#but imagine if he was an old retired knight

[awildes]

Jumped on the trend and painted my favorite townies! Krobus is such a little sweet thing I love him 🤧

[capnsupernova]

The Death of Batman

Four years. Four years since the streets of Gotham have seen Batman. Four years since the Justice League has seen Batman. Four years since the Robins have seen Batman.

And now he stands, in full gear, mask and cape and all, in front of a podium in broad daylight with a microphone in his face, surrounded by cameras. The audience is still. No one dares make a sound. No one dares ask why, after all this time, he is here now. No one dares to say it, but he’s different than they imagined he’d be. He is tall, yes, and his shoulders broad and sturdy enough to carry the whole weight of the world, but they see his weariness etched in the lines of his mouth, the only part of his face they have ever been able to see. For the first time, they see, not some cryptid of the night meting out justice, but a man. Just a man in a suit. No one dares say it, but he looks tired.

For a long time, he is silent.

When he does speak, his voice is softer than they expect—tinged with the first hints of age.

“I have watched this city for so long.”

The people of Gotham hold their breath.

“For so long, I have been your knight, your judge, your hero…. No, not your hero. It’s been a long time since I’ve been anyone’s hero.” He sighs and all the burdens of darkness and justice escape with his breath. “I am so tired.”

His enemies wait in the shadows. Everyone knows they’re there, waiting for an opportunity. Never has Batman announced his presence so publicly. Never has he handed himself so neatly to them, and with so many potential hostages and casualties around his stage. But they find themselves frozen. This is not the voice they know, not the gruff growl that haunts their nightmares. He is tired. They hear that, and this is familiar in a different way. They have all, villain and civilian alike, felt this exhaustion themselves. And so, they wait to see what he will say next.

“I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing. I don’t know if I’ve ever done the right thing. My children are hurting. I have hurt my children.” His voice catches. He takes a moment, looks up at the sky, blue and cloudless and bright. “I just want them to come home.”

He pauses, head tilted upwards before looking back at the people of Gotham, people he saved, people he fought and locked away—all of them, in one way or another, people that he has tried to help. People he has tried to protect.

“The Batman,” he says, “is retiring.”

Somewhere, a pin drops, and the echoes reverberate around the world. No one notices, but in the crowd, among reporters, a tall, barrel-chested man with dark hair and thick-rimmed glasses smiles. It’s a small smile, a twitch of the lips. He meets Batman’s eyes over the tops of the heads of Gotham’s citizens. He nods, barely perceptible, and the man behind the black mask stands just a little taller.

“That is all. Thank you.”

And just like that, Batman is gone. No one stops him as he walks off the stage. No one stops him as their Dark Knight, their strange and mysterious vigilante, disappears into the shadows and out of their lives forever.

--

The first to return is Jason. He knocks on the door with all the casual confidence of Gotham’s premier crime boss, duffel bag slung over his shoulder, eyes so green they may as well be glowing.

When Bruce opens the door, he looks the old man up and down. “I’m assuming my old room is still available?” His smile is half-cocked and arrogant as ever, but there’s uncertainty furrowed in the space between his brows. If you didn’t know him, you wouldn’t see it at all.

Bruce sees it. And of all the things Jason excepts—the door slammed in his face, all the security systems of Wayne manor targeting his chest and head, a lecture at the very least—what he doesn’t expect are the tears that well up in Bruce’s eyes. He doesn’t expect to be wrapped tightly in his strong arms, arms that feel so much smaller than he remembers.

“Oh my boy,” Bruce whispers into his chest. “Oh my sweet, strong boy. I’m so sorry. I’ve missed you so much. I’m so glad you’re home.”

And it’s too much. The man behind the red hood, the man who beat Tim within an inch of his life, the man who shot Damien in the back in an effort to kill his own pain, crumples. In his father’s arms he is reduced to that 15-year-old boy who died and came back to life. The 15-year-old boy who, after all this time, only ever wanted to come home.

--

The rest showed up one by one that very same day. Dick showed up first with Tim and Damien in tow, surprised—not that Jason was there—but that he had beat him home. Then Barbara, Duke, Stephanie. It wasn’t long before the house was full of every single Robin and Batgirl who ever passed through these halls. Draped over chairs and couches (or, in Dicks case, swinging from the chandelier in the foyer while Tim and Damien did their best to use him—unsuccessfully—as target practice).

Not much changed in Gotham, after that. The villains didn’t retire with Batman, just as they didn’t disappear with Batman four years ago. But neither were they given free reign of the city, for Batman had ensured so, so long ago that there would always be someone to protect his home and his people. Gotham would always have their symbols of hope, their bats of blue and red and green and purple and yellow. New symbols that filled the night with a rainbow of colors.

And when their work was done, they returned to the manor, where their father would dress their wounds, mend their capes, and make them heaping piles of pancakes and eggs (“Yes, Dami, you have to finish the eggs. I won’t have some villain getting the better of you because you don’t have enough protein in your system”) with bowls of fruit and fresh squeezed orange juice. Bruce was, at the very least, a better cook than Alfred had been.

Things weren’t perfect. There were wounds that couldn’t be healed with a simple hug and a few tears. Wounds that would take years of therapy and hard talks and patience to fully close over. Bruce never told them where he’d been for those four years, and they never asked. This was the beginning of something entirely new for all of them.

But for the first time since anyone could remember, the sun shined bright and warm over the city of Gotham.

--

Writer’s Note:

This is an idea I have debated with close friends—the retirement of Batman. The main issue boils down to this: what becomes of Gotham without their symbol of hope? And to me, the answer is simple. Nothing. Because Batman is no longer their only symbol of hope. He hasn’t been for a long time, since he first took in Dick Grayson, that colorful bird of a boy. I think, in all honesty, that this is the true purpose of the Robins. Maybe Bruce himself didn’t realize it at the time, but he always hoped for something brighter for Gotham than Batman. Bruce has always been a reflection of Gotham. “The hero they deserve.” In a way, by taking in each sidekick, he adds another possibility, not just for the people of Gotham, but for himself too. A brighter future. Isn’t this what we all hope for our children?

[thetravelingtyper]

On The Same Page pt3 (Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader Bookshop! AU)

When Johnny drops in, you get an unexpected guest...

Part 1, Part 2, Part 4My other main series: Spitfire!

“You know what's coming on that playlist”

You look up from your breakfast,

“What do you mean…”

The song comes after David Bowies Magic Dance,

You groan as it plays:

Flicking through a little book of sex tips

Remember when the boys were all electric?

Now when she's told she's gonna get it

I'm guessing that she'd rather just forget it

Clinging 'til I'm getting sentimental

Said she wasn't going but she went still

Likes her gentlemen not to be gentle

Was it a Mecca Dauber or a betting pencil?

“I swear this song.”

“You might as well let it play out, does it remind you of…”

“If you say his name I will personally shove my fist up your ass so far…”

The door dinging cuts you off as Soap enters carrying a Tupperware container, now clean and empty of your cookies. You had started a habit of baking for the man during afternoon tea.  

The song continues dutifully under your negligence:

Oh, the boy's a slag, the best you ever had

The best you ever had is just a memory and those dreams

Weren't as daft as they seem, not as daft as they seemed

My love, when you dream them up

“ I swear to god, Sam you have my phone change the damn song!”

“Having trouble lass?” 

Soap reaches the counter and sets the container down, the music pauses for a moment as Sam thinks somewhere amongst the books, you hear his thoughts:

“Do not test me, Sammy!” You sigh before American Idiot by Green Day kicks. Thoroughly pleased you finally turn your attention to Soap.

“Heya Johnny, What are you up to?”

He grins and pulls a small object from his pocket, a flash of silver before handing it out to you. You take it and your face lights up.

“This is sick!”

You’re reverberating with excitement as in your hands is a bookmark. Not just any bookmark but a pewter bookmark with the stamping of an old English knight. It tickles your inner literature nerd. You look back up at Soap and he rubs the back of his head.

“Some customer left it at the bar a while ago and never came back for it so I figured you’d like it.”

He seems a little flustered and the motion makes your heart warm a little bit. You set the bookmark down and pass around the counter to hug him. His arms reach around you and he pats your back. A second passes and you suddenly feel a presence, you pull away and jump. 

“Johnny”

“Steaming Jesus” 

You weren't the only one startled as the man stood a little straighter at the voice instinctively. 

He turns to the culprit, the man in black from earlier, whose dark eyes look between you and the Scot before looking down to Johnny.

“Bloody hell Ghost, might give a man a heart attack doin’ that. What are you doing here?” 

You watch in curiosity as ‘ghost’s’ shoulders relax his eyes soften a little in a comfortable setting, It is clear the men are close as you watch a grin light up Soap’s. He waits a moment before answering in a thickly accented voice.

“Moved in recently down the street.” He offers little more,

“Aye we’re all neighbors then Lt.” Soap bumps a fist into the taller man’s chest and you want to giggle. Soap looks to you then and mentions to Ghost with his hands.

“This is, well was, my commanding officer when I served.” 

You remember the non-classified moments soap told you, of a wraith of a man behind a skull. You examine the man before you. 

He is built like a tank, you imagine him in combat gear and yeah you can see it. But there is something different about the man before you. Looking closer at his masked face you can see the traces of scars, along his arms as well, but this Ghost carried himself more freely, and like Soap you wondered if he was retired. 

Ghost’s eye meets yours and you are flashed back to your dream. He regards you calmly before raising an ungloved hand. You blink and Soap himself seems a little taken aback,

“Simon, Simon Riley” He offers it simply and you take his hand. It's rough like Soap’s, but warm, and his eyes crinkle a little, he might be smiling under his mask.

“It means he…”

“That’ll do Johnny.”

The scot’s hands come up in surrender with a grin. Simon holds your hand for a moment longer before drawing his back to himself. You both watch each other for a moment before you turn away to Soap.

“Did you need anything else Soap?”

“No hen, you're fine, I need to get back to the bar. Drop in sometime yea Lt?”

“Sure, Johnny.”

And with that the man turns to leave, padding out before opening the door. You look back to find Simon unmoved and watching you. You are about to speak when the music pauses and you hear the blasted phone ring.

Sam comes around the corner and stops seeing you and Simon standing closer together.

“He’s calling again. How do you want to handle this?”

You clench your fists instinctively in frustration. You turn to Simon, and with a polite excuse me, you turn and take your phone from Sam. For the first time, you answer it.

There is silence on the line as if your ex is surprised his spam tact worked. Then his voice comes:

“Where are you?” You are seething at this point, but force yourself to calm down when Sam approaches and sets a hand on your shoulder shaking his head no. It's not worth it.

You look back to him nodding, I know.

“It doesn't matter James, leave me alone.”

“Listen I'm sorry…”

“I don’t care, stop calling from other numbers. We are over, we’ve been over.”

James on the other end hits a spike of temper. Because when he replies it is heated:

“Listen you little bitch…” You cringe and hold his yelling on the phone away from your ear. Sam offers to take it but you shake your head.

“He always accused me of cheating on him with you I don't want you to be dragged into this.”

The yelling continues for a moment and you pass a glance at Simon in apology but you find him tense, clearly listening and upset at the threats coming from the other end of the phone.

“I will track you down…”  These words catch all of your eyes. A sense of dread hits you and hang up, unable to take any more abuse. You sigh, trying to release tension but your phone starts ringing again. 

“Let me answer it.” The request is quiet but stern, your eyes widen and you look to Simon, his mask! At the moment of the ring, the man had taken off his mask revealing a young but chiseled face. He was clean-shaven, with short blonde hair swept back. He had a scar tracing from the side of his nose and over his lip. But he was quite handsome. In a bit of shock, you hand him your phone and he answers to hear yelling. But he remains quiet, waiting for James to shut up. A minute later when the phone goes quiet. 

His voice changes, taking on a practiced authority, one you assumed came from his serving days.

“Stop calling this number.”  It's not a request but a warning. There is silence as you and Sam look at each other, a chill running down your spine at Simon’s voice.

“Who is this? Where is she…”

“Not coming to the phone anymore, stop calling this number or there will be consequences.”

There is a tensioning silence before in a slightly different voice James asks,

“Who is this?”

Simon’s eyebrow shoots up, and he, he…almost looks amused.

“Her Partner now fuck off.” And with that bold declaration, Simon hangs up, an upturned smirk as he hands your phone back to you. It doesn't ring again. 

Your mouth is agape taking the phone from him, you look to Sam but he's too busy admiring Simon, an eyebrow shoots way up. 

“That was ballsy.” Your head shoots to him and you elbow your best friend.

“What he means to say is that you didn't have to do that.” Gratitude and an embarrassed admiration swells in you.

“I wanted to.” The confidence is evident in Simon’s reply as his eyes flicked between you and Sam. 

“Oh! This is Sam, co-owner of this fine establishment and my best friend.” The two men shake hands briefly. Sam looks very pleased, sending you a secret look before he turns to head to the back. 

“I need to get back to orders, you two have fun!” And with that, you are alone with your savior.

“You didn't need to do that-”

“He was threatening you, I won't let that stand dove.” It comes out strong and a light blush trails up your face. He regards you silently.

“Can I do anything for you, Simon? I appreciated that.”

“Tea sometimes and perhaps dinner.” He states it simply but the implications have your heart jumping.

“Sure…of course, did you need anything in the store I know you came in and looked around.” 

“I set aside a hold a few days ago,”

Simon Riley, S.R. The thought clicks at the moment and you move to the counter and set aside your empty plate to pull out Twenty Thousand Leagues from the stack. The gilding gleams in the warm lights of the bookstore. Simon follows you to the counter.

“How often have you been in? Usually, only regulars know about the hold policy.”

Simon looks down at you before he answers,

“The past month so far.”

The past month? How the hell did I not take note of him? Well, I guess you subconsciously did. Hince him appearing in your dream.

“Huh. Good choice in Verne. He’s one of my favorites.”

“I know.” The simple answer stuns you for a moment before he explains,

“You read a lot.” He mentions to the side of the counter where a worn paperback of Journey to the Center of the Earth sits, halfway read. You look back at him and his eyes catch yours, and then you understand, biting your lip. 

He’s been observing. How hadn't you noticed? Simon shifts his weight watching the gears in your head turn. You don't seem too distressed to have figured him out. The truth of the matter was he had wandered in while looking for Johnny’s place, wanting to drop in since he had moved into the city. After some time in a smaller town, he felt comfortable enough to stand the noise of London proper. So walking down the street he caught the sound of chattering and music earlier in the morning on a fine clear day. 

Gathered around what seemed to be a small shop was a crowd of people eagerly waiting for entrance into the Fox’s Den Bookstore. The collection of people was of a mixed age. Simon noticed a few parents with young children, an older couple, and the rest around early to mid-20s. He looked down at his watch, he had some time, and a light-set curiosity built so he joined the edge of the crowd. He caught some chatter here and there:

“It's Tuesday! You know what that means!” A little girl, looking to be around 8 looked up at her mother and tugged her hand. 

The mom smiled down and nodded, and a student next to them knelt and smiled at the girl. 

“Blueberry muffins today right?”

The child nodded back excitedly and Simon’s battered heart stirred. 

It was a few minutes later but at the ding of the bell, the door finally opened revealing a tall man, who he knew now to be Sam. 

“Come on in everyone! Everything is set up in the back for today's book club! Thanks for coming!” Sam’s eyes scanned the crowd before clocking Simon in the back. With his height, tattoos, and scars he must have looked out of place. Simon hesitated as Sam observed him. The commanding presence of Ghost was still within him, but after a few years of being out of the force he had calmed and gotten used to life in a smaller town. Sometimes, however, when the beasts of his past reared up in his head, Simon felt disassociated and alone, like an outsider.

But Sam only watched and then smiled. 

“Head on in big guy, grab a muffin, they're homemade,” Sam eyes his height, “well perhaps two.”

Simon nods. The man is American he thinks, Sam’s accent standing out. As he enters the bookstore he is met with an open area flanked by a wall on the left, a counter straight ahead guarding a door, then an expanse of bookshelves. 

“Just head straight in and take a right at the counter, there is a path between the shelves to the sitting area. Just mind your step please.” And with that Sam shuts the door and enters behind Simon, going around and taking place at the counter. 

Simon follows the directions, stepping past haphazard piles of books arranged in every sort of way. He seels a stack of all E titles, all aquamarine, then another of leather-bound tomes. His footsteps are muffled by a slightly tattered runner rug, he looks up to find the ceiling painted. A vision of heaven looks back but instead of angels, foxes run amongst the clouds. The art, obviously done with love raises an eyebrow but amuses Simon nonetheless. He moves along and finally makes it to the back of the store and there he finds you. 

Everyone is sitting in a collection of chairs, stools, and even on the floor. The little girl from earlier sits entranced as you finish reading a children's book. Upon finishing she takes the book excitedly.

“You mean I can keep it!” She looks at you with puppy eyes and you laugh, a sound that is music to Simon's ears. 

“Well considering I wrote the book, yes you can!” 

The little girl is ecstatic and runs back to her mother who gives you a gracious smile. Your eyes catch Simon and you smile at him. He freezes and you point to the table set up with your homemade muffins. 

“Well, what are you waiting for? Grab a muffin and join in!” He obediently does as he is told and one of the other children pats the spot next to them.

“You can sit here sir!” 

Simon sits and so progresses book club, Simon’s heart-warming as you proceed to read. Every once in a while a patron calls your name (Simon takes note) and they ask a question which you answer. Meanwhile, Simon lowers his mask to take a bit of one (of the 3 muffins) he took. Upon the piece hitting his tongue he is transported back to brighter times.

Back in a small town in France, between deployments when he was just a tourist, he had stumbled upon a small family bakery. When he entered, the small wife of the baker ushered the large man to a small table. The following onslaught of pastries changed Simon on a fundamental level. After leaving the force, he took up baking trying to emulate the tastes he found. Safe to say he loved the muffins and unashamedly finished the 3 in front of him within a few minutes. 

And there he was in the middle of a random book club. He found a comfortable space and taking another look at you, he would be back.

Simon shakes off the memory as you bag the book, he passes you payment and you hand it and the bag back to him. He checks his watch and mentions to the door.

“I have to go.”

You frown and his lips turn downward. You quickly react under the counter and scribble your phone number on a post-it note before passing it to him.

“Any friend of Johnnys is a friend of mine! Besides, next time you come I owe you tea. Maybe then we can have a proper sit-down and chat!” His hand brushes yours as he takes it and a tingle goes up your spine as his umber eyes meet yours.

He waits a moment, pulls his mask back on then turns around with a quiet goodbye, and a moment later he's gone. 

You spend a moment watching his form disappear into the crowd. Sam takes the time to return from lurking in the back. 

“Spooky huh?” 

“I don’t think so, he's just quiet.”

You reply and your phone buzzes. Sitting under a notification from your mom is a little message of a skull. You smile and set your phone aside, hopeful for Simon’s return. 

Taglist (The Cool Kids)

@ghostlythots

[asumofwords]

Smoke, Fire and Ash

AEMOND POV

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence, death and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on.

This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: You are the eldest daughter of Rhaenyra and Daemon Targaryen. You are forced to navigate the difficult surroundings of your upbringing and the eventual disintegration between your family and the Hightower's relationship. What will happen when your older and estranged uncle suddenly takes a more sinister interest in you? (Dark!Aemond x Reader)

Masterlist

Characters: AEMOND!POV, Aemond Targaryen X Reader, HOTD characters.

Note: Here we have it, another Aemond POV. This takes place during Chapter 6. I hope this satiates your desires for Aemond until he returns hehehe

AEMOND POV for Chapter 6: An eye for an eye

As Aemond walked through the Red Keep to retire to his chambers, the storm outside continued to rage, becoming increasingly violent with every gust of wind and crack of thunder.

The turmoil within him, shown upon the skies.

He had walked briskly. Desperate to reach his chambers, so that he may pump his cock in his hand again at the thought of you. He thought of how he would imagine you this time. He wished more than anything, to see you swollen with his babe. 

For you to beg him for it. 

Please uncle, put your seed in me. I need it, Aemond. I need you.

He stood frozen atop the large stone staircase, looking towards the stained glass mural, watching as flashes of lightning illuminated the dragons and old Gods of Valyria.

Footsteps were almost drowned out by the pouring rain, but to Aemond’s hyper-vigilant ears, they were there distinctly. He slunk into the shadows, much like he had done in his childhood.

The more invisible he was, the more he was likely to escape Aegon’s cruelty.

And then there you were, walking up the stairs heading to your chambers, escorted by a knight. Your cheeks were rosy, even in the low light as you hurriedly walked up the stairs, hands in skirts, desperate to reach your chambers after the evening's events.

Another flash of lightning had you looking up at the stained glass, just as he had.

We are not unlike each other. 

We have more in common than we like to think.

Than you like to think. 

You were surely in denial.

He was not.

And then he thought you caught him, watching in the shadows, but as quick as you had looked, you had begun to move again.

As he watched you rush around the corner, heading to your chambers, he carried on to his, racing to reach his bed so that he may lay upon it and remember your violence from that evening. 

So angry, so cruel, so perfectly you.

Once Aemond reached his chambers, he dismissed the maids with a sharp bark, watching them scuttle out the doors, before he began to rip at the laces of his breeches, his swollen cock pushing up painfully against the leather.

He let a hand shove roughly into the loose trousers, cupping himself tightly, groaning at the sensation. 

Gods, look what you do to me.

He rubbed his rough palm against his cock, calluses from years of sword training and the rough reins on Vhagar, catching and pulling on his sensitive skin. He knew your hands would be so much softer than his, so much smoother.

He let himself fall back on his bed, shimmying his pants down his hips roughly, cock slapping heavily against his stomach. Aemond let his fingers trail gently up and down his shaft, fingers brushing against the soft hairs at the base of his cock.

Would you tease him? 

Or would you have mercy, and give until you could give no more? 

He felt like you would tease him. 

He knew you would.

And so he let a soft finger trail up and down the sensitive skin of the underside of his shaft.

But he wouldn’t let you tease him. 

And so Aemond grabbed his stiffened length, and began to stroke himself roughly, skin so sensitive from his actions earlier that day that it made him wince. 

Would he even be able to reach his peak? Never in his life had he indulged in himself so frequently.

He was a man of the Seven. 

You had undone him.

And so as he thought of your anger, and the fork you had pressed up against his throat, and the way Daemon had kissed you so softly, and stood so close to your back, and how he could smell your oils and scent up close, he came undone.

Hot seed spilled across his stomach and hand as he slowly came to a stop. It happened so quickly, he did not even feel himself rising to his peak, gasping in shock and painful pleasure as he came.

The One-Eyed Prince laid on his back, staring at the ceiling as his cum cooled against his skin, before standing to wipe it away with a cloth angrily at his washing basin.

He could not keep doing this. 

He could not keep succumbing to your seductions. To your very being. It felt like every waking moment since you arrived back in the Red Keep, all he could do was think of you. 

It was maddening.

It was unbecoming. 

And it angered him, this control you suddenly had over him. Control that he had taken back and crafted to his liking. It angered him so much, that he paced in his chambers as the storm raged outside, thinking of ways to get you from his mind. 

Perhaps he would ask Aegon to take him down to the Silk Lanes in Flea Bottom, to a place he had not been in since he was ten-and-three.

Would he feel better if he sunk his cock into the cunt of a whore, eyes closed imagining you?

Or would it not be enough?

Would he know it was not you? Would he feel that it was not your warm tight walls hugging him, gripping him so tightly that he had no choice but to seed you? 

Would it ever be enough?

It wouldn’t.

So without even thinking, Aemond left his chambers through the secret passage near his bed, pushing the picture outwards to stalk through the long corridor like he had so many times before.

Aemond followed his feet, his intuition to a place he had been to plenty of times before as a child. He let his instincts carry him, hand trailing over an X he had carved into the stone for you as children. 

So that you never get lost.

So that you always find your way.

To me.

He remembers that day well.

Or any day well with you. You had spent many hours in the passages together. All of you, or just the two of you. Sometimes Helaena would join you both, but she would mutter about shards of reflections, that soon enough she no longer came with you. 

His sister was so sweet, so gentle, and yet sometimes he worried about her and her mind. He believed her, he did, but he did not know what he was believing.

He remembered how one day Aegon and your brothers had been feeling particularly nasty, and the three had banded together to hit Aemond with their wooden swords all at once, and kick roughly at his shins. 

He remembered the pain in his back and legs, before hearing your voice carry across the training yard, fury in your tone as you screamed at the boys for their cruelty, storming up to them, all fire and rage. 

How you had frightened them all. Even Aegon was quiet.

And as you promised to tell the King of what they had done, Aemond had seen it as an out, and had slunk away back into the Keep whilst the eyes were on you. He had run into the passages to cry alone, feeling the bitter sting of tears well in his eyes, as he stood alone in the low light, hiccupping as he tried to not cry.

He would not cry.

He had to be strong.

He was a Targaryen.

He needed to be strong.

And then suddenly you were there, whispering his name, eyes roaming his figure before you had hugged him so fiercely, he was convinced that you had forcefully squeezed the tears out of him. And if you had noticed that he was crying, you had not said anything. 

Soon the two of you were racing down to stand before the mighty skull of Balerion the Black Dread, so large to the both of you, that you were no more than an ant in its presence. And as you both stared at the dragon, and Aemond felt his tears dry, you turned to look at him. Not pitying him or in disgust, simply looked at him and declared that he would ride a dragon as mighty as Balerion had been, and that in the meantime, until it hatched, he could ride with you upon Syndor.

And then he went on to claim Vhagar.

He had not known it as a child, but the soft bloom of love had begun to grow for you that day. Not a love that you hold for your family, as is expected. But a love that he would cherish you, hold you, see you as his equal. 

Give his all to you.

He did not realise those feelings for you until many years later. When his scar had healed and his face had grown, only then did he realise the ache that he held for you was not just one of betrayal, but one of heartbreak too.

Aemond reached the familiar entrance and pulled on it. It was stiff, from disuse. No one used your chambers since you had left. And he had avoided it like Grey Scale.

When he entered your room, he did not care if you were awake to see it, or deep in a dream.

Let you see him. 

Let you know that he still remembers. 

He closed the passage behind him as lightning lit the room. The light of the fire had slowly dwindled and the candles and oil lamps that lit the room were out. Only the soft glow of the storm and what little flames remained in the fireplace illuminated the space.

Then he saw you, and his heart raced.

You lay still in your bed, sheets tangled around you, silver hair laying across your pillow like streams of light, with some strands gently caressing your face. 

You looked so calm, so at peace. Such a stark difference to the evenings events.

Such a stark difference since he had watched you return to King’s Landing. So soft and gentle you looked. So godly. No sneer on your face, or blush on your cheeks from wine. There was no furrowing of your brow, or pout from your plump lips. 

How beautiful you had grown. 

Aemond moved to pour himself wine from your table, before sitting in the shadow beside your bed on a soft armchair, so that he may gaze upon you without interruption.

Without your disapproval. 

It was a rare thing to have such beauty like this. To enchant Aemond as much as you did. In all his years of life, not once had he been so drawn to a woman, except his sister Helaena. Sure, some women of the court would attempt to pursue him as a Prince and second son of the King, though he could tell his eye was off-putting for most. 

He had brushed them all off. It didn’t feel right. It didn’t feel natural. 

But you? 

You felt right. You felt the way it should. The way he was told by his brother that it should. 

It was overwhelming. Suffocating. Dizzying.

And as he brought the wine to his lips to sip, and felt the spiced Dornish liquid glide down his throat with ease, watching your chest rise and fall with such grace in your undisturbed sleep, a large crash of lightning lit up the room, and he watched as you were catapulted from your sleep to join the rest of the living. 

He watched as you wildly scanned the room for danger, eyes glazing over him, not noticing the Prince in your post sleep haze, before you swung your legs over the bed, ripping the blankets away from your body, revealing yourself to him in your thin nightgown.

How you swam in it. 

How it drowned you in its soft material, and how each of your curves clung to it as you moved. You walked straight past him to pour yourself water, your scent tickling his nose with the now disturbed air. You were immediately drawn to the light of the dying fire, standing before it, drinking slowly as you looked out at the storm. 

And what a vision you were. 

Your hair was messed and tangled, your chemise was wrinkled and roughed, and all he could see was the softness of your skin, the gentleness of your curves and the small slow breaths you took as you drank the water.

Your back straightened as you looked on, and you turned to face him, eyes catching his form.

Finally.

But then you blinked, and took a step forward towards him, and then another, and then another. And Aemond began to question himself. 

Did you see him? 

Were you expecting him? Or were you at ease seeing him? Perhaps it was all an act, all a performance to force his hand, to make him bend to your will and come to your chambers. 

Or do you dream of him too? 

Did you think you were dreaming?

“You’re quite the heavy sleeper, Princess.” He commented, and watched in disappointment and also in pride as the glass fell from your hands, crashing against the stone below, small shards spraying about your feet, gasp spilling from your lips.

And then you stood so still, almost in shock, not saying anything. Not even uttering his name. And that was when Aemond knew you had grown to fear him.

He felt his heart crash, and then soar. He did not know how to feel. To see you in pain or fear brought him pleasure like no other, satiating the younger boy within him who had to endure so much.

But then the other part of him cried out. 

How had you grown to despise him so? Hate him so? When you had been so close? When you had spent so much time together, laughing, smiling and knowing each other more intimately than anyone else.

Aemond sipped his wine in thought.

And as he got lost in the pain of your dismissal of your bond together, again came the pleasure, but this time, from witnessing the rise and fall of your chest, breasts pushing against the soft white chemise.

He felt himself stiffening.

“Do not tell me you have gone quiet now, hm? You had so much to say at dinner.” Aemond smirked. 

Could he push her to fight him again? To have her push herself against him, with so little separating them? Would he feel your br-

“How long have you been in here?” You hissed, hand coming up to clutch at the front of your dress, where his gaze had sat.

He did not even have to do anything to warrant such a reaction.

So easy. 

Perhaps he would feel you against him. 

Aemond stood languidly, taking lazy and smooth steps towards you, looking down at his wine, swirling it in his hand. His long fingers delicately grasping the rim of the drink as he did. 

He stalked slowly towards you, watching as your eyes darted about his face.

“Your handmaidens took such lovely care for you, even fetching your favourite book.”He spoke, casually with no emotion, emphasising the last word. 

That book held so many memories. 

Not just for you, but for him too. Countless times had he taken refuge at the Godswood, hiding behind its trunk on the opposite side of you, so as not to be seen by you or Helaena if she was there.

So many times he had run from the torment of his brother and nephews to a place he knew you would be, and would sit, back against the bark, willing his anger and sorrow to leave him. Pushing it deep, deep, down inside of him.

How many times had he listened to you read silently, until suddenly you would read aloud. That same book, over and over again. Like you had known he was there, like you had known that it calmed him. How he had searched the library top to bottom for years in search of that book, never finding it. Mourning the only piece he had of you left.

But he knew that you had known he was there, and he knew that you hadn’t voiced it. You had simply let it be. A silent, gentle offer of refuge, neither spoken nor acknowledged. 

It simply was.

“You know,” He took another large step forward, still observing the wine as if the conversation bored him, “Sometimes I would sneak into your room when you were gone and read it.” His eye still on his drink. 

A lie.

The day you left those chambers, was the last day he entered them. 

He watched you step backwards, feet pressing down onto the sharp shards of glass, a whimper leaving your lips. 

At first he was concerned, but that was shortly replaced by the anger of the night, remembering how you had defended your bastard brothers again, and not him. 

When they were laughing at his expense, you laughed with them. How you mocked him, in a way which you had known would hurt him. After all, you had been there to comfort him after he was presented with the pig.

How you had changed.

You had become vicious.

Unforgiving.

Merciless. 

“You reminded me of something at dinner.” He reflected, brow lifted in thought, “I had not truly seen my dear niece since the day I lost my eye.” 

Aemond walked to the side placing his goblet upon the table next to the decanter, stopping to pause and look out at the storm flashing across the sky. It was a beautiful sight, and so reflective of his inner turmoil.

Bursting at the seams with electrifying rage.

“We were children,” You had said quickly, “Lucerys was just a boy.” 

Aemond fought the urge to scoff.

Why did everyone say that to him? 

Why does everyone pretend that he wasn’t a child too? 

That he wasn't a child when his eye was taken. That he wasn't a child when he was mocked, and ridiculed, and bullied. That he wasn't a child when too high expectations were placed upon his shoulders. 

All people ever did was think of the bastard who took it. 

Where is his justice? 

Where is his mothers justice?

How Rhaenyra had spoken before all of the court loudly as he was stitched together, before their very eyes. A boy no older than ten, eye gouged from his socket, and Maester slowly stitching up his wound that not even men in battle would face.

How his whore sister had declared that he should be investigated and punished for his treasonous comment. 

His own sister. 

A sister, much older than he. A sister matured and aware of the world. Aware of consequences. Especially the consequences of birthing not one, but three bastards. 

How his father had demanded he tell who had spouted the treasonous truths. How Aemond had known that his mother had been the one to tell him. How he had known he could not offer her up as retribution. 

How they had all been so quick to punish him for something that was plain for all to see. Had he not been punished enough? Was an eye not enough for them?

For his sister?

For his father, the King?

For his nephew, whose nose merely bled?

Even with one eye, Aemond, and all else who did not deceive themselves, could still see the uncanny resemblance that the three young boys had to the late Ser Harwin Strong.

Aemond hummed.

“I was a child too…” He uttered. 

His eyes trailed down your body, looking at the small bloody footprints that had walked backwards, a small puddle beginning to pool at your feet.

Good. 

Let her bleed as I did.

He watched goosebumps erupt over your skin as he looked you over. You straightened your back and lifted your head high, feet firmly planting themselves onto the stone floors, no doubt pushing the glass deeper in the soles of your feet, as you stared at his face.

There she is, my little dragon. 

“If you want to take my eye, then so be it. Then maybe you will stop this obsession. How many years have you waited, uncle? How many? Too many for a sane man.” 

He noted that your voice shook.

Let her see what they have done to me. 

Let her see the man I was forced to become.

Aemond reached up to pull the eyepatch away from his face, revealing the sapphire orb and the deep scar that marred his face. 

It ached.

Those beautiful lips of yours parted, and Aemond watched as your  hands twitched.

Was she going to hold me? 

To touch me? 

To console him the way you should have on that fateful night? To hold him against your soft skin and tender breast, whispering promises to be better. Praises that he was indeed a good man. That his scar did not make him ugly, nor a monster, nor undesirable. 

That his scar was proof of his strength. 

His resilience. 

His power.

But then your hand stilled, and reality crashed back down on him. There would be no late apologies falling from your plump lips, nor would there be sweet whispers for forgiveness in his ears.

The One-Eyed Prince watched your arm move upwards, and he surged forward, all anger and rage. Jealousy and spite. Years of bitter resentment and sorrow flooding forth, before he shoved his forearm into your neck, pushing you roughly back against the stone behind you.

He could feel you try to swallow, try to breathe, and so he pushed harder. 

Let her suffocate the way I have in this Keep.

The way I have in her absence.

Your eyes were wide, and for the first time he saw how small you truly were.

He loved it. 

It made his heart race and his cock swell the way you looked up at him. And so he slowly pushed harder, listening to you gasp his name in desperation. Your pupils expanding in the darkness of the room.

Such a pretty sound. 

He wanted to hear his name on your lips more than anything. More like this. Desperate for him. Desperate for his mercy.

He pulled his blade from his belt and slowly dragged it up your cheek, watching at how you shook beneath his hold, eyes desperately searching his face.

He wished to run the blade down your skin and lap at your essence as it spilled forth. He wanted to carve his name into you so that you may never forget him. So that you would carry a piece of him always. 

But there were other ways you could carry him too.

Inside of you. 

Swelling with a babe. 

That would be a gift that the Gods surely owed him.

Your face began to turn red, and eyes welled with tears. 

Let her breathe, so that she may play.

“I won’t blind you, I’m no monster.” He smirked, lightly pushing the blade on your skin.

“An eye for an eye. Justice my mother never got.” He purred.

Or perhaps he would take your eye after all. 

So that you would truly be one. Two halves of a whole. Together, forever in unity.

No man would marry you, but he would. He would care for you the way you should have. He would hold you and make sure to put ointment on the wound. Ensure to tell you that you were a monster just as he, but one of beauty. One of strength.

But then you told him to do it. 

To take your eye.

Aemond found that in that moment, he could not do it. He would not do it. If you thought for one second that he would allow you to hold such power over him? To believe that your eye in place of his would repent for the sins of the family? The sins of your brother? Repentance of your abandonment of him? 

You were wrong. So terribly wrong.

But you were so beautiful like this.

Bleeding and weak, bent to his strength. Begging for him to maim you. To hurt you. To take your eye. Breathing so quickly your breasts rose and fell against the chemise, to the point of distraction. 

And distract him, they did.

What would they look like? 

What would they taste like? 

He wanted to pull them between his teeth, to lick at the stiffened nubs and roughly palm the other. He wondered what your skin would look like marred with pretty bruises from his teeth or hands. 

Would you let him drag his blade across them to suck? Would they swell with his babe in your belly? Would they leak at night, laid in bed together, as he pinched and pulled? Would you let him relieve you of their fullness?

He wanted to see.

No, he needed to see.

His face came closer as he looked down at your lips, so close, so full, so perfect to slide his cock into. So perfect to press desperate kisses against, plump enough for him to nip roughly at the skin, making you cry out.

He wished to hear you cry for him.

So he tucked the blade away. 

You would not cry in pain.

Your apprehension irritated him.

You truly saw him as a monster.

As some vile man. 

He could have had you the moment you entered the Keep. He could have had you in the training yard, Aegon and Lords watching. He could have had you at dinner atop the table, or on the dirt floor by the Godswood. He could have snuck into your chambers the night you arrived, and forced himself inside of you as you slept.

Oh, to see your face. 

How your eyes would snap open, and a small cry would fly from your lips before he would silence you with his. How he would rut deeply into you, smoothly, slowly, letting you feel every inch of him as his tip kissed your cervix. 

Or perhaps he would become his brother, and fuck you senseless as you cried, letting you bleed on his length, then leave without a second thought once he filled your cunt with his seed.

But the look in your face right then made him change his mind. 

“Worry not niece, I wouldn’t want to ruin your beautiful face.”

And Gods be good, Aemond would be lying if he didn’t enjoy the confusion that rippled across your face. His hand came out to touch where the blade had pushed itself into your skin, watching as you did not flinch at his touch, and how your brow furrowed further.

She could love me.

She could. 

You were so enchanting, so enthralling. So suffocatingly his, and you did not even know it yet. How could you? When you yourself were in denial. You were the perfect match. You had to figure it out for yourself, and if you did not in time, he would make you.

He would show you.

You were meant to be his. And he, yours.

He turned to leave, clenching his jaw as he pulled himself away from you. It was hard, and took so much effort to do. To pull himself away from you was almost as painful as losing his eye. It made his entire being ache, and his heart cry out.

Not yet. I can’t have you yet.

It is too soon.

Let her see.

Let her truly see me.

Then she will come. 

He heard your soft voice, calling him back to you, a siren song, confused and dazed, voice hoarse from his arm, and not from your cries of pleasure. Even as your fingertips brushed his arm, and he felt his cock harden, he kept on.

Let her think.

Let her drive herself mad the way she has driven me the past days. Let her feel the desperation I was forced into as a child.

Let her fear as I have. 

Let her suffer.

And then you chased him, and that small little hand of yours wrapped itself around his wrist, whispering kepus (uncle) and he almost turned and made you his. That small hand gripping him was so soft and tiny.

Perfectly his.

Made for him. 

How soft and good it would feel as it stroked his cock, the way he had imagined earlier that day. The way his cock would make your hands look so much smaller. 

Would they be clumsy?

Would he have to guide your hands, instructing you on what to do? Teaching you how he loved to rub a slick thumb on the underside of the head of his cock, and gently caress it? 

Would you listen to your uncle and follow his instructions? Would you blush as he praised your good work? Would you kiss his tip gently before he would reach his climax? Would you lick the mess straight from him, or bring it up to your sweet mouth with your fingers?

His cock throbbed in his breeches, and he wrenched his arm away from you, to prevent himself from devouring you right then and there. 

You snipped and sneered at him, and hissed like a cat. So angry, so demanding, but he would give you nothing. Until he would give you everything.

“Sȳz bantis zaldrītsos.” (Goodnight little dragon) He had purred before leaving.

And it took strength.

A great deal of strength to leave your chambers.

Aemond was many things. 

First and foremost, a man. A Targaryen Prince. A second son. A dutiful servant to his Queen. A lover. A kind brother to his sister. A patient one to Aegon. An ear for Alicent and all her worries.

He was an uncle, and a cousin. A good student. A swordsman and a Dragon Rider; the largest dragon in the realm, no less. Passionate and determined. Patient and well read.

He was spiteful and bitter. Jealous and careless. Petty and unforgiving in most circumstances. A man of faith to the Seven. A follower of tradition. 

Aemond was many things.

And he was a man gone mad to love.

Thanks so much for reading along with me, if you wish to be added to the tag list please let me know :) Likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated ! Enjoy <3

Tag List:

@izzicle @ej-shitchats @may-machin @alegria1580 @witchy-jadda @videovampire @inkdelicious @queteimporta39 @virtualsweetsqueen @fo-cus @auratiqs @feyres-fireheart @queenofshinigamis @asoiafwh8re @teasandcrumpets @shesjustanothergeek @grungegrrrl@queenofsarcazm @marihoneywk @curlszx88 @virgogaia @loser-keiji @asoiafwh8re @whore-of-many-hot-men @vipervixxen @theonewiththeimaginaryboyfriends @watercolorskyy @lavendervisions @mazmack666 @chokefrog @orangejump-suit @nik2blog @serrhaewinin @ohemgeewhat @winxschester @cryptidsrcool @drinking-tea-and-be-obsessed @celestedonut @bloodyvelvet777 @iamapersonthatsalive @av-sos @yentroucnagol @sanzu-s @opheliaas-stuff @bellameshipper @maviee @persephonerinyes

[hanafubukki]

chaos hype anon: i have seen your reply and i am giggling as more time shenanigan weirdness comes to play.

imagine crowley now having to deal with the husbands now that MC is married and he’ll have hell to pay if the husbands caught wind of Crowley overworking and underpaying their wife

also that reminds me, would everyone in NRC actually know that MC is married to 2 wonderful men and Silver is her kid? The chaos that unfolds would be hilarious if that’s the case.

(References: Fanfic, Ask 1, Ask 2, Ask 3, Ask 4)

Hi Chaos Hype Anon🌻🌺🌷

The way I evil laughed when you brought up Crowley Anonie 😂😈, now he can’t get away with doing whatever the hell he wants.

I mean here you have a well known General of the Faes and in parallel Knight of Dawn, who is just as respected. And then you have, Dire Crowley. Even if Crowley is strong, just the…respect and reputation from both Lilia and Dawn will have him cowering especially if it affects NRC somehow.

Lilia’s threats would include either the mischievous sort or a shadow version of himself during his general days. He still has the abilities of one after all.

The Knight of Dawn is the quiet and straightforward type, so I can see him acting/talking in a way that makes you feel guilty for doing a wrong or literally ready to fight for his loved ones.

As for the NRC students, I want to say those closest to YN would know. It would be funny just the way they would react to the whole situation 🤣

For example:

Riddle, how will he treat you now? Are you technically older? Does he use other honorifics?

Vil and Rook finding out the age of Lilia, Dawn, and Silver. Vil asking Dawn and Silver their skin routine only to have a near heart attack when they give bare minimum answers.

Octa trying to somehow make money out of having two historical figures at school. Just good old NRC shenanigans.

Trein now having not only Lilia and Malleus telling him that history is wrong, you have the Knight of Dawn as well. I can just imagine his headache and need to retire lolol

And then we have our Mob students, oh our lovely mob students. The ones who likely don’t know or don’t care. They are going to regret it if they try to pick a fight with our lovely YN 🤭💞

I can see the mob students picking fights with the Knight of Dawn just like they do with RSA students.

Thank you for sending this in Anonie 💞🌺

[oxygen-stealer]

Scriddler fic recommendations!!!

Stay (2017) by iammemyself

Rating: General

49,873 words, 11/11 chapters (discontinued)

Arkhamverse

After Arkham Knight, Jonathan and Edward move to Canada together, where the full weight of Edward's grief crashes down on the both of them.

This fic is fucking miserable in the best way possible. It feels so grey and depressing like almost the entire time even with its ups and downs. Things get better, but it's fucking hard. Legit among my favorite fics. Also Jon's so obscenely old here I love it lmfao. (There's also a Stay (2016) I haven't actually looked at, might be a prequel or smthn idk)

I'm With You by nonbinaryspock

Rating: Mature

50,684 words, 35/35 chapters

Jonathan and Edward rekindle their somewhat messy relationship from their college years. Things are still a bit messy but they've at least got some hindsight.

Hella angsty, they're both so horribly dysfunctional <3 (specifically Jonathan will just say/think the absolute wildest shit and then just go on like that's normal). I really just love how visceral their emotions can be.

Runs In The Family by ChaoticMimzy

Rating: Mature

8,703 words, 5/5 chapters

Edward's father dies and he goes to his funeral (solely to be there for his sister, mind you) where he grapples with past trauma and catholic guilt.

Very very rogues podcast coded (highest compliment). It's mostly Edward-centric and doesn't focus on the scriddler too much but it's still worth a read. Edward's rage towards his childhood circumstances is so potent and agonizing I love it so much. He should get to kill god a little bit imo

(More below)

Let me play you a song on my violin by batmanforeverlol

Rating: Teen

7,206 words, 1/1 chapters

Ghost AU. Edward is a retired criminal turned private investigator who finds himself running through a cemetery, where he meets a man playing a violin.

Ngl I cried super hard reading this but it's also one of my absolute favorites. Why would you write this? Why would you hurt me in this way? (It's really sweet but also really fucking sad, you should read it. Share my pain)

Terminal by iammemyself, promethea (Aerosol)

Rating: General

7,073 words, 1/1 chapters

Edward gets brain cancer again, this time the Lazarus pits aren't gonna help him.

As you could imagine, this fic is just sad from start to finish. I cried so fucking much reading it its not even funny.

He Just Likes The Rush by Human_Resourccs

Rating: General

16,072 words, 9/9 chapters

Jonathan's thrill-seeking brings him some interesting company. (Or, as I know it: the fic where a fucking spider lives in Jonathan's hair for months and Edward still lets him touch him. If that's not love I don't know what is)

Sapiophile by XavIniesta685

Rating: Mature

17,529 words, 3/3 chapters

The Moon Is Not Made Of Cheese by Stry_Shttu

Jonathan has given up in every sense and is about to leave Gotham until a series of events change his mind. A lot of "falling in love within a day" fics can feel kinda forced but this one flows really naturally.

Rating: Teen

7,820 words, 1/1 chapters

Arkhamverse

Edward is lonely, Jonathan goes to see him while also being Jason Todd's really lame dad. A good mix of sweet and silly.

The Boy With The Thorn In His Side by 30PacketsofKetchup

Rating: Teen

21,542 words, 8/? chapters (this fic hasn't been updated in like 5 years so be ready for that specific brand of agony)

Teenager AU. Jonathan meets the mildly annoying new boy in town and they bond.

I looove this fic so much I'm absolutely heartbroken that it wasn't ever finished. Idk the vibes are nice and I love how flustered young Jon gets when he's got a crush.

South of Hell by nonbinaryspock

Rating: Teen

14,194 words, 35/35 chapters

Teenager AU. No one in their awful little town likes Edward or Jonathan, but they've at least got eachother. Very southern gothic.

Exit Wounds by nonbinaryspock

Rating: Teen

18,066 words, 38/38 chapters

Demon/supernatural AU. Edward is a private investor and his demon ex-boyfriend suddenly shows up after 5 years in need of a place to stay. Edward is thoroughly unimpressed.

I'm in love with this AU big time, it's got some pretty neat world building. I also love how distinctive the characterizations here are. BAH I'm not great at describing but it's very angsty and good.

Frighteningly Unprofessional by bookynerdgoblin

Rating: Mature

28,412 words, 11/11 chapters

One of Jonathan's students knows about his unethical experiments, however instead of reporting him, he offers to help in exchange for his partnership. Things spiral from there. Edward is purposefully being super obvious and Jonathan talks to his cat like a person.

Words by scarecrowv

Rating: General

4,651 words, 1/1 chapters

Edward's daughter keeps calling Jon "mama" and he has no idea how to handle it, aka psychology professor Dr Jonathan Crane talks to a 2 year old like an adult.

A Case Study in Step-Parenting by Ifthinkerwrites

Rating: General

16,053 words, 5/5 chapters

Another lil scriddler family fic, Jonathan navigates step-parenthood :)

Sitzfleisch by SproxGrail

Rating: Mature

1,205 words, 1/? chapters

Jonathan is living in Edward's walls and talks about him like a little freak. I need this fic to update again please please please it's so creepy I'm in love with it

Some series to look at as well!

Memoryverse by Enigmatic_Robin

Rating: General

15,393 words, 11 works

A bit more of a psychological horror/thriller than a romance. Jonathan is manipulating Edward into complete dependency. It seems easy while Edward is in love with him, but he'd better watch out for when that veil slips.

Scriddler Family AU by Enigmatic_Robin

Rating: General

17,722 words, 9 works

Scarecrow and Riddler end up raising Stephanie Brown and Tim Drake. And all the shenanigans that come with that.

Love Me Dead by lymongrab

Rating: Explicit

25,624 words, 6 works

Kinda just a nice progression in Jonathan and Edward's relationship with some added spice here and there. Mostly pretty sweet.

Arkhamverse by iammemyself

Rating: General

354,608 words, 28 works

In which Edward and Jonathan's relationship is a bit complicated, but Edward is also a robot dad!!

(Everything from here is nsfw centric)

This section would be longer but i actually found out the person who wrote some nsfw fics i really liked was actually a proshipper weirdo so I'm not including those. Why can't people be normal

Kiss The Go-Goat by korereapers

Rating: Explicit

5,203 words, 1/1 chapters

Demon AU. Edward summons a demon and gets a little carried away

Shout out to this fic for getting me into Ghost, the only band I ever listen to now lmfao. Anyway I'm a big sucker for anything involving monster/demon/creature!Jon

Connected by korereapers

Rating: Explicit

6,458 words, 1/1 chapters

A hookup gets wayyy more emotional than expected. But, y'know, they're not in love or anything. Right?

Comfort by curiouscorvid (prometheanTactician)

Rating: Explicit

4,866 words, 1/1 chapters

Mad Max AU. Edward is traversing the wasteland, where he finds and helps a desperate escapee.

I've found that Mad Max AUs are always so sad no matter what even though the movie itself is kinda silly lmfao.

worldly pleasures by leetheshark

Rating: Explicit

3,227 words, 1/1 chapters

Arkhamverse

Jonathan doesn't really know how to handle any sensation that isn't painful.

[sundaynightlive]

Plagued With Love (Merthur)

(TW: Mentions of suicide, child neglect/abuse, nothing is SUPER explicit but it's there, so stay safe, always.)

Basically, a concept I came up with: Merlin and Arthur are each other's other halves, per a Druid prophecy, a prophecy which has been horrendously mistranslated by the Pendragon line.

Arthur's knights have been told, been tasked with killing Merlin, and Arthur must finally tell them the truth of his circumstance, and not the one that has been forced upon him by blood.

When the time has come 

That order will fall, and chaos

Will assume it’s rightful throne, 

A golden prince will be born to

A fearsome king, and he will be

Different—

Plagued with love.

This translation of Arthur’s fate is piss-poor, but he knows how it echoes in the minds of his knights. They have finally been told of his so-called fate, the fate that has guided his entire life, and since hearing it, they have been quiet.

Eerily so.

The true word of the ancient druids is far more complicated, but it is not unlike old rulers to twist the word of magic and make it sour. Kings are scared of what they cannot control. 

So they banish it instead.

But Arthur didn’t know this, and his mother and father did not know this, so when he was born golden—blond, unlike a single prince before him—they knew what they must do. 

His father elected to kill him, but his mother would not have it. They argued—he bellowed and she begged. The physician intervened and Uther slit his throat. His mother wept. She pleaded. 

She offered an alternative.

It was decided then that the only way they could defy prophecy and spare their child’s life was if they did not love him.

And so Arthur grew away from his parents, surrounded by faceless servants who were rotated lest they form an attachment. He cannot imagine how he might have turned out if he had had no love at all—cold. Unfeeling and lacking empathy beyond reason. He might have been ruthless, he might have been damned.

But, like his mother, fate had intervened.

Arthur was only 8 when the boy appeared in the kitchens with him, big blue eyes and a shock of dark hair—he remembers being jealous, then, because even at that age, he had already heard the whispers—

Golden, like the sun.

It never darkens, not even in winter.

It is true what they say—he is cursed.

Cursed. Arthur clung to that, back then. He was cursed, he was plagued—he was somehow evil and it was his fault his father could not look at him, that his mother had struggled so deeply and taken her life when he was much younger. Every part of him was bad, so bad that he was not worth staying around for. He could not even mean something to the people who fed and bathed him and slipped him books to read.

He was nothing.

And then Merlin.

Arthur had been startled by him, as he was peeking out of a cupboard, somewhere he should not be—Arthur had been reprimanded many times for hiding in places like those, and he knew better, now.

But here was this boy, peeking out at him with a finger to his lips.

It started slowly, quietly. Merlin—or as Arthur knew him, the boy, would appear in places he was not meant to be, always watching and smiling at Arthur as though Arthur were meant to smile back. 

Arthur never did, not then.

He had meant to ask someone, one of his servants, whether or not the boy was staff or someone’s child, but every time he thought of it, he couldn’t bring himself to. He did not overtly enjoy Merlin’s presence, and often times it disturbed him greatly that nobody seemed to notice him, but he worried that if he were to tell, he would never see Merlin again.

And Merlin was the only one who had been constant. Everyone else, a tumultuous wave of different faces, ones he almost never recognized.

But the boy stayed the same.

For two entire years.

It was just after Arthur turned ten—maybe a week or less, that when he retired to his chambers one night, he was waiting there, cross-legged on Arthur’s bed. The prince had a passing thought about him looking quite pretty, but it was soon disrupted by panic.

“What are you doing?” he had demanded, “If someone finds you here—“

Arthur cuts off abruptly as the boy presses his fingers to his lips, pulls himself off the bed and slips beneath it. Arthur just watches, stricken, because he doesn’t know what else to do.

Is this boy going to kill him? Surely he would’ve tried by now.

A servant of Arthur’s comes to get him ready for bed, only ever suspicious once, very briefly, when Arthur stammers about not needing a bath that night. Hesitantly, this request is obliged, and makes for a much shorter visit. Arthur watches the servant go, and the door get shut, and by the time he turns back around, the boy is sat on his on his bed as he was before.

“What do you—“

“I’m Emrys,” the boy says, extending a hand, “But you’re meant to call me Merlin.” 

Arthur doesn’t know what he means by that, but he can’t bring himself to ask. Instead, he steps forward, all the way up to the bed, and takes Merlin’s hand in his own.

“Alright, Merlin,” Arthur says, teasing, but also testing it on his tongue. It’s new, putting a name to a face. The only names he knows are of his parents, and those are heard only in passing. 

Especially his mother’s.

“Why are you here?”

And then Merlin smiles at him, and Arthur feels something stir all the way in his bones—

“I have much to tell you.”

As it turned out, Merlin was tempting fate just as his parents were, and he told Arthur all about it, from how he had stolen away from his mother to come here, about how he was a Druid, about how there was a prophecy, and his father knew the wrong one, but Merlin knew the right one, and then Merlin told Arthur both, and Arthur finally understood why he had always been held a castle's-length away.

It was not because he was bad—it was because his ancestors had framed him that way. Fear of change had stolen his parents from him, stolen everything from him.

But not Merlin.

Merlin stuck around, and they had many nights like this. They became best friends, inseparable in the shadows and writing letters whenever Merlin disappeared back to his people, magic carrying their words between them.

And magic—Merlin taught Arthur of magic, the way it could be weilded with strength, love, and honor. It’s power did not corrupt, it was neither good nor bad—the more Arthur learned, the more he understood, and the more he understood, the more he detested his father and his council. 

But did he blame them?

Magic—the druids—had "cursed" his son and in the process, taken his wife. Such misery would convince any man to follow in his father’s footsteps. And in this case, many, many fathers before that. 

For a while, Arthur felt angry. Then, like sinking into a warm bath, he only felt pity. His father could not ever know, or accept, the light that could come with magic, and for that, his kingdom, and his heart, would always be weaker than someone’s who could.

Against all odds, Arthur forgave his father, and he loved him. And he loved his mother, too, for sparing his life, for loving him so much she couldn’t bare to keep her own—he wishes she had been stronger, but more than that, he’s grateful for the strength she gave. To save him, to fight for him, to love him despite how it ruined her.

He loves her. He loves her desperately.

At sixteen, when Uther sensed no imminent danger on the horizon, Arthur began training as a knight. Only his peers and his mentors were aware who he was, and why he was here, and they were warned to keep their distance. This did not stop Arthur from becoming great friends with these boys—he just had to go about it very carefully, only speaking kindly in the confines of the armory, only showing his affections by sending gifts, sharing food, nodding short and sweet in the hallway.

These men, unlike the staff, knew not of the prophecy. They were too young, too ignorant, and kept intentionally in the dark.

Until recently, of course.

But all this is just to say Arthur did know love, in many forms, now, and soon these men he called his brothers would know that, if they did not already. And he would have to explain to them, once they stopped to make camp, that the task they had been sent to complete could not be done—because Arthur would not do it.

This conversation is approaching fast.

As the sun begins to set over the horizon, Arthur feels his throat close around the words.

We should stop and rest for the night.

It takes him a few minutes to come around to saying it, only reassured at the notion it would take them a while to gather firewood and start a blaze and eat their breads and soups.

He seems to blink and the time has come.

“I think I—“

“Sit,” Arthur says, and Gwaine freezes, half standing. Slowly, he sinks back down. “We have something to discuss.”

“Sire—“ Leon tries, but Arthur cuts him off as well.

“The prophecy my father spoke to you of—“

“Your highness, all due respect, something that is out of your control does not cast doubt on our loyalties,” Lancelot interrupts, and Arthur knows he means well, so he allows him to finish, “We have known each other since we were boys, and the prophecy has always been—you are no different now than you were then.” 

Arthur offers him a small, grateful smile, and then sighs.

“Thank you. But allow me to explain.” Arthur takes a deep breath— “My father’s version of this prophecy has been passed down through many generations of royal family, all of which handled it with agenda, and contempt for that which they did not understand. The idea that magic is a corruptive and chaotic force is a lie that has been used not only to spread fear and hate, but to destroy the lives of innocent people, and spill blood over Camelot’s name as a warning, so that people who are easy to rule see it safe, and those who have the power to stand in line with the people at the behest of my father’s tyranny see it unapproachable—unfathomable, even.”

Despite himself, Arthur feels anger burn like the fire at his feet, a deep, hot hatred for what fear and greed has done to his kingdom, his family, his life. He feels a bottomless empathy for all the people who’ve died because of a pointless lie. He feels for Merlin, whom he loves endlessly, and who has hidden him and his people away for years now to keep safe, to keep living. For Merlin who had to risk everything just to step into Arthur’s life and save it, and did it anyway. 

Yet Arthur’s father would set his lover on fire if given the chance.

The knights are quiet, digesting. Arthur does not leave them in the quiet for long.

“The original prophecy is written in ancient druid tongue,” he goes on, “No living man can read it except one—my Merlin.” 

He makes sure to say "my." He hopes the insinuation lands. He hopes they start to get it.

“Dragon prince, born of gold, will not but strength and valor hold, for soon the time will come to pass, is born a golden second half.” 

The first part of a long prophecy—he should have warned them. And maybe he should talk slower, but it is so ingrained in him now, it just spills out, like a river.

“And should they meet, then it should come, a spanning legacy undone—for what should end if not to start, with dual thrones and tethered hearts?” 

Despite his age, this does not fail to make Arthur blush. He had been ten when he first heard it, completely oblivious to all such matters, and now he was twenty, and things were much clearer, but it always struck him as a bit embarrassing to be fated into love. There are such fantasies as being someone’s “soulmate” or “destiny” or however you’d like to put it—it’s different when it’s real. 

Different than you’d think.

“The kingdom too will cease it’s reign, embrace which what it might have slain, to quell the quest of spilling blood, to prosper with persisting love,” he breathes, and finishes the verse, “Magic takes an empty throne, and dragon takes a rightful one, and if the coronation serves, the kingdom reaps what it deserves.”

He swallows—a mouthful, but an important one. Important for understanding, for getting where they’re going, and for his knights to make their decision. 

Stand with Arthur, or with his father.

“In short,” Arthur says, “I have known this other half since I was a child, and I have loved him as a piece of my soul from the first day I saw him, to the last time we spoke, to now, where I, and you, have been tasked with mercilessly slaughtering him. In my father’s eyes, this will save me. But it cannot be done.”

There is quiet. And then—

“Cannot or will not?” Elyan questions quietly. Arthur nods, having expected this.

“Both,” he answers, “Merlin, Emrys--the man we have been sent to kill--is magic-born.”

Someone’s breath hitches, but in the firelight, Arthur can not tell whose. This little detail had been promptly left out by his father—that Merlin was not practicing, but was of magic itself. These are two entirely different things, and these knights know it. Arthur prays this sews the seeds of doubt in their minds, that his father had sent them to their deaths without a second thought—his own son, too.

They swim in the quiet for a while. Arthur is content to lean back against his tree and take in the sounds of the forest—chirping, croaking, buzzing, all manner of life and creature. Merlin tells him that in the quiet, if he eases his mind enough, he can hear the thrum of magic in the air and the trees and the water, should there be water nearby.

Arthur has tried, but it is not meant for him.

“I will not ask you to commit treason,” Arthur says, eventually, “But know this… I cannot raise my blade to him. I cannot even raise my voice at him, unless he’s being particularly insufferable. I will not let any of you hurt him, and he will not let you hurt his people. This means that you must turn your swords on both future kings of Camelot tomorrow. I am… I am sorry it must be done this way.”

And with this, he stands.

“Please…” his voice breaks, as hard as he fights not to let it, “Think about what I’ve told you.”

And he makes for his tent, heart in his throat, hopeful to live until sunrise so he may see his lover before the fall.

[nightmarist]

more zevwyll propaganda:

Wyll is the Blade of Frontiers and of course will help anyone he can. he grew up in a city surrounded by stories of essentially fairytales that were real, heroes and villains, his own father is a hero who now leads a city guard, Wyll must absolutely love to think about the Flaming Fist as heroes and protectors.

Zevlor is a commander of the Hellriders, another infamous group of city guard who are known to have actually gone into Hell to fight devils alongside an angel (Zariel). While this event was before Zevlor's time, it is the factor in their infamy and many people in Elturel grow up being Horse People(tm) because they want to get an upper hand in trying to join the riders. He is an older man in position of power over the very kind of fairytale hero knights Wyll grew up with.

Zevlor passes no judgements to anyone, or at the least is very smooth about not making his judgements known. He is very pragmatic and straight forward as an experienced commanding officer and as a Paladin, even without an oath, he takes on the tieflings as his charges to aid them with a deep sense of community - who else will help them if not their own kind?

Wyll goes out of his way to help the tieflings. I also HC that he had likely hoped to find his father among them, since Ulder was sent to Elturel and thus descended into Avernus with the purpose of Baldur's Gate being left to defend itself.

I LOVE the idea that Wyll, exile of Baldur's Gate, is helping the tiefling exiles from Elturel. From one exile to another. Unwanted by the people they thought would care the most.

They are both deeply earnest and have strong resolve over helping others to the point of self-sacrifice and martyr complex.

Wyll being good at helping children, he was so gentle with Umi and the other kids and even wants his own someday.

Zevlor was specifically worried about the children in the attack, which is a fair concern for anyone, and while we can sit here all day about the ifs and buts of removed or changed content, I want to point out he used to be a school teacher before he was changed to a Hellrider. I like to imagine his retirement from soldiering begin one he can have his own school in Baldur's Gate, especially for the disparaged or underprivileged. If they have children together they would have the sweetest, caring, protective fathers.

Wyll is basically a prince of Baldur's Gate. please imagine a Prince x Knight dynamic between them. Fiercely loyal. A devil-touched prince with a "devilkin" at his side for the haters.

Zevlor being a much older man and closer to Wyll's father's age would probably make Ulder even more mad. <3

Finding calm, solace, and comfort in each other after having to bear the burdens of their exile, putting aside themselves for the sake of others, sacrificing so much to save and help people, and with each other they can finally just Be.

Being enthralled!

Wyll tricked by Mizora to give up his own soul as a teenager to save another child, being forced to make a horrible decision that rended his exile, and again by Mizora to nearly kill an innocent tiefling - Karlach - and upon refusing to harm an innocent he was punished, forced to undergo painful transformation, the utter humiliation and the extreme lack of of autonomy and trauma to his becoming a fiend. He would rather undergo mutilation and harm and punishment than hurt the innocent.

Zevlor is a tiefling. But he’s an old tiefling. He didn’t undergo the transformation but it was barely a generation before him, his own parents probably, that thousands or more were forced undergo change at Asmodeus’ hand in dnd lore. The book about the event is by his bedroll. He was forced to break his Hellrider oath of serving Elturel when Elturel exiled him and it thus broke his paladin oath. A part of him was lost, hollowed out. And he was tricked by the Absolute, believing the one thing that could make him whole was within his grasp, that if he succumbed to being its thrall then his people could be spared.

[lake-archive]

Track 3

Fandom: Hypnosis Mic

Series: The Past Is The Past... Right?

Characters: Eli (by @watersofcamelot), Ramuda Amemura

AO3 Link

Track 2 - Track List - Track 4

Wandering across the streets of Shibuya, right through the scramble crossing. There are so many faces, too many in fact. And yet, Ramuda could probably name most of them without even trying. Especially when it came to the several Onersans who were greeting him on his way, him greeting back of course in his overly cheerful tone before being on his merry way. It had all been the usual faces at this point so there was nothing special going on at first. However, that would soon change when spotting someone, a face he had not seen in ages! Though he had decided to not jump over at first. Instead, he wanted to wait for the right moment, at least until the little girl had gotten back her kitty cat! Or so was Ramuda’s guess from afar.

The girl’s eyes were all red, probably from some crying earlier. At most she let out a few last sulks from the looks of it before being handed a little kitty, said kitty clinging onto the girl right away and nuzzling against her, seeming to calm her down in an instant and replace her sulking with a light chuckle. “You’re fine!” She even exclaimed happily, allowing the kitty to nuzzle as much as possible against her face.

Right in front of her was a tall guy… No, really! He was very tall! As huge as a mountain! Haha, no. Just kidding, the guy wasn’t that massive. Though he may as well be compared to Ramuda. 

Other than being tall he also looked scary, being dressed in rather dark clothes. His raven black, messy hair and dark brown eyes didn’t help. And his glasses didn’t make him look harmless either. However, right now he had a rather calming smile on his face, one which made him look more like a gentle giant if anything. And his tone was soft, softer than one might imagine from this mouth. It was at the very least unexpected. 

“Make sure to look after your little partner from now on, alright? He was really scared up there.” The guy said, a light scolding. And yet, it may as well just have been a reminder for the girl if anything. He was not yelling at her after all nor being overly cold towards her. In fact, he sounded very gentle. He was not even trying to be harsh. 

The girl nodded, the cat having stopped to nuzzle her by now. “Yes! Will do Mister Eli! Thank you as always!” 

“No problem.” He chuckled for a moment. “Now go and treat your friend a little, as an apology.”

“Yeeees~! Bye bye!” Before she ran off with her kitty she waved to him, then hurrying away. 

And that is Shibuya’s local hero – Eli. Everyone knew him as such, no longer as The Knight. Well, not like the public knew who that was to begin with and he had never bragged about it either. Ramuda only knew the boy thanks to his time in Kujaku Posse. Though by the time The Dirty Dawg formed he had already retired, gone poof from the public eye. But as barely anyone knew his face anyway, he could just restart it seemed. And now most people in Shibuya seem to be fond of him, more than that even. They really seem to love Eli. Even some of the old ladies loved to talk about him fondly. Heck, Ramuda had spotted the ‘local hero’ being pinched by one of them once, much to the boy’s own embarrassment. But it was always funny to watch when Ramuda spotted it.

As for him interacting with Eli? It was rare but it happened from time to time. Not too often however, Ramuda rarely needed help. And Eli was not one for chit chat. Yet that had never stopped Ramuda before! So he quickly walked over. “Yahoo Eli~ Long time no see!” He even waved quickly over to the boy.

This one turned a little sideways with his body, seeming to be a little surprised himself. And his expression quickly changed as well, becoming rather blank compared to when he was talking to the little girl moments ago. “Muda? Do you need something?” 

That was his first response? “Yeesh, that’s not how you greet a friend!” The man even pouted for a moment which only earned him an eye roll at most.

“I wouldn’t call us friends…”

“What else would we be?”

“Two guys sometimes bump into each other for no special reason.” A response he did not even hesitate to say out loud, much to Ramuda’s own dismay, saying this a little colder than before.

Of course Ramuda pretended as if this had just been a literal stab into his chest, making him stagger in place for a few moments before holding both of his hands right against where his heart was, facing the ground. “That hurt…” He even said as weakly as he could manage.

“Alright, very funny Muda. You can stop now.” He didn’t even pretend to care! 

“Boo! You’re no fun!” In one swift motion the smaller one of the two lifted his head up, making an expression like a little child taking offense at that point. “You don’t even play along!”

“I don’t have to, do I?” The giant shrugged.

“How come you’re so heartless towards me but not the kids? I’m hurt…”

“You’re a grown man, aren’t you?” Eli sighed, then seeming to eye the other one for a moment. “I take it back. You’re a man but not really grown.”

“You know to stab where it hurts, don’t you?”

“You started caring ‘bout your height now?”

“Well, no but–” It wasn’t like that for Ramuda, not really at least. “You could just be a little nicer towards me too I think.”

“If I feel like it.” And yet, one could hear a snicker from Eli’s mouth for a moment before that faded and he was back to the serious, cold face. “Anyway, if you need nothin’, I’ll be gone. Got food to prepare or Boss’s gonna meow my ears full.”

“Meow? You have a cat?” That’s new.

“Hm? Nah, he’s not my cat but Sis’s. Anyway, see ya!” And Eli was about to wave Ramuda off, wanting to leave before there could be any more questions. That was until the tall boy seemed to remember one last thing, turning around for a second with a rather… Mischievous grin. “Oh, by the way. Thanks for takin’ Sis on a date. Invite ‘em again sometime, will ya?”

And then he left, saying nothing else and only leaving Ramuda a little speechless for a moment. Sis? This guy has a sister too!? Since when– 

Wait, Sis? ‘them’? Did Eli mean– 

Huh. Who would’ve known.

Track 2 - Track List - Track 4

[hannah-the-red-head]

A Moon Knight Fanfiction…

But, where the Moon Boys are shipped with a Reader that’s Basically Yor Briar from Spy x Family

Who’s also a single mom raising a little girl with telepathic powers and has a dog with the power to see the Future.

Basically, I’m going to write the Moon Knight storyline but it’s reader insert Fanfiction where I ship the Moon boys (Marc, Steven and later Jake) with a single mom!Reader who has the skills, super enhanced strength, speed and flexibility of Yor Briar from Spy x Family.

Why?

BECAUSE I CAN AND WILL!!! *maniacal laughter*

Here’s how this is gonna go:

-Reader or Y/n Briar is a Black Widow turned Single Mom after retiring from S.H.I.E.L.D post Endgame. But in order to secure a better life for not only herself, but her daughter and sweetheart of a big dog, Y/n decided to take on one last mission that has the small group of three moving to London.

-Personality wise, Y/N is soft spoken, polite, kind, sweet and mature. She is innocent when it comes to love, becoming easily flustered and losing control over her own actions. However, when going on missions, her personality does a complete 180, becoming a natural born killer that’s calculated, cold and just plain terrifying.

(A better way to describe Y/n’s mindset is the moment where Yor considered “getting rid of the competition” so Anya can get into Eden College or the times where Yor innocently overreacted to any public display of affection.)

-Appearance wise, Y/N can be whatever the readers imagine, I’m going to be very vague about how I describe her. But she is going to keep her hairstyle (long and kept up) and her outfits are the same as Yor’s in Spy x Family.

-She wears the Thorn Princess dress as her suit and wields stiletto blades as weapons.

-Y/N has the power of a super soldier, the reflexes of Spiderman and Black Panther and the mind of one of the world’s deadliest killers trapped in a petite woman’s body.

-Y/N tries her hardest to hide her secret life from her daughter. But how about you try and hide your association with the Avengers to a curious 6 year old with a overactive imagination.

-Y/n’s daughter, Anya (Full name: Anastasia Wanda Natasha Briar), is a mutant with the power to read minds, easily figures out that her mom is a super spy and that her favorite aunts are Avengers! Waku Waku!~ She reminds you so much of her father, eccentricities and all.

-As for the recent addition to the family, Bond is a big white dog that looks more like a mix between a polar bear and a seal with black mitten paws. Not only is he a big sweetheart, but much like his little master, Bond has the ability to see into the future that only Anya can translate because of her telepathy. He was named after Anya’s favorite super spy (in this case James Bond rather than Bondman.)

-As for the mission, which Nick Fury himself personally asked Y/N to accept, was an investigative one, the target being a mercenary that caught SHIELD’s attention after HYDRA’s infiltration was exposed.

-Unfortunately, the database hadn’t fully retrieved the idenity of the mercenary aside from his current location. Which is where you come in, to find this mercenary and try to recruit him to the New Avengers initiative.

-It’s the kind of mission Y/N can finish in two days, but this mission is proving a bit difficult, especially when said neighbor is so damn charming that Y/N is slowly falling for the sweet insomniac with a love for Egyptology.

[sleepingdeath-light]

being a father figure to the reader hcs ; tea knight cookie

requested by ; anonymous (10/10/22)

fandom(s) ; cookie run

fandom masterlist(s) ; hub | specific

character(s) ; tea knight cookie

outline ; “Tea knight cookie as a father figure to the reader”

warning(s) ; minor allusions to angst, but mostly fluff!

as far as father figures go in crispia, tea knight cookie is perhaps the best you could have — once you get past all of the walls he’s put up you’ll find him to be a firm-but-fair man who will do whatever he can to ensure the people he cares about (people who, oftentimes, rely on him) are as safe as possible

he would absolutely teach you how to defend yourself in his absence — falling back on the lessons he learned in his youth when he was training to become a knight whilst also incorporating plenty of techniques and spells that he learned later in life (in fights of his own and through the people he’s met as he’s come out of retirement) to give you as rounded an education as possible

(he dearly hopes that you never have to use it, but after having lost so many people in his life he recognises that it’s better you be prepared for, well, just about anything the world can throw at you)

interchangeably refers to you as ‘child’ and ‘squire’ regardless of your actual age for quite a while, or at least until he becomes completely comfortable with having you around at which point he just starts using your name

if you have trouble sleeping when you’re staying/travelling with him — be that due to an illness or general unrest — then he’ll sit by your side and recall some of the lighter tales from the old days (successful conquests and battles, training in his youth, etc.) until you’ve finally slipped off to unconsciousness

though, still, tea knight cookie is by no means ‘soft’ or ‘weak’ — he’s just able to slip into that fatherly role (or his best approximation thereof, he’s very out of practise after all) with you and that comes with being a bit more open, a bit more understanding, and a bit more responsible so that he can be someone worthy of being looked up to in such a way

this whole thing is new to him, intimidating even, and it’s been a lifetime since he was anyone worth admiring, but he’d be damned if he didn’t try to be that for you because somehow, some way, you managed to worm your way into his carefully guarded, deeply scarred, heart and endeared yourself to him so thoroughly that he can’t imagine ever letting you down

hopefully his fallen comrades would be proud of the man he’s become, and the not-quite-kid he’s unofficially adopted as his own

[johannestevans]

Happy Thursday!

It's been a busy three weeks for me, and I've primarily been updating various serials, with one or two other bits in between.

My Most Popular P`ieces in January 2024:

Top NonFiction: Woe, Boypussy Be Upon Ye: Transing Characters in Fanfic & Fanart

What’s the deal with envisioning your blorbos as transgender?

Read on Medium in Prism & Pen / / Read on Patreon/ / Read on Tumblr

Top Fiction: Window Trap

Jean-Pierre makes an unwise decision, and gets caught amongst the wrong crowd.

Rated E, 3.9k, trans M angel gangbanged by Greek gods, mostly by Hermes (Aetos Talaria). Doros is also here — Doros and Jean-Pierre both being characters in Powder and Feathers.

Dubious to non consent here after some pure hubris, with a gangbang, large insertions, come inflation, deepthroating, spitroasting, predicament bondage with Jean-Pierre stuck in a wall, humiliation, degradation, dirty talk, masochism, stomach bulges.

Read on Medium / / Read on SubscribeStar / / Read on Ao3

New Works Published

Erotic Short: The Captain's Clerk

A new sailor is curious about the captain’s kept man.

Just a short taste of something. 1.2k, rated E, M/M. Adapted from a TweetFic.

Read on Medium / / Read on Patreon

Fashion Guide: Finding Your Style, Part I: Shape & Silhouette

A deep dive into deciding on your own personal fashion and tailoring your clothes to fit.

Read on Medium / / Read on Patreon / / Read on Tumblr

Serial Update: Rescue Dogs Chapter Seventeen

Cecil Hobbes finally gets Valorous King to try a new adventure: therapy. Cecil Hobbes, an ex-PE teacher disgraced and looked down on in his hometown, has a new partner: Sir Valorous King, a knight of the realm, once a child of prophecy, and Cecil’s stalker. A few months into their relationship, Cecil finally convinces Valorous to see a therapist, on the condition that Cecil attend one himself.

Read on Medium / / Read on WorldAnvil / / Read on ScribbleHub / / Read on Ao3

Serial Update: Prophet's Cry Chapter Five

Prophet Shulman, Administrative Secretary at the Middlesbrough branch of Friar Holdings, has been on the verge of divorce for the past twenty years, almost ever since he got fucking married. Fucking his boss might make him as bad as his husband, but what the fuck's the point in trying to be good anymore? Meanwhile, Vance Vixen, recently emerged from his own divorce and also the closet, when not fucking his Admin Secretary in the stationery cupboard, begins a delicate romance with a bartender named Gideon Shulman.

Read on Medium / / Read on Ao3 / / Read on ScribbleHub

Serial Update: An Uncommon Betrothal Chapters Sixteen and Seventeen

Alexos Fox is of course quite sad when the long-time butler of his household, the man who all but raised him, retires. He is not at all prepared for the old man’s replacement: his exceedingly attractive and painfully tempting nephew, Harry Sutton. Alexos, overcome with feelings that are simply too much to repress, tries his best to avoid him, but it seems that Mr Sutton has more than his employment on his mind as he attends his new employer with keen and concentrated focus. Erotic romance with a big emphasis on period-typical homophobia, repression, power dynamics, and so on.

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Star Trek: Deep Space Nine Fanfic: Interpersonal Studies

Garak and Julian work to get the measure of one another, each of them trying to see what's hidden under the other man's skin. Once upon a time, Julian imagined he might do better on a planet other than Earth, that he was a sort of modern-day changeling child, abandoned on a planet he wasn't fit for. It cut at the time that it wasn't true - it cuts all the deeper when, some years down the line, Earth sees fit to abandon him to someone else's planet after all.

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[lapinbunwrites]

Title: Bappy Until The Very End

Rating: Gen

Warnings: None

Fandom: Fire Emblem Three Houses

Relationship: Cyril/Lysithea

Additional Tags: Domestic Fluff, AU where Lysithea lives

Word Count: 630

Ao3 Link

When Lysithea sat on her rocking chair, carefully placed in front of her windows that were near the entrance of her house, she felt a great sense of relief. It was only helped by the cool breeze that blew through her hair. After the removal of her crests, she only wished it went back to the old coloring; but if this was the only thing that didn’t change back from the procedure, she was fine with that. Her being able to have a long life, allowing her parents to be able to retire, and most importantly, watching her husband Cyril and their children play in the fields close to their homes.

She wasn’t always the one to smile, only when you gave her sweets and when it was her favorite cake. But she realized, now that she was in this stage of her life, she was smiling even more. To see their daughter laugh and play, being the daddy’s girl that she is; to see her son be attached to her side, getting her sweet tooth, always puts a smile on her face.

Lysithea walked back into the house, checking on dinner. She was being helped by her son, who loved cooking with both her and Cyril. Many of her days were filled with days like these. Just taking care of their children, her spending some alone time with Cyril, and doing many other things. It felt like bliss to her. She never imagined she would be able to remove her crests and to have a long life. Especially with the man she cared so much about. It was amazing, it was fantastic.

“Cryil!” Lysithea called, smiling as he and their daughter looked towards her. “Dinner’s ready!”

She watched as her daughter ran towards her, picking her up as she ran into Lysithea’s arms. She was followed by Cyril, who gave her a small peck on her cheek before they all went into the house. Her children helped set the table with plates, food, and laughter. As they ate, it was serene for Lysithea. She got to hear about their days, what they were able to learn, what they got to play, and many more things.

After they put down their children, the two sat in their chairs outside looking out to the fields. The night was quiet and peaceful, filled with the many stars that Lysithea can see for a long time.

“Lysithea,” Cyril said quietly.

“Yes, Cyril,” Lysithea blushed, feeling his lips pressed against one of her hands.

“I love you so much,” he said, looking up back at her.

“I love you too, my dear,” she responded to him with a smile.

“What constellations do you see tonight?” Cyril asked, looking back at the sky.

“Hm,” Lysithea sighed, looking up to the sky. “I see the Pegasus Fraldarius with her Aegis shield with the Bow Knight Gautier with his Lance of Ruin.”

“Amazing!” He chirped. “It’s rare to see two constellations in one night.”

“Mhm!” She agreed. “But I did have a good teacher showing me what they were.”

“Was I really?” He smiled, feeling her lips press against his cheek.

“Yes, my dear,” she reassured him.

“We should get to bed,” he said, getting up from his chair.

“I suppose so,” she whined.

When they got into their room, she knew that Cyril would fall asleep instantly. He never had a hard time sleeping, not like her. Not that she minded too much. She was able to see him sleep peacefully, knowing that she was able to be with him. Lysithea moved the hair out of his face before whispering ‘bappy until the very end,’ giving a kiss, and going to sleep. She was glad to be alive and to be with him and their children.

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Here is something small for the FE art scuffle that's happening. This is for @spaghetti-trash, and yes, I am attacking (affectionate) you here too lol. But the requests was for Cyril and Lysithea to live happy lives they deserve, especially after Lysithea's crests removed. I really enjoyed writing this, Cysithea is another ship I enjoy so much that I don't ever write for. Which is a tragedy.

[guardmagicskull]

Woah boy Anon you have no idea what you've just done

Basically the first change is that Zeus is actually a good caring God who wants to protect and help people, and that ended up having consequences for pretty much all other characters.

Zeus takes the form of a teacher at Harvey's University after he's had his accident, getting him the support he needs and harshly punishing those who bully him. Harvey with his help doesn't become bitter and vengeful, instead insisting that he's going to prove everyone wrong by doing good for the world through science and robotics.

Zeus turns into first mate onboard an honest merchant ship and convinces the captain to let Crawfish (who's just a kid at the time) becomes a junior officer. He very quickly proves his skill with ships, rises through the ranks, and eventually when the old captain retires Crawfish is given command of the ship instead. When his home port begins to struggle financially, he uses the ship to bring them supplies

Zeus makes himself curator of an art museum, and makes sure to catch Widow on her very first heist. Instead of turning her in, he encourages her to keep improving her art instead of stealing it from others, and also suggests that if she's good enough to sneak past all that security she could have a future as a crimefighter. She takes him up on it, and with his guidance becomes a secret agent using her public persona as a famous artist as cover.

But Mordred is the one things change the most drastically for.

Mordred's childhood going by King Arthur myths was really not good: His father is King Arthur (making Mordred kind of a prince actually!), and there's a prophecy that Mordred will grow up to overthrow him and destroy the kingdom. Arthur wants to stop that from happening but doesn't know which child is Mordred, only that he'll be born on May 1. So he finds all children born on that day and sends them out onto the sea to drown, where Mordred is the only survivor.

In my normal idea of the world, I'd imagine this is when he washes up on the shores of Astroknights where he later finds out the truth and tries to become king as it's "his right".

In the Hero AU Zeus instead decides to intervene because this whole situation is messed up. He takes baby Mordred to Astroknights himself and gives him to the King and Queen. They're horrified that another king would do something like that to his own child, and adopt Mordred as their own. He grows up as a prince, and becomes a brave and honourable knight.

He sees Elyana as his little sister and they're very close. But as they grow up, people start to pay less and less attention to Elyana in favour of Mordred since he's the oldest child and the one who will become ruler. He also begins to spend less and less time with her as he's busy learning how to be king. She's alone and upset, feeling like everyone has abandoned her.

She begins to resent Mordred for having "abandoned her just like everyone else", and angry that he "stole the throne" from her. Eventually after they get into a huge fight she escapes into space.

Everyone assumes Elyana died in space, and Mordred is absolutely heartbroken feeling like all of it is his fault. The cult pops up believing she actually survived, and Mordred joins them because he's desperate to find Elyana and being her back home safely. Instead when he manages to contact her she attacks the kingdom and takes him away because "if you're gone I can be queen".

The player rescues Mordred, and Astroknights mostly plays out the same. Except despite everything he still cares for her, and when the portal is about to close leaving her stranded in space he tries to turn back for her at the last second.

He has an arm and half his face in the portal when it closes on him. He turns himself into a cyborg to survive.

Following all of that, he doesn't want anything more to do with the kingdom. He's extremely upset and just wants to run away from all of it. He gets into a tiny boat and lets it carry him off into the sea not even knowing if he'll survive or not. He drifts close enough to the "modern islands" to be rescued.

Black widow is an agent, so she becomes involved in figuring out what the heck happened to this medieval robot man they found adrift at sea.

Harvey is one of the best scientists, so she gets him involved too because he's pretty much the only one who can figure out how to repair Mordred's robotics while he's in the hospital.

Crawfish had a similar situation to Mordred of sailing too far from home and being picked up by modern people, so he gets called in because he's pretty much the only one who can fully empathise with being lost in this strange new world.

Mordred's bad situation brings the four of them together, and they decide to stick together as heroes defending Poptropica.

[pcrushinnerd]

Critical Passenger--Chapter 11

Story Summary: Before he fully accepted his role as Moon Knight, as Jake Lockley he played hero and made a promise to someone who has come back into his life.

Pairings: Mostly Jake Lockley x femreader, but also Steven Grant x femreader and Marc Spector x femreader because well yeah.

Warnings: Discussion of violence.

A/N: This one just poured out of my fingers not long after I posted the last one. BTW, while sort of based on the character's history in the comics, this basically is just a product of my imagination.

last chapter ||| masterlist

The Past

Jake was born when he was 17.

It was a gang of older...well, they weren't boys technically. They were men in their early 20s who were part of a local gang on the South side. They didn't deal in the more serious stuff because other gangs owned that. So they had to prove their worth in other, more disturbing ways.

They beat up Marc one morning as he was heading to school. Left him with a bleeding nose and a couple of broken ribs as he walked into first period that morning.

Marc would answer none of the million queries from teachers and school admins. His father.... (Mom wouldn't care.) Marc wanted to deal with this on his own.

Which, to his shame, was mostly finding ways to just avoid the gang until he could think of something. Something good. He considered how he could get a gun, but he soon dismissed that idea. A gun could easily turn fatal, and he didn't want things to become fatal, only final.

So that was around the time Marc started to train after school, at a local gym where he also got his first job--access to the gym and its equipment in exchange for cleaning things and minding the place while the aging owner took more time to relax into an eventual retirement.

He thought he was ready one Sunday afternoon, when he ran into the gang a few blocks from the gym as he was walking to work. He was proven horribly wrong, as they dislocated a shoulder and managed to damage more...precious things. They'd thrown all sorts of Anti-Semitic slurs at him, so they knew who he was. Who his father was. They'd threaten far worse next time--to literally cut things off and throw them into the river.

Enough was enough.

Marc didn't remember much of it. He figured Steven, of whom he was more or less aware of on some level at this point, was behind the planning of it. The brain work behind the brutality. Who'd leave the notes he would find the next morning after falling asleep from the liquor he would steal or subterfuge into his possession, as he fell asleep to old gangster movies from the 30s and 40s, or from old TV shows and films from the 60s through the 80s, featuring tough guys whom he more or less looked up to for some masculine inspiration, since God knew his father didn't provide that at all.

The next moment came on a Saturday night. Part of his plan was seeking out the group on their own turf, adding some element of surprise to this encounter. The thugs were mostly drunk as well, or high, so didn't have that morning shine like they did in past encounters.

"The fuck--?" Was all that was said before he struck. Literally. With a baseball bat. Other weapons of choice included piano wire, bags of oranges and potatoes, and other random tools of destruction. He was bloody and bruised himself, but in the end, the other guys were much worse, though still largely alive. They'd run off, as police sirens sounded in the distance.

"Go on, all of yous!" He'd called out as their sorry asses scurried away.

They never bothered him again.

Word must have gotten around, because one morning at the gym one of the regulars, whom Marc knew was a Marine recruiter, approached him. "Hey, you're pretty tough I hear. How'd you like a new job?"

Marc had a vague memory of what happened. Figured his adrenaline left most of it a blur. He knew he won, which is what mattered.

Marc would have other moments he couldn't exactly remember. Some part of him sheepishly figured it was his alcoholism, so he didn't think much of it. Didn't want to.

The body had lost its virginity in his new persona, not long after. Marc would lose his a few years later, when home on leave one time, but this new alter knew better.

Jake would never have the body long enough to really develop relationships of his own. He was fronting largely when it mattered, when he had to.

If anything, relationships were a luxury he couldn't afford to indulge in. So, he hovered in the background, as Marc would fumble through his own, over the years. So it's not like he wasn't familiar with certain social norms, how to conduct himself, and so on, but like an experienced driver in a totally unfamiliar part of his country, he still didn't feel all that comfortable.

That didn't mean he didn't enjoy some of this romance stuff, though. Not when it made your eyes sparkle and flash him your cute little smile. Such as now, as you two sit snugly next to each other with a heavy blanket covering your legs, in the back of one of those cheesy Central Park carriage rides.

"This is so neat," you kept uttering, as your head swiveled around, taking in all the fall foliage coloring the park, at other people walking their dogs and jogging and dragging their young children around you.

Neat. He couldn't think of anyone else he'd ever known use such corny language.

Mama Joe? While she was a sweet old woman, she was also a tough old bird as well, and her brand of warmness, especially amongst those with whom she was most familiar, was generally guarded, keeping people at arms length. Probably why they got along so well.

"You okay?"

"Huh?"

"You're scowling again," you smiled at Jake.

Jake was quick to mirror your cheerier expression. "Am I?"

"Well...you were. Is something on your mind?"

A pause. "Guess I'm not used to just being a passenger and havin' someone else drivin.'" Jake eyed their top-hatted carriage driver for added effect, at the same time the man gave a brief glance back at you and Jake.

You looked doubting. "You sure? Sure I'm not annoying you again?"

He shot you a worried look. "What do you mean?"

You gave a little sigh, which, though small, weighed heavily on him. "Sometimes you just seem.... I donno...baffled? Irritated? Not for too long though--you're always quick to throw on a smile if you see me looking."

Jake wasn't sure if he was more panicked or angry at himself for letting those slip ups be seen.

He was quick to snatch up your hand. "No querida. Just...stressed from work." That wasn't a lie, in a sense. Although arguably a lie by omission, since he's never let on that technically you were part of his work.

He had worked hard to keep things discrete, normal-seeming. He'd found his chance to look through your things one Saturday you had off and decided to rearrange your apartment, so it was sort of a wreck anyway. You'd offered to go down and get some Thai from a nearby place you liked, while he'd stayed behind and offered to put some things away to lessen the workload on you. He'd snooped around through files, books, and your computer conveniently open and playing Pandora, but all to no avail. You were squeaky clean, as far as he could tell.

Maybe a little too clean, for the likes of somebody like him....

You sat silently. He could feel your eyes on him--studying, appraising--which did annoy him.

"Here we are!" the carriage driver called out, before everything came to a stop besides the spot where the ride began, where another couple was waiting to embark.

Jake was quick to hop out and come around to your side, where he helped you step out of it. He glared at the carriage man, who gave him a pointed look as he tipped him...sufficiently.

You both took off towards the edge of the park, where one of Jake's cabs was parked. His jacketed arm was hooked with yours.

"It's not a mask, by the way," he muttered, when you were just a dozen meters from the car.

You were confused at first by that, but quickly caught on. You nodded your head once. "You're not used to someone like me, are you?"

"No," he admitted.

"Does that equate to any negative perceptions or feelings on your part, Mr. Lockley?"

Goddammit. You'd gotten into the habit of using his last name a lot, and like the little love notes he'd find left in his cab, the extra home-cooked food you'd prepare and pack for him to take to work, and all the good night, good morning, and how are you texts, he was baffled beyond belief but loved it all, and wouldn't blink twice at simply dropping anyone who disrupted any of it.

He stopped walking. "Hey," he said before taking you into both of his arms and giving you a good, deep kiss. "Nothing about you bugs me. The opposite, if anything."

A warm smile spread over your face, before you hugged him and kissed him back, Central Park on-lookers be damned.

If anything, he had to admit he was falling in love with you, deeply and entirely, and that was part of the problem.

[datonedrizzile]

An introduction to... Tiburon "Tib" Mako the Garchomp!!

FULL INFO: Ever since Tiburon was a Gible, he always had that one goal in mind: become a hero or be recognizable one day and to “save the world”. Growing up, Tib was always fascinated by anything medieval-cultured and would generally think nothing about all day except dreaming of becoming a knight fighting in a battle every time he would see any swords from medieval times. Since then, with his deep fascination with ancient medieval culture, he decided that he was going to spend the rest of his life becoming a hero by the time he graduated fresh out of college learning how to “become one with the swordfighter”. Tib first became a member of Team Dragonova when he heard the news about the team of heroes at the time retiring and splitting their ways, thus becoming the first-ever team member to be one of the replacements for the old team. This would eventually be followed by his other teammates in Team Dragonova.

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Ok since I kinda wanna be more active on here, I wanna start off by repurposing this account to a more OC account since I have soooo many I wanna share and I imagine some people may like it lol :]

Anyhow, I hope u guys enjoy this OC and stay tuned for more info bout Team Dragonova!!