiss today.”

“I was asleep!” Shouji points out, leaning in to press his lips against his Father’s cheeks. “Missed you.”

“Missed you too. Think I can give Momma a Good Morning Kiss too?”

“Yeah,” Shouji nods and waits until his Father has leaned in to kiss you to burst out with the news.

“I’m Uncle Deku now.”

“You are?” Shouto leans back a little to squint at him. “How?”

“I got freckles!” Shouji points at the little dots covering his nose and cheeks. “Momma made me Uncle Deku!”

“Are you as strong as him too?!”

“Yes!” And you watch, chuckling to yourself, as little Shouji proudly flexes his small bicep.

It’s a show, watching them interact. 

Most of the times it’s hard to tell who loves who more. Shouto his son or Shouji his father.

“Oh,” Shouji blinks up at his Dad. “Can we get ice cream?”

“Absolutely!”

You clear your throat and Shouto blinks an apologetic smile in your direction. “But Lunch first.”

-

Shouji’s sitting on the ground in front of you, explaining to a flock of disinterested doves that he’s got a lot of Uncles and Aunts and all of them are Heroes.

“There’s Uncle Tsuki, he makes boom. Uncle Jirou makes himself hard, like… like a door! Unkle Denki fights with Ele-Ele- with Ticity. Uncle Tenya is funny, because he’s really fast. But he’s very strict, he never lets me eat ice cream before Lunch! Aunty Chako makes me float! All the way up until I touch the ceiling! And Aunty Tsuyu pulls me back with her tongue, it’s sticky and wet and it tickles…”

“Can we have another one?” Shouto asks, right in the middle of that, his hand curled around yours, his thigh pressed against yours. If you could sit any closer - without sitting on his lap - you probably would. 

“Another one?” You ask, pretending not to understand. Shouji’s too lost in his monologue to listen.

“Another kid? He’s getting bigger by the minute. Soon we’ll have to Quirk-Train him. Then he’s off to school. I can even take a day off per week if you need it.”

“Stop,” you ask, your voice soft. You reach out to cradle his face in your hands, watch him lean into the touch with that vulernable look in his eyes.

Shouto’s learned to ask for things, but that doesn’t mean he excepts to get them just like that.

“I’m already pregnant.”

You watch as it dawns on him, little by little and then all at once.

His lips are on yours before you know it, half-cold and half-hot, meeting right in the middle. His kisses are burning though, elated and anxious, almost forgetting where you are.

“Papa?” Shouji asks in the middle of that, pulling you apart with his confused voice. “Momma?”

“Everything’s okay,” you explain, pulling him up onto your lap. “Papa’s a little excited, that’>s all.”

“About what?”

“About you being a big brother.”

“A big brother?” He considers that for a moment. “What’s that?”

“Like Uncle Natsuo,” Shouto explains, his voice thick with emotion. “Or Touya. They’re my big brothers.”

“Oh,” Shouji blinks. “Okay.”

And Shouto laughs, carefree and open, pulling Shouji onto his lap instead.

“More than okay,” he promises. “It will be great.”

- - -

“Momma?” Shouji asks, leaning into you. “Why is her face so weird.”

“She didn’t have much space in there,” you explain, pointing at your belly with your free hand as you cradle the little girl in your other arm. “So she was a little squished in. It will smooth out soon.”

“Oh, okay.” He leans in further, one curious finger booping the tiny nose.

“Hi Shouko,” Shouji whispers. “I’m your big brother.”

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

Should I make this part of the Baby Series? Where you can ask for more updates?

Part two is up Baby Series

[muniimyg]

1.5: ah, shit 》 series m.list

note: look at me go with the updates :o

taglist request: send a request with the title of this fic “c2u” // DO NOT comment here or on the masterlist . it gets confusing and i prefer answering and tagging through asks !!!

🏷️ permanent taglist: @joonsjuice @taetaecatboy @pb-n-juju @miss-rainy-days @firesighgirl @whoa-jo @vantxx95 @pamzn @kakixaku @casspirit0705 @tae165 @prdshobi @sopebubbles @leefics @ggukkieland @bebebutbetter @yoongimentita7 @boraength @era-genius @4ksj @vampcharxter @miss-jupiter @floweryjeons @taegijns @jeonqkooks-main

//

“Stop laughing. This isn’t funny!” 

Jungkook makes a face at you, unable to hold his laughter in. “This is too good. Golden even. I can’t believe my luck today—”

“You know what? Forget about it. My bad,” you mumble, beginning to feel embarrassed.

Jungkook had just entered your bedroom and found you opening a box of condoms. He isn’t too sure why the sight of you doing so was so hilarious, he just knows it is. 

“W-what? No!” Jungkook begins to plead, taking the box of condoms from your hands and putting them aside. “___, of course, I wanna fuck. What kind of fucking idiot do you think I am? And XL? You must’ve thought about me a lot, huh?”

“Fuck you.”

“Sure," he takes this moment in, “is now a good time?”

You cross your arms at him, giving him an annoyed look. “Why are you laughing then?” 

“Because… I didn’t think this would happen again.” Jungkook confesses, a little afraid of your reaction. When to comes to other peoples feelings, you’re not the soft type. Yet, when it comes to your own; you are almost always overly sensitive. He’s learned this about you simply over time. It’s endearing to him and annoying to others.

You shrug at him, taking an article of your clothing off. Tossing it at him, you gesture for him to do the same. He then pulls his sweater over his head and drops it on the ground along with your shirt. Jungkook keeps his eyes on you as you begin to strip more and more. His eyes follow each curve that gets exposed and he can’t help but wonder why his throat is suddenly dry. It’s weird because he swears he’s probably drooling right now. 

When you’re down to just your panties and bra, you take a step towards him. Wrapping your arms around his neck, he gulps as you inch closer to him. You’d be an idiot not to notice his sudden change of stance. 

It’s obvious.

Jungkook has folded. 

“Do you have feelings for me, Jungkook?”

You ask him this calmly.

Your words and the tone you used to ask don’t seem to match. The words itself carry so much possibility of change and chance… Yet, the way you said it was so distant and meaningless. It’s like it wasn’t a big deal. It’s like… It didn’t even matter if he said yes. 

He takes a moment too long to answer. 

“Spit it out, you little shit.”

“N-no,” he attempts to sound convincing. You had already made him a fool once this evening… He wasn’t going to let you have the victory of being a joke to you again. “It’s you. You like me.”

Tilting your head, you pout at him. “Don’t make assumptions. Your ego won’t be able to handle rejection.”

“I’m not assuming and you’re not exactly rejecting me,” he grumbles, feeling defensive. “Just admit it. You’ve wanted me the second we met.”

You wiggle your finger at him. “Stop projecting, pookie bear.”

Jungkook makes a sour face. “Ohh… Yeah, it does sound bad.”

“See?” you laugh, hitting his chest lightly. 

“How about… I stop calling you pookie bear—”

You gasp, “okay! Loving this…”

“When you stop denying—”

In a panic, you interrupt him; “hating it…”

“Come on,” he groans. “You have to admit it. You like me at least a little bit… That’s why you and I fucked a month ago. It was all the built-up tension.” He says it like he knows it in his heart. Like there’s no other answer than what he just stated. For a moment, you believe him. 

Instead, you remember that night and you recall what had led up to it. You had just gotten dumped for the nth time by your shithead of a boyfriend. Jungkook saw you walking home and cheered you up to your apartment. From there, it just happened.

It was so easy.

It felt so effortless and like it was meant to happen. That understanding… Felt weird. You did your best to forget about it and how it made you feel but it takes two to tango and your partner in crime felt differently. Ever since that day, he has not shut the fuck up.

That day, Jungkook found himself in between your legs and you found yourself self-loathing the next morning. It wasn’t in your intentions to use Jungkook the way you did.. But he didn’t seem to have a problem with it. Which brings you to this conclusion:

“What are you trying to get out of me, Jungkook? A confession?”

He shrugs, feeling indifferent. “I’m not demanding anything from you.”

You shake your head at him. “What the fuck? Jungkook, you can’t be my rebound.”

“Why not?” he whines childishly.

“It’s mean.”

Jungkook takes a moment to contemplate. Ultimately, he snaps out of it and brushes his thoughts off as if he didn’t even try to think things through. “It’s okay. I have a crush on you so I’m going into this completely delusional and shit.”

Rolling your eyes at him, you pinch his cheeks. “Can you stop goofing around? Be real. I might be more interested in you if you do.”

He glares at you. 

“Fine,” Jungkook gives in. “I’m just fucking with you. To be honest, I’m just trying to be here for you. As a friend and all… If fucking around is what you need, then so be it. Whatever you want from me, you can have. You just have to ask.”

You purse your lips at him, not buying a single word he offers you. Regardless, you inch closer. Bantering with him is actual agony… But, you can’t resist him. It’s a weird pull he has on you and you rather die than to admit it to him.

Instead, you let your actions speak for you. It’s the most you’ll do in terms of confessing or even processing how you feel about him. All you know and all you want to know is how he feels against, inside, and on top of your body. You your lips on his neck, near his collarbone. At first, you kiss it lightly. Then, as you pull away, you suck on it a bit. Repeating this motion, you work on giving him a hickey. 

“I…”

“You?”

“I wanna fuck.”

Your room looks the same as it did a month ago. He feels so lucky to be here again.. But holy shit; you're a piece of work.

Is he a joke to you? Is that it? Because Jungkook has been in complete distress for a good five minutes now and he doesn’t know what to do.

“Fucking hold still,” Jungkook grunts, as he pins you down. His hands cover your wrist and all you can do is giggle. He does his best to compose himself. If he lets his emotions get in the way, you'll laugh even more.

“I can’t—it’s poking me!” 

He rolls his eyes at you. “It's my dick, ___. Of course, it's gonna feel like that."

"It feels weird,” you giggle. “Why is it so big?”

"Don't call my dick weird.”

You squint at him. “I also called it big.”

“Well, it’s gonna stop being big if you don’t stop fucking laughing at it.”

You tighten your lips. “Sorry, sorry.”

Jungkook takes a deep breath and tries again.

He guides himself between your folds and glances at you to see if you’re behaving any better. Holding in your laughter, you shut your eyes and try to concentrate on how it feels. 

How velvety the skin of his thick, veiny, and hard cock is. How wet the head is. How big it is as he pushes himself inside you. 

You open your eyes and boom. 

There he is.

So handsome and on top of you. His silver neckless dangles in the space between you and him. Your eyes flutter at the way it moves according to his thrusts. It feels like you could go dizzy.

Then, you blink and see him suddenly close his eyes and lean in towards you. Out of an odd relfex, you squirm and let out a loud burst of laughter. 

“What the fuck?” Jungkook cries, completely frustrated with you. “___, are you serious?”

In between laughs, you tell him; “I was trying! But you were leaning in to kiss me and the way you shut your eyes looked so stupid—you look so s-stupid—w-what the fuck?”

Jungkook grips your wrists and puts them above your head. He towers over you even more and the expression on his face is hard to read. He looks angry but not in a scary way. He looks desperate and needy but not in the loser way… He looks insanely hot right now. You feel yourself clench, getting tighter around him. 

“You love fucking with me, don’t you?” he hisses. “Do you want me to fuck you or not?”

You nod in response. 

“Then fucking behave.”

You nod again. 

He shakes his head, dissatisfied with your response. He lets go of your wrists and cups your cheeks together with his one hand. With your lips smushed together, he asks you; “answer me properly.”

“Y-yes,” you murmur, “I’ll behave.”

Cockily, he raises his brow at you. “Good. Now open your mouth.”

You do as he says. He loosens his hold on you, letting you open your mouth on your own. When you do so, you watch him accumulate spit. Quickly, he spits inside your mouth.

You spit it back out at him.

“Sike.”

His own saliva hits his face. Jungkook briefly turns away, biting his inner cheek in annoyance.

“You wanna play fucking games? Fine. Let’s fucking play games.” Jungkook practically growls.

You gulp, trying your best to keep a straight face. It wasn’t funny anymore. Instead, everything was beginning to feel hot and heavy. His cock stays inside you and you can feel him throbbing. You want him to move now. 

Maybe you made the wrong move. 

But it’s too late. 

Jungkook’s mind has been made up and his pride can’t take any more shit you’ve given him all night. Sometimes, you forget how much of a man he is. You’ve only pushed boundaries as friends as a joke… And you barely remember what it was like sleeping with him a month ago… Was he always like this?

You feel sick to your stomach when you realize; you like it. 

The rest of the night continues with Jungkook’s nasty mouth all over your body. It’s like every crevasse was for him to discover and claim as his. He took his time, pumping himself inside you. He took his time even more when he kissed you. 

It was so slow and wet, but with every thrust and kiss—oh, were you fucked out of your mind. 

His hands were all over you. It wasn’t exactly mind-blowing sex but it wasn’t too far from it either. Everything he did just felt so right and that surprised you. Contrary to popular belief; Jungkook was no fuckboy. He simply knew how to fuck.

God bless that fact.

He has always been that silly goofy friend in your circle of people. He has always been kind and a little flirty… But he was also really self-aware and brought a lot of meaning into every friendship. Perhaps, that’s why you ended up turning the other cheek and dating guys opposite of him. 

If you were to be with Jungkook, it would be too real. 

It would be too good and that’s what scared you… 

Ah, shit.

How could you ever get over something this good?

[helendamnationx]

Hades 1 is an intimate, personal story about difficult family, reconciliation, working together to make relationships work. The neverending nature of the game symbolises never giving up, continuing to put work in to strengthen your ties with your loved ones, because it's worth it.

And then Hades 2 is about fascism.

Hades 1 says you shouldn't give up on your relationships with family and loved ones just because they're not perfect. Hades 2 adds "unless they're fascist" to the end of that sentence, along with reminders that sometimes, when you choose to keep ties to someone who hurts others, you are enabling that behaviour and causing further harm to the person who was victimised (i.e. Arachne).

Chronos represents the desire to return to a fictional golden era. He's obsessed with gold, propriety, and being the patriarch who expects to be obeyed without question. He needs to be killed over and over because the fight against fascism doesn't end with killing one guy, it's eternal, it ebbs and flows but winning means taking away its popular support.

Chronos was able to gain support because people on the surface were dissatisfied with the gods, just like irl fascism gains support in times of strife and low trust in current leaders.

Eris represents the nothing-matters, burn-it-all-down nihilist who resents anyone who tries to make the world better in any way.

Nemesis represents those who are too wrapped up in finding the right people to hurt in order to achieve an extremely abstract notion of Justice, with actually helping people waaaaaaay down the list of priorities. That's why she's the one who thinks Chronos Has A Point - because when you centre your activism on hurting the right people, you have more in common with fascists than you want to believe.

Backlash against Nemesis' character stems from people keep trying to shove her into the Love Interest box because it's been taken for granted that she would be the new Megaera. But that's just. Not her role in the story. She may or may not be romanceable in future! There are a couple of dialogues implying she's dating Artemis, but Hades is the polyamory game after all. But whether or not she's romancable, her actual role in the story is to illustrate an attitude to be wary of when fighting fascism. So. Like. Yes. Of course she's unlikeable! Of course she is mean! That is her job!

[humanpurposes]

It Will Come Back

Chapter 3, Broken Bonds

Two sides of a family fight for their own claims to the Targaryen inheritance. Amongst the endless infighting, forced pleasantries and PR scandals, Jaya Velaryon finds herself face to face with a demon of her past, namely Aemond Targaryen. Love and hate are not emotions easily unlearned.

Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist

Aemond Targaryen x Jaya Velaryon (OFC)

Warnings: 18+, dark elements, targcest (uncle x niece relationship) toxic family dynamics, angst, mentions of violence and trauma

Words: 7.4k

A/n: Also available to read on AO3, if you're that way inclined.

Now…

The heat is relentless this summer. Light bleeds through the stained glass windows of the Red Keep in beams of red, green, blue and gold, only to be lost to the dark wood floors, furniture and panelled walls. It is Aemond’s least favourite time of year, when the weather makes him irritable and the harsh light gives him a headache, when business tends to be busy and everyone is preoccupied with holidays and garden parties. He’s less inclined to distract himself with frivolity. 

His sleeves are rolled up, his long silver hair pulled into a ponytail, sweat starting to pool underneath the eyepatch over the left side of his face. He’s leaning over Aegon, one hand on the back of his chair, staring down at a laptop screen as they check over some details for next week’s event.

It’s not often Aemond finds himself in his brother’s office. Technically Aegon is his superior, ‘deputy operations manager’ according to the golden plaque on the door. This is more of a courtesy title because he couldn’t get a respectable job anywhere else, and it would be far worse for their father’s image to have a layabout son.

That’s the funny thing about the family business. It’s no secret that Viserys Targaryen didn’t want his sons involved in Dragon Bank, but his influence is not as all encompassing as he would like to believe, not since the Hightowers got a foot in the door thirty or so years ago… then another… then another. Viserys can make his demands and shout when he’s angry enough, but there is one truth he cannot deny; he needs them. He needs Otto. He needs Alicent. He needs Helaena and Daeron to stay perfect. He needs Aegon to not be a fuck up and that’s enough. And he needs Aemond because he’s good at his job. No one has an eye for detail like him, no one can make sense out of figures or persuade clients and investors like he can.

Why their grandfather wants him to look over PR and marketing nonsense is understandable, but irritating nonetheless.

Their father has been planning this event for years, Dragon Bank’s fifth centenary gala, with all the pomp and grandeur of a bygone era, held at their ancestral seat of Dragonstone Castle, just outside the city. Five hundred years since one of their ancestors forged a throne for himself in King’s Landing, building an empire that still has most of the country under their family’s thumb. Viserys intends to use the occasion as a reminder to the rest of Westeros that they cannot compare to the might of the Targaryens. So there can be no oversights. Everything has to be perfect.

Aemond’s eye scans over the diagram on the screen, circles surrounded boxes with names; the seating plan for the main ballroom.

Then a name catches his eye and it makes his heart stop. He doesn’t want to believe what he sees but there it is on the screen, in Times New fucking Roman: Jaya Velaryon.

He’s hardly heard that name, read it, or heard it in six years. He can already feel a dull ache creeping into his skull, which he knows will catch like kindling and soon become a burning, blinding pain behind the space where his eye should be.

Aegon, completely oblivious, huffs a little laugh to himself. “Shit, yeah, I meant to say there was an update with the seating. So this could turn out to be quite interesting– fuck, are you alright?” 

“Fine!” Aemond snaps, staggering back from the chair. His head feels like it’s been run through with a knife and his fingers fumble to get his eyepatch off. “Fine– fuck! I’m fine.”

“Sit,” Aegon orders, quickly standing and guiding Aemond over to one of the leather sofas on the other side of the room, where the sunlight isn’t so direct.

The pain is often like this, striking suddenly, spreading quickly like a forest fire, eating away at him like a disease. He has no choice but to endure it.

He feels the eyepatch slip from his face before something cold presses against the worst of his scar. He reaches up to clasp his hands around it. A glass water bottle, one Aegon is holding. His brother is useless most of the time but he does have his moments.

“Fuck it’s all red,” Aegon mutters. “Have you got meds with you?”

When Aemond opens his mouth to speak his jaw is trembling. “Office,” he says, gritting his teeth together, trying to control his breath and the extent of the pain. “It’s in my office.” He can see where the packet is in the first draw under his desk.

“I can go and get you some–”

“No,” Aemond says, grabbing Aegon’s arm so he won’t move. 

He can handle this. Every time this kind of pain flares up he thinks of how much it hurt that night, how terrified he was as he felt the blood gushing from the gash in his eye, slipping through his fingers. The pain had been so great he thought it might kill him. If he can get through that night, the first few hours in the hospital, the months of recovery or the years since, then he can get through a fucking headache. 

He closes his eye and breathes in counts of three. In through the nose, hold, and out. Between that and the bottle against his face, the pain starts to feel a little duller and the room doesn’t feel so close.

“Is it… you know,”

Did seeing Jaya’s name shock him so severely that his body went into meltdown? Is his heart still pounding in his chest at the thought of reading her name and the possibility of seeing her again? 

Aemond exhales irritably against the back of his throat, defeated, but always stubborn.

“I thought you knew,” Aegon says. “Mum said she was going to talk to you.”

“Evidently that conversation is yet to happen.” Maybe it was meant to happen tonight. It’s a Friday which means Aemond will go to his mother’s apartments in the Keep for dinner after work.

It’s a struggle but he breathes through the worst of it, and blinks a tear from his eye. The pain hasn’t quite faded but something else burns hotter through his blood. He clenches his jaw and his fists. “How long have you known?”

Aegon makes a startled stuttering noise. “I– well–”

Aemond glares at him.

“A few days. The note came from Rhaenyra’s office on Monday or Tuesday, I can’t really remember–”

“Grandfather knew,” Aemond says, a question, but he can guess the answer. If it involves Dragon Bank or a member of the Targaryen family, Otto Hightower will know.

“Of course he knew. He said it was a last minute decision, one that Viserys was insisting we all bend over backwards to accommodate.”

Of course he would, anything for the precious daughter of his favourite child, the girl who slashed Aemond’s eye out with a broken bottle. 

He hates her for it. He hates every burst of pain, like an echo of that moment pulsing through his head. He hates every person he catches staring at him, he hates the way his reflection looks with her cruelty carved into his flesh. Most of all he hates that it reminds him of her. In a way he is grateful too. Time helped to heal the wound and eventually he realised how he had been changed by that night, how it made him the person he is now. 

But for the first time in a long time he does not find any pride in it, cowering in his brother’s office like a child at the mere mention of her name. 

“I can’t go,” Aemond says, hating how quiet his own voice is.

“That’s alright,” Aegon says, “you can sit here for as long as you need.”

“I meant the party.”

“Oh right, sorry.”

“I can’t go, not if she’s going to be there.”

There’s a long silence, filled only by the hum of the AC and the distant sounds of the city far below the keep, car horns, engines, sirens, the occasional cry of a seagull.

“Why don’t you talk it through with mum?”

“Aegon,”

“She’ll want you to go. She’ll be upset if you don’t.”

“I can’t,”

“I know you two were close, but, you know, I’m sure you both regret how things happened,” 

“Aegon, for fuck’s sake,”

“She cut out your eye, you said you’d cut out hers if you ever saw her again, we were all caught up in the moment.”

Aemond pushes up from the sofa and tosses the water bottle at Aegon’s head, not stopping to see if he caught it or not, before he’s yanking open the door and marching into the hallway.

The Red Keep is older than Dragon Bank itself, a red brick holdfast that has loomed proudly over King’s Landing for centuries, even as the skyline of the city has come to meet over time. It’s easy to get lost here, with its grand hallways, winding staircases and hidden passages, if old rumours are to be believed. He knows this place like he knows his own mind. He walks to his office through empty stairwells and forgotten corridors.

When he finally makes it to his own office he closes the door and lets his back fall against it.

He takes a slow breath, holds it, pouts his lips and exhales steadily. 

Who else knows? Viserys would have sent the invitation, Rhaenyra and the rest of her little runts will know. Otto knows, clearly his mother and Aegon both know, and he couldn’t have kept that secret, he would have told Helaena or Daeron, most likely both.

Everyone knows. Jaya is coming back home to King’s Landing, and everyone knows but him.

His mother told him everything when she thought he was ready to hear it. The bandages had been removed from his face and the cannula had been taken out of his hand. The doctors wanted him to stay in the hospital for a few more days so all the drugs could wear off and he could start getting used to the disorientation of losing half his vision. Alicent wanted him home, in his own bed. So he left the dry air and the white overhead lights of his room in the hospital, back to Dragonstone.

She told him that while he’d been on his knees with his hand over his face, trying to stop the blood and the remains of his eye from spilling onto the ground, Viserys had barked out his orders. He didn’t want ambulances or sirens because it would cause a scene in front of the guests. The shame, the damage it would do to the family’s image. Otto had persuaded him away from such a nonsensical idea and convinced Viserys to get the guests inside the house so Aemond and Jace’s injuries could be seen to.

He remembered shouting and sirens, blue lights and his mother’s hand clinging onto his before he blacked out. He had gone in for surgery almost immediately and woken the following evening surrounded by white walls, his mother and Criston Cole at his side.

Aegon, Helaena and Daeron all stayed at Dragonstone while he was there. They said once he and Jace had been taken away, Viserys had gathered the entire family inside the house. With their faces all still red from crying and Jaya’s pretty white dress still coated in blood, he demanded to know the truth. 

They all knew what the truth was. Jace didn’t know his limits and Aegon didn’t care about his.

He could see it all happening in his head, walking towards the orchard with Jaya and Baela, catching Jaya when she tripped over a stone, her tipsy smile as she looked up at him, the pearl and the sapphire pendant settled against her chest.

Who knows what started the argument between Jace and Aegon, but suddenly Aemond had found himself between them.

“There he is,” Jace had sneered, but his voice quickly raised into a shout, “‘perfect’ Aemond Targaryen, fucking mummy’s boy, thinking he’s some kind of fucking diplomat!”

Aegon tried to shout back, “more of a man than you’ll ever be,” Aemond couldn’t make out everything through the way his voice slurred.

“Not so fucking perfect though, are you? You’re no worse than Aegon– no! You’re so much worse, aren’t you? Aren’t you!?

He’d watched Jace’s expression darken, his lips sneering into a sickening smile.

“You’ve got my sister wrapped around your fucking finger, fucking creep.”

He told himself Jace was just drunk. It didn’t matter what he thought… only it did. Jace could tell Rhaenyra or Viserys. Worse, he could talk to Jaya. She had always been devoted to her twin. She had picked Jace over Aemond before, in petty arguments when they were children. 

“You want her, don’t you? Don’t you!? She’s too good for you though, and you know it. You want her but you’ll never fucking have her!”

When Aemond’s fist collided with Jace’s jaw it was on pure instinct. He was sober enough to stop himself but he didn’t. He just kept going.

According to Aegon, when Viserys came to Jaya, she said that it was Aemond who had started the argument. Jace was in the orchard with the others, when Aemond had come from nowhere and threw the first punch. She had seen it, so had Baela, so had Luke and Joffrey. It was their word against Aegon and Daeron’s.

The official story was that it had been a tragic accident, one in which Rhaenyra’s children were certainly blameless.

She called him the night he got to Dragonstone but he let the phone ring. A week later she appeared in the doorway to his bedroom. She was hazy, or he was still delirious from sleep, his mother hovering over her shoulder, reluctant to leave them alone together.

He doesn’t remember most of the conversation now. He doesn’t want to remember it. He knows it ended with tears streaming down her cheeks, but her face was completely still. She didn’t flinch, didn’t distort her face, scrunch her nose or make an ugly shape with her mouth. She looked utterly beautiful and cried effortlessly. It wasn’t fair when he still had stitches sewn into his flesh to keep the left half of his face in place.

At one point she approached the bed and tried to touch his hand. He snatched it out of her grasp. When she tried again he pushed her away.

“Why did you do it?” she said. “You attacked Jace, why? Why? Why? Why?”

Because Jace could have taken away the one thing he thought was his, by right, by love. Instead he gave some bullshit excuse– Jace had threatened Aegon, insulted Daeron, insulted him. And what did it matter anyway? Viserys believed her. 

He needed her. He needed her and she pushed him away and cradled her coward of a brother in her arms. He needed her and she’d thrown it all back in his face with a slash of a broken bottle. He needed her, but she had made her decision.

“Liar,” he hissed. “You’re a fucking liar.”

He saw it in her face then, her desire to fight melting away. To Aemond that had always meant that she knew he was right.

“Show up here again, utter so much as a word to me again, and I’ll tear yours out as payment for mine.”

Some weeks later Aegon mentioned that she had abandoned her plans to go to KLU and instead found a place at the University of Pentos. She never tried to call after that and neither did he.

A layer of sweat clings to his skin and makes him shiver. He shrugs it off as he sits down at his desk, and spots a handwritten note sitting beside the keyboard of his laptop. Investment figures for Seasnake Shipping back to me by 7pm at the latest. Knowing Otto Hightower, that means an hour before the specified time.

In for three, hold for three, out for three. It always amazes him how well that trick works, he thinks as he takes out a packet from the top drawer of his desk and pushes out two tablets, the one good thing he’d gotten out of his year of therapy. He swallows the medication dry, suddenly regretting throwing away the bottle of water.

It’s nearly 6pm when Aemond has everything his grandfather wants, the names of Seasnake’s investors, the other companies they’re attached to, numbers and details he’s found buried in endless spreadsheets and pages of paperwork. He shouldn’t be able to see most of them but he has his ways. The Velaryons have been in business with the Targaryens for centuries and there are always trails to follow. 

A few familiar names appear, Rhaenyra Tagrayren, Daemon Targayren, married to each of Corlys’ children. Aemond was only a year old when his sister married Laenor, but he’s always known how sceptical his mother and grandfather were of the match. It wasn’t something Rhaenyra had to do. She wasn’t going to inherit Seasnake, that had been promised to Laena, the elder sibling, and she was already Viserys’ chosen heir, so what did she think she was going to get out of it? Not a loving husband, surely.

Other investors and partners include the names Stark and Arryn, both wealthy and well established families. He also sees the names Celtigar, Massey, Bar Emmon, old names, though not as respected as they once were.

He leaves a note for his grandfather at the top of the document: Seasnake is being directed by a man who built his wealth to match his own pride, supported by opportunists with more money than sense.

With that task done he opens a new email to inform his father’s office that he’ll be absent from the event. He types it quickly and reads over it once before he can talk himself out of pressing send. He doesn’t give a reason why; Viserys should know why.

This leaves him just enough time to pack up and get ready for dinner.

The Red Keep has a series of apartments separated from the offices, where Aemond spent most of his childhood. The building is known as the Holdfast, with its own gatehouse leading into the city and gardens surrounded by high red brick walls. Historically it was built to house the extensive members of House Targaryen, but it is mostly empty now. His mother has had her own apartment for a few years, since Daeron moved out. The only one of his siblings to still live here now is Aegon, at Alicent’s insistence. 

Walking from his office to the Holdfast brings him through courtyards and underneath old battlements, until he comes to a facade with towers, tall windows and an unsuspecting wooden door, save for the armed guards standing either side of it. His mother’s apartments are on the first floor, along a gallery and up the grand staircase, past portraits and tapestries. The hallways get smaller the further in you go and soon he comes to the private rooms.

Alicent often dismisses the staff on quiet Friday evenings. The minute he’s in the door he is met with the sound of one of her 80s playlists, the scent of spices and her favourite lemon and lavender candles. He finds her in the kitchen, dark blue jeans, a white shirt, black pumps and her auburn curls pulled into a bun to show off her pearl earrings, stirring two pots on the stove. 

“Criston’s got me learning another one of his recipes,” she says, only looking at him for a moment, “I’ve got rice on too, so I hope you’re hungry.”

Aemond approaches her to kiss her on the cheek and takes a look inside the pots, one filled with chickpeas, the other with black lentils. “Is Aegon here?” he says.

“He’s in the lounge, tell him to set the table.”

Aemond watches her, entirely absorbed in the notebook on the counter next to the stove, with handwritten instructions. Nothing seems to be especially bothering her, even though the centenary event has had her on edge for over a month. She looks no different from the last time he saw her, before he knew about Jaya, when she was supposed to talk to him, supposedly.

“I want a drink first,” he says, whisky with no ice. He pours it for himself slowly while his mother hums along to Tears for Fears. “Do you know why grandfather wanted that information on Seasnake’s investors?” 

“Hmm? Oh he’s probably doing one of his checks, you know what he’s like. Good to keep an eye on everyone,” she says. She has a glass of red wine next to the notebook, though by the looks of it she’s hardly touched it. “He said something interesting about Rickon Stark recently, his son Cregan is in King’s Landing.”

Aemond pulls his glass away from his lips, the sweet sting of alcohol slipping down his throat. “Shouldn’t be too unusual, they’re attending next week.” Staying at Dragonstone no less, some of Viserys’ most honoured guests.

“He’s staying at Queen’s Lodge.”

That takes him by surprise. “Hmm,” he says, bringing the glass to his lips again.

“He and Jacaerys are quite close, Aegon tells me.”

The Starks had visited Dragonstone once or twice as summer guests, back when they were all kids. Cregan was always talkative and effortlessly charming, but it was obvious to Aemond that his warmth was far more calculated than anyone else believed. He made sure Jaya kept her distance, but Jace followed him around like a lost puppy for the weeks he’d stay with their family.

They would have studied together at White Harbour, though Cregan was a few years older than Jace. They could have met again and reconnected. Aemond doesn’t interact with his nephew outside of necessity.

“And what would Aegon know about it?” he says.

“More than you,” a voice calls from the doorway. Aegon has ditched his suit for brown cargos and a comically baggy sports shirt, leaning against the frame. “Ran into them last weekend,” he says, grinning coldly and running his tongue over his teeth. “The Starks are making some close personal connections with our sister’s family.”

“Don’t be vulgar,” Alicent sighs.

Aegon scoffs and makes a dismissive gesture. While their mother is still distracted, he looks at Aemond and raises his eyebrows. 

“Set the table, Aegon,” Aemond grumbles.

His brother does as he’s told. Aemond helps Alicent bring the dishes in. She sits at the head of the table, Aemond to her right, Aegon opposite him, to her left. She says a quick prayer to the Seven, as she always does. She asks the Mother to protect her children and asks the Crone for wisdom, for a light in dark and uncertain times. 

“Speaking of close personal connections,” Aegon says, already having wolfed down half of his plate. Aemond already hates the tone of this conversation. “We’ll finally get to meet Daeron’s new bit,”

“Do you have to say it like that?” Aemond says.

Aegon ignores him. “Are you excited to meet Nettles, mother?”

Daeron talks about her constantly. They met in Oldtwon while they were both studying. Now he’s working for the Citadel Institute, she’s some kind of journalist, and they live together in a perfect little flat that looks out over the Honeywine river. Perfect, perfect, perfect.

“That can’t actually be her name, surely?” Alicent says.

“Perhaps it’s short for something,” Aemond says, prodding his food now to find himself with no appetite. He thinks about the drive he’ll have to make through the city, back to the empty house waiting for him on Silverwing Square.

“Nettles,” Aegon says, eyes on the ceiling like he’s trying to decipher a hidden meaning. “Nettles, like stinging nettles?”

“Oh, Aemond,” Alicent says, looking down at the uneaten food on his plate, “what happened with Maris Baratheon, why is she not on the final guest list?”

Aegon smiles, folding his elbows on the table and leaning forward, eager to hear an explanation like he hasn’t already coaxed it out of Aemond over too many bottles of wine at a steak restaurant on Conquest Street.

“Things didn’t work out with Maris,” Aemond says shortly. An understatement. The thought of their last conversation makes him nauseous.

“Aemond, sometimes I feel like you don’t love me.”

“I don’t think I do,” which felt untruthful, because he knew from the start that he never would. There were lots of things he liked about Maris. He liked that she was interested in him, he liked that she was blunt and unrelentingly honest, he liked that she had dark hair, and that she liked being fucked from behind and would let him press her face down into the pillow to muffle her moans. Soon the things he liked about her only felt like another reminder.

“Maris is old news, mother,” Aegon says.

“What a shame,” Alicent says, reaching for her wine again. “Oh well, I don’t think Viserys particularly likes her father anyway.”

“Well you know Aemond, always striving for perfection.”

Aemond’s eye meets Aegon’s over the table. His brother is trying not to grin, violet eyes bright from the light of the candelabra between them. Shadows catch on the hollow parts of his face, it makes him look tired but vicious. 

Then he looks to his mother. She eats slowly with small mouthfuls, not making eye contact with either of her sons. It’s not often he finds himself upset or angry with his mother, not since he was old enough to understand just how hard she has worked, or know what she’s had to put up with as the wife of Viserys Targaryen. Aemond knows she trusts him in a way that does not always extend to his siblings. 

But now all he can think is that she knows about Jaya. She knows, and she won’t even look at him.

Jaya could be in King’s Landing this very moment, lounging around Queen’s Lodge, looking out over the orchard she watered with Aemond’s blood while her mother fawns over her only daughter’s return.

He just needs to say it. He won’t go to Dragonstone if Jaya is there, he won’t stand to be in the same room as her, or breathe the same air as her. The thought already sends a feeling like flames licking up his spine that makes him restless with rage, with hurt and betrayal.

Aegon is still watching him and gives him a small nod. 

Aemond takes a soft breath through parted lips–

Until a sound comes from the hallway that makes them all freeze, the sound of the front door unlocking, opening, then slamming with an ear splitting bang!

Aemond feels his face harden, brows straining with every footstep that marches against the hardwood floors towards the dining room. 

Viserys appears in the threshold, dressed in one of his red and black suits, his face one of stone cold fury. He doesn’t look at Alicent, or Aegon, his eyes are fixed on Aemond.

He steps slowly into the room, placing one hand on the back of the chair closest to him at the head of the table, miles away from the rest of his family. His voice is quiet and clear through the stunned silence. “What the fuck are you playing at?”

Alicent makes a stuttering, scoffing noise. “Viserys–”

He holds up a finger to silence her, his eyes widening in warning. “Aemond,” he says, “you will answer me.”

Aemond keeps his jaw clenched at first. He can feel his teeth wanting to chatter, anger aching in every part of his body. He cannot afford to show any sign of weakness or remorse, not in front of his father. But why does it feel so difficult to speak? He swallows through a dry feeling in his throat. “I thought I’d worded it all very simply–”

“Look at me when I speak to you, boy.”

He hadn’t realised his gaze had fallen to the table. He looks up with an expression that is as passive as he can manage. “I would have thought it would be obvious why I can’t go, with the recent addition to the guestlist.”

His head is turned completely so that Viserys is in his line of vision, but he hears his mother make a small sighing sound. “Aemond, I was going to–”

“ALICENT!” Viserys roars.

Aemond feels himself flinch but his gaze is unwavering. Why does he think he has any right to barge in here, to ask anything of them? 

If Aemond were to stand he’d be taller than his father, but he finds himself unable to move.

“That’s all you have to say for yourself?” Viserys says to him. “This could be the single most important night for the family for centuries and you’re still holding onto childish grudges?”

Childish grudges. He was mutilated and forced to carry the blame because of a lie, but of course his father expects him to let go, to forgive and forget. 

He feels the leather of the eyepatch digging uncomfortably into his forehead and wishes more than anything he could just tear it off.

There are some things Aemond can argue with Viserys about, but they tend to be logical arguments, work related. The longer he looks at his father the more he remembers that no amount of sense could ever compare to the blind devotion Viserys has for his eldest child. There’s nothing Aemond can appeal to, not love or loyalty, not even sympathy.

“This is not about you, Aemond. This is about the bank, this is about the Targaryen name, our legacy, does that all mean nothing to you?”

“Of course it does,” Aemond says. He’s worked for nothing else his whole life, Dragon Bank, his heritage as a Targaryen, what is he without all of that? 

Viserys’ face softens a little, as if he thinks he’s made some kind of progress. “I’ve never known you to be selfish, it’s not in your nature.”

“Well then you clearly know nothing about me,” Aemond says, glaring up at him.

Viserys frowns. “You will be there, and I want to hear no more of it. You will be polite. You will grin and fucking bear it because that’s what the rest of us have to do.”

He’s delusional, he’s fucking delusional.

Aemond looks to his brother, slumped in his chair, his eyes even darker now. He has his hand around the stem of a wine glass. He’s been staring at the crimson liquid since their father walked in. He might have been expecting to be the target of Viserys’ anger tonight; he usually is. 

Aegon looks across at him, furious, exhausted, eager for this exchange to be over. He tilts his head in a questioning motion, though his lips stay firmly sealed.

All the years he spent trying to be the best that he could, how hard he pushed himself to get through that final year at KLU while recovering from his injury, all the hours he’s devoted to the family business, all the times he’s kept his mouth shut and his head held high, is this the hill Aemond is going to die on?

He won’t try to look at his mother, but he can guess she would have a similar reasoning. 

A fearsome wind from the Narrow Sea howls against the windows of Aemond’s black Jag. The road to Dragonstone is a desolate one, leading through a forest that might as well be nothingness in the dark. The headlights beam against the tarmac which turns and rises and falls, so he can never see what’s ahead of him.

There’s a burst of light as he approaches the gates. He hasn’t seen the gatehouse for years and remembers that he used to be scared of the stone dragon heads that stand open mouthed and teeth bared on either side, at the base of the turrets. Some hired security guard comes to his window, his demeanour changing completely when Aemond glares at him through a single eye. 

Cars line the acres of grass before the house, the driveway lined with lanterns and more statuettes of dragons. Dragonstone lies ahead in its full glory, lights on in every window, moonlight shining upon its ancient walls so the castle looms in shadows and silver. 

He must be one of the last people to arrive, the last of the important people, slotting the Jag next to a golden Dodge Charger he recognises as Aegon’s. The rest of the Targaryens all drive black cars.

He checks his reflection in the rearview mirror for as long as he can stand to look at himself, glaring at the blunt edges of the sapphire in his left socket, dull and dark in the low light. The flesh around his eyelids are twisted and red, the scar itself deep but clean. His mother had suggested they could get it looked at, to make his eye seem less severe, but that’s what the eyepatch is for, to cover up the worst of his injury, for the comfort of others and not his.

He slips the leather patch over his head and secures it in place, careful not to mess up his hair in the process. 

One day he’ll make her look at it, the sapphire and the scar, maybe then she’ll understand what she put him through. Not tonight, no, tonight he intends to play it safe.

He effortlessly exits the car, checking his cuffs as he walks up to the front doors. A server offers him a glass of champagne when he steps into the entrance hall which he takes a small sip from, parched after his drive from King’s Landing. He knows his way through the opulent halls that have stayed the same for as long as he can remember, towards the hum of at least a hundred voices. 

The ballroom glimmers with reflected light, mirrors, gold accents, crystal chandeliers, champagne glasses. The guests are all in their finery, tuxedos and floor length gowns, either in black or the colours of their houses. Some have started to take their seats around the circular tables, but many are still mingling.

Any head of silver hair stands out rather obviously, and the first he sees is his father standing in the centre of the ballroom, a smile on his face and his arm around his wife’s waist. Alicent is radiant in a gold gown that catches the warmth of the candles dotted about the room. She looks less than pleased being made to talk to Rhaenyra and Laenor– now there’s a surprise, he doesn’t usually make a habit of appearing at family events. Rhaenyra is in black, as is her husband, with a waistcoat embroidered with swirling gold patterns, like waves on the sea.

His eye continues to scour the room. He sees Helaena and Daeron with the girl he assumes is Nettles. He sees Aegon getting friendly with the Martell siblings. He sees Corlys and Rhaenys with Laena and Daemon. He sees Jacaerys standing with the Starks, closer than is friendly to Cregan. He sees those with the surnames Tyrell, Tully, Lannister, Arryn, all the others, and keeps searching.

She’s not where she’s meant to be, at the table closest to the high table where Viserys will sit with the board members. She’s not with her parents, she’s not at the bar, she’s not at the doors to the gardens. Each moment he does not find her fuels some kind of fire within him, adrenaline pumping through his blood, like he’s chasing something just out of his reach. 

A flash of loose, dark hair steals his attention. He doesn’t see her face at first but he notices when she nudges his shoulder as she passes him on his blind side, very nearly ending up with champagne down her silky, off white gown or spilled across the string of pearls sitting on her bare collar.

He apologises on instinct, reaching for a handkerchief in his pocket that has only ever been intended as decorative.

“No harm done,” the woman insists. “It’s good stuff, I would have been mortified to waste any of it.”

He recognises her face, the slanted nose, the sharpness of her cheeks, her bright green eyes and unsettlingly perfect smile. He’s seen her at press events, some kind of relation to the Strongs, but not close enough that she’d ever be invited to any personal occasions.

“Alys Rivers,” she says, holding out a hand for him to shake. “Deputy editor for Seven.” He’s heard of it, a high society gossip magazine, they often run stories about his family, Daemon and Aegon mostly, the rest of them clearly aren’t newsworthy.

“You used to work for the Harrenhal Observer, didn’t you?” he says.

“I did,” she says, “between you and me though, I think cousin Larys felt a little threatened.”

“Threatened?” Aemond says, noticing a pair of girls who are oddly familiar to him. He can’t place their names but he thinks they might be old friend’s of Jaya’s. They approach Jace, turning their heads around frequently like they’re looking for something. “How so?”

“He thought I was too opinionated,” Alys says, keeping her eyes on his.

“I didn’t think there could be such a thing,” Aemond says, though now he thinks he recognises the girls from one of the parties at Maegor’s Square, from years ago. One of them meets his gaze and quickly looks away. 

“The Observer is supposedly a neutral publication after all, I had a few things to say about the working conditions at the Casterly Rock mines which caused quite a stir.”

That’s where he recognises her name from. Viserys wasn’t happy with the article given their ties to the Lannisters and their gold. It sets off a silent alarm in his head, suddenly her gaze is a little too scrutinising for his liking and he’s aware of every breath he takes, shallow or deep, soft or sharp, she could use anything against him.

“I heard a rumour you weren’t going to be attending tonight’s event,” she says.

“It’s Dragon Bank’s fifth centenary,” he says, “I’m incredibly proud of all the work my family has put into the last five hundred years.”

“You say that like you’re expecting this conversation to go to print.”

“That’s why you approached me, is it not?”

She hums a gentle laugh to herself as her gaze roams over his suit, black, simple and perfectly fitted. She looks back to his face, he sees the way her eyes flicker to his left side. She smiles lazily in a way that makes him wonder if she’s trying to flirt, and places a hand on his shoulder, leaning in closer until he can smell the classic, musky scent of her perfume. He lets her do it, lets her lips get closer to his ear.

“I only wanted to see if you had something interesting to say,” Alys whispers over the noise of the party.

He glances up, towards the grand fireplace at the end of the room. Gold plated engravings of dragons intertwine and spread their wings, framing the fire that burns within.

She’s standing there, a glass of champagne in one hand, in an emerald green dress suited for summer, loose fabric, exposing her arms, her hair pulled up into a style that’s effortlessly elegant.

Their eyes meet. It’s like electricity strikes his heart.

Six years fades into oblivion, she looks different and exactly the same. He can almost believe he’s never known a life without her, but she’s always been there, hasn’t she? An unspoken secret, living in the lightest and the darkest parts of his mind. 

He can see the moment of recognition, when her expression goes from passive and proud to alert, eyes widening, lips falling, her hand lowering the glass to the nearest surface.

It’s dangerous how quickly he can already feel himself start to slip. He’s had seven days to prepare and part of him is still in disbelief that Jaya is a living, breathing person and not just a memory. Another part of him is calm and unsurprised, like he’s always known she was going to come back. To King’s Landing, to the family business, to him.

He doesn’t feel any pain, not in his head or his chest, but he feels empty, starved to the point of ravenous. 

Jaya starts to move through the crowd, towards the glass doors that lead to an outlook over the gardens and the sea. It only sparks excitement for Aemond, imagining all the thoughts that could be swimming through her head, anger, pride, fear. By the Seven he hopes one of those is fear.

“It’s been some time, hasn’t it?”

“What?” he says, looking back to Alys.

“I thought I’d refresh my memory a little before I came here tonight. It’s been six years since Jaya Velaryon was in King’s Landing. The two of you were close, weren’t you?”

Close. 

Close like the way Jaya used to hug him when they were children. She’d wrap her little arms so tightly around his chest or his neck that he could hardly breathe. He’d tell her to stop, shove her away, but then she’d only cry, and he could never say no to her after that. 

Close like their minds worked in the same way, when they only needed to look at each other a certain way to know what they were both thinking.

Close like the air of his bedroom the first night they kissed, feeling the shared warmth, her body against his, the softness of her skin, when she tasted like wine and smelled like smoke.

Close was never close enough, but what difference did it make?

“Then there was that accident at Queen’s Lodge. The press release was so vague, it only said you and Jacaerys were recovering from minor injuries…”

Aemond glares at her, the same look that would usually silence Aegon, but Alys Rivers is not afraid of his warning.

She makes a gesture to his eye. “I mean, clearly one injury was more severe than the other. Curious that Jaya left for Pentos so soon after that when she was due to start at KLU that year. Why did she leave, do you know?”

Aemond pushes past her without another word, towards the glass doors that only Jaya has passed through in the last minute or so. The other guests are starting to take their places at the tables now. He sees Rhaenyra and Laenor looking around the room, having gathered their other three brats. His own mother tries to capture his attention but his mind can only think of one thing. He walks towards the doors as calmly as he can, even though it feels as if his life depends on reaching them, on reaching her.

The doors lead out to a patio, seemingly empty right up to the balustrade. He walks to the edge, the noise of the party lost to the roar of the wind and the waves in his ears, no doubt his hair will be blown into a mess but he doesn’t care.

Everything below him is black, out of reach from the lights of the castle. Then he spots something, a flicker of flame far below him, down a series of steps, out of view, down at an outlook over the sea. She shields it with her hand, lighting a cigarette by the look of it, until the end glows with a red ember.

He walks slowly, savouring the sound of every step his shoes make against the paving stones. He keeps his hands in his pockets, single eye fixated on the shape of her shoulders, the curve of her spine and her waist through the dress.

He tries to guess the moment she realises when she’s not alone. She angles her head slightly as he reaches the bottom of the steps, still a good distance away from her. He watches her take one drag from the cigarette before she lowers it, resting her hand against the stone balcony.

He comes close enough to realise she’s shaking, jaw clenched, looking almost determinedly out across the sea. The wind cuts across his cheeks like it’s burning his skin, so how she can stand to be out here with nothing to protect herself from the cold is almost admirable. It is also foolish of her.

Goosebumps bloom over her skin, skin he could reach out and touch if he wanted to.

And she won’t look at him.

She won’t look at him.

Tags (comment to be added to either)

General taglist: @jamespotterismydaddy @theoneeyedprince @tsujifreya @dreamsofoldvalyria

Series taglist: @aemondsbabygirl @persephonerinyes @sirenangelroyal @qyburnsghost @adragonprinceswhore @boundlessfantasy @asumofwords @summerposie @thedamewithabook @ammo23 @valyrianflower @jiminie-08 @magnificentdelusionr @hiddencurator

[tswiftupdatess]

Taylor Swift is set to attend the Golden Globes this Sunday according to Page Six and Variety.

The Eras Tour film is nominated for “Cinematic and Box Office Achievement”

[autisticandroids]

belated fic rec list, part five: dabb era

so! this is for day 1 of @spnficrecfest (you will notice that that was yesterday two days ago. uh huh). and i am compensating by creating FIVE SEPARATE ERA-SPECIFIC LISTS. this one is for dabb era, which i'm lumping together because it has broadly similar vibes. i intentionally did not put any post-despair destiel fix-its on here because that's kind of a genre unto itself. mainly destiel, with some other pairings or gen as well.

other lists: endverse // seasons four and five // season six // season nine

my fave dabb era fics, in increasing order of length

still beautiful by filthyalleyway, .5k, mcd warning

dean makes a pretty corpse. destiel.

gaze into the distant sky by vaguesurprise, 2k

a jack character study, on the topic of bear traps. gen.

the first commandment by angelfishofthelord, 2k, chose not to warn

cas grieves jack, and he does what he has to for his family. gen.

carry on by goldmonger, 3k

a vicious little vignette of family life in the bunker. gen.

the last drop (makes the cup run over) by slopeslippers, 4k

jack isn't coping very well with being god. gen.

15x06 "golden hour" by hal_incandenza, 4k

what if golden time was worse. and more depressing. and crucially, what if jack was there, in cas' mind. gen.

frustration by bitterred, 4k

dagon and kelly play house. dagonkelly.

this was your child. i can't imagine the pain. by slipper007, 4k

cas grieves jack and learns to live with it. gen.

the center of the labyrinth by vaguesurprise, 4k, mcd warning

a horror story about being god's favorite. chuck/dean, minor destiel.

blood spins my head by vaguesurprise, 5k

dagonkelly lesbian awakening. now with demon blood!

no guts by adamwilliamsthevfxguy, 5k chose not to warn and mcd warning

cas lashes out at dean in season fifteen. destiel.

by your hand by slopeslippers, 6k, chose not to warn

moriah if it had gone the way cas wished it had. destiel.

chug jug with you (number one victory royale) feat. leviathan by wintertree, 7k

jack and crowley hanging out. gen.

hymnal by burningtea, 7k

cas and mary at christmas. character study. destiel.

samson went back to bed by piesexuality, 9k

one of my favorite fics in this whole collection. cas does what he must to protect jack. now with mindwipes! destiel.

and laugh at gilded butterflies by ireallydidthistomyself, 13k

a rework of jack's early childhood where cas was there, and then a rework of the malak box where both cas and jack go in it. destiel.

sometimes a kind of singing by adi_rotynd, 22k

an unflinching examination on tfw 2.0's family dynamic. technically wip but done enough to be fine. gen.

the trapdoor by hal_incandenza, 161k so far, violence warning

destiel. this is maybe my favorite on the whole list. a full rewrite of seasons thirteen and fourteen, with whole new episodes of supernatural contained within. what if instead of stupid, the meta storyline of supernatural was in fact good? and interesting? what then? what would happen?

[kentopedia]

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ SHADES OF RED — nanami kento

summary . . . kento tries to move on, but he sees you in every shade of red

contents . . . ex-boyfriend nanami, nanami pov, f!reader, reader is only mentioned but she loves the color red, suggestive part at the end, kento has a new gf but :/ he wants you bad — 700 words

notes . . . erm this is so self indulgent btw ! everyone around me laughs at me for only getting my nails done the color red and this was born bc i got my nails done today. in my yearning!kento era ig <33 he can miss us instead of the other way around smh

kento had never considered himself a sentimental man.

he’d always had the keen ability to let go of things easily—or, at least, to let go of them without too much regret. he’d never been overly emotional about things that served as reminders to his past. kento could’ve passed his childhood home and, sure, he’d feel a twinge of nostalgia. but it was one that he’d get over once he was out of the neighborhood, on his way to something different, somewhere better.

perhaps, it was a lack of sentimentality, or perhaps his future orientation was just a mechanism to help him cope with the ever-changing thing he called life. 

too bad that approach never worked when it came to you. 

even after you broke up with him, kento saw you everywhere he went. four years together was too much time, and time wasn’t enough to wash away the smell of your perfume, the love letters you’d written that he’d shoved away. kento still had a few of your belongings you’d never come back for. pieces of jewelry you’d left behind, and he’d never been able to get rid of. 

your pretty red lipstick still stained the corner of his sofa, the tiny little smear where you’d accidentally dropped the tube.

you’d apologized, embarrassed, so flustered he thought you might cry. but he’d only laughed instead, pushed the cap back on, and kissed the lipstick right back off your face. 

it had been his fault anyways.

your golden bracelet still hung with his watches, interlaced with rubies and diamonds. an anniversary gift he’d gotten you, and one that you’d thrown at him angrily when you finally left him. 

there was a red ribbon in the center console of his car, one that he’d left there in case you ever forgot a hair tie. 

there were reminders of you everywhere, there was red everywhere. the color of the passion, and the color of the fiery love that had burned bright between you. 

he saw you everywhere…

even in his new girlfriend. 

the first time gojo met her, he told kento how much she looked like you. maybe a little bit taller, her hair a little bit different. her lips were wider, eyes a slightly different shade.

still, the similarities were striking. and she’d never know.

besides all of the red, kento had erased whatever traces of you he could find, kept them locked up in a pretty burgundy box that was tucked away in his closet. 

and maybe she was similar to you in appearance, but she was gentler, softer, and she had an affinity for shades of pink. a light rose color was her favorite.

she probably thought that it bothered him, the obvious sign of femininity taking over his apartment. but kento appreciated that the lacy ribbons she left lying around, the lingerie sets, were much lighter than the color you’d tended towards. 

“kento,” she interrupted his stream of thought, as he stared at the splotch of maroon on his sofa, remembering how you’d stained his cheeks the same color.

he hummed. it’d been nearly six months since he’d seen you last. it’d seemed like longer. 

he shouldn’t miss you this much.

he did, though.

“i’m thinking of getting my nails done.” his new girlfriend—the one that looked like you but wasn’t you—stretched her hands out, looking at the chipped pastel pink at the end of her nails. half of the paint was gone. 

“okay,” he said, shrugging. shades of pink, she lived in. it’d be a shade of pink again.

she looked at her fingers, scrutinizing them like she wasn’t quite sure what to make of it. “i’m not sure it’d suit me, but… what do you think of red?” 

kento’s eyes had drifted over, and for a moment, he contemplated a protest. it didn’t suit her. she was a gentle, sweet soul. her voice soft, words loving—she was pink.

then, he remembered the softness of your palm over his thigh, your fingers threaded in his hair. nails longer, filed perfectly, a beautiful red color painted onto them. 

he missed you.

he felt guilty for his answer.

“sure, honey,” kento said, smiling. “that’s pretty.” 

when she came home later, kento had pulled her into the bedroom, turned off the lights, the room dark already with the sun that had set. her hands were smaller than yours, fingers more slender, but the color of her nails was the same. 

he could imagine your hands between his legs, stroking him lovingly. and kento had to seal his lips tightly to keep your name from spilling from them when he imagined you instead of her.

“mmm,” his new girlfriend had muttered, snuggling into his side. kento stared at the ceiling, sick with longing. “i love you. night, kento.” 

he didn’t answer.

when she was asleep, kento climbed out of bed, padded to the kitchen with his phone in his hand. it was past midnight, but you tended to stay up later, a book on your lap, with some form of red on the cover. 

his finger hovered over your name; there used to be a red heart next to it, and he wanted to put it back.

he wondered if this would just be another one of those times where his calls went unanswered. or, maybe, this time, you’d pick up. 

kento didn’t care anyway.

he pressed the call button.

[denimbex1986]

'When Cillian Murphy took to the podium during Sunday night’s Golden Globes, his nose smudged in his wife’s lipstick, it was as if a door had opened on this Hollywood Neverland and an ambassador for the real world had stepped through.

Accepting the Best Actor in a Drama award for Oppenheimer, Murphy wasn’t so much un-starry as stonkingly everyday. Here was a normal person who had somehow beamed into peak Tinseltown and, if pleased, was also clearly a bit perplexed by it all.

The Oppenheimer win has made Murphy a frontrunner for the Oscars. In all likelihood, he will be up against a creepy Barry Keoghan in Saltburn, an overblown Bradley Cooper in Maestro, and a fervent Leonard DiCaprio in Killers of the Flower Moon. With the arguable exception of the grandstanding Cooper, all would be worthy winners. And yet, underdogs everywhere will be cheering for Murphy. He’s spent the past 20 years negotiating Hollywood on his own terms and has rejected Tinseltown’s showiness in favour of staying grounded and playing the long game.

Murphy always wanted to be an actor rather than a star. Such a choice could easily have condemned him to a lifetime of supporting roles. Or a hiatus in TV, to which he seemed exiled when he settled in for a long run as Tommy Shelby in Birmingham noir Peaky Blinders.

But his decision to turn away from flashy parts has proved inspired. He is that rarest of things: an experienced A-list actor who comes to the Oscars without baggage. Unlike DiCaprio, he hasn’t had to overcome a past life as a teen pin-up. Nor does he have to justify a lucrative stint in comic book films, as Cooper has with his time as Rocket Racoon in Guardians of the Galaxy.

Above all, Murphy goes into Oscar season as an antidote to the “look at me!” culture of the social media era. In an age when fame is regarded as the ultimate commodity – more important than awards or critical acclaim – Murphy would rather let his work speak for itself. He lives humbly in suburban Dublin with his wife and two children – and his great passion outside of acting is music, as demonstrated by his semi-regular presenting slot on BBC 6 Music.

That’s lifetimes removed from Hollywood, with its self-mythologising and turbo-charged fakeness. It is also of a piece with his career since he broke through playing a survivor of the zombie apocalypse in Danny Boyle’s 28 Days Later. Ever since, he has chosen his jobs thoughtfully. In so doing, he has assembled a body of work of which he can be proud.

He hasn’t been above popcorn. He was a memorable villain in Christopher Nolan’s Batman Begins, where he played the Scarecrow as a trippy nightmare. But even when shooting for the box office, Murphy has been studiedly un-starry. Careful to keep his ego in check, he’s often happy in an ensemble – hugging the background in A Quiet Place II and settling for an extended cameo in Nolan’s Dunkirk, where he was content to let Harry Styles and Tom Hardy hog the spotlight.

Hog it they did – yet it was Murphy who proved to be in it for the long road. Because he could go into Oppenheimer without a Hollywood aura, he disappeared into the role. If hardly obscure, he nonetheless assimilated fully into the part. Throughout that film, you were aware of its stars. Florence Pugh and Emily Blunt doing their best with under-written female characters. Robert Downey Jr trying to pretend he hadn’t spent a decade as Iron Man.

Murphy, by contrast, split the acting atom. He vanished into Oppenheimer with a performance that exuded humility and sincerity. Bookies have now installed him as a favourite for the Best Actor Oscar. If he wins, it would be a victory for knowing who you are and what you stand for and believing good work has value beyond short-term acclaim. Above all, his success shows that it is possible to stay grounded while scaling Hollywood’s giddiest heights.'

[alice-after-dark]

Mer!Vox AU

I have wanted to do a Mer!Vox AU for a while now, but I hadn't quite found the vibe I wanted until @hiemaldesirae posted this adorable art and my brain ran away with me.

That being said, this AU is uh...not nearly as adorable. My brain does weird things with the most random of inspirations.

Takes place during the Golden Years of New Orleans (1810-1840).

Alastor is a wealthy oddities collector living in Victorian Era New Orleans. One day while out and about, he is approached by a man who claims he has something remarkable to sell him.

TW for implied racism, blood, gore, cannibalism, and other canon-typical triggers.

It wasn't uncommon for people to approach him, trying to sell their snake oil. Anyone who knew Alastor Bourreau's bizarre tastes tried their hand at it at least once. So when this weasel of a man approached him, claiming to have a real live mermaid to sell him, Alastor nearly dismissed him. It was only when the man showed him a scale, a glittering iridescent shade of blue he'd never seen before, did he decide to entertain the sleazy man's offer. He'd go, see what hoax they'd put together, and be on his way. Some entertainment for the evening.

The full moon is high among the stars when he arrives at the warehouse with Husk by his side. Confident does not equal stupid and he is not nearly foolish enough to come to the docks alone at night. The man from before greets him with a bow and hurriedly ushers him into a back room while Husk makes his revolver known to their host with a casual brushing back of his coat. A show mostly. Alastor is perfectly capable of defending himself should the need arise, but he would rather not if he can help it. Giving away his secrets is not something he does lightly.

A long glass box filled with water sits in the center of the room. Heavy chains are wrapped around it. Alastor hardly acknowledges either of these things. No, his eyes are fixated on the beautiful creature inside the box.

The creature appears to be a young man, skin pale as moonlight and eyes a brilliant blue. Those same shimmering scales twist and ripple under the warehouse lights. He is gagged, more chains wrapping his body and biting into the flesh.

He is real. Alastor is certain of it.

The weasel sees his interest and starts to haggle, an unpleasant wrenching forming in Alastor's gut as the fool discusses the price of another person. The thought sickens him, knowing that had things gone differently for him he could have very well been on the opposite end of this endeavor.

But Alastor does not collect these things simply to marvel at them behind glass.

He collects them to learn.

"While your generous offer is greatly appreciated, I think I'll just take him."

"What?"

The shadows descend.

When it is done, the scent of blood hangs thick in the air. Alastor takes a deep inhale and basks in it. Beside him, Husk rolls his eyes, muttering "freak" under his breath. Alastor steps over a severed arm and kneels before the box. The creature inside looks up at him with curiosity. Alastor snaps his fingers and the chains unravel themselves, falling away from the box with a clatter. He opens the lid slowly, holding a hand over the creature and mimicking the same spell on the gag and chains binding it. The mer rises, grasping the edge of the box and lifting himself up so he is meeting Alastor's gaze. One hand comes up to touch the man's face, tracing his features and prodding curiously at his glasses. Alastor lets him explore, content with indulging the creature.

A low groan interrupts them.

The weasel man is still alive. Limbless, but alive. Husk pulls out his revolver, but the creature moves first, dragging himself across the floor with alarming speed and descending on the man. Pupils and irises give way to brilliant red and razor teeth and claws take turns rending flesh apart. Blood soaks the mer's front and Alastor remains silent as the disgusting little man is devoured. Eventually the screams fade and the creature pulls back, blood and viscera dripping from its jaw. His eyes turn to Husk.

"No, no," Alastor interjects. "He's with me."

The mer pulls back. The red glow fades from his eyes. He wipes the gore from his face, licks his hand clean. His tail begins to twist and warp, scales recede and pale flesh emerges. Alastor watches in fascination as the tail becomes legs and the mer takes on full human shape.

"Holy shit," Husk breathes.

Alastor stands, regards him with interest. He crosses the room and offers a hand to the creature. Thin fingers grasp his and the young man stands, stumbling almost immediately and collapsing against Alastor who braces him.

"Thank you."

"Ah so you can speak." There is a sheet draped over some crates nearby and Alastor has his shadow bring it to him. He wraps it around the young mer's exposed body and brushes wet locks away from his face. "Could we have your name then? I am Alastor and that man you almost ate is Husker."

"Husk is fine," the older man chimes in.

The mer pouts at up at Alastor and Alastor decides that a bloodthirsty creature who just devoured a man in front of him has no right to look so cute.

"I wasn't going to eat him. I thought he was going to shoot me." He pulls the sheet a little tighter around himself. "My name is Vox."

"A pleasure." Alastor scoops him up into his arms. "Shall we depart then? It wouldn't do us much good to get caught here."

Husk offers him a two-fingered salute and the three make their way out to the waiting carriage. Alastor's smile reaches his eyes as the mer gazes around the docks in wonder and he gazes out the window their entire ride back home.

What an interesting creature indeed.

---

Not sure if it actually counts as cannibalism since Vox isn't actually human, but tagged just in case lol

[ddejavvu]

⭐ɠσʅԃҽɳ ƚɾισ ҽɾα ԋҽαԃƈαɳɳσɳʂ!⭐

🦁ԋ.ʝ.ρ- Harry would have a small box in the back of his closet stashed with little trinkets you gave to him or he stole from you

🐀ɾ.Ⴆ.ɯ- Ron would absolutely rant about you all the time, especially at home. So now at the burrow you have your own shelf in the cupboard full of your favorite snacks

🤡ϝ.ɠ.ɯ- Polaroids. His dad would probably bring one from work and nie you're all over his wall

🤡ɠ.ϝ.ɯ- George would probably keep your favorite shower products in the bathroom for when you come over (also so he can smell like you :) )

🪻ɳ.ϝ.ʅ - Neville would have a separate calendar in his dorm just for your important dates and anniversaries so he wouldn't forget

🐍ԃ.ʅ.ɱ - Draco would make sure you always have your own clothes in his dorm and at the manor. He would take you shopping just so you could pick out ones you like.

send me your headcanons!

oh these were interesting 'cause i don't read about the golden trio era!

i think harry stealing random things is cute, he's probably got a napkin from your first date or something and you find it like ? why is there trash in here ? and he snatches it away like TRASH ???? NO.

ron couldn't shut up if he tried so i believe that ! and molly's love is stored in the food that she feeds her children so i have no doubt she'd spoil you too

aw yeah fred being a sentimental guy is so cute! he's got pictures of you smiling, laughing, sleeping (creep !) and definitely some where you're in the middle of a bite of food or you're screaming at someone just 'cause he thinks they're funny <3

george doesn't buy copies of your haircare products for himself, he steals yours. you're like mm george where is my conditioner.. and he's like :] my house :]

aw that's cute! god forbid the other boys in the dorm find the calendar though, they'll make up fake shit to make him blush like the day we first tongued or the first time i touched her boob

i'm not a draco girlie but he does seem like potential sugar daddy material so that checks out!

[xagave]

pleasepleaseplease recommend some danphan fics!!

Sorry these are on ff.net I was into danphan before AO3 was really A Thing. Invisobang also just completed and a whole wack of new fics are also now out for your enjoyment so I suggest taking a look there too Lab Rat - Danny (as Phantom) is captured by his parents and vivisected in the lab. THE MOST iconic dp fic from this era of fandom and also the first dp fic I ever read which single-handedly got me into the fandom. I also recommend anything else by this author[sequel]

Pits - Danny is captured by Walker and thrown into the Pits to fight for his life. HANDS DOWN my all time favorite dp fic. I drew a bunch of fanart for it and never showed the author LMAO [sequel]

In The Way - A twisted tale of a summer spent all alone

Wondering - Danny's been captured and tortured by his parents, but he refuses to say a word until his psychiatrist starts connecting the dots. Can he risk keeping it a secret any longer?

Dreams of Light - A cute box ghost fic with a fun twist at the end

Phantom's Sketchbook - Mr. Lancer finds himself in an unparalleled situation, he has access to something which can give him incredible insight into the personal workings of Amity Park's local ghost teen hero, Danny Phantom

Masks - Lancer has had enough of his most enigmatic, frustrating student Daniel Fenton and forces him to stay in detention with him until Danny tells him The Truth. A story examining Danny's relationship with the human race. Another BIG FAVE of mine [sequel]

Darkness - Part 1 of Illuminations saga. [part 2][part 3][part 4] Maddie and Phantom are trapped in the dark and must work together to avoid dying. I don't remember much about this but I do remember it being super creepy and I bulldozed my way through all 4 parts so it must have been good lol

I'm Still Here - Danny's been locked away in a forgotten thermos, buried in the backyard for 70 years. When he's finally released, happy isn't the word he'd use to describe his new life

Real Life - A very creepy take on ghosts and the events of the show, where they're more inhuman, feral, and scary. I don't remember much about this but it's unfinished

Lopeholt - Valerie must survived the night in the third scariest place on earth. **VERY** creepy, I remember reading this in the dark and it gave me nightmares. Another top fave. I def recommend reading anything else by this author

Running to the Enemy's Arms - Danny runs away and ends up on the doorstep of the person who's dead last on his list of favorite people - Vlad. Danny/Vlad father son relationship. A fun and interesting view of what Danny's life would be like had he been the son Vlad always wanted. Incomplete but also another BIG FAVE of mine. Tolerate the first 1-2 chapters and the rest is golden

Checkmate - Vlad forces Danny to leave everything behind in order to save Jazz's life. But just when the billionaire believes to have won his chess game against his young rival, Danny makes a single unexpected move.

A Secret Uncovered - Danny's transformation is caught on tape and now the whole town knows who he is Photoshop - Dash and Kwan find an old class picture and start having a little too much fun on Photoshop. Will someone's secret be revealed?

Chained - It starts with a fire at the Guys in White headquarters, where a vengeful Valerie stumbles across an imprisoned Danny Phantom. It starts with injustice. But what happens when justice and revenge are confused for one another? Where does a hero end, and a villain begin?

Phantom of Truth - Locked away in a secret government lab with Phantom as her subject, nothing stands between Maddie and the truth… except, perhaps, herself [Sequel]

The Soul Sepulchre - Something foul is stirring in Amity Park and it all starts in the bowels of Amity Park's Museum of Natural History

Moral Code - Moral code says to never kill or capture a specimen that you did not weaken yourself. Maddie finds Danny Phantom wounded late at night after a hard battle. After she helps him, she finds there is more to him than she ever thought possible. Mother/son bonding

Connections - Maddie knows that the Booo-merang has keyed into Danny, for whatever reason, so what's she to think when she sees it collide with Phantom? [Sequel]

Isolated - It's just a wish that's been granted with the wrong twist, but for Danny, it's a nightmare that's become reality. He's stuck as Phantom, his family's hunting him, and everyone who can help him is gone

Little Earthquakes - They say that a man is defined by what he does when he thinks nobody's looking. Does the same hold true for ghosts?

Tortured Truth - Danny's parents discover that the ghost boy is half human. Now that they've captured Danny, will he submit to torture and reveal himself, or is the revelation just the beginning of their problems? [Sequel]

Estrelas - AU. Sam's attention is captured by a lonely ghost haunting her grandmother's attic…and discovering his secrets will take everything she has.

Criteria of Life - Every living thing must follow the Laws of Life; however, Maddie wonders if Phantom can somehow follow these laws as well. The fact that he is a ghost is putting a knick in her plans, but what if Phantom can follow the Laws of Life?

[goldenvulpine]

ok here is a helpful guide for Superman fans in Tumblr when referring to different eras of Superman:

Golden Age Superman: Kal-L. The Original. Very cocky. Very charismatic. Couldn’t fly as a kid. Has no solid code against killing. Chaotic Good. Can actually fly now. Has a disturbingly high kill count. Loves Toxic Women (Lois Literally Drugged him one time). Literal WW2 veteran. Not from Kansas. Smallville, East Coast (likely New York). Is now married to Lois. Head of the Daily Star (not Planet). Is Power Girl’s cousin. Is very aggressive. Still saved people from suicide canonically. Canonically religious (Married Lois in a Kryptonian Ceremony). “What trauma?” Seen everyone he loves die.

Silver Age Superman: Kal-El. The Most Popular. Speaks fluent Kryptonese. Total “50’s Dad”. The Strongest. Also the most conformist. Strict Code against killing. Lawful Good. From Smallville. Is canonically Religious (For Rao, his culture’s God). Has multiple cousins. From Smallville, East Coast (likely Maryland this time). Says he wouldn’t hit a woman. Probably has. Sneezed a Solar System Away. Somehow the WEIRDEST one. Also the biggest Prankster. Was Superboy. Was part of the Legion. Saw Pa die. Refuses to acknowledge his trauma. Needs a hug but won’t say it. Works for the Daily Planet. Alan Moore loves him.

Bronze Age Superman: Kal El. Actually just Silver Age Superman but “weaker”. Still the Strongest. Your favorite writer’s favorite Superman. Neutral Good. Originator of the Clex Drama. Met God. Is a pure scientist. Has Three Canon Endings. All of them are literal tragic endings. Is best bros with Batman. Is the Original Nightwing. His cousin is the Second Nightwing. Dick is actually the Third Nightwing. Loves his bro Jimmy Olsen. Smarter than Batman. Made a vow to protect life. Newscaster. Grant Morrison and Mark Waid love him.

Dark Age/Byrne Superman: Clark Kent (Kal El). Still moody. Weakest Superman. Thinks he’s Neutral Good, still Lawful Good. Doesn’t like Krypton. Designer Baby. Best Journalist. Canonically a Porn Star. Died. Came back. Most insecure Superman. Loves ‘Murica. Killed like three people one time. Strict code against killing. “Superman is what I do, Clark is who I am”. Legion who? Superboy who? Supergirl who? Football Star. Pure Sarcasm. Agnostic. People say they hate him but is the reason Smallville, Man of Steel and STAS exist. Literally wants to fuck Jimmy’s Mom. Triangle Era (90’s) Superman: Clark Kent (Kal-El). Is less moody now. Makes more Jokes. Still a drama queen. Smarter. Stronger. Wants to write a Novel. Married Lois. Jimmy is the Best Man. Good Leader. True Lawful Good. The Superman you probably think of the Most. Coolest guy. 90’s Superboy (the best) 90’s Supergirl (Matrix). Was once Gangbuster (Chaotic Neutral). Mind so strong, he killed a psychic in his sleep without knowing it. Christian (Married Lois in a Church). Still knows Kryptonian Kung Fu (Torquasm Vo/Rao). Dick Grayson’s 3rd Dad. Tim Drake’s 4th Dad. Slept with a Mermaid in Collage. Is fun.

Post-Crisis/2000’s Superman: Clark Kent (Kal El) Retcons out the ass. Kara comes back. Knows Boxing now. Knows Kung Fu. Held a Black Hole in his hand. Destroyed Moons. Agnostic. Still Lawful Good. Loves his wife. Loves his adopted son. Chris Kent. His son is Nightwing. His other son is also Nightwing. Walked the earth one time because of war crimes. Saves people from suicide again. Was a Kryptonian general one time. Literal Genius. Smarter than Batman. Is the GOAT. Hates the President.

New 52 Superman: Clark Kent (Kal-El) Very cocky. Very charismatic. Couldn’t fly as a kid. Has no solid code against killing. Chaotic Good to Neutral Good. Lower kill count than Post-Crisis. Loves Toxic Women (Loves the craziest version of Diana). Had a Mid-Life Crisis in his Mid-20’s. Was a Wrestler. Talks like Jason Todd/Wally West/Nightwing/Peter Parker/every mid-20’s white boi in the 90’s-00’s. Everyone hated him. Wasn’t as bad as they say. Is the Andrew Garfield/Spider-Man of Supermen. Killed off without good reason.

Rebirth Superman: Clark Kent (Kal-El). Is literally just Triangle Era Superman. With kids. No Chris tho. Still Lawful Good. Strongest of the Post-Crisis versions. Tries to be a good dad. Is a decent dad. Except for the time where he left Jon alone. So he’s a bad dad. I’m still not over that. Bendis loves him. Says please alot. Watches Anime. Kind of a dead beat. I miss Chris.

if you want summations of other Supermen I didn’t cover you are welcome to ask.

[rookthorne]

⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ 𝐀𝐧 𝐎𝐥’ 𝐅𝐚𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐎𝐟 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐖𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐤𝐞𝐲

Bucky had been away for a long, long time, and your heart ached with missing him. Although, the time apart had allowed you to plan a surprise that would rock his world once he walked back through the door of your home, and into another era.

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 — CW!Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕 — 2.2k

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 — Tooth rotting fluff, alcohol consumption, Bucky has a housewife kink

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆 — I got so inspired by this idea that I ended up making a playlist for it.

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒚𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 — HERE

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔 — @allcapsbingo 𝗢𝟰 — 1940s — Masterlist — @anyfandomfluffbingo 𝗜𝟱 — Time Travel AU — Masterlist

𝐑𝐎𝐎𝐊𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐄'𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

A dream come true was something you could only ever hope for – that one day you would have all of what your heart had yearned for. You wished the same for Bucky. 

While it may not have been possible for all of Bucky’s dreams to become a reality – that flying car was a little bit harder to achieve on your own – you, however, had a pretty good hunch that what you had in store for him as soon as he came home, would be pretty damn close to ticking a few boxes. 

Your apartment, once a dream of your own and entirely yours, had taken on a new life of a golden era. Warm tones from beige and brown, to cream and gold, filled the space in an assortment of features and nicknacks, from the upholstery to the very furniture that sat proudly in your living room and kitchen. 

The research behind such a bold move had paid off in many ways – not only were you standing amongst Bucky’s dream home of the forties, you were revelling in the feel of the swishing fabric of your dress. Simple in its design and comfortable in its proportions – thank you sewing machine, you thought happily. It embodied the very essence of a nineteen forties housewife; something Bucky had let slip as a fantasy, though, as progressive as the ages himself, he realised that was just that, a fantasy. 

One that you were going to bring to life, just for a day. 

Your peep-toe heels clicked over the tiled floor of your kitchen as you swayed your hips, a mixing bowl in hand while the radio you had found at an antique store played The Andrews Sisters. A plum pie, a delicacy that Bucky’s mother had made for his birthdays in his youth – a treat to spoil both him and Steve, much smaller but no less innocent – baked away in your oven, filling the room with the sweet scent of spiced fruit and pastry. 

Bucky had been away on a no contact mission for weeks now, and your heart ached from missing him – the loss of his smile and bright eyes, paired with the soft voice you had come to associate with comfort, with home, had been hard. Nonetheless, you kept yourself busy with the planning behind this surprise. 

The kitchen was completely transformed. Cupboards were filled to the brim with dishes that would have made his mother swoon. A wooden phonograph was placed on the coffee table in the living room as the centrepiece of your plan, perfectly in view from the kitchen. Low, quiet jazz, complementing the voices of the sisters, played from the aged horn and you hummed along.

Your dress flowed from your waist as you stepped around your kitchen, and you ignored the strange, new restriction of wearing stockings and a garter belt – you wanted to make this as authentic as possible, and if Bucky reacted well, it would make it all worth it. 

Strong, sugary smells filled the air as you opened the oven, your plum pie was baking away and turning golden brown, and you grinned as you watched the pastry bubble in the heat. “Almost there,” you sang happily, and you closed the oven. 

A trumpet solo played over the radio and you danced in place for a moment, letting the music carry you and take you back to the smell of the Barnes’ kitchen – the vision of Winnie working away with Bucky at her heels with Becca, and the sound of old cartoons on the television in the background. 

It was his home, and now, you had breathed life into it once more. 

Heavy footsteps suddenly sounded at the door, the jiggle of the doorknob followed soon after, and you gasped, hastily placing the mixing bowl down onto the counter. The door opened with a loud creak, and, “Baby! I’m home! Oh-”

Silence followed the shocked exclamation, and you couldn’t help but giggle quietly. You adjusted your hair and smoothed the skirt of your dress in your nerves. 

“Baby? What the hell?” A solid thump of a bag hitting the floor followed his question, and then he walked down the entryway, where he paused again – he must have seen the phonograph. “What- Where the hell did you get one of those–? Sweetheart, where are you?”

“In here–the kitchen,” you called back. You bent your knee slightly and tilted your head, battering your lashes; the effect instantaneous. Bucky rounded the corner, absolutely flabbergasted, but once his gaze landed on you, he froze in place. His mouth fell slack in shock and his eyes widened. “Welcome home, honey,” you cooed, smiling with blood red lips.

“Doll,” he breathed, looking you up and down; taking in the fabric and length of your dress, the tight nylon stockings that were held up by a garter belt, then, your heels. “Oh, fuck.”

“Now, James, that’s no way to speak in the presence of a lady,” you teased, waggling your finger. “Behave now, or you won’t be getting any of my pie.”

“I- What?” Bucky sputtered, blinking rapidly as though to clear his mind of the hallucination. “What? Are you–are you for real? This isn’t a dream?”

“Honey, if this was a dream,” you said, sauntering forward, making sure to watch his expression. “Could I do this?” You leaned in close and kissed him on the cheek – the stain of lipstick staying on his tanned, scruffed skin. His fingers brushed over the spot with a sharp exhale. “Would you like a drink–some whiskey?”

Bucky shook his head in disbelief and moved to step closer, but you placed a hand on his chest; blood red nails, matching your lipstick, were sharp in contrast against the black of his tac suit. “You’ve had a long day, love. It’s time for your wife to take care of you–would you like some scotch, or whiskey?”

“I’m dreamin’,” he breathed, awestruck and in a state of utter disbelief. “No way this is fuckin’ real.”

You grinned. That Brooklyn twang had come back full force in his voice, he had slipped and he hadn’t even realised. “Oh, it’s real, husband. You go on and sit down, let me take care a’you.”

“Husband,” Bucky murmured. You winked and pointed at the dining table that was set to cater for two, the decorations extravagant and homely. “Husband.”

The liquor cabinet, restocked just for this occasion, tinkered and clinked as you grabbed a set of glasses and a bottle of whiskey. “I have missed you so, honey,” you sighed, pouring the amber liquid into both tumblers. “It’s not the same ‘round here without my man to keep me warm.”

Bucky choked. “Oh, doll, ‘m back now, yeah?” 

“I made you your favourite for dinner,” you continued, smiling as you placed the glass full of whiskey in front of him. “Roast and all the fixings–can’t have my man starved now, not after he works so hard.”

“You spoil me, darlin’,” he praised, a boyish smirk on his lips. “My best girl takin’ such good care a’me.”

In lieu of an answer, you turned your back and strode into the kitchen, sashying your hips as you went. The timer by the oven went off just as you rounded the corner, and you paused to take a deep breath – Bucky loved it, you had surprised him in the best way possible. 

Plating the roast went smoothly and you were sure to give Bucky double the portion – even in a fantasy the man would be starved. “Honey, would you care to lower the lights?”

“Yeah,” Bucky replied, almost breathless, and the lights in the dining room dimmed. You heard him sit back down in his chair with a heavy sigh. “What the fuck,” he muttered, but you could hear the grin in his voice – he was happy. 

You rounded the corner with his plate. “Here you are.” The plate, brimming with food, seemed to light another fire inside of him, and he whistled as he looked at the steaming roast. “Just you wait, honey,” you rushed, booping him on the nose and making him blink in surprise. “A gal needs her own plate.”

Bucky chuckled as you turned tail back to the kitchen and returned with your plate. You sat opposite him and grabbed your glass of whiskey, raising it for a toast. “To having my husband home, ‘cos damn it all, I miss the oaf,” you said, a light laugh in your voice. 

“To comin’ home to my wife, the one I love with all a’me and who makes the best roast this side a’the Brooklyn bridge,” he cheered, clinking your glass with his own. 

Dinner passed without a hitch. Bucky had eaten through his plate like a starved man, as you expected, while you worked through your serving at a more sedate pace. You couldn’t help but smirk and giggle when he made noises of pure satisfaction and contentment at your cooking. 

Finally, Bucky slumped back in his seat with the biggest grin on his lips and you couldn’t help but stare. “What you lookin’ at, darlin’?”

“Just the love of my life,” you sighed happily, placing your chin in your hand. “Most handsome fella I ever did see, you know.” To your utter shock, Bucky blushed and ducked his head. “Oh, don’t you go telling me no one’s been sweet on you?”

“Stop,” he groaned. “This is jus’ so much–you’re even talkin’ like the dames back then.”

You winked. “Honey, what kind of wife would I be if I didn’t know what my husband liked? A’course I know I’m talking like those dames.” Rising from the table, you collected the plates and cutlery, much to his protest. “No, you just sit and relax. I’ll take care of this.”

The timer in the kitchen went off again and you hurried over, placing the dirty dishes in the sink to deal with later. You peered into the oven and felt another sense of pride swell in your chest – golden brown pastry was cooked to perfection with bubbles of plum juice and sugar bubbling in the gaps between the scored lattice. 

“What smells so good, darlin’?” Bucky asked from behind you, and you gasped in fright, spinning quickly enough to send the skirt of your dress whirling. “Whoa, easy, sweetheart. Jus’ me.”

“Don’t you do that again,” you scolded, narrowing your eyes at him. “Next time you’ll have your pie privileges taken away.” 

Bucky pouted and cocked his hip to lean against the counter, crossing his arms so his left arm clinked and whirred as the plates set. “You’re no fun, doll. C’mon, indulge your husband jus’ this once, yeah? I work so hard, after all.”

“You can wait for me to get the pie ready, you brute.” Bucky laughed and stepped out of your way, content to watch you organise the counter so the pie could rest and cool. “Will you fetch the icecream from the freezer, honey?”

“Sure.” The hum of the freezer was quiet and you waited, waited, then, “You made ice cream?”

“I did.” You beamed as Bucky placed the container on the counter, your homemade vanilla ice cream finally set and sweet enough to devour. “Thank you, honey.”

Bucky kissed your temple and leaned against the counter again. “You almost done with that pie, darlin’?”

You nodded once. It was a fiddly process, but finally, the pie sat on the cooling rack. “There we go,” you hummed, staring proudly at your baked plum pie. “I can’t wait for you to take a bite, my love. I followed an old recipe.”

“Now ain’t I a lucky fella,” Bucky said, that twang in his voice so strong you could have sworn you had rewound the decades. “Such an ol’ fashioned gal. C’mere.”

Flesh and metal hands found yours and pulled you into the middle of the kitchen, just as the radio played a familiar tune, “Kiss me once, then kiss me twice, then kiss me once again; it's been a long, long time.”

You placed your hands on Bucky’s chest and smiled at him, and he placed his hands on your waist, swaying you in place as the music played a solo. The two of you danced slowly in the kitchen, in one another’s arms, happy and content to be back together. 

Bucky brought you closer and you linked your hands around his back as best you could, standing as close as possible to him. Kitty Kallen continued to sing, “Haven't felt like this, my dear, since I can't remember when; it's been a long, long time.” 

There was a low hum in your ear, and you blinked. Bucky was humming along to the song, holding you close and swaying slowly side to side – a romantic embrace of the ages. He hummed and lowly sang the words, “You'll never know how many dreams I've dreamed about you, or just how empty they all seemed without you.”

Together, you both hummed the final lines of the song, holding each other tight. “So kiss me once, then kiss me twice, and kiss me once again; it's been a long, long time.”

You pulled back from Bucky and cupped his face in your hands. “Welcome home, baby,” you whispered, and you kissed him on the lips, pouring all your love for the man before you into it – the yearning for him to be close, and to be one with you. 

Bucky smiled into the kiss and held your hips in his hands. His grip was tight and you squeaked against his lips as he lifted and turned with you in his grip, placing you onto the kitchen counter away from the pie. “And ain’t I glad to be home, sweetheart.”

⠈⠂⠄ 𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱 | 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 | 𝐚𝐨𝟑  ⠄⠂⠁

⠈⠂⠄𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 ⠄⠂⠁