#echo chambers or something i guess

[stormrot]

as someone who's been on ChickenSmoothie for over a decade nothing will ever be funnier to me than watching FlightRising players complain endlessly about their site and staff. CS users wish we had staff even remotely close to the level FR does. Maybe FR isn't perfect but at least they try and they own up to their mistakes, all the while actively keeping the site as with-the-times and engaging as possible for every type of player. Y'all really do not understand how good we have it on FR.

[reikunrei]

it really honestly cracks me up that even when this idea of moral grayness is stated Explicitly on screen time and again, people still don’t take it to heart and actually apply it to all of the characters. yes, even our “big bad.” like, y’all didn’t realize that was the core theme of the show in season 1? and season 2? are you for real? “i’m the monster” “no you’re not. you saved me.” like that wasn’t clear enough for you? to see this little girl do bad things like kill people and call herself the monster right after doing something to help someone she just met? the fact that she opened this gate and let out this monster that killed and kidnapped people all across town and that is a Bad Thing, but she’s not a bad person for it? that wasn’t clear enough for you? and now they have to say it On Screen in the Fucking Script that there are no monsters and no superheroes, nothing is ever that black and white, and you’re STILL not??? listening??????? bye

[stranger-awakening]

sometimes i wonder if it’s actually just really daunting to be a white male actor in a tv show/movie playing a character who’s bound to be a fan favourite and if actors know when they’re in danger of becoming the internet’s favourite white boy for about two months in which they pick up a ridiculous amount of new fans (some of whom get really weirdly parasocial really quickly) only to watch a weird chunk of those people turn on them in a few months and then drop off. like that must be terrifying to think about

[mothslimes]

one thing you can always trust in is that tumblr users are going to be weird about hozier and neil gaiman

[cosmictheo]

𝐒𝐄𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐒 | feyd-rautha

( gif credits to @wondrousashes )

—summary: on a calm day back at your home, you shattered away the serenity as you decide to confront feyd about his alleged concubines and the little secrets he seemed so cautious to hide, pushing him further and further to the edge. —pairing: feyd-rautha harkonnen x female!atreides!reader —word count: 4k —warnings: arranged marriage, jealousy, a bit of implied smut (the actual smut is coming up in the next and last chapter !!!), mentions of sex, mentions of cannibalism, feyd being a slut for the reader (as he should), mentions of killing and death, hot and very passionate love confessions, definitely ooc!feyd.

writer’s note: english is not my mother tongue, so please forgive me if there is a grammatical error. hope you like it!

ᯓ★ part one ── part two ── part three (coming soon)

The week at Giedi Prime went by so fast that you hardly noticed any of it. The first day had been a bit slow and tedious, but the ones that followed turned out to be more than agreeable and enjoyable, Feyd-Rautha had been very concerned about keeping you entertained and as comfortable as possible, showing you every corner of the palace and walking you around the city.

But for now, you were back at your home for the last visit you would have there before becoming a Harkonnen. Feyd was staying close to you through all the reunion, naturally, diplomatically greeting your family.

“You met his cannibal lovers yet?” Paul's voice echoed inside your head between Feyd's conversations with Duke Leto, your gaze drifting to your brother in absolute alarm, horrified at the question and relieved that, so far, the answer was negative.

“There are rumors that tell how his concubines feed on the hearts of his dead opponents.” Your brother propelled you with the oh-so-cute information about your future husband. “The bastard has not one, but three. I guess you'll have to battle it out with them for his love, that was Duncan said.”

“Stop it, don't be an idiot.” You snapped back at him, averting your gaze from him to Feyd-Rautha, who was conversing ever so formally with Lady Jessica now.

You couldn't imagine him eating of human flesh, nor fucking three different women at the same time. Although, rumors always started from something and during the few times you had been able to get inside Feyd's head, you hadn't seen anything that was remotely pretty or light.

Paul's words managed to resonate in your head, lingering between the walls with a sense of suspicion.

Maybe that was why he never showed you the intimacy of his chambers... because on his bed lay three women compliantly awaiting for his attention and lust.

For some reason, the false image of him fucking them, bodies intertwined and interlinked, voices whimpering and moaning, made you feel respulsive, your guts twisting like a serpent.

You didn't want to believe it was jealousy, but again, your mind never wanted you to believe anything at all.

The palace of the Atreides stood majestically between rocky mountains, with the golden sunlight falling beautifully on the grayish stone walls, bringing in a warm afternoon. Rising magnificently behind your back, standing like a rocky guardian.

Your gaze was on Feyd-Rautha as you walked together along the outskirts balconies of the castle, your greenish dress swaying in the sea breeze, as did your hair, which you wore unusually loose that day, the sweet smell of it had him crazy.

“Do you like it?” You asked him after a few moments of silence, with a hint of a smile that Feyd noticed as he turned to look at you, noticing as well how you waited expectantly for his opinion of your home, which he knew you always held close to your heart.

After a second, he nodded his head, looking at you intently. “I do.”

His blue eyes, which looked as clear as ever under the natural glow of the place followed you as you walked beside him, keeping himself close to you, he could feel the natural warmth of your body and the sweet smell of your scent.

It was the first time you saw his eyes showing their true color, for back in his home, they rarely reflected so much brightness and his orbs glowed so beautifully in the sunlight. They possessed the most beautiful shade of blue, reminding you of the ocean, of home.

“It's nothing like my home.” Feyd-Rautha added in a more amused, lighter tone of voice, with a tiny smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, lowering his gaze to the ground, noting how the grass softened each of his steps on it.

“Obviously. Caladan is everything that Giedi Prime and Arrakis are not.” You answered him, snorting the words out with a soft chuckle that was carried away by the wind, turning your head to look at him once you stopped at the edge of a greenish cliff after descending one of the many rocky staircases that rose up through the hills.

The sea stretched into the immensity of the horizon and the water was uncommonly calm, waves lapping the shore relentlessly. It was a calm and peaceful scene out there, quite the opposite of what you felt inside, as you felt a tempest of emotions raging in your soul.

“Have you been with someone else like this?”

There was another one of your little questions again.

And he pondered the answer, dragging his eyes as blue as the ocean itself in front of them, back to you.

But Feyd-Rautha was rather certain that you already knew the answer, that you already had it, you could tell by the way he looked at you and the way he addressed you. Because it was enough to be clear that he had never been this way with anyone before, he had never spoken to anyone like this and he had never been so pleased to be in someone's company, basically in his entire life.

“The only people I've ever had this close to me are my family or my enemies, neither of whom I think entertain my presence very much.” Was his reply, honest and respectful. His husky voice, in contrast to the graceful sea breeze was a pleasant and comforting noise to you.

His words were masked with a touch of amusement, as he used to do in the last days when he spoke to you, it seemed as if you brought back that inner child he had, a stranger who felt increasingly closer.

But even using that tone, his eyes told you that he was not lying, that he was giving you the pure truth.

Yet, somehow you were not satisfied with his response. And he knew it.

“Have you been with other women?”

Feyd drew in a breath, half-opening his lips, air hissing between his teeth.

“So I'm assuming you've heard about the rumors about me?”

And there he was, answering you with another question to challenge you back, to play with your head as he had grown to love to do during the short time you had been in each other's company. Your conversations always ended up being a game of back and forth, a game of a tension that would be cut with the least sharp blade.

“My future wife likes to guide what she believes by mere rumors?” He pressed further.

And as always, you exhaled the air held inside you, twisting your head slightly, looking at him with incredulous eyes. “These are not rumors, Feyd —I've seen it.”

His blue eyes narrowed as he walked closer to you, expression both intrigued and yet defiant. “What do you mean you've seen it? Don't play games with me now, woman.”

“Don't threaten me, man,” You squinted your eyes as you pronounced the word like poison, almost coming out like an insult. “I'm not afraid of you.” With your own response to his defiance, this immediately silenced him, stopping him in his tracks right in front of you, as you stepped closer to him, your presence growing menacing now. You were really upset. “Do you think that when I marry you I will allow you to go on screwing around with them?”

“You met them and they threatened you?” Feyd asked in a low tone, maintaining a calm demeanor, though he wanted to know if any of his concubines had dared to even glance at you during your stay at Giedi Prime. His orbs reflected a sensation that ranged to a murderous, bloodthirsty urge, not at you, but at anyone who was stupid enough to threaten you. “Tell me, did they say anything to you?”

You crooked your head very slightly, looking genuinely offended by his questioning.

“Do you think I would allow any of your concubines —anyone at all— to threaten me and go on with their lives?” You replied instantly, looking him up and holding his gaze, as brave as ever. You seemed to be the only one in the whole universe who dared to answer him and put him in his place. And he was loving it, he felt the desire to be broken by you, to let you destroy all his walls and reach his soul. “They'd already be dead if they did.”

An amused grimace twisted his lips, gaze darkening with pride, desire even, approving of your words, feeling suddenly small under the vastness of your aura, dark and menacing now.

“Don't worry about them.” His words sounded humorous this time, just as his fingers laced between yours, he gave your hand a gentle squeeze, an attempt to reassure you. “Soon I'll be all yours, sweet girl.”

You frowned your brow slightly, as did your lips, still looking offended. He squinted his eyes, hissing as he realized he had said the wrong thing, yet again.

“I'm not sweet.” Your hand released his, your annoyance rising with the seconds. “I'm not one of your pets you can treat as sweet, Feyd-Rautha.”

He raised his brow, following you with his gaze, puzzled, as you turned around and began to walk back to the palace, turning your back on him and leaving him to talk alone.

“One of my pets?” He questioned, with that amused grimace plastered on his mouth again, as he began to follow your hurried footsteps, his pale face reflected a blend of frustration and irritation. “Do you think I would treat you like one of my pets?”

His voice sounded so husky and frustrated and delicious that you felt like just stopping and jumping on him right there. But your own self-respect and pride were more important, you wanted to believe.

Seeing that you weren't planning to stop, Feyd tried to stop you by grabbing your arm, but his hand remained over your smooth skin, with no major result in trying to calm you down, so he cleared his voice, making the attempt to be as cautious and reassuring with his words.

“I think you must understand that desire and lust is something we all possess, my lady, not just men.”

He was physically relieved when you stopped to be able to look at him, with his hand lingering on your forearm.

But your eyes were still dark with discomfort when they met his once again. “I won't be one of your girls, Feyd-Rautha.”

His lips parted, brow furrowing slightly, his voice kept low. “(Y/N)—”

He stood right there, utterly speechless, with his voice caught in his throat, watching you walk away from him, striding with steps that exuded pure anger up to your rocky palace. His hand dropped from your arm and returned to his side, now far from your warmth and heartbeat.

It took Feyd-Rautha a couple of minutes to pull himself together, sighing heavily, a small smirk curving his lips as he began to walk the path back to the Atreides' palace.

He was absolutely thrilled to discover this side of you that he hadn't previously seen. You were truly frightening and he was loving it.

By the time the moon was bright in the center of the dark sky, shining through the thickness of black, a pair of soft knocks sounded against your chamber door and you didn't have to use any hint of your skills to know who it was.

He looked at you with those now dark blue eyes from across the threshold, arm resting lightly against the grayish stone. He looked strangely troubled, look shadowed.

“Have you always been such a perfect seductress?”Feyd asked you just as you made a questioning gesture with your head. “How many men have you seduced like this?”

You looked him up with doubting eyes, frown slightly furrowed. “What are you talking about—”

He interrupted you in a scratchy voice, fearing somehow, that someone else might hear him, that someone else might witness how desperately vulnerable he was being, for you.

“You've broken me. All I can think about is you.”

Feyd took one step forward and you one step back, so you two moved as if you were in a kind of dance until he eventually entered your chambers, pulling the door shut behind him.

“I can't handle not touching you. It's a rule I'm on the brink of breaking for you.” He whispered and your breath caught in your throat, exhaling air in a stuttering gasp. “And I should— I'm expected to be a gentleman. I'm supposed to behave myself, keep my composure. But you… you are driving me crazy, woman, you play with my head, you've bewitched me.”

You could really see that he was trying to explain himself for you, attempting to articulate everything that was going through his head and you knew that it was very unusual for him to speak out loud about his feelings. And now, you were the one who couldn't say anything at all.

It was true, the most important rule your mother had emphasized to you was that you were not to get involved sexually, or in any way with your betrothed, until the very day of the actual wedding, as that particular night was meant to be consumed.

“Y—you shouldn't be here, my lord.” You managed to utter out after a few hesitant stutters, feeling your back brush against the wall and having him in front of you, trapping you against his body. He seemed to be struggling against his body, against his desire and instinct, hesitant hands twitching at his sides, nearly reaching out instinctively for your body.

“You were so bold back there talking back to me, what happened now? Aw, what happened, pretty?” He asked in a more teasing tone of voice, holding your gaze. “We could put that mouth of yours to good use then, hm?”

“My lord—”

“Call me by name.” He demanded, he begged you, whispering.

“Feyd...” You named him so obediently that it made him smile darkly to himself. “Someone might listen.”

“Are you afraid that someone will find out that two people who are getting married desired each other?” Feyd asked, half-closing his eyes and breathing out through his nose, as if trying to compose himself, trying to convince himself more than you. “There is nothing wrong for a husband to crave for his wife, right?”

You gulped, and his eyes instantly landed on your throat, watching as bone and muscle moved beneath the flesh, his tongue twitched, aching with all his will to be able to just lick the skin of your neck.

“I guess not.” Your voice trembled even when you were trying extra hard to sound confident and certain. “But we are not yet husband and wife.”

“Soon...” Feyd muttered, almost as if he was making a promise, uttering a vow.

His eyes closed as he finally rested his forehead against yours and suddenly, you were breathing from the same air. His trembling breath was warm against your lips and his scent was everything you could have ever craved... and it felt so familiar that your soul seemed to shudder, like something you had smelled all your life, something that had haunted you even in dreams, forever present but yet always so far distant.

“Can I touch you?” Feyd breathed out against your mouth after a few moments.

You didn't answer him verbally, instead you slowly took his hands between yours, fingers placing them in parallel against his, allowing you to feel every inch of the imprint drawn on his fingertips as you dragged yours across his palm, both feeling the size difference.

Then, you rested his big, calloused hands on your waist, allowing him to touch and hold you as much as he wanted and to permit him to do so, a single sight on your eyes was all it took.

He hissed as his hands molded the curve of your waist and instantly afterward drew you into his body, pulling you fully against the wall behind you. Your back arched instinctively and you gasped too, so softly, your chest pressed against his with the motion.

“Touch me.” Feyd-Rautha pleaded, he had never pleaded so... desperately for anything ever in his life.

That was your allowance for your hands reaching for his body, out of control, one making a slow path up through his strong arms while the other rested against his chest, feeling the beat of his heart under your palm, beating echoing your own. Your fingertips gently patted his muscles, recognizing his skin and his body. You got the abrupt urge to claim it as yours. To claim him.

You felt yourself blushing at all the overly imaginative and lustful images of him invading your head.

His nose brushed against yours, nuzzling it affectionately, still without opening his eyes, as if he were in some kind of dream from which he didn't want to wake up. His fingers caressed your belly, tracing a slow caress across your entire abdomen upward, while his other hand gripped your waist, holding you against him.

His touch triggered an immediate reaction across your flesh, skin shivering under his fingers.

Feyd whispered your name like a prayer, like a thirsty man, crawling and screaming for water.

“I'm trying to be good...”

“Don't be.” You whispered back, almost begging, looking up at him, gaze meeting his once he opened his eyes. “Please, Feyd—”

Then finally his lips landed on yours, initiating a kiss that you both craved so much, maybe he more than you for the way he brought you close to him, almost possessively, like a mad man, almost as if he was imprinting his mark on you, marking you for whoever had the courage to look at you.

He let himself sink in the way your lips fit against yours, in the warmth your body offered him, in the all too familiar sensation he could sense in every single fiber of his core from the kiss, your kiss.

Feyd-Rautha felt like a roaring beast just unleashed, ruthless and insatiable, just like when he walked into the arena, eager to kill, rooting against his opponents —and now he was rooting for you, to be near you, to intertwine his soul with yours, to claim you as his own.

And claiming you he was, his scent covered you all over now, making you feel a burning sensation in the pit of your stomach, throbbing crotch, blood seething like an infernal flare. Anyone who came near you would not only smell you, but him too, on every inch of your body. His hands roamed just under your breasts, rubbing across your ribcage and sliding down your back, fingers just barely grazing your ass, pressing you tightly against him in desperation, grasping and squeezing as much of your tender flesh as they could.

Your own palms roamed up his chest, caressing his broad shoulders, all the way up to his neck, tugging him closer to you in desperate motions, impossibly close.

When your bodies begged for oxygen, you broke the passionate kiss, leaving you both breathless. He kissed you once more, allowing you to breathe just for a few seconds before all you breathed was him. He wanted to become your oxygen, something indispensable to you, something you needed to live with, a necessity.

“You're the only one.” Feyd-Rautha mumbled out as his hot and soft lips trailed down a wet path all the way to your neck, tracing the line of your jaw with sloppy kisses, each time his lips pulled back from your skin a wet noise echoed and filled the room, making you gasp.

You could feel the way his lips were modulating each word against your skin, as if using a language so intimate and so tight that it took your breath away. A language known and used just between the two of you.

With desirous eyes he looked at the dark crimson mark he'd left on your throat before raising them across your flushed face, his hands cradling your jaw, thumbs caressing your skin tenderly.

“When my uncle gave me the announcement that I was to marry you, I kicked them all out.” He continued to explain, pecking your lips a couple of times before kissing each cheek, your forehead, your eyelids, your nose, every single feature of your entire face, with the utmost care and adoration.

No one had ever looked at you the way he was looking at you right now.

Feyd rasped out a small chuckle, breath warm tickling against your nose. “And by kicking them out I mean I killed them.”

His comment didn't surprise you at all, in fact, it didn't even provoke a reaction in you. During the week you had been in his company, you had already gotten used to Feyd-Rautha's -almost cruel- honesty and sassy remarks, you were just starting to get used to his very eccentric and unique attitude. Because the na-Baron's personality was something that was most captivating to you, he was so different yet so similar to you.

“Of course.” You replied, trying to hold back that dark grin on your lips, an action that caused him to kiss you once more, his attention was on your mouth the whole time as you spoke to him in that tone of voice. “I would expect nothing less from the Feyd-Rautha and for my future husband.”

Again he rested his forehead against yours and you were the one who kissed his lips this time. It had become a reassuring habit in a span of less than five minutes for both of you.

“I can't do anything to you until we get married, my uncle would find out otherwise. I have —we have— to behave, my love.”

He seemed to read your mind this time, or maybe it was the way you were looking at him, biting your lower lip gently, eyes darkened with desire, silently begging him to just take you right there against the wall when he called like that.

Perhaps Feyd-Rautha was a hopeless romantic just like you or he simply desired you in ways that went beyond mere sex or plain lust.

“Are you afraid of him?” You softly asked him, your fingers stroking the back of his neck, feeling the smoothness of his skin. Your fingertips followed the trail of one of his veins marked on his neck, making him gasp lightly.

“Have you seen him?” Feyd responded with another question, a curved little smile on his lips, his tone of voice directed pure sarcasm. “I don't think I'm in such a position as to challenge the Baron.”

You nodded your head, fingers stroking his cheekbones now, tapping the moles that spread across his face affectionately. “He's terrifying.”

Your heart seemed to melt as you watched him close his eyes and lean against your hand, kissing the palm in action.

“Mhm...” Feyd hummed, watching you attentively, as if he was memorizing every inch of your face. Suddenly, his expression changed to one of amusement.

“Were you seriously jealous of my darlings?”

Your heart seemed to drop to your stomach and burn with your guts as you heard the nickname fall from his mouth.

“Call them that again and I'll cut your throat.” You murmured against his lips, kissing them slowly before pulling away from his body, looking up at him with dark, yet playful eyes, your hand roaming across his chest until it fell to your side as you stepped away. Then you made your way towards your bed with a very slow pace, under the attentive gaze of his azure eyes following every movement of your hips.

His heart —apparently non-existent until then— was pounding like crazy inside his chest as his lips parted, for once again you had left him speechless.

That was living proof that you were simply made for him. And he for you.

And maybe that just meant you were each other's weakness, people would say so.

But he felt just invincible in your presence, as if your company made him behold the whole universe, gave him the power of the all galaxy at hand, making him feel like the only man in existence. Your man.

Feyd-Rautha had never felt so desperate to make you his wife and finally call you his.

[virentdiv]

I decide to get into popular media when I get bored and have the especially vampiric urge to leech off of the fans' intense emotions and hysteria over the thing

[randomdragonfires]

Moon Song | One Shot

Text Divider by @saradika-graphics

SUMMARY | He killed Lucerys, but Aemond sees the ghost of his nephew wherever he goes - especially in his sweet wife's eyes.

WARNINGS | 18+; Smut; ANGST; Delusions; Incest; Dark Themes; Kinslaying; DD;DNE!

WORD COUNT | 6.6k

A/N | Originally written as a birthday gift for @humanpurposes. Nothing says happy birthday like a dark fic about madness and murder I guess? :)

RAIN-SOAKED AND WEARY, AEMOND TRUDGES THROUGH the murky streets of King's Landing, his cold and damp riding leathers offering no respite. Each step echoes with the haunting images of Vhagar's reckless attack on Luke, the small, agonizing details etched into his mind like a deep carving. The city, shrouded in an eerie mist, seems to mourn his nephew in silent empathy.

A scared face. The cracking of jaws. The sight of Arrax’s wing flapping aimlessly down into the sea. Luke, falling free through the skies…

The Red Keep looms ahead, its imposing towers piercing the darkened sky. Aemond ascends the ancient stone steps in silence, his solitude a curtain shrouding the tempest raging within him. The guards watch him cautiously, sensing the palpable storm that accompanies the one-eyed Prince’s return. As he passes, the torches on the wall flicker, casting grotesque shadows that dance along the corridor walls.

Entering the shared chambers, Aemond's presence goes unnoticed at first. His wife awaits him, her gaze filled with a mixture of concern and anticipation as she sits at the edge of the bed, finding his gaze and immediately making note of his distress. He can feel her scrutiny, her eyes seeking answers he isn't ready to give. With how disappointed she may be, he is not sure that he’ll ever want her to know. But he knows she must, and that he’d rather it come from him than anyone else.

Words remain unspoken as Aemond, drenched and disheveled, closes the distance between them. She hasn’t moved, holding onto him by the waist as he encloses his cold hands onto the back of her head, finding some semblance of comfort in the warmth of her hair. His wife's face softened, ready to welcome him, oblivious to his guilt and agony. In the silence that hung thick in the air, he braced himself for the storm about to engulf their world.

“You’re cold, Aemond. Let me find you something warm to wear,” she says. He doesn’t let her leave him; he will not let her leave him, ever. In heavy times like these, he’s always quite liked having her to hold - and right now, it seems like she understands it just as well as she always does. She is a part of him, made to be by his side.

She’s my twin. She is mine. Her place is by my side, and nobody else’s!

He remembers the words. It was the night he had come to, after his eye had been slashed out. The marriage pact had been brokered in the aftermath, a compensation for the losses suffered. His nephew's tantrum and those venomous words had sown the seeds of a bitter possession, one that manifested in the subtle manipulative gestures that followed.

He had reveled in taunting Luke, relishing in the knowledge that he had triumphed over his nephew in more ways than one. Aemond had married his niece, a Princess of Targaryen blood, a strategic move with which he had alleviated the stain of bastardy off of her. He’d spend years taunting Luke over his wins, and he’d finally taken his life too. And now, his wife was about to cast him aside for it. 

As he confessed to his wife, his eye, haunted by the accident, bore into hers, seeking understanding, pleading for empathy. The air grew dense, the chasm between them widening like an insurmountable abyss, a reflection of the irreversible consequences that now consumed them. 

I need you to believe me.

In the flicker of candlelight, hope clung to Aemond like a shadow, a desperate desire for his wife to see beyond the tragedy. Yet, her features twisted in disbelief, mirroring the horror within him. He had not expected any less, but to see it happen is like a dagger twisting in his heart.

He’s losing her. He cannot lose her. As she tries to draw away, he lets desperation take over him. He would be damned if he let her slip away over something that he did not mean to happen. 

His grip on her tightens to the point of choking, her eyes widening as she realizes that she is trapped. Not just in his hold, but in this marriage with a man that would stop at nothing, and is not even above killing family to survive. How long before he kills me too, she probably thinks. 

He longs to assure her that he wouldn’t hurt a hair on her head, but she is angry. She does not want to hear from him, so he will settle for her forced presence for now. Surely she’ll see. He cannot bear for her to look scared and fearful - she looks too much like her twin when she does. The last thing Aemond needs is to be reminded of him. 

Her sobs soak through his already damp clothes. She tries to push him away, but he is like a never-ending nightmare - the more she tries, the tighter his hold becomes, refusing to give her the solitude she craves. He wants to, he is simply scared - what if she never chooses to welcome him again?

Why?

His touch, once a source of comfort, now repulses her, but he remains oblivious to her inner turmoil. In the midst of her agony, he lowers her gently onto the bed, attempting to offer solace through caresses and kisses, unaware that his touch has become a reminder, a brand of her brother's murderer. She refuses to believe that it was an accident, and he is further pained at the dark realization that he may not be above killing her if she tries to betray and leave him over this. After all, if he cannot have her, no one else will.

"Stay with me, wife. Stay with me, and you will be kept alive and safe.” Try to leave me, and you will not live to see the next sunrise. 

The unspoken threat hangs in the air, a chilling promise that holds its own through his silence and her sobs. She closes her eyes, her unease palpable, a fear of the man she shares her bed and heart with. Aemond, too, watches her drift away, inch by agonizing inch, knowing he will have to learn to endure. He’ll have to, if her place is by Aemond’s side - and the day he married her, he’d solidified that.

What he won’t quite get used to is realizing how much like Luke she looks in fear, and how her eyes make it seem as though he is boring into his nephew’s instead. The resemblance unnerves him as he is taken back to the skies of Storm’s End in his mind once again - Luke had looked just as fearful for his life in his last moments. She is a reminder of what he’s done, of the half of her who is now lost.

How could he have expected that his own living, breathing wife would haunt him so?

THE LIBRARY IS CLOAKED IN A HUSHED DARKNESS as Aemond buries himself in his book, the words flying over his head as he tries to comprehend them. The oppressive silence of the night presses upon him, mirroring the strain in his heart. His worry for his wife weighs heavily on his mind, a persistent ache that refuses to be ignored. She has withdrawn from him, choosing silence over conversation, and the void between them grows deeper with each passing day.

In dreams, Luke sits atop his fledgling dragon, looking at him with a somber expression that makes him appear at peace. They are in the skies of Storm’s End again, only this time, neither of them is involved in a chase. They face each other, and each time, Luke talks, and Aemond seems to have no choice but to listen.

This did not have to happen, uncle, he would say. You could have let me live.

Every time, he wakes and resists the urge to slam his fists and pull his spun silver hair out as he wills the fragments of Lucerys to leave him be. He had initially blamed the shock, but even as he gains his bearings, the visions, dreams, and voices only seem to become louder, stronger, and sharper. It would seem that the more desensitized and ready to face war he becomes, the more his nephew insists on haunting him - reminding him that he is no war god, but simply a boy forced to grow into a man too soon.

This did not have to happen, uncle. You made a terrible mistake.

“Leave me in peace bastard, be gone!” He would scream as he slams his fist into the table and sends parchment flying. 

Aemond's torment continues unabated, the ghost of Luke lingering in every corner of his life, a silent spirit that refuses to be exorcized. Late at night, as Aemond lies in bed, he catches glimpses of Luke's face in the shadows that dance on the walls, his eyes hauntingly fixed upon him. The weight of his gaze bears down on Aemond's soul, making sleep an elusive and tormenting escape.

In the courtyard, where the echoes of laughter resound, Aemond finds himself frozen in place, the air heavy with Luke's presence. The wind carries whispers that seem to be the soft murmur of Luke's voice, leaving Aemond questioning his sanity. He can almost feel Luke's hand on his shoulder, a touch that sends shivers down his spine and leaves him grasping at the emptiness.

During war strategy sessions, Aemond's mind plays cruel tricks on him. As he pores over maps of wargrounds and fortified keeps, Luke's reflection materializes beside him, scrutinizing terrains with an otherworldly knowledge. Aemond's fingers tremble as he traces the borders, half-expecting Luke to offer his uninvited and foolish insights, but the silence remains.

In the Great Hall, where feasts were once lively celebrations, Aemond finds himself unable to escape the ghostly presence. The sound of revelry - that Aegon insists upon as they celebrate Luke’s death - becomes a haunting cacophony, and he can almost hear Luke's laughter intermingling with the echoes of those who celebrate his demise. Aemond often finds himself raising his goblet in a futile toast, the wine swirling like a macabre dance, mirroring the torment within him.

Even in the solace of nature, where one would hope to find peace, Aemond can't escape the ghostly reminders. Trees cast shadows that resemble Luke's silhouette as Aemond and Vhagar fly overhead, and the chilly air seems to whisper secrets that he strains to understand.

As he closes the book, a phantom chill creeps into the room. A sense of unease claws at him as he tries to erase the recollections from mind, as though doing so would remove the occurrences altogether. The chilly night air outside intensifies, causing the candle flame to dance wildly before it sputters and extinguishes with a subtle hiss. Aemond dismisses the notion, attributing it to a mere draft, and turns away from the now darkened candle.

As he turns, his reflection in the ornate mirror catches his eye, but instead of his own weary countenance, the mirror unveils the ghostly image of Luke. Aemond's breath catches in his throat as he stares into the haunted eyes of his nephew. The dim light casts an eerie glow on his ethereal almost-figure, and the air in the library seems charged with an otherworldly energy. The weight of guilt and the eerie manifestations converged, leaving Aemond paralyzed in the haunting stillness of the library, caught between the realms of the living and the departed.

"This did not have to happen, uncle," Luke's voice carries a weight of unspoken sorrow, each word etched with the regret of an untimely departure. The ghostly echoes linger in the air, weaving through the ancient shelves of books that stand as silent witnesses to this mad exchange.

Aemond - his breath catching in his throat - struggles to find the right response. The weight of guilt presses upon him as he gazes into Luke, dazed. The regret, palpable and suffocating, threatens to consume him. Luke lingers, a reminder of all his irreversible choices. Caught in the grip of the moment, Aemond feels a lump forming in his throat. "I never wanted it to end this way," he whispers, his voice tinged with regret that he would never have admitted to feeling if he hadn't had to voice it out loud. 

"You made a terrible mistake," Luke's voice echoes, the accusatory tone cutting through the oppressive silence of the library. 

Aemond's eye meets the hollow gaze of his nephew. "I am aware, and I am burdened by it… by you." He confesses, the weight of guilt hanging heavily upon him. Memories of happier days in his marriage pass his mind, and he is once again left with the gnawing pain of not knowing if she will ever seek him out again. Is he going to be made to live with this chasm between them forever? How could she live without him?

And immediately, as thoughts of his sweet wife cross his mind, the image of Luke transforms into when he was much younger, his curls a lot more prominent and his face a bit more round. He says the words again, the same words that Aemond had heard him say about his marriage - and it is all he can do to not fall apart. "She's my twin. She is mine. Her place is by my side, and nobody else's!" Luke's words resonated in the stillness, each repetition intensifying the haunting atmosphere.

The air crackles with unresolved tension as the words loop, a haunting refrain that refuses to fade. Each spoken phrase intertwines with the musty scent of ancient books, filling the room with a lingering sense of melancholy. As the words pass through the room, the library stands witness to the unfolding chaos. Dust motes, disturbed by the weight of the conversation, hang suspended in the air like transient memories. The ambient firelight, filtered through the stained glass windows, casts a surreal glow on the troubled face of a man who desperately tries to escape the consequences of his actions. The words create ripples in the stillness of the library, a transient disturbance.

His fists clench, and with a roar of frustration, he lashes out at the mirror. The impact shatters the haunting reflection, the fractured pieces falling like a cascade of broken memories. Aemond, panting and wild-eyed, stares at the shattered remnants of the mirror as drops of his blood stain them all an angry, bloody red.

ON A DARK, EERIE MORNING, Aemond decides he will seek refuge in combat training with Cole. The rhythmic clash of steel on steel promises a momentary escape from the haunting of his tormented mind. In these fleeting moments, he clings to the hope that the precision demanded by the dance of death will anchor his thoughts, keeping them disciplined and resolute.

But the training ground transforms, and the air shimmers with the echoes of unsheathed swords. In the midst of training, Luke materializes. The world blurs as Aemond's gaze locks onto his nephew's phantom form, the arrogance etched upon his face mirroring the smirk that haunts him. A tempest of confusion descends, and in the blink of an eye, he lunges forward, sword clashing against an illusion.

Reality slips away, and he finds himself ensnared in a mirage - a realm where the dead dance with the living, taunting them with all they have left. In the throbbing aftermath, the truth bears down on him like a relentless storm.

He killed him. The admission echoes in the hollow chambers of his conscience, overtaking him completely. The clash of blades morphs into a funeral dirge, and as he stands amidst the lingering consequences of his actions, the training ground transforms into a graveyard of memories. The air hangs heavy with the scent of remorse, and the phantom of Luke lingers, a silent witness to the torment that now possesses Aemond.

How he wills for his nephew to leave him alone. How he wishes he could turn back time, to a day when his wife was happy with him, when he was not the object of repulsion in her eyes. How he wishes she would welcome him with open arms again...

But why would she, uncle? Why would she, when you have slain her twin and taken me away from her? Her true other half?

He swings his sword once more, the blade cutting through the air with a desperate force. Each slash is a fervent plea, hoping that the slashes would tear up the ghost of his bastard nephew to ribbons that fly away with the wind. Even in death, his nephew is a stain on his life that refuses to let him live in peace. First his eye, now his wife.

Her place is by my side, uncle. And by killing me, you only reminded her of that.

The echoes of Luke's haunting words reverberate through the empty training ground, as Aemond battles not only the illusions before him but also the relentless demons within. The weight of his actions, the echoes of his nephew's voice, and the damning truth merge into a haunting symphony that accompanies each swing of his sword, forming an enemy much more dangerous than the Blacks that he’d sworn to kill.

The air is thick with the acrid scent of remorse. Aemond's movements become more desperate, as if trying to carve out a safe haven from the phantoms that encircle him. The blade slices through him, yet Luke's voice persists, an unyielding reminder of the havoc wrought upon not just his life but everyone’s around him.

Amidst his violent dance with illusions, Aemond longs for the solace that has eluded him since that fateful day at Storm's End. His sword becomes an extension of his anguish, a vessel through which he hopes to banish the nightmares that torment his every waking moment. The words resonate, mocking his attempts to escape the repercussions of his actions.

Aemond's grip tightens on the hilt of the sword, the struggle etched across his face as he battles the intangible. The illusion persists, refusing to be vanquished, a testament to the indomitable force of guilt and regret.

He lowers his sword and the ghostly echoes of Luke's voice linger. The training ground falls silent, a wave of unresolved grief as Aemond grapples with the realization that, even in death, his nephew remains an inescapable presence in the twisted tapestry of his existence.

Luke smiles once more, and Aemond slams the tip of his sword into the gravel, watching it fall to the side as he screams. Luke’s reflection is a sharp image on his blade, but when he looks up, the ground is empty, save for a worried mentor that watches him from the side. What must he do to gain solitude again?

The air in the training ground seems to thicken further as Aemond walks away to put his sword aside. The haunting memories of his past misdeeds cling to him like a shroud, and the distant echoes of Luke's words continue to reverberate in his mind. The once-familiar grounds feel like a journey through a desolate and forsaken landscape as he somehow registers the distant sounds of Cole calling out his name in worry.

As Aemond picks up the sheath, he senses an eerie silence enveloping the surroundings. The wind carries whispers of his regrets, and the atmosphere is charged with an unsettling energy. He looks up to see his wife standing at one of the windows, her gaze fixed on a seemingly endless point beyond the horizon. The pain of a fractured marriage weighs heavily on his shoulders, and his arrogance, once a shield, now crumbles under the weight of remorse.

Their eyes meet, and for a moment, time seems to stand still. He reads the emptiness in her eyes, an emptiness that reflects the void he has created between them. Aemond's heart sinks, realizing that his mistakes have irreparably damaged the bond he once took for granted. The echo of Luke's haunting voice intertwines with the desolation that surrounds him.

She is his, but he does not want to have her like this; unwilling. Unable to withstand the haunting gaze, Aemond turns away. The clang of metal against metal resonates in the air as he sheathed his sword. The once-sharp blade now feels heavy, burdened with the weight of his own sins.

Before he leaves, compelled by an unseen force, Aemond looks up at the tower once more. But this time, it is not his wife who meets his gaze. Instead, the window frames the ghostly figure of Luke, staring back with fear etched on his face. Before he can further contemplate the vision, she is right there again, looking away. With the many sightings of Luke that he is subjected to, Aemond is not fazed anymore. But he is once more reminded of how similar his nephew and wife look in fear. He does not like seeing her this way.

A shiver courses down Aemond's spine as his gaze meets the ghostly visage of his nephew. Before he can avert his eyes, the apparition transforms into his wife, each manifestation carrying an accusing, sorrowful, and frightened expression. The visions alternate with unsettling speed, a haunting dance where Luke and his wife exchange places in the blink of an eye. 

Aemond is unnerved by the rapidity with which the pair appears almost indistinguishable, their features blending into an eerie resemblance that sends chills through his soul. The accusatory eyes of Luke and the sorrowful gaze of his wife interchange with a disorienting fluidity, leaving Aemond trapped in a whirlwind of regret, fear, and a gnawing sense of the uncanny.

He walks away, steps definitive and terror-struck as he steps into the tower. The silence is deafening, broken only by the echoes of regrets and the distant wind. Aemond, haunted by the consequences of his actions, contemplates the surreal encounter. The armor-laden grounds, once a place of training, now serve as the stage for the haunting manifestations of his past. The ghost of Luke remains and so does his remembrance of a happier wife - who, for reasons he cannot fathom, reminds him of his biggest mistake. A constant reminder that redemption may be forever out of reach.

THE WORD HOLDS TOO MUCH EMOTION than he can bear to pour into his voice, but he says it all the same.

“Wife.”

As Aemond approaches her, he takes in the sight of her, a weak vision of House Strong's distinct features marked by dark hair and blue eyes. The vibrant happiness that once defined her has been replaced by weariness, one that seems to have settled into the very core of her being.

Her brown hair, once a shiny cascade, now hangs in loose tendrils, lacking the luster it once possessed. The dim light highlights her fatigue, revealing the toll that the sorrow of losing her brother has taken on her. The lines etched upon her face speak of countless nights spent wrestling nightmares and the strain of unanswered questions. Her eyes, once bright and expressive, now carry a perpetual sadness and seem to bear the weight of all her losses.

Does she grieve for them too? For their marriage? For him and all the time they’ve lost?

As Aemond gathers the courage to approach, he can't help but feel a pang of regret for the role he played in casting this shadow over the woman he once knew and still loves. The air around her seems heavy with declarations unmade, the room echoing with the quiet desperation of a fractured connection that he is grasping at to mend. Aemond, yearning for reconciliation, steels himself to bridge the gap that has grown between them, hoping to heal not just their relationship, but her as well. 

She turns to look at him, the faint moonlight from the window hitting her face as she assesses the man that stands before her. Not her husband, no - Aemond knows how she looked at him when she loved him. Now she simply stares through him, understanding that it’s her brother’s killer that she is facing. He doesn’t know what hurts him more - her grief, or her cluelessness. 

She doesn’t respond, but she doesn’t walk away either, empowering him to take a few steps further. He reaches out to her and takes her hand, and smiles by the corner of his lips when she doesn’t grab her hand back. 

“Are you… well?”

The idiocy of the question while he sees how tired she is does not escape him, but in all honesty, she has him tongue-tied. Aemond has missed her touch, and simply getting to hold her hand again has set a fire ablaze in him that he cannot seem to quell.

“As well as one can be, considering the circumstances.”

Time stands still as he takes in the sound of her voice, hoarse from not having said much in a long while. His mother tries with her, but even the Queen can’t make his grief-stricken wife budge - she would stay until she couldn’t, leaving his wife to her thoughts. What could she say to make things better anyhow?  I’m sorry my son killed your brother? I’m sorry you’re caught in a war that is not of your making? I’m sorry you cannot look at your husband with anything but disdain?

He is rendered well and truly silent as he tries to measure her feelings, but she beats him to it as she speaks again - addressing the elephant in the room as quickly as she is able. “Are you here to apologize for murdering my brother?”

“It was an accident.”

He knows he shouldn’t be arguing, but what was he to do? He’d let the world speak cruelly of him and brand him a kinslayer, but he cannot have his own wife hate him so. His defense of his actions only seem to spur her further as she pushes her free hand into his chest, and he holds onto her hand tighter, unwilling to let her go like she wants to.

“Don’t demean yourself by justifying your venom, Aemond. You have hated Luke your entire life, and I’d rather you not make years of hatred seem like nothing in your pursuit to make a better name for yourself with me now. You’re well past that, valzȳrys.” She spits out the last word, making him feel hurt and horrendously out of place. husband

“You don’t believe me.”

“You killed him!”

She sobs, her tears making it very clear that he is a lot less in her eyes now than he used to be. He fights the urge to scream, to hold her by the shoulders and shake sense into her. He wants to remind her that he is not what she thinks him to be, and that he genuinely would never do anything to hurt her. But he has. And he is now facing the consequences of weighing the choices and choosing wrong. How he wishes he’d simply let Luke leave - Aemond had won, why didn’t he?

Her sobs echo in the strained silence, the air thick with the weight of unspoken grievances. In a moment of raw vulnerability, she hits him square on his chest - each strike of her closed fists carrying the weight of accumulated sorrow, an outward manifestation of the tumultuous emotions that have festered within. Aemond, initially taken aback, winces. 

Yet, even as the blows intensify, Aemond doesn't recoil. Instead, he envelops her in a desperate embrace, a gesture born not out of defiance but of a shared longing for understanding. The chamber becomes a battleground of emotions, the struggle to make sense of their fractured marriage playing out in light of all that has taken place.

“I want to hate you so much.” She says, the words choked out as her voice comes out muffled. Her lips are branded onto his chest as she mouths the words over the leathers he wears. “I want to. You’re a monster, that's all I see. I hate you so much.”

He pretends to not hear any of the damning words, for fear of hurting her in the anger that they rouse in him. She looks up at him, and all he wants is to crush her in his hold as he feels the anger creep up on him. But what she says next knocks the wind out of him, reminding him of why he has taken the trouble to come here to try and repair their marriage. 

“But I love you all the same, and I don’t know if I hate you or the love I hold more.”

It is all the confirmation he needs. She is not out of reach just yet. Aemond, grappling with the weight of her words, feels a heavy tension in the air as her lips remain pressed against his chest, the muffled admissions still hanging in the space between them.

As she lifts her head, her eyes, red and swollen, meet his. Aemond sees the internal conflict etched into the lines of her face, torn between the desire to loathe him and the persistent, undeniable love that refuses to be extinguished. He remains silent, understanding the gravity of her admission, aware that any response from him could tip the fragile balance they are trying to restore.

In a moment suspended between resentment and longing, she tentatively reaches up to touch his face, her fingertips tracing the contours of his jaw. Aemond, still holding back the urge to speak, feels the warmth of her touch, a gesture that speaks volumes. Then, as if guided by an invisible force, their lips meet in a hesitant, exploratory kiss. It is not a fiery embrace born out of passion; rather, it is a delicate connection, an attempt to bridge the emotional distance that has grown between them. 

And then Luke surfaces, yet again.

He holds her tighter and kisses her deep, his tongue begging for entrance as he fights the ghost of Luke, staring right at him as he tries to make his wife forgive him. With every movement of their joined lips, he refutes his dead nephew’s words. He is hers, and she is his. From this day, till the end of their days. 

Not Luke’s. His.

“Mine,” he mumbles in between kisses. Over and over until the blasted bastard’s spirit hears and lets him live. But why should he, when Aemond did not offer him the same courtesy? “You’re mine. No one else’s.”

“What?” He doesn’t answer her murmured question, not quite ready to make her privy to the haunting of his mind by her twin. He does not want to let him ruin this moment for them, not any more than he already has. His hands involuntarily find her skirts, pushing them up as he lowers his lips to kiss her neck.

The skin of her thighs are as soft as he’d remembered, his hands relishing in the touch as it disappears under her dress. She clings to him, a slight whine escaping her lips as his fingertips graze her skin, holding onto her backside as he lifts her up effortlessly, feet carrying them both and pushing her into the nearest wall. The kiss is never ending, and he’d not have it any other way.He presses into her, his hands holding her by the hip so tight that he’s probably bruising her, but he is too far gone to care. He needs to prove his nephew wrong, and with each moment he believes he is closer to vanquishing the ghost of the Strong pup from his consciousness.

“Take me,” she says. He hears her, but he is not quite sure he is listening. However, he does as she says. He has wanted this for long, having missed her touch for long, having missed her wanting him for long. He has wanted this for too long to do anything otherwise, and so he does. He growls as he bites her neck, while she unlaces his breeches and lets his cock spring free. The weeping tip is erect and stands proud, and he hopes she can see what she could have had in the time that she pushed him away. No matter, she’s here now.

He is taken aback by how tight she is, how warm and inviting she is despite it all. Her wetness engulfs him as he thrusts into her, making up for wasted time. With each thrust and with each moan that she lets out, he hopes and prays that their marriage will endure - but the phantom of his nephew is never ending as he refuses to fade. Aemond claims her as is his right, but as he does, he realizes his true goal is to simply remind the ghost in his head that she is his, and no one else’s.

“Mine.”

She leans into him, meeting his forehead with hers as her hair falls around them. Her panting breaths and heaving chest has him in a tight chokehold, and it almost keeps him from being haunted by her twin. Almost.

She peaks with a shuddering moan, and as she falls into him - limp and willing - he chases his pleasure. He brings her down to stand and mindlessly thrusts into her as he chants mine, mine, mine over and over again and when he does spill in her, he wants to be able to only experience pleasure, and nothing else. 

Surely his mind is playing tricks on him, or Luke has simply taken over Aemond in a capacity far beyond his control - for he is certain he sees him in her eyes for just a moment, taunting him and reveling in his misery.  

The memory hits him like whiplash, and it is all he can think of.

Aemond’s hands encircle her delicate throat, pressing her frail form against the unforgiving stone wall, as though he intends to merge her essence with its cold surface. The echoes of her labored panting reverberate in the air, a desperate struggle for breath, while he, consumed by an unrelenting force, cannot cease his actions. 

Her blue eyes roll back in agony, and the veins on her neck stand out more prominently than usual, appearing blue in certain lights and green in others - details he might have discerned if not blinded by rage and madness.

He sees clearly, he always does. But in this moment, the intensity of his anger clouds his judgment, rendering him as blind as he is perceptive in moments of calm. Her pallor intensifies, and her hands futilely attempt to pry his fingers from her skin, seeking reprieve - he wants to let go, but he cannot. How could he?

His nephew has haunted him for years, much like the famed phantom of Harrenhal. Luke may have only been nine years of age when he took Aemond’s eye, but it has wielded a malevolent influence throughout his journey from boyhood to manhood. It has been the root cause for a lot of what he’s done - right from marrying her, to now killing her so she can join her brother wherever he is.

He needs to banish the haunting memory of his nephew from his tormented consciousness. He wants so badly for the words to stop playing in his head, weaving a harsh thread of thoughts that he cannot seem to find his way out of. Her life hangs by a thread, one that he stretches taut until she snaps.

As much as he resents acknowledging it, perhaps Lucerys was right. He isn't killing her; he is merely guiding her to where she belongs, by his side. “Aemond…” Her plea is feeble, choked, and nearly devoid of a voice. “Husband, please…” He hears his sweet wife’s last words, but he refuses to listen.

As the light in her eyes slowly dims, he watches as she struggles to keep her eyes open. Her hold on his choking hand loosens and loses its fight, and she gives in. It is almost as though they are back to how they were, in the days when they were happier, and his hands had been around her neck in much more sensual moments - always just enough, never as tight and deadly as this.

She looks almost peaceful in this state, in the last moments where she’s accepted that she has outrun her course. He cannot have her this way, does not want her this way -  where she fears him and what he has truly become; where every moment that she looks at him with mixed emotions, he is reminded of his nephew and the day he died.

Cursed bastard.

Her once kind smiles, the very essence that once distinguished her from her twin, have undergone a haunting transformation. Her face has since been etched with an unspoken terror, a fear that clings to her like a shroud of impending doom. Every glance she casts seems laden with an eerie anticipation, as if she is poised to deliver a fatal blow.

In those harrowing moments, the resemblance between them becomes a grotesque mirror, reflecting a likeness he cannot bear to acknowledge. The weight of her presence - his presence - is suffocating, an unsettling reminder of his own recklessness. He cannot afford the luxury of a wavering mind, not in the midst of a relentless war that demands his unwavering focus.

This connection has become an unbearable burden, stoking a fury within him that knows no bounds. All he craves is the dissolution of his nephew's haunting memory, an obliteration that refuses to comply with the confines of his subconscious. Instead, it lingers, an ominous specter that shadows his every waking moment, intensifying the horrors that plague him day and night.

And then, her breathing ceases.

The chilling realization of what he’s done crashes over him like a wave, dragging him into the abyss of his own making. The haunting echoes of his nephew's voice, the relentless specter that had tormented his every waking moment ever since the fateful day at Storm’s End, had finally ceased. However, the newfound silence is shattered by the ghastly thud of her lifeless form crumpling to the floor, unleashing an eerie force that wraps its tendrils around his soul.

She seems liberated from the oppressive shackles of fear and her lifeless face descends into an eerie calm that chills the marrow of his bones. In death, she appears more tranquil than any moment he witnessed in life since her twin’s passing. The grotesque disparity between her and Lucerys’ final moments sends a shiver down his spine, the air thick with the stench of regret and the palpable weight of his transgressions.

With a trembling hand, he reaches out to touch her slowly chilling forehead, pressing a sorrowful kiss upon it. The chamber becomes suffocating, the air thickening with an oppressive calm that clings to the shadows. In that macabre stillness, a chilling certainty takes hold — Lucerys will no longer haunt him, but the cost is etched in the lines of his lovely wife’s lifeless face.

As the reality of his irreversible choice seeps into his bones, a haunting question claws at the edges of his conscience: Was the liberation from the phantom of his nephew's influence worth the mad ending of his wife's life? The Seven bear witness to another one of his kinslaying crimes and the heavy silence that follows - a testament to the darkness that now envelopes his soul, as the shadows of the hearth themselves seem to recoil from the stench of blood that stains the very fabric of the air.

Now the twins are together in death, by each other’s side. 

Aemond is free.

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MASTERLIST

[nonbinarypirat]

education vs. fascism in iruma-kun

someone mentioned this in another post but iruma-kun does a wonderful job of showing that education is key to fighting fascist and harmful radical ideas. As soon as it became clear that things were going to change in the netherworld what was Sullivan's response? It wasn't "oh we need to send spies" or "we need to find the people" (though im sure people are working hard to find those answers) it was "we need to focus on educating our students." Because only knowledge and diversity in thoughts can combat fascist ideas. The issue only becomes worse with a lack of understanding and an echo chamber. And by doubling down with education, we can make sure our students are prepared for what lies ahead. Thats how we truly fight the power.

The teachers themselves can tell that things are changing. They stay informed and guess what? its obvious things are about to throw down soon. And so they work tirelessly not just because it's their jobs, but because they need to. this is their protest. this is how we can prevent the spread of gross rhetoric. And after Heartbreaker what they do? they double down on their education too. Because there is always something new to learn, always a way to grow/sharpen your strength. They too know that they can't stay stagnant, they must continue pushing to provide their students with the best chance of survival.

When you have villians that believe in these ideas in media, there's a big issue of them leaving out education as a weapon. But it's crucial if we want anything to truly change. Iruma himself wants to no longer be naive about the netherworld which was growing to be an issue the longer he stays. because yeah, you can't stay uninformed anymore iruma. its time to learn about the history of you new home and the leaders. taking being the king out of it, ignorance about these topics is a breeding ground for becoming complacent. iruma wants to be a hero? or at least, do the right thing when he can? that requires knowledge to make sure you aren't inadvertently hurting someone along the way.

Iruma loves the netherworld, the place he proudly calls home. but it's frought with danger and cruel people. And yet, Iruma is still proud of his new home and friends and wants to do anything he can to stay here. This reflects real life, where there is goodness and pride in the place you live and yet a faction of people who taint it with othering ideas. However, it's always worth fighting for the good overall and bettering yourself so you can see another tomorrow through. Iruma knows he can only protect himself and his loved ones is through learning. And I love Nishi for truly understanding this too. You can't fight fascism through pure will, it has to be beaten by education and the williness to better one's knowledge. That is how we will take back the Netherworld.

but yeah, this is just my little spiel as someone who loves educational activism and is going to school to become a teacher :). If i can find the original post I'll make sure to credit the op!

[livelaughlovesubs]

Fucking chuuya in moris room (the the the one with the big ass window and like, where 15 happened pls tell me yk what I mean) fucking him over moris desk while you can hear him approaching, and he’s trying to cover up his moans n shit, pls Nini understand me, I’m already struggling 🙁🙁🙁

But chuuya

Literally pls I’m so atrocious for this little slippery twink Plsplsplspls please nini, more chuuya

Brooooo 😭😭 I literally love you <33

Dom!reader x sub!chuuya

Warning: exhibition, pegging (can be read as a dick), a little manhandling, hair pulling, degrading

How did things turn out this way? Never would chuuya have guessed he’d do something this atrocious, this risky. All he remembered was agreeing to something, before you pulled him into this room. Even if he wanted to think about it, his mind was somewhere else, preoccupied and focusing on the scenario in front of him. Colourful lights shone through the huge windows of the room, lighting the room up and exposing everything. Soft pantings as well as the occasional yelp filled the huge chamber, there was almost an echo due to the size of the office.

The male arched his back, bending over the long and solid table. His hands gripping the other end of the desk, shoulders raised to his ears and torso flat on the furniture. Your hands were on his waist, holding him down. Some of your weight was on him, rendering him unable to move. There was nothing he could do in this situation, not when it was such a vulnerable and helpless position.

Chuuyas eyes rolled back when he noticed you pressing your hips against his, burying your dick even deeper inside him. His tongue hung out, droll dripping onto the table, dirtying it. “Such a perverted boy, arent you enjoying it too much?” You whispered into his ear, hands squeezing his waist gently. Another shudder coursed through his body, all those sensations were getting to him. First your delightful touch, then your beautiful voice casting spells onto him, as well as the pleasure of taking you whole.

He clenched, his entrance tightening around you while moans erupted from his throat. You pulled back before pounding into his wet and needy hole again, sending another shudder down his spine. “Aahh..! Fu-fuck..! You are the, mHmM- perverted one..- uggGh..” the male gasped, feeling the humiliating take over him. This was so inappropriate and.. embarrassing- ugh, his thoughts weren’t helping him at all. How did he even muster up the courage to do this in his boss’ room?

An especially rough trust pulled him out of his day dream, followed by a high pitched whimpers, “mhMM-aAAHHHhhnGn..!! Y/n..!” He gasped out your name, back arching even more now. The thought of doing this in the office of someone else was scary, het also arousing, he couldn’t deny that aspect.

Though he felt his heart dropping when he heard something from beneath the door, it sounded like voices. Not just one, but multiple. For a split second, he felt the world stopping. As if fate was playing a cruel game. When that second passed, all that filled his senses were immense pleasure provided by none other than you. Your dick kept hitting all his sweet spots, rendering him to a mess who can’t even think straight.

“Ah.. y/n..! So-someone, mhHHmnggh, is commMMIINngG..!” You paused a little too, caught off guard by his comment. Though instead of stopping, you leaned down and said, “then you just have to finish soon, chuuya, or else I won’t stop.” His eyes widened, were you serious..? It would make such a bad look and awkward if mori were to see him in such a state. What if Elise is with him too? How can you be so irresponsible!

What he didn’t know was that mori had a last second meeting today, you made sure that nothing will disrupt your alone time with your lover. There was no need to tell him yet though, maybe if he was getting really desperate. Instead to slowing down, you speed up. Both hands now grabbing his arms and holding him behind him tightly. “Remember what I told you, chuuya~ you wouldn’t want rumours to spread no?”

“Ah.. no, you are so-mHHMNngHhhh, meannnn..!” Hair stuck to his pretty and blushed face. Tears started rolling down his face when you pulled on his hair. Even though it was humiliating and shameful to the core, he just couldn’t not enjoy it. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth while he accepted your challenge. Nodding his head slightly as he mumbled, “keep going..! I luvve it..<3”

[hitlikehammers]

bring him home

rating: t ♥️ cw: Eddie in the Upside Down,; Steve on what he thinks is a retrieval mission for his body (it's not); Eddie Munson Lives; Kas!Eddie (ish) ♥️ tags: established relationship, secret pre-S4 relationship, post-S4, presumed dead (Eddie), mourning and heartbreak (Steve), happy ending (because Eddie is alive, ofc), soul-deep love

for @steddielovemonth day twenty-four: Love is the only thing we can take with us (@thefreakandthehair)

oh hey look, another day I didn't intend to write at all ♥️ but then @pearynice was intrigued by a stray half-baked idea and I struggle to not at least try to provide content in such instances ♥️

He’s only thought it since, since, but he’s actually kind of grateful no one knew. That no one could even have guessed. They’re on eggshells around him enough as it is, thinking it’s the loss, finally, that he couldn’t walk them back from, couldn’t recover them allfrom safe if not wholly sound. They think he’s dealing with survivor’s guilt or just the general blow of a failure so immense, maybe long overdue: and that’s probably part of it.

But only because it’s part of the bigger thing. The real loss.

They would have been together nearly ten fucking months, y’know; the better part of a whole goddamn year since that day at the mall, eyes catching and something just…clicking. Like the barest whisper breathing this could be something into the universe for them to catch if they wanted, and for all that’s still good in the world they both wanted, beyond any kind of logic they both fucking reached.

And Steve knows he’s worrying everyone, knows Joyce cooks for him because she’s sacred for him, knows Claudia bakes for the very same reason; he knows Robin’s gone back to biting her nails over him, and he hates that, he hates it but, like: Steve feels like he left his soul in that hellscape with the man he’d wrapped up in it; knows he left his heart there, because he gave it to that same man ages ago and never ever considered taking it back—and he’s kind of just a, a shell, now, and it’s good that they all think Steve’s just fucked up over the lost, over-inflated savior complex, Rob had muttered more than once and sure, fine—let them think that’s all it is.

It means he can plan without interference.

It means he can drive to the last oozing rift in the world with axes he found in the garage, a crowbar he grabbed at The War Zone—which he knows because he found a receipt, not because he can remember going, driving, paying; he fucking can’t—a fucking tire lift that he things is better suited to trucks than his Beemer but that’s why he needs it: he need to rip open the earth beneath his feet because maybe his heart died down there with the boy he loves in ways he didn’t know he could, not until he found those reserves of feeling inside him well up for the fact of him and maybe it’s too later for his heart, and maybe his soul’s locked in as a funeral shroud but godadmn it all—

Steve needs to bring Eddie’s body home.

Dropping through he fissure in the ground is second nature, like something calling him through the break and that feel right, because the Upside Down for what it is alone is somewhere Steve never wants to be, never wants to touch: but what it holds now what it stole from him and claimed and kept: Steve wants that back beside him, it doesn’t matter how. Cold, torn, broken, gone—Steve’s already those things himself. Now he’s just a raw nerve, but if that nerve could go numb, could freeze for so much pain, so much abuse and hurt. He feels more for the knowledge of how much things should destroy him; he thinks his body is more of an echo chamber, a void that moves but isn’t…there anymore.

Is here, because he left the best of him, the whole of him here, and he—it creaks in his knees when he hits the ground on the other side, shoots up his spine from the bones of him on contact; it should hurt, it should hurt but he can’t feel so much, and he needs to get his bearings, needs to orient, needs to figure where he is and the quickest way to Forest Hills, to where Eddie—

He can’t feel shit when he’s got a purpose, here: the first he’s had in weeks.

He moves to stand, gets to his feet at—

It’s unexpected, how much he feels the impact that knocks him back down, the weight that pushes him to the ground again and covers him, snarls at him, breathes hot and violent against his jaw, against his neck, and Steve—

Steve’ll die here, that’s clear from the hiss above him, the way he’s pinned like prey, like a meal, and the only thought he really has, in all honesty, is he’ll die here.

But he already died here, so it just feels kinda anticlimactic.

The panting against him keeps up, but it…it doesn’t go anywhere, it doesn’t become other, or more—there’s no teeth, no clawing or biting or ripping him apart, draining him dry. He doesn’t think he was afraid for any of it, exactly; his heart’s pounding but it feels distant, other and something far from him, disconnected: not a part of his shell-self, so he thinks that’s just ingrained, just an automatic response to a demo-something, probably, sizing up its meal but like, it’s not doing anything and Steve, Steve doesn’t…he’s not invested, exactly, he doesn’t even think he cares, but—

He squints his eyes open the barest crack where he’d instinctively squeezed them shut and he looks, expects the toothy petals, or even a veiny body; he looks and—

“Eddie?”

Oh, good. Heart, soul: may as well add losing his fucking mind to this place, too, third time’s a goddamn charm.

Because it’s not Eddie, it can’t be…it can’t be Eddie, and—

Not-Eddie leans into him, presses onto him full-bodied, hips to chest, thighs spread to hold him down like he’s going anywhere because, because…

Steve feels that. He feels the pressure, he feels pain where this body drags against scrapes in Steve’s skin, he feels his heart pounding, Jesus fucking Christ, that fucking hurts, but he looks at the face that’s looming over him, tipped to the side like it’s asking a question, like it’s considering Steve below, and it: the bones are sharper, the skin more pale, more drawn up tight and pulled—the eyes are red, bright like when the lighting cuts the sky, here, but everything else…

“Eddie, oh god,” Steve doesn’t want to question it, Steve doesn’t want to keep his mind if the alternative is moments with some version of Eddie whose breath he can feel again, it’s, he’s;

“Eds,” he chokes, and Eddie’s got him wholly pinned down, he can’t reach for Eddie’s face to cup it, to cradle it, so he lets his breath catch, his lungs hitch, lets the tears burn on their way from his eyes in streams as he twitches his fingers, stretches the tips to brush Eddie’s palm where he holds Steve down and—

Eddie stills, and his eyes narrow, and…

And if Steve has to die here, again: let it be at Eddie’s hands. Let it be maybe for Eddie’s…benefit, he’s wellbeing, however he survives here. Let it be for Eddie.

Always for Eddie.

But then Eddie: Eddie doesn’t let him up, still lean into Steve from the middle, but—he buries his head at Steve’s neck, and breathes in so deep, Steve gets to close his eyes and soak in the feeling of his chest rising into Steve’s own: strong.

Real.

“Known,” Eddie murmurs, shakes his head like he’s trying to shoo a fly, but then a shiver trembles through the whole of him, Steve can trace its trajectory where Eddie’s held against him, and then Eddie growls—it’s not a wholly new sound but it’s deeper, more animal in it than Steve’s ever heard and then he bites out through bared teeth: “Known.”

Then he draws back from Steve’s neck, studies him shrewdly, a little hesitant, like he’s unsure of whatever’s happening to him, in him: then he nods, chews at his lower lip in a painfully familiar move before his hands leave Steve’s wrists and he’s—

“Known.”

He’s tracing Steve’s cheekbones, the line of his jaw; he’s running his nose against the slope of Steve’s, he’s…it’s like he’s tracing him, and he does it so gentle, he almost like he anticipates it, he’s—

“Known,” and Eddie’s fucking…it’s not a growl this time but somehow whatever it is, is deeper, stronger, and he mouths at Steve’s neck again but instead of breathing him in, he’s sucking at the lines of his arteries down the sides, up and down, and then he follows the blood to the sounds, groans at a pitch Steve’s never heard before but it’s still, it’s sill Eddie, and—

“Hurt?” Eddie mouths at his chest through the layers of his clothes, sounds mournful, stills as he considers something, intent with it before his head pops up, those red eyes so wide and aching as his hands tap against Steve’s arms, frantic and—

Oh.

Oh; they’re tapping out Steve’s heartbeats to every racing clench-give echoing through his ribs and Eddie moans, almost wails, then—

“Hurt,” and he looks frantic, his eyes wild, and his mouth dropped open, bereft and seeking and oh, oh: Eddie thinks his heart’s pounding because he’s hurt, because he’s in pain and kinda, a little bit but not like that and—

“No,” Steve’s quick to try and soothe, even if his voice is barely a rasp; “no, no,” and his wrists are free to he reaches, covers Eddie’s hands and links their fingers together, feels something in him reanimate, come straight back into being just for that touch, and that it’s warm:

“Happy,” Steve gasps, and squeezes Eddie’s hands with force, with feeling; “happy, to see you,” and he closes his eyes in something like relief when Eddie’s mouth stills against his chest again; sighs when Eddie nuzzles there, like he always did, like he belongs because he always belongs.

“So fucking happy,” Steve breathes, and he feels weightless; wonders if he died. If he hit the ground and snapped his neck. If the impact was a monster and not the love of his life, somehow saved from ruin just to save Steve back in kind.

“Mine,” Eddie whispers, a little bit of a hiss for the feeling in it, the intensity sewn in as he mouths around the beat of Steve’s blood: that’s what he means. That’s his, that and everything it powers, everything it lends life.

His.

He pulls back, and Steve bites back a whimper for the loss before Eddie’s eyes find his and he looks…he looks lost, then, grasping, in need as he almost begs, like the answer is the end of all things:

“Mine?”

He lifts one of their joined hands—he doesn’t disentangle them, and fuck if Steve’s ever letting go—but he lifts them to Steve’s chest and holds there, presses down and looks pointedly at the way his palm covers Steve’s heart, looks up in askance, up and down, there and back over and again, more desperate every time and Steve tightens his fingers around Eddie’s and nods, just nods because his voice is gone, his throat’s too tight, he’s—

But Eddie sees it. Eddie understands because Eddie…

Eddie always understands what Steve can’t say.

“Mine,” he exhales like it’s the answer to the universe, like it’s proof of god and the devil, like it’s more than air to breathe and Steve’s…

Steve doesn’t even know what he is. Except: he’s alive.

He died before he left here last time, and now somehow he’s alive. “Known, s’known,” Eddie mutters, shakes his head slow and pins his gaze on different parts go Steve’s body, touches and looks up to Steve like it serves as confirmation just to meet his gaze, to watch him blink; “know, know,” and Eddie bends again, mouths at his chest and inhales sharp as he rips out, almost feral: “mine,” and then something in him gives, and he falls to Steve’s chest and Steve’s heart skips, the terror in him tangible, but he throws out his hands, lets Eddie’s grasp go to hold Eddie up and Eddie panting, gasping, something has to be wrong—

“St,” Eddie’s voice is sandpaper rough, but…but full somehow and Steve can’t name what it is, save that it makes him feel warm, from the inside, in a way he’d thought was gone forever. It prickles at his eyes and he doesn’t fight the tears:

“Ste,” Eddie coughs a little, and then he looks up, brow furrowed and muscles tight as he locks his eyes on Steve’s and grits out:

“Steve?”

And those eyes: those eyes meet Steve’s now—color in them, that depthless nightshade, drenched in that deep warm chocolate shade: Steve’s breath catches. His heartbeat skips again, but wholly different, and it looks, it feels like a weight’s been lifted; a spell’s been broken. And somehow, somehow even before anything shifted, somehow Eddie, his Eddie, he—

Whatever’s happened, whatever’s been done to him: somehow, deeper than any of it, he kept the love.

“Steve.”

Eddie’s voice shakes and he drops his weight again but this time when he presses against Steve it’s to wrap him close, to hold him a little clumsy, a whole lot desperate, and it…it feels like maybe Steve’s soul where it’s wrapped around Eddie? Like maybe he gets a little bit of it back; like maybe he can inhale and it could mean something again.

Eddie only draws back to tuck his head under Steve’s chin, to dip lower and put his lips to the center of Steve’s chest, to breathe there, like life into the heart of him again and fuck, but he feels it.

He kinda doesn’t need to know anything more, doesn’t need to have any more answers to know whatever this is, whatever Eddie needs: they’ll figure it out. Eddie’s lips are on his chest. His heart’s a mallet against Eddie’s mouth, beats up into the warm rush of his breath: there. Real.

Steve feels it.

also on ao3 🖤

tag list (comment to be added): @pearynice @hbyrde36 @slashify @finntheehumaneater @wxrmland @dreamwatch @perseus-notjackson

♥️

divider credit here

[jiyascepter]

Subtle Seductions

Masterlist

Pairing: Loki x f!reader

Words: 796 (no i will not call this a drabble!)

Warnings/Cont. : fluff, seduction, tension, reader is shorter than loki, overall fluff but implied smut at the end, nicknames: little one | lmk if i should add any more

Synopsis: Loki's seducing words and caresses before a party.

A/N: My exams are over so I can finally write after so long 😭 this is a pretty casual story tbh, i did not think much while writing this

The Avengers compound was buzzing with festivity and excitement. Today was a special occasion—Tony's birthday. In a few hours, the team and several other guests would gather to celebrate their teammate's birthday. But amidst the preparations, a different kind of magic was unfolding.

Loki was sauntering in the corridors of the compound, dressed in his special black suit for the party, his eyes scanning the surroundings with mild interest. His attention was soon captured by a sight that made his heart skip a beat.

There you were, the fellow Avenger who Loki could never keep his eyes off because of how capturing you were to him, and today, dressed in such an attractive outfit for the party, he couldn't help but watch you. You both got dressed early, and you were waiting for the others, leaning against the kitchen counter, your eyes on your phone.

Loki leaned against the doorframe, silently observing your every move. His gaze softened as he took in the subtle curves of your figure and the way your eyes sparkled with determination.

"Ahem," Loki cleared his throat, announcing his presence as he stepped into the kitchen. You looked up, noticing how good he looked in his black suit. "Oh, hey," you say, keeping your phone aside and correcting your posture to look at him.

"I guess we are the early dressers of the night," he says, walking up to you. "I couldn't help but notice how enchanting you look tonight, little one." There was your nickname that had been there ever since he moved in with the Avengers.

You smile softly, with a slight blush on your cheeks, when you notice the way he is looking at you. "Thank you, Loki; you look good too." You say this when you notice his tie is a bit dishevelled.

As you approached, his eyes shimmered with anticipation, with his hands in his pockets. Considering his height next to you, you had to stand on your toes to take hold of his tie and adjust it.

"Ah, little one," Loki's velvety voice purred, his lips curving into a sly smile as you stood before him, a delicate blush adorning your cheeks. "Do you need assistance?" Your heart fluttered at the sound of his voice, tinged with a hint of mischief and warmth that stirred something within you. Summoning your courage, you stood on your tiptoes, your fingers delicately grazing the fabric of Loki's collar as you attempted to adjust it.

"I can manage, just... almost got it," you murmured, your voice soft and tinged with a shy vulnerability that seemed to intrigue Loki even more. A chuckle rumbled in Loki's chest; the sound was like a melody that echoed through the chamber. "Gods, you're adorable," he remarked, his gaze softening as he watched you with a mixture of amusement and fondness.

He takes out his hands out of his pockets and holds your waist to sit you up on the counter, then leans closer and says in almost a whisper, "By the way, did I tell you how ravishing you're looking this evening?"

"Y-you did…" You say it a bit shyly, struggling to look into his beautiful blue eyes. With a gentle touch, Loki reached out, his fingers grazing against your own as he effortlessly adjusted his tie, his touch sending a shiver down your spine. His proximity was intoxicating, his presence enveloping you.

With a tender caress, Loki cupped your cheek, his touch gentle yet electrifying. He leans closer, his breath hovering on your lips. "You smell amazing too; are you trying to kill me, little one?" He says, caressing your arms up to your bare shoulders and sending tingles to your skin.

A smile tugged at your lips, and you looked up at him. "That wasn't the intention, but I do not mind if it's having that effect on you." He smirks and takes your hand and places a kiss on it, looking at you intensely. He was being incredibly touchy today.

"The way you look right now is making me want to skip this party with you." You shyly smile. "I don't really mind, you know. The number of guests Tony has invited, he won't know we never came."

He grins. "Clever girl."

He leans in and kisses your neck several times, the tip of his tongue running up and down your nape as you let out soft gasps. He then pulls away, inches away from your lips. The closeness makes you want to grab and kiss him already.

But instead of kissing you, he picks you up in his arms. "I have a better place for this...activity, little one." He says gazing down at you with a playful intention behind his eyes.

And he takes you to his bedroom. For...things.

Tag List: @secretbiphantomer @wolfsmom1 @chronicallybubbly @eleniblue @foxherder @holdmytesseract @julia-lokidottier Want to be added to my taglist? Here!

[tragicdruid]

Angst with Scara please, using this line!

“Is it too hard to love me back?”

Lost Love (1)

Pairings: Scaramouche x Reader

Contains: Angst no comfort (?), established relationship, break up, minor Archon quest spoiler

Word Count: 600+

Part 1 | Part 2

Scaramouche was different now -- or perhaps he had always been this way. Ever since he'd successfully taken the electro gnosis, his mind has been dead set on a singular goal; becoming a God. Everything else had fallen to the wayside. He abandoned the Fatui and, in some ways, it feels as if he's abandoned you.

You were still at his side during this venture, following him loyally as a lover should. But love...it felt as if it was slipping through your fingertips. So focused on godhood, it was as if he'd forgotten you. Or rather, you were no longer of any importance. He cared more about a single worshiper than he did his lover. At least, that's what it felt like.

As you stand in the Joururi workshop, staring up at the giant mechanism that Scaramouche is attached to from within, your expression becomes pensive.

"Is this really what you want?" You ask, head tilting as your eyes search for his visage behind the combination of intricate metals. When was the last time you saw his face? Felt his touch? Weeks? Months?

"What kind of question is that? Of course it is." His voice echoes out into the space, full of disdain and judgement. As if you were nothing more than a dog.

In truth, you missed him. It was as simple as that. Sure, you were in the same space, but things were different now. It wasn't as if the two of you had a normal relationship to begin with, but it feels as if the fragile thread that connected you both was on the verge of breaking. And it's not like you weren't supportive of his plans. You just wonder if the consequences were worth it.

"Well...once you become a God, where does that leave us?" You hope that there will still be an us.

Contemptuous laughter fills the space and you feel your stomach drop. "What do you think? You will worship me like everyone else," he sneers, and you can practically feel his cold gaze through the machine.

"That's not what I meant and you know it," you reply quickly, brows furrowed and lips pulled into a frown. "You know I love you. Is it too hard to love me back?"

You earn a scoff of disbelief before he chuckles coolly. "Love? Is that what you thought it was? Mortals are so simpleminded."

Your chest clenches at his words, wanting to believe that he's just being disagreeable to irritate you, as he often did. The power must be getting to his head.

"Yes, love. Aren't we enough? You don't have to do all this to prove yourself."

"Hah, I don't need to prove myself. This is my birthright. If you think I'm going to stop just because you think you're special, think again."

Immediately, tears begin to well in your eyes as your voice gets caught in your throat. You want to argue like you always do, but you know this is different.

"What's the matter? Cat got your tongue?" Scaramouche was always one to twist the knife, but you had hoped that he wouldn't be so cruel to you.

Taking a moment to collect yourself, you blink away your tears and glare at the mechanism that was to be his new form. "I guess we're done then," you mutter bitterly, turning your back to him.

"Aw, did I hurt your feelings? You'll come running back like you always do."

His taunting laughter fills the chamber as you walk away. You don't come back.

--------🍃

A Wanderer walks alone through the marketplace. You pass him with groceries in hand, your scent familiar and expression serene. He is unfamiliar to you, but as your eyes meet, you catch a glimpse of yearning in those stunning indigo orbs. The stranger tilts his head downward, the rim of his hat blocking your view as he continues on his path.

Pausing for a moment, you turn your head to stare at the stranger's back. With a shrug, you return home, wondering why that wanderer looked at you with something akin to love.

[heartthrobin]

catch me if you can

hobie brown x female!reader

wc: 1k

warnings: tooth-rotting fluff, a questionable attempt at british slang, Miles' pov (it makes sense i promise), established relationship, Miles is a little baby boy angel, implied chubby/thick reader, Miles' 'jealous of Hobie' dynamic

an: this idea popped into my brain as i was trying to sleep last night so here it is :) it's actually funny cause i'm a hobie brown girl first and human second but have been working on so much miguel content. go figure. remember to reblog and comment to support your favourite writers :) THIS IS A REPOST! i woke up this morning and the original post literally disappeared from my page :( sorry y'all

summary: you and Hobie are absolutely incorrigible.

Miles didn't like the sound of Hobie Brown.

and now that he's faced with the man in question, he doesn't particularly like the sight of him either.

the spider-society foyer is a menagerie of characters, different suits and capes and hairstyles and --horses? but Miles can't move his line of sight off Hobie's back where he just bumped his too tall frame against Gwen's much shorter one.

she stumbles sideways and laughs, and Miles wants to throw a fit right there.

Hobie stops walking. his figure tightens and his shoulders draw up.

Miles frowns in confusion and follows his gaze.

under the archway of the door towards where he assumes is this Tio Miguel's office stands some spider-women, three in varying outfits.

there's one in a forest green suit, your eyes have found Hobie's. they're wide, round in something Miles can place most akin to fear.

you're beautiful, he can tell that easily: all full-bodied around the edges and soft in the face.

you surprise him when you turn on your heel, running out only three wide steps before spitting out a web onto the nearest ledge of those that lingered above his head and hoisting yourself up.

the green suit blurs, swinging over hundreds of spider-people and you glance back over your shoulder in panic.

more surprising than that, Miles finds that Hobie is chasing you.

his long thin legs stride down the walkway, abandoning Gwen when he too sends a thick white web at a tall pillar and flies across the foyer. he sticks to another dais and climbs wildly along walls after your escaping figure.

Miles jaw is loose, face dripping in concern.

somewhere behind him Jessica sighs. "those two are incorrigible."

his head is flicking back and forth between his companions, unsure if he's the only one who can see what's unfolding. your figure is climbing desperately up the side of the wide window, you're fast but Hobie is gaining ground.

Gwen and Pavitr are walking still ahead of him, arms swinging by their sides. he steps quickly, eyes never leaving the chase in the air.

"is nobody seeing this?" Miles' hands motion up to the air, they're frantic. "Hobie is chasing s-some ... poor woman!"

glancing back over her shoulder, Gwen's eyes finding the two colourful blurs, she draws to a halt. "i guess we should wait for them. they're so annoying sometimes."

Pavitr's head lolls to the side, an endeared expression twisting into his face. "i think they're adorable."

your grunts can still be heard echoing down the chamber, Hobie's too. you yelp as Hobie just misses your leg, escaping his clutch by swinging low over a random spider's head. the spider grumbles up at you.

"he's ..." Miles shakes his head, fingertips twitching against his web shooter. "is nobody gonna help her? i-i'm gonna help--"

"help?" Gwen and Pavitr were looking at him like he'd grown a second head.

there's a sharp shriek from above, he finds you mid-air. a wide web has enclosed over your shoulders, locking your arms against your side and you're hoisted back against Hobie where he's perched along a wall.

Miles hand jumps up to web his way to you when Gwen's hand closes over his wrist. she just shakes her head at him. "chill, Miles."

he looks back up.

you crash against Hobie's chest with enough force to jostle him off the wall. your joined figures slide down the side of the wall to land a few feet from where Miles stands.

your shoulders are shaking. if you weren't so low on the ground, he might not have recognised that you were ... laughing?

"got'cha, luv."

Hobie's forehead meets yours gently. you wriggle in the webbing that's bound you.

"took you longer than this morning." your voice crumbles out between giggles.

a ring-clad hand finds your chin, tilting your face against his. you press up on tippy-toes, teetering like you're drunk with his kiss. Hobie's hand is creeping over your waist and dipping you backwards under the influence of his height.

"i mean, we've barely been gone a couple hours." Gwen mutters at the sight. Pavitr is holding his hands up to his chest and lets out a soft "they're so cute."

confusion is still tugging on Miles' mind but it's drowned by the waves of relief coursing like coffee down his gullet and warming his stomach.

"they ... they do this often?" he asks tentatively.

"every damn day."

his gaze flickers between Hobie and Gwen. "so they're ... dating?"

Pavitr nods. "Hobie doesn't like labels. but pretty much."

"so," he is feigning nonchalance as far as he can carry it. he speaks at Gwen. "you and him ... you're not--?"

she's affronted. "me and Hobie?"

Pavitr is laughing.

"no!" she clarifies, clearly put out. "that's so weird ..."

Miles is practically blind with relief.

you've clearly been detangled from Hobie's webs when you bounce over to where Miles is standing amongst the others.

"Gwendoline!" your voice is light and animated, you're panting slightly from your chase.

Gwen grumbles like she hates the name, but smiles sideways under the weight of your hand ruffling her hair. you bump into Pavitr's side and he greets too.

they smile like they love you.

your eyes find him. "you must be Miles!"

he discovers you're as keen on physical touch as your boyfriend, hoisting him tightly against your chest before pulling back: holding him at arm's length to examine him.

"you're taller than I thought you'd be."

"you should see mans fly, babe," Hobie's hands slink into his jacket pockets. Miles thinks he's referring to him. "wicked with the webs, i tell ya'."

he blushes at the compliment. you're smiling at him like you're proud. "oh, yeah? maybe boss will put us on a mission together and i can check these moves, hey Morales?"

Miles nods. "sure."

you let go of his shoulders, eyes finding your boyfriend's.

skipping ahead of the kids, your hand slips into Hobie's and he leans down to kiss your temple. "how was your day, rockstar?" he hears you ask.

Gwen slides in beside Miles. they start walking again and she smiles at him.

he returns it. ahead of him, you're teetering on your toes so you're walking completely pressed against the side of your boyfriend.

Miles finds that maybe he doesn't dislike Hobie as much as he thought.

-

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[namis-gf]

Just saw that you’re open for one piece requests and thought I’d drop by.

Would you consider writing back rub and back kisses hcs for katakuri or marco please? And best of luck with the come back ^^

anon ur so insane how did u KNOW i was thinking obsessively about katakuri for the past two weeks straight... ur too good. i meant to stick closer to the prompt but the plot kinda got away from me, sorry!

summary: strawhat!reader x katakuri meet again after many years apart during the whole cake island arc. luffy has been trying to convince him to join his crew with no success, but maybe he might listen to you?

word count: 969 words / 0.9k

cw: none? i think?

whoever said katakuri was 48 year-old eldest daughter syndrome is absolutely correct. he has so many hangups when it comes to both physical and verbal affection, most of the time preferring to passively sit by and let people bother him. case in point, your captain. instead of immediately setting sail for zou to meet up with everyone, luffy has taken it upon himself to convince the minister of flour that his presence is desperately needed on his crew. permanently.

and, if you're going to be polite about it: things aren't going well. you've watched for two days straight, luffy yelling either to the gentle giant's face (which is still quite a distance from the ground), or attempting to scale the walls of katakuri's home. neither of those particularly difficult for the rubber boy, considering the house slash castle itself seems to be basically falling apart.

you wait. nami often sits by your side, either grouching about the time, plotting your captain's demise, or napping on your shoulder. chopper and brook have taken to an almost betting ring of sorts, getting the remaining residents of komugi island to guess whether their leader will stay or go. so far, the odds aren't in luffy's favour. as usual, you might add.

at the end of their fourth extra night, luffy returns to the sunny. he looks a little downtrodden, yawning, but has somehow gotten a hold of a handful of mochi. "i think katakuri was trying to kill me again, but he lost. the food he makes is really yummy though, shishishi!"

with a sigh of your own, you offer, "let me talk to him, i have an idea."

"you do?" luffy replies, mouth full of sweets, "go ahead!"

"call if you need anything!" chopper chimes in.

nami only shakes her head. "if you don't come back, we'll assume you got trampled to death or something. so don't do that please."

"don't even worry about it, i'm basically a pro social hustler," you tell them, and begin the walk to the castle.

"so you are not a bard, or a songstress, or a very small jester. your presence here confuses me, you did not seem like someone who would ever become a pirate," katakuri tells you, his tone as solemn as ever.

"is this a roundabout way of saying i don't have any talents?" you mock-gasp with flair, "oh you wound me so!"

he stares at you wordlessly. okay, it looks like jokes are off the table.

"but you missed me right?" you try instead, putting on your biggest smile. "you missed me so bad, must be why you look so grumpy all the time."

"is your captain aware of..." he pauses, considers, "does the strawhat know of your past?"

"sort of?" you shrug your shoulders, shifting forward to adjust like you aren't already lying on one of his legs (truly the world's largest couch). "there was never exactly a good time to bring it up, ya know? like how was i supposed to say 'uh hey guys, i used to work here as the world's worst gardener before i got fired'."

"hm, that does seem difficult," katakuri nods. "i could not tell how much they knew, but you are lucky that none of my siblings happened to remember you well enough to say anything."

"small blessings for sure," you do your best to contain a laugh, however the echoing chambers of an empty castle only make it louder. "anyways, cut the bullshit. you're gonna come with me, right?"

his neutral expression shifts into something like a frown, and yet you can tell he isn't exactly angry at your presumptuousness either. "i would like to accompany you. but my duties to my... mother and the family take precedence."

"and if you left, she'd send the whole gang after you."

he sighs again. "yes, that is the most probable outcome. and i would not wish to put the strawhat crew in danger."

"that's charming," you reply, "but also really stupid. and i know you aren't a dummy, right? you've been hanging around this dreary archipelago for your whole life! don't you want to, i don't know, do something? go on an adventure?"

he doesn't respond immediately, but a large hand clumsily pats your head with his pointer finger. you grin, knowing victory must be in sight. "your totally evil mom doesn't even leave her place that often, so she won't even notice that you're gone! and tell me right now that you don't think luffy would be chomping at the bit to fight her again? be serious, mochi-mochi."

all of a sudden the ground shifts under you, and you make an embarrassing yelp as you're dragged up and up and up. katakuri holds your body by the back of your shirt, and you're only partially worried that he could drop you. death by splat on marble floor isn't appealing in the slightest. you're suspended by a shirt pinched between fingers as he squints slightly, as though looking for a secret in your expression.

"fine," he eventually says, "i will go. but if something goes wrong, do not say i didn't warn you."

"ah, you're bringing me back to old times!" you hum, making a familiar grabby hand motion for him to drop you on his shoulder. "except i think uh, the last time you warned me-"

"you got fired, yes," he says amicably, but acquiesces to your request. "left or right?"

"right! i wanna look like a really mean parrot, mr. pirate," you exclaim, laughing as he drops you gently where you'd asked. feeling mischievous, you press a kiss against his neck and watch as his face goes pink. "we should probably go make sure that you won't sink the sunny, though!"

"... and you somehow did not think to check something like that before?"

FIN (FOR NOW)

[onceuponaoneshotfanfic]

It's Flawless, Really Something

Roy Kent x Teacher!Reader

Warnings: Language, flirting, a pervy parent, non-academic activities in the classroom

2.6k words

Teach Me Tonight Masterlist

“Did you save me that biscuit?”

Roy Kent leaned forward, hands on the plastic table, and smiled at you. His eyes were bright, and his black leather jacket hugged him deliciously; he was perfect, you thought. Stupidly, ridiculously, wonderfully perfect.

“Only if you’ve got exact change,” you managed to joke, holding out your outstretched hand.

Roy looked surprised at your teasing reply. Surprised, but also pleased. After your talk with Leanne, you’d made the terrifying decision that you were going to flirt with Roy Kent. You liked him, you knew that much. He clearly liked you, at least a little. And if he was ever going to ask him out, he, like any other man, needed a little encouragement.

With a content chuckle, the coach reached into his pocket and pulled out a couple of quid, definitely more than the cost of one chocolate chip cookie. He pressed the money into your hand, curling your fingers into a fist as his warm grip lingered.

Despite your immediately wavering bravery, you held his gaze, not caring that he could probably see the way you gulped at his touch. “That’s a little too much, Coach,” you hummed.

“Consider the rest a tip,” he answered, giving your hand a squeeze before letting go. “For exemplary service.” He tilted his head at you. “How long’re you here for? Do they let you take a break, or do I need to call the union?”

“Maybe another half hour and then I’m pretty much done.” You smiled, not caring that there were students, and parents, and other teachers flittering around. “Why? You want to buy me a lemonade or something?”

He shrugged and picked up a chocolate chip cookie. “Or something,” he echoed with a wink. “Have fun.”

You watched unabashedly as he walked away, to where his sister and Phoebe were waiting for him. He handed the cookie to a bouncy Phoebe, while his sister waggled her eyebrows at him. Roy gave his sister a shove before glancing back at you, his smile widening when he caught you staring.

As you were wondering whether Leanne would kill you if you left her alone, Mrs. Seling rushed over mischief all over her face.

“Teresa’s dog got sick,” she said in place of a greeting. “We need someone in the dunk tank, just for twenty minutes until it’s Mrs. Halpern’s turn. Can you do it?”

Shit. The damn dunk tank. Every year, teachers brokered deals and offered bribes to avoid having a shift on the stupid thing, treating it like the torture chamber it was. The water was gross and weirdly warm. The air was freezing cold when you were soaked. Students lined up in droves to try to dunk their teacher into the water, and, worse, dads lined up to see the results.

Of course, Lee chose that moment to absolutely betray you and busy herself with selling brownies to a student’s grandmother, leaving you only able to smile weakly at Karen and mumble, “I guess.”

So, there you sat, hating the fact that you’d chosen today to wear a light-colored shirt to go with your jeans, but thankful for the fact that your students had terrible aim. Phoebe O’Sullivan stood among the gaggle of children who were desperate to see you fall into the tub of water that you tried not to think too hard about; her uncle stood not far, eyebrows raised in amusement, trying not to think too hard about how you’d look once you got dunked.

Normally, Roy thought of you as cute, pretty, adorable. An absolute distraction. But the thought of you in a soaked shirt, material clinging to your body… fuck, he needed to get his thoughts under control. After all, he hadn’t asked you out yet, hadn’t kissed you yet. But fucking hell, his mind was racing as he tried not to turn into a teenage boy with fantasies of a beautiful teacher in a wet t-shirt.

“Uncle Roy, you should try!”

Phoebe’s little voice dragged him out of his increasingly adult thoughts. “Hmm?” He stared at the ball in his niece’s outstretched hand, quickly comprehending what she’d just said. “Oh. Sure.”

He stepped up after watching one of Phoebe’s classmates throw a very wild pitch. Your eyes found his, carrying a mixture of amusement and embarrassment. He knew he could hit that stupid red target; he was a retired athlete, after all. A flick of his wrist, and you’d be soaked from head to toe.

But he saw the way Jack Price’s dad was leering at you, the way that fucker always did when his wife wasn’t around. And he felt that tightness in his chest again, the tightness he’d had that day at the zoo when he watched that skeeze put his hand on your shoulder. No way was Roy going to let slime see his personal fantasy.

Besides, you’d probably appreciate Roy not dunking you, right? It’d be rather gentlemanly. And you seemed like the type that wanted a gentleman. And Roy wanted to be what you wanted.

So, he gently tossed the ball, shrugging at you when it hit the backboard instead of the target.

“Thank you,” you mouthed, warming away that tightness in his chest. The relief and gratitude on your face was worth looking like he couldn’t throw a damn ball, as well as the fifty pence the ball had cost.

As he pondered how he could leverage his chivalrous gesture to finally ask you on a date, someone tapped his shoulder.

Jack Price’s dad smiled at him, that stupid, sharkish smile, tossing a ball up and down. “Guess you’re not as good at pitching as kicking, hmm?” he joked, as if they were the kind of people who joked with each other. “Watch and learn.”

Your gasp was sharp as you felt the bench disappear from under you and were instantly underwater. Dammit. You’d almost made it the full twenty minutes dry as a bone. Fucking Mr. Price and his fucking cricket hobby. You came back up rapidly, cheeks burning as the kids cheered on the sight of seeing their beloved teacher soaked.

To add insult to injury, Mrs. Halpern stood beside the dunk tank, ready to take your place. You clambered out of the dunk tank, shivering in the approaching evening air. All you wanted to do now was go home, shower, and put on your warmest pajamas. Never mind letting Roy Kent buy you a lemonade. You were cold, wet, and, admittedly, a little embarrassed by the way your shirt clung to your skin.

But you grabbed your things and put on that fake smile for your students who giggled over your misfortune and tried to make a speedy exit. Unfortunately, Mr. Price slowed down your plans.

“No hard feelings, right?” he hummed, eyes everywhere but your face. “It’s for a good cause, after all.”

Instinctively, you crossed your arms, attempting to hide as much as you could. “Of course,” you murmured, making a pathetic attempt to sidestep him.

He blocked your path, eyeing your figure. “Need help with those wet clothes?” he whispered as his hand landed on your shoulder, the way it had at the zoo.

“Oi.”

As you shrugged off Mr. Price’s hand, Roy Kent approached, peeling off his leather jacket. “You must be fucking cold,” he mumbled. Pointedly ignoring Jack’s dad, he wrapped the jacket around your shoulders. “How about that lemonade?”

“Thanks,” you sighed as Mr. Price scampered away. “But I should probably head home. Need a shower after being in that thing.” As you spoke, you did your best to ignore the feeling of Roy Kent’s jacket hugging you, enveloping you in the scent of whatever wonderful cologne he was wearing, a cologne he’d picked out in the hopes of bumping into you today.

“Sorry the jacket’s not more comfortable,” he grumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. “But you can just give it back to me Monday. Keep you warm on your way home.”

You shook your head. “I have a sweatshirt in my classroom. I can just throw that on.” Seeing the slight disappointment in his brown eyes, you swayed forward slightly, batting your eyes at him- something you weren’t sure you’d ever done. “Walk me to my classroom?”

There was that smile. That fucking smile, the one that was bright enough to make you forget Roy Kent’s infamous rage, the perfect smile you wanted to kiss right off his bearded face. He kept on smiling as the two of you slipped away from the fall festival.

He liked seeing you in his jacket. It was just big enough to look cozy wrapped around your shoulders, and he cherished the way you tugged it tightly around yourself. Admittedly, he was a big jealous of the way his jacket got to be wrapped around you. He wondered if it would smell like you when he got it back; probably like the dunk tank water, unfortunately. Maybe he could offer it to you again sometime. Maybe even after a date.

You quickly unlocked your classroom and led Roy in, trying not to flinch when you heard the door close, silencing the already distant sounds of the festival. Neither of you bothered with the lights, instead letting the last of the sun softly illuminate the classroom. Roy followed you to your desk, wondering if you wanted him to leave or stay, and hoping beyond hope that it was the latter.

“Oh, here.” You slipped off his jacket and handed it to him. “Thanks again, Coach. Very chivalrous of you.” Your smile was probably the most confident he’d seen, playful and teasing. It was probably his favorite smile.

“Any fucking time,” he breathed. He was fighting so fucking hard not to stare at you. He knew he wasn’t a married dad like Mr. Price or the others, and he was pretty sure you liked the way he stared at you- but still. He didn’t want to be grouped with them, a creep who ogled you like a piece of meat.

But fuck, you were making it hard. That shirt clung to you like it wanted you even more than Roy did, flaunting the body you usually covered with cute dresses and jean jackets- a body Roy really liked. You pulled your dripping hair up in a clip you found on your desk, exposing a neck that Roy was sure would look great with a few marks on it. And you gazed up at him with wide eyes and parted lips, as if you were going to ask him a question.

He cleared his throat. “You headin’ home after you grab your sweater?”

You nodded absently. “Probably.” You took a tiny step back, hitting the edge of your desk. “You sticking around?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m with, uh, my sister and Pheebs.” Despite his best efforts, his eyes wandered. Fuck. “Sorry,” he muttered, wincing when he realized how obvious it was; he might as well be drooling.

You cocked your head at him. “For what?”

He shook his head, ears burning with shame and, if he was being really honest, desire. “For fucking…. Staring.” He made himself look you in the eye, which was somehow worse. “’m sorry.”

To his surprise, you smiled. “Don’t be. I… I like it when you stare.”

“Do you?” His voice was quiet, as if he thought being any louder would scare you off. “Why?”

You shrugged and hopped up onto your desk. “Because it’s you,” you said simply. Feeling dizzy from the way Roy looked at you, you reached out and touched his hand, grazing his skin with the tip of your finger. “You’re… you’re the kind of guy a girl likes to have staring.”

There it was. Since the first day of school, when he saw you in your little white sneakers and jean jacket, he’d been waiting for a clear sign that you were just as infatuated as he felt. And now, in your dark classroom, with your eyebrows raised and your hand on his and your lip caught between your teeth, Roy finally had his fucking sign.

He took a step forward and settled himself between your knees. Watching you carefully, he put his hands on your waist, digging his fingers into the soaking material of your shirt. You tilted your face towards him, finally giving him permission to do the one thing he’d been desperate to do since the moment you met.

Your lips were soft, even softer than Roy had let himself imagine. He had often wondered what kind of ChapStick he watched you apply on warm afternoons; cherry, he realized. Fucking cherry. For the rest of his life, he knew, whenever he tasted cherry, he’d be thrown back to this moment, kissing the pretty teacher in her classroom, amazed that someone so sweet would kiss someone so fucking miserable.

And kiss him you did. You brought your hands to the back of his head, pressing your chest flush against his. His hands fisted at your shirt, tugging it up a little so his fingertips could brush over your soft skin, still wet from the dunk tank, but quickly heating up as you deepened the kiss. Roy let you take the lead; he waited until your lips parted to open his own mouth, and your tongue was the first one to tentatively flick against his.  

He groaned softly into your mouth and let one hand cup your face, thumb caressing your heated cheek. He could get used to this, Roy thought. Used to your cherry-flavored kisses and hands in his hair and body pressed against his, and used to your sweet smiles and shy giggles and bright eyes. He wondered briefly what other things he could look forward to getting used to.

“We,” you huffed into the kiss. “We should go before-” Your breath hitched as Roy’s mouth wandered to your jaw. “-before someone sees us.”

He sighed against your skin. You were right. Roy knew you were fucking right. This was a school. You were in your classroom. As exciting and tempting as it was to keep going, he needed to respect that. After harshly pressing his lips to yours one more time, he pulled back.

“Let me take you out,” he all but begged. “On a fucking proper date.”

Your smile was brilliant. “That would be lovely, Coach.”

He let out a breathy chuckle, the hand on your waist giving you a gentle squeeze. “I think you can call me Roy now.”

“Right.” You giggled, that adorable bashfulness returning, somehow even more endearing now. “That would be lovely, Roy.”

Fucking hell, his name sounded good coming out of your mouth. It sounded so good he couldn’t help pulling you in for another kiss, a slow, tender one.

“Any chance you’re free tonight?” he breathed.

You nodded. “I just need to go home. Shower away the dunk tank.”

Roy did his best not to let his mind wander to that shower. “Right. Right.” He cleared his throat. “And I’ve got to drop my sister and Phoebe at home. Think I could come around at eight?” He kissed your jaw. “We could go get a drink. I can stare at you some more.”

“Sounds perfect.” With a teasing shove to Roy’s chest, you hopped down from the desk and grabbed your sweatshirt from where it hung over your chair, quickly pulling it over your head.

The two of you ambled out of the classroom wearing matching grins and blushes. It was a good thing your classroom was clear across campus from the festival, because it was painfully obvious that the two of you had just been pawing at each other.

“Be ready at eight,” Roy hummed, intertwining his fingers with yours. “And get ready to be stared at all night.”

“Looking forward to it.” You leaned forward and kissed his lips quickly. “See you in a bit, Coach.”

Roy growled at you, a playful, sexy sound.

Your laugh warmed his chest. “Roy,” you corrected as you squeezed his hand. “See you in a bit Roy.”

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[triviallytrue]

The US public seems shockingly pro-Israel to this day, and I am genuinely unsure why. I think a common answer would be something like "propaganda" but I don't really think that's true - tons of mainstream US news sites are reporting the facts as they happen, and while there is certainly some slant involved, it is still basically impossible to miss the 20:1 ratio of Palestinians dead to Israelis.

Is this a cable news thing? Are there other ways people get their news that suppress basic facts? Social media echo chambers?

Or is it a narrative thing? I guess the "Hamas is the only one responsible because human shields" thing has spread pretty far, but that just doesn't seem like it should hold up to basic scrutiny even to someone who's pretty uninformed.