#mind fuckery my beloved

[whump-queen]

Whumper won’t tell whumpee why they’re getting punished.

They have to keep frantically guessing, knowing that they’ll be hit with every wrong answer.

"Still haven’t figured it out yet?”

“You’re even dumber than you look.”

Sliding the bloody crop up their jaw, smearing red.

“Now lick it clean.”

[moe-broey]

This is like. A family photo. To me.

[phantompages]

Same Age AUs are so fascinating to me, and of the ones I've seen I really like them. In particular if we have Reigen and Shigeo both as middle schoolers because instead of an older mentor figure Shigeo is ending up with another kid. He gets to have a friend his age who gets to drag him around to do stuff and it's nice, really nice to have a friend he can relate to. Meanwhile Reigen has soooo many ✨issues✨ but hey he's great at bullshitting and is getting Shige to open up some more, while on the flip side he's also getting a friend and can go out and do more now that he has someone to do stuff with. Plus they make great business partners so this is going amazingly :D

Another version I like is if this is the result of some time travel shenanigans, mostly because I like seeing a more stark contrast between kid Reigen and adult Reigen, especially through Shigeo's eyes because... this isn't his shishou, not exactly, because kid Reigen doesn't have the years of life experience that helps his words hold more meaning, even if kid Reigen is still a great talker and bullshitter. He can't say everything right that Shige needs to hear and its a bit off putting, especially if kid Reigen has different views on being "special" and whatnot (considering... "I want to be someone"). But there's still elements there that is just so Reigen in the way he talks and the way he moves that its like. Yeah, this is a kid, but it's the same person and everyone can see just how Reigen is, this is how he started. He's not Shigeo's shishou but he's still Reigen.

[izzystizzys]

the usual izzy gets surprised by not having had menopause yet and a baby trope but adding in a twist: it happens pre-canon and by the time he gets unceremoniously dumped off the ship, he’s known for at least a month

just. increasingly tense izzy, who not only has to deal with not being able to keep anything in his body and worse nausea than he had even in his first week on a ship, but also can’t sleep marinating in the familiar coldness between him and ed that suddenly grates all over again. who’s forced to contend with the idea that something might finally force them out of this stalemate, and he doesn’t know if he wants that really or what outcome scares him the most, and it makes him pissier than a rabid cat soaking wet most days

and then it happens anyways, in an entirely different way that didn’t even require izzy to voice all of his fears and lay bare their problems, because stede fucking bonnet did that with his mere presence. no need to admit to his fear of being abandoned now, is there, is all he can think bitterly over a mug of fucking water of all things in jackie’z.

[em-writes-stuff-sometimes]

jorrāeliarzus (beloved) │ Chapter 1: Affliction

terms of endearment ‘verse: see my Masterlist for the correct series order!

Chapter 1 │Chapter 2 │Chapter 3 │Chapter 4  (In Progress!)

Synopsis: Daemon guides you on a journey of healing and self-discovery as you learn to raise your children and build a family of your own. You struggle.

Hello! Welcome back, all! This instalment is going to be a journey for Reader. A bunch of bad shit has happened in her life. It's about time she begins facing all that, you know? Not all of it will be heavy, but there will be some psychological fuckery and an opportunity to delve into the layers of the relationship I've spent time developing. My intention is to have this function similar to little slut, in that it's a series of one-shots set chronologically. Each will be a self-contained 'highlight' that is set during the six years Daemon is exiled on Dragonstone. This instalment will cover babies, healing, pregnancy, relationship development, funny hijinks, dragons and smut! Always smut.

EDIT: I am dumb-dumb and forgot to thank @ewanmitchellcrumbs for beta-ing and giving this her necessary stamp of approval and being the bestest biffle EVA, as well as @spoolofblack for reassuring me that Daemon is NOT too OOC here and cheering me on through the AO3 tagging journey. Thanks be!

Triggers: incest, age gap, purity culture, detailed depictions of post-partum depression, lite smut, lactation and lactation kink.

“Thus was Prince Daemon banished from his brother the King’s city, and with him his niece and newborn heirs. Exile had long favoured the rogue, and this latest decree brought a period of quiet to the isle of Dragonstone, the years giving rise to further progeny to strengthen his House’s line. Together with the Princess Rhaenyra, Daemon and his wife presided over the Targaryen stronghold for several years before circumstances would take them once more to King’s Landing.”

- ‘Fire & Blood: Being a History of the Targaryen Kings of Westeros’ by Archmaester Gyldayn

He is staring again.

You do your best to pay it no mind, though the weight of his eyes upon you is heavy, nonetheless. An onlooker may well assume his focus is on the scene in its entirety—upon the babes propped on pillows before you, their grasping fists skating across dragonscale as they grunt and babble, reptilian rumbles filling the void between sounds—but you know better. Your husband has not been the same since… since that night. You cannot blame him, though it vexes you so.

One of the dragons—the creature with scales of amethyst glittering even in low light—hisses in outrage as Aelys takes hold of his tail, curling around himself with teeth bared as if to warn your daughter of the fate that awaits her. No bite comes. Unbothered, she tries to tug her quarry to her face, and you can only presume the intent is to explore this new surface with gnashing gums.

“Let go, my lovely,” you tell her as your fingers work to free the beast of its skin-and-bone shackles. The babe’s grip is surprisingly firm. “Azorion has done naught to deserve such untoward treatment.”

“Did it not shit in the cradle this morning?” comes Daemon’s idle question from the desk.

When you glance over, you find he has made himself busy once more, appearing for all the world as though he is deep in his papers. You suspect otherwise.

“He is only small,” you say by way of response. Aelys’s face flushes with the threat of tears when her clasp is finally released, so you slip your own digits into hers to placate her. The other dragon, the long-limbed and sun-hued Valnissar, presses its snout against her neck as if to soothe her temper. “He cannot help it.”

Azorion scrabbles back to Rhaenar’s side, huffing indignantly even while burrowing into the boy’s side, leaching his body warmth. Rhaenar’s eyelids begin to droop, the comforting mass of his future mount an unwavering reassurance, while the steadiness of Valnissar’s even breaths along her flesh ease Aelys into a state of calm.

“If it can eat unaided, it can shit in a place that is not where my children sleep.”

The creature seems to rouse at the mention of his earlier mishap; you pat him reassuringly. “He will learn.”

Daemon grunts, summarily ending the conversation.

This is how most of your interactions proceed as of late: a vague, uninterested query, an overly polite response, a terse conclusion, and two evidently discontented persons not quite certain how to bridge the divide that has risen between them. And there is a divide, you are sure of it—why else does the man who is never without a word to spare suddenly bereft of speech in your presence?

The only thing that eases your mind is the knowledge that, for all his recalcitrance, there is no love lost. His hands still linger—on your back, your waist, thoughtless touches that settle hot and heavy and remind you of his solidness. He smiles still, amused by the sing-song lilt of your voice as you coo down at the twins, laughs when they babble back in mimicry of true dialogue. At night, his arms are encompassing, almost too tight, the clutch of one upon that which they fear to lose most. His body speaks the words his lips cannot, laying bare the desperate frustration—the fear, the anger, the worry—that he has carried since the night you had fallen under the spell of old magic, the night you had woken your children’s mounts from their eggshell prisons and called them forth with fire and blood.

Daemon is not the only one who ruminates upon it. You yourself remember it in pieces, flashes of memory that you cannot make whole. The heat of the hearth. A glow, orange, red, yellow. Stinging upon your hands, and the iron tang of blood upon the air. It is as though it occurred to another being—like you had watched rather than been part of it all. There is little wonder that the sight must have made him so uneasy.

You startle when your uncle abruptly stands, rolling his neck to dispel any latent discomfort from remaining in a static position for so long. He falters, appears to decide on something unknown to all but his own mind, then moves toward the rug where you have arranged your babes and their dragons.

Crouching down beside you, his hand reaches forth to cup the round softness of Rhaenar’s head as he murmurs, “I’ll be back later.”

“Before supper?” you ask just as quietly.

He makes a vague noise of assent, smiling absently when Aelys jams her fist in her mouth and babbles to herself, drooling all the while. Valnissar perks up at the sight of his second-favourite person in the world, chittering excitedly as he makes a concerted attempt at climbing up Daemon’s leg. Daemon hisses, extricating the spindly creature’s claws and placing him on his shoulder. Valnissar flaps his wings and promptly tries to weave his way into your uncle’s hair. Your nostrils flare in amusement.

Daemon does not look at you, but you do not mind; you understand the draw of the twins and their young mounts all too well.

“Where are you going?” you ask.

At that, he turns further into you, his gaze finally lifting to find your face. From the corner of your eye, you see the looming shadow that forms whenever he allows his thoughts to consume him. It casts his features into darkness, the heavy set of his brow wrinkling inward as disquietude metamorphoses him. But the tale enacted through his expression is mitigated by the press of his other hand against the small of your back, achingly tender even in its firmness.

“To the Dragonmont.”

You nod. “Ah.”

He will not tell you yet, but you suspect he is looking for answers. The last great repository of Old Valyria is bound to provide at least some insight, though part of you—a large part—is too afraid to seek them yourself. You worry what you will find if you should search through the ancient texts of your people, what they might say of those with the power to hold fire in their hands without fear of burning. It is not something you have ever heard of. If House Targaryen could claim such a feat, it would not be a secret. What does it mean? You know not.

And so, you make no protest when his thumb strokes against Aelys’s cheek in parting, when he unceremoniously drops her dragon to the floor beside her and ignores the protesting squawks to lean in and kiss your cheek, muttering his goodbyes as he rises to leave. You do not turn around, but you know his routine well enough by now.

A clatter by the bed, and Dark Sister is retrieved—scabbard and all—to be fastened at his waist. A scrape, the chair at the desk being pushed back in. A pause. He takes one final look at you all, wife and children and dragons laid about by the hearth in seeming bliss. You feel his stare as it rests on you and you hear the sound of the door opening and closing, footsteps echoing, then fading, fading. The imprint of his lips and his touch remains, an unsettling reminder of all that has been left unspoken.

You dispel such thoughts with a sigh. As worrying as Daemon’s behaviour has become, it is by no means your first priority now that you are a mother.

Looking down at them, you wonder if you will ever get used to the idea, to the fact that these two little beings grew in your belly until they were ready to come into the world, and now they are here and they are yours. ‘Mother’ means the woman through whom your very existence came to be, the name Aemma spoken in hushed whispers and always carrying with it the trace of unending grief. ‘Mother’ means Alicent, the girl-turned-Queen who birthed your brothers and sweet Helaena, who gave you little Daeron to love in place of all you had once been without. ‘Mother’ means Rhaenyra, your staunchly devoted sister who had in part raised you, who even now rears kind, intelligent sons who are more than deserving of the legacy she will one day leave them. You find it entirely strange that a word representing these women—such forces in your life, for good or otherwise—is a word that applies to you.

Motherhood is strange, foreign in a way you do not feel you can overcome by consulting dusty tomes in companionship with Ser Lysan, the manner in which you have familiarised yourself with all foreign things in summers past. This feeling has crept into the crevices of your mind in barely perceptible pulses, slow and unassuming with every new thing you learn about these wonderful, terrifying beings your body created, with every new feat they achieve as they grow and adapt to their environment. At times, when you are alone, you worry you will be no good at it. How can you possibly fare well at such a monumental task without a mother to guide you? What if you make a mistake?

What if your babes—who you know you love more than anything in the world, more than you ever thought anyone could ever feel in their beating hearts, so strong it is almost sickening—come to know of your inadequacy and loathe you for it?

“What seems to be the issue, Princess?”

Gerardys’s hands are folded together before him, his expression as kind and reassuring as always. You wish you truly were reassured, or the too-hot, roiling sensation of your gut might not be quite so pronounced.

There are many responses you could give. The fact that your husband is ill at ease with you for reasons you cannot risk explaining, lest the entire Realm learn through whispers and tales of Valyrian blood magic and some concealed devilry that ought to be put to the sword. That your doubts about how suitable you are as a mother are rising with every second of every hour that you are left to tend your children, feelings that must be wholly unnatural to a woman or otherwise, would you not have heard of such a thing spoken in your many years among the ladies at court? Or perhaps that the woman whom you would prefer to speak to of this matter is in King’s Landing to fetch fresh supplies at this very moment, leaving you no alternative but to be in the maester’s solar instead.

No. None of the answers to his question that come immediately to mind are appropriate here, and nor are they the true reason for your visit. Thus, you brush them aside and take a deep breath.

“I… I have some—concerns.” At his encouraging nod, you add, “About my… supply. For the babes.”

“Ah.” You are glad he seems to have interpreted your hedging correctly; he clears his throat. “I am a physician,” he reminds you, though his tone is by no means judgemental. For all Daemon’s dislike of him, such gentility is why you believe him to be one of the best practitioners in his field, and certainly preferable to Mellos. “While I—understand the indelicacy of the subject matter, I am afraid you are going to need to elaborate, your Highness.”

“Oh. Of course.” You glance away, discomfited. “I… wish to feed the twins myself. By myself. But I”—you gesture weakly to your chest—“my milk has not come in as much as I had hoped it would… by now…”

Rhaenyra has never had this problem, you think. You cannot help it. It was not so long ago that the merest mention of a babe had been enough to wet the fabrics of her gown, never mind that Joff had had the luxury of choice in his supply. Your sister had in fact bemoaned the stubbornness of her body in refusing to dry up—she never let her sons latch for longer than a moon’s turn after each birth, preferring to, as she said, “keep her tits from turning to suckling udders”, long-teated and all. Jealousy is the sin of the vain and impious, but your beating heart thrums with it even so.

Gerardys frowns. “Forgive me—but I was certain that a wet nurse had been requisitioned for them?”

“Yes. But I would—I would prefer to feed them on my own.”

It is not as though you dislike Freda. While she is certainly loud and bawdy and oft far too inappropriate for company, she cares a great deal for Rhaenar and Aelys. You see it in the readiness of her smiles at them, how she cradles them as if they are the most delicate beings in the universe, the way she praises them so effusively for the most base and vulgar of actions—“I’ve never seen a shit so splendid, your Highness, never did I once! A talented little fellow is our little prince, he is!”—but it is not the same. You are their mother, not she. Freda’s presence is not just expected, but required to ensure both your babes have full bellies. It does little to ease your lack of surety.

Though you can tell that Gerardys is perplexed by your insistence, he stares past you thoughtfully, his eyes squinting in his concentration.

“It is not uncommon,” he says slowly, “for a woman with two nursing babes to produce an insufficient volume to accommodate them both. ‘Tis why wet nurses are so popular!”

“I know. I would just… I want to do it.” You wonder if you sound as exposed as you feel. “I am their mother. I should feed them.”

Your words seem to matter not, for the maester is already muttering to himself and rifling through the cabinet by the door, low tones interspersed with the soft clinking of glass vials being shifted about.

“If you insist, Princess,” he says absently, humming under his breath as he balances on tiptoe to reach his higher shelving. After a moment of silence, a noise of muted triumph. “Ah—here it is.”

What he presses into your hands is not an ampoule of some sort, but a plain pouch of hemp and string. The contents within shift about readily, though it prickles when you squeeze too firmly, like dried herbs.

 “Thistle tea.” Gerardys watches as you inspect his offering. “Steep for half an hour, strain. Consume plain, no milk or honey. One cup a day, no more or less.”

“How long will it take to work?”

“You ought to begin seeing an increase in production within a sennight. If you can encourage the babes to latch more frequently, you’ll have better results.” At your enquiring look, he elaborates. “The more often the breast is drained, the quicker it refills and thus the more milk you will produce.”

You colour at his use of such a word, not entirely accustomed to speaking so plainly of something so long viewed as unseemly with another man. It is scarcely tolerable even with your ladies. “You have my thanks, Maester Gerardys.”

“Of course, Princess. But remember—do not exceed more than a cup a day!”

You take his advice to heart over the next few days, exhorting the serving staff to ensure you are delivered of a cup brewed to the maester’s specifications each morning. It tastes unremarkable, a leafy bitterness so often customary of herbal tinctures and tonics, though you think you might find it more palatable with the addition of such ingredients as the ones expressly forbidden to you. The very worst of the flavour collects at the bottom of the cup, forcing you to steel yourself to stomach the sharp-tasting dregs and cleanse your palate with fresh water. You bear it silently, praying that you will soon see the benefits promised to you.

But, after a sennight passes, there is no change.

At least, you think there is no change. Rhaenar is not one for fuss and fuddle, and the one time Aelys is not so is in the hours following feeding, her belly full and warm and leading to an easy, calm drowse—but after letting them latch for half an hour, neither babe is sufficiently serene to suggest that the tea has done its duty. Rhaenar kicks and grizzles, mouthing vainly at your nipple as though you are concealing some previously stored contents still within your breast, while Aelys progresses to full, drawn-out wails. Freda watches on, wringing her hands as the twins caterwaul. The front of her dress is stained, sympathetic leakage in response to the veracity of their cries.

Perhaps it is this fact that finally breaks you.

All at once, you no longer feel saddened or confused, concerned or unsure. You are angry. Why should she—a woman who had neither carried nor shared blood with them—get to give your boy and your girl the sustenance so essential to them? What does she possess that you do not? Why have the gods forsaken you? If they have built the womanly form to bear and nurse her children, then you ought to be able to carry out your duty as intended. Not Freda. Why are they taunting you with such a poisonous reminder of your own failure?

 “Your Highness—”

“No!” Your rebuke is sharp and swift, punctuated further by what you can only assume is a truly withering glare. “Leave us!”

“But the little pr—”

“I said get out!”

The shrillness of your voice only serves to further upset the babes. They both scream, red-faced and baying, and there is a strange sort of harmony to it that might even sound beautiful were it not so devastating. The noise is such that it sets off the panicked shrieking of Azorion and Valnissar, creating a truly chaotic calamity of sound that makes it terribly hard to think rationally. Or think at all.

You bar the room, refusing to allow Jeyne or Bethany entry. You do not need their aid. It is only morning, your thoughts whirl frenetically. Plenty of time to prove that the wet nurse is not necessary.

All manner of people come to your door as the moments—or maybe minutes, or perhaps hours, you cannot tell—pass, no doubt drawn by the crying and the screeching and your stubborn resistance to letting anyone assist you. Ser Lorent raps on the door, earnest calls of “Your Highness? Is everything well?” readily enough ignored and, when that fails, the kindly queries of the maester beseeching you to let him in “for fear there is something wrong, Princess, please let us help you” also dismissed, or rather more truthfully, not quite heard through the thicket of your growing panic. You do your best to disregard anything outside your chambers, your frantic focus centred wholly on giving Rhaenar and Aelys the care they need from their mother—and their mother alone.

But no matter the hymns you sing or the steadiness of your rocking, no matter how perfect your bouncing walk to soothe them or your murmured exhortations to please, please calm down, they will not be assuaged.

You forget what silence is like. Surely you have never been without the sound of bawling infants? The intensity of it reshapes memory, blocks out any sense of rationality or level-headedness. Your own despair rises the longer the babes sob, their sorrowful scrunched-up faces all but proclaiming aloud that you cannot do this.

Your mind rebels. What was I thinking? They hate me. They hate me. I’ve ruined them. I could not give them milk, and now I cannot even stop their tears. I am a terrible mother. A failure.

Failure.

Failure.

Failure.

The hatchling dragons, emblematic of their future riders’ dispositions as is the norm, only serve to intensify the battle between your spirit and your fear. They feel as Rhaenar and Aelys feel, only they have sharp claws and sharp teeth and the mobility fresh out of the egg to express their feelings in a way the twins cannot. You cannot fend off their snapping jaws and high-pitched snarls and tend to the twins at the same time. The situation quickly becomes untenable, though you have not the presence of mind nor good sense to discern this.

“Daor,” you snap as Valnissar nips at your exposed wrist. No.

At this age, the bite stings only a little, drawing a thin well of blood to the surface of your skin. You push the dragon away, doggedly continuing to try and force Aelys’s mouth to your breast. They feel heavier again, a sure sign that there is milk enough to quell the babes’ despondency. If only they would stop crying.

You sit upright on the bed, the curve of one foot pinning Azorion to the mattress below you. He hisses indignantly but makes no attempt to shift, resigned to being trapped for as long as you deem it necessary. Positioned perfectly against the cushion provided for precisely this purpose are your boy and girl, heads perfectly aligned to take to each breast, reclined so that their tiny bodies extend below each of your arms and your hands are free to cup their heads just right. Exactly how Ūlla taught you. So why—why—are they refusing to latch?

“Please,” you find yourself whimpering, the sound lost beneath the piercing howls. At this point, they have both become as distressed as each other, never looking more identical than they do with the same flushed flesh and misery-streaked cheeks, near to seizing with the force of their sobs. You try to bring their mouths to each nipple again, but all they do is cry and cry and cry, faces turning away. “Please, it’s right here. Mama has your milk right here, please please please…”

Valnissar tries to climb over your arm to sit on Aelys. You shrug the beast off, and he tumbles to the bed in a tangle of wings. He screeches, teeth bared, and you can just tell he is about to strike at you again.

You push him away.

“Leave me be!” you say, louder and steadily more overwhelmed, your attention wavering between creature and child. Pressing the babes to your breasts does nothing to persuade them to take from you, but what else can you do? “Please drink. For me? For Mama?”

More wailing. Their fists clench, their forms shuddering.

Useless. It is useless. I am useless.

“Why won’t you have your milk?” you ask, and you think you are calm and measured but really you are starting to sob yourself, a discordant symphony of despair. “Why won’t you just accept it? Please, please, I promise it’s good enough…”

Still, tears. And the dam breaks.

They hate me. They hate me. They hate me. It is like a metronome pulsing through your veins in time with the wrenching heaves of your chest, your lungs trying and failing to force in air. The babes cry, you cry, the dragons clamour, the room feels too full—of sound, of air, of heat—and you are so terribly close to screaming at everything to shut the fuck up because you cannot do this, you cannot do this, why did you ever think you could do—

The passageway at the opposite end of the chamber bursts open. You hear it, but you cannot see through the film of your own tears.

“What the fuck’s going on here?”

Normally, Daemon’s voice—even panicked as he is currently—is enough to reassure you. But it only makes you weep more. Here is your husband, arrived to see how poor a wife he has chosen, how poor a mama you make. Here is Rhaenar and Aelys’s father, arrived to see how enormous your incompetence is, how completely and utterly you have failed to do even the simplest of things. The shame of it is enough to send you spiralling.

You do not remember what follows very clearly.

Fingers fumbling to lace up the ties loosened on your bodice. Hands laid upon the babes, the span of palm large and rough enough to disturb their vocalisations, to ease them to a slightly duller caterwauling. You clutch them tighter to you, unable to even look up to see the owner of those hands, but you are not strong enough to resist the determined reach of those arms to pluck each infant in turn from you. A part of you is relieved. They are passed off with murmurs, man and woman’s voices exchanging in low tones. You vaguely recognise them through the fog of misery. The person before you stands, another taking their place. The steady touch of someone with skin that carries the scent of medicinal herbs feels your forehead, turns your head from side to side, presses clinically at the fullness of your chest. Then, the mattress rises, the weight dissipating, and you are alone.

It takes several long moments to realise that the noise—the babes and the dragons—has stopped entirely. That they are no longer present, no doubt escorted to safety far, far away from you. It ought to be enough to torment you to madness, the final step in this harrowing reprieve from reason, but your tears have fled too. All that is left is bone deep, heavy exhaustion and a full-bodied dispiritedness that makes you sink into the pillows behind you, slide down enough to turn to your side and ignore whoever is talking, shut your eyes and block everything out.

You let the darkness swallow you whole.

Of course he is here when you awake.

You do not know if you really expected otherwise. He has dragged a chair from the table by the balcony next to the bed, and he ought to appear more comfortable—slouched carelessly as he is, leg slung over the other in the assured manner that all men who are confident in their right to take up such space are—but his expression suggests otherwise. Not angry, no, but certainly serious; a pensiveness that comes from prolonged periods of introspection. His eyes seem far away. In fact, his entire self seems far from where he sits, as though his body has travelled back to the Keep but his mind is still in the Dragonmont.

Where he has been for days and days, you think bitterly. Reading thousand-year-old texts instead of being here.

His hands are clasped and resting under his chin, his elbows on the armrests. He seems tired. You regret the ire of your thoughts. It is not as though he has gone out of his way to avoid you, truly. He is here when you need him.

You do not realise he has become aware of your return to consciousness until you hear your name softly spoken.

“Rūhossa zaldrīzessē mazumbillā ilzi. Pōnta biktomy kisittaksi,” is the first thing he says. The babes and dragons are in the nursery. They were fed by the wet nurse.

The silence, previously unnoticed, registers at the same time as your relief. They are safe. They are far away from you. It is likely for the best, even though your breasts feel uncomfortably full.

Daemon shifts from the seat to the bed, staring down at you with an unnameable emotion in his gaze. His movements are relaxed, almost calculated, as one who is wary of spooking an injured animal. You think that if he had failed to glean some sort of response from whomever followed him into the room earlier, he would not be quite so calm.

For a moment, you are half-convinced he is about to reprimand you—until he strokes your jaw, brushes a stray tendril of hair from your face. Your heart skips a beat. His touch is kind.

After an indeterminate period of silence, the question eventually comes.

“Skorion massitas?” What happened? His tone is low, measured.

You sit up, making room for yourself by wiggling back against the pillows. Really, you are stalling. How does one go about explaining that they had taken leave of their senses?

“Ūī ūndetā, gōntō daor?” you ultimately choose to say. You saw, did you not? It sounds dull and lifeless even to your ears. “Se avy qubykto massinoti biktys ivestretos.” And the wet nurse must have told you of earlier events.

His responding look is unimpressed. Normally, you would expect him to have yelled by this point. Whatever it is that he has been told—whatever it is that you must have looked like here, near to yelling at your own infant children and sobbing with your breasts bared to the room and two small dragons buzzing about like particularly persistent insects—it is enough to stay his temper for the time being. Still, you do not believe his patience will hold for long.

You sigh, shuddering out an unsteady breath.

Even though the spell of hysteria has broken, it takes a moment or two to gather yourself. Daemon grasps your arms, erring on the cusp of too-tight to be solely encouraging, but it grounds you enough to attempt to explain what it is he stumbled upon before.

Your jumbled thoughts stream out unorganised, and you are only really half-aware of what exactly it is you convey through hiccuped breaths and shaking shoulders. Failure. Disgrace. Cannot even feed my own children. Useless. Bit by bit, it comes forth, juddered and broken, and you cannot even tell what language you are speaking in, or if you are dipping in and out of your native tongue and your learned one without a presence of mind to control it. As you speak, Daemon’s face morphs, knitted brows relaxing and mouth easing from its hard line into the gentlest of frowns. And then, you are silent. You wait for the death knell of judgement.

It never comes.

His hands slide lower, capturing your own and lacing fingers with you. He stares down at this joining, turning your wrist over as though he is marvelling at the disparity in size, in smoothness.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” It is low, strangely hurt.

Your heart thuds uneasily. This is not how you expected him to react at all. “I—I don’t know.”

He swallows, and again you are unsure if he is holding back anger or if he genuinely has none. The calloused pad of his finger strokes a line down the centre of your palm, eliciting an instinctive shiver from you.

“Gerardys said you went to see him. That you were in low spirits. Irritable. Fixed on this idea of nursing the babes by yourself.” He glances up, his lips twitching like he is reluctant to voice his next words. “He says… sometimes there is an—affliction—of the mind. It happens to new mothers.”

“You think I’m mad?” You try to pull your hand away, but he holds on.

Scoffing lightly, he says, “Maegor was mad, you silly girl. You are young. Frightened. A great deal has happened to you since we wed.”

His jaw tenses, no doubt recollecting those memories. The wedding night. The fight. Laena. Driftmark. Larys. Alicent. Father.

He sighs. “And I… I have not helped.”

Your mouth parts in protest. “I am happy with you,” you say stubbornly. “If you had not protected me—”

“And where have I been since the eve you hatched the twins’ dragons?” He turns from you, resting his elbows on his knees to rake his hands through his hair. “Hiding in the fucking Dragonmont. Like a coward.”

“You aren’t a coward. You’re the bravest man I’ve ever met.”

He laughs, short and sharp. It is an ugly sound. “Yes. So brave am I, I ran away and left my young wife alone to care for my children. I’m such a craven”—he lifts his head to look at you once more—“that I found it easier to let this happen instead of admitting how deeply that night unsettled me.”

An understatement, to be sure. You do not think ‘unsettled’ is sufficient enough to capture how either of you feel.

“It isn’t your fault,” you settle on telling him. “I should have just been able to nurse Rhaenar and Aelys without crying like a child—”

“You were overwhelmed. Worried. Thinking that not having enough milk means you’re somehow not fit to be their mother. What utter shit.”

“I cannot even feed them. How am I supposed to raise them?” Your voice is abnormally high and thready. You hear it, though it does not register as abnormal until Daemon’s expression stops you in your tracks. You shake your head, trying to stave off the tremble in your lower lip. “You don’t understand. I want—I need to be—enough for them.”

I don’t remember my mother, you want to say. I only remember ’Nyra and Alicent and Father. None of them were enough. None of them were able to make me feel less alone.

How am I supposed to stop Rhaenar and Aelys from being broken in the same way I was? Who do I turn to? What do I do? How can I protect them when I could not even protect myself?

When Daemon’s touch returns, it is unimaginably delicate, nearly tentative. He cups your cheek, tilts your head so your eyes can meet.

“You are enough,” he says. “How can you think otherwise? To love them is to be enough.”

A part of you wants to heed his words, to allow him to soothe your worries as he is so often able to do. Your thoughts, self-loathing as they are, continue to press against your will and shake the firmness of your resolve. “But—”

“Ah-ah. Remember our vows, sweetling.” His lip quirks, finding fondness in memory. “Did you not promise to obey me in all things?”

You nod tentatively.

He hums. “Obey me now, then. Cast those foolish notions from your mind and listen to your uncle, hm?”

You do not think you can agree so easily as he expects. This is a war in your head that he cannot help you wage through a simple command. But you want to believe that it could be as uncomplicated as he has made it.

“Alright,” you say. “I’ll try.”

His answering embrace feels like a port in the midst of a harrowing storm. When the world around you is careening wildly, uncontrolled and unstable, you know that he will bring you back to safe shores. He would fight those waves off himself if he could. You press your nose to his neck, breathe in the familiar smell of him—smokeleatherspice—and, for a time, everything feels just a little less terrifying.

“See? They’re fine,” Daemon says. “A night away has done no harm.”

The babes are well-settled in the nursery, placid and rested and bright-eyed. Rhaenar grips onto your thumb in welcome, while Aelys kicks her legs and squeals when she sees you above her. Though you are glad for it—glad that you had not ruined them in your desperate madness—there is a part of you that wishes they had not clearly been so manageable without you.

You eye the sleeping forms of Azorion and Valnissar, coiled faithfully by the sides of each of your children. The Keeper loiters near the window, watching on.

Freda nods hastily. “They have been fed and bathed, Princess, all ready for sleep. Nothing to concern yourself with.”

She clearly thinks this ought to ease your mind. If anything, it only serves to disappoint you. Not only had you missed out—you despise missing anything they do, any part of their life—but now there is no recourse for the ache in your chest. Even thinking of it is enough to make your nipples itch, your breasts throb. You pray that the front of your gown remains dry.

You turn toward the other occupant in the room. “And the dragons?”

The Keeper is here primarily for Tyraxes and Skyfrost, the respective future mounts of little Joff and Corwyn, given that the nurses brought in to care for the babes are not equipped to raise creatures so dangerous as the ones claimed by your House. Today, though, he is responsible for four of them. If the look upon his face and the sweat glistening on his brow is any indication, doubling his responsibilities has caused a great deal of stress, indeed.

“The elder two have been separated from the hatchlings,” he says, stepping forward jerkily. It is as though his limbs are fastened upon strings controlled by some higher being—a human marionette. The effect is startling. “The younger pair have been… spirited, though they are resting for the time being.”

Daemon snorts, shaking his head. “Of course they have. At least they don’t breathe fucking fire yet.”

“Fucky.”

Your husband’s head whips over to the rug by the table, where Corwyn and Joff happily toddle about on unsteady legs. Corwyn is looking straight towards Daemon, smiling and mashing his gums on what seems to be a wooden knight.

Like most of the children in your family, he appears to have developed a liking for the man. Mealtimes now often involve the boy stumbling to Daemon’s side to pass him whatever object he has deemed necessary to be kept in your uncle’s possession, wide amethyst eyes peering expectantly upward until the doll or block or carved figure is taken from his hands. Daemon will roll his eyes, thank him and pat him on his head of dark curls, the act inciting a squeal and babble before the child waddles back to his evening playtime.

At the abrupt cessation of conversation, Corwyn removes the figure from his mouth and speaks once again. “Fucky.”

“Shit,” Daemon murmurs.  You strike his arm reflexively, but it is too late.

Corwyn laughs as he wanders back to Joff. “Shit. Shit. Shit-it-it-it-it-it…”

“Daemon!” you hiss, torn between irritation and a bizarre sort of amusement.

He shrugs. “Oh well. Nothing can be done now. It could be worse, sweetling. He could have walked in on us fu—”

“Rhaenyra will want your head on a pike for this,” you say hastily, in part to avoid scandalised stares from the attending staff and also to prevent Corwyn from repeating what his cousin has accidentally taught him. No doubt your little nephew will learn it from his half-brother, too.

“Perhaps we’d best depart for the evening, then”—Daemon’s hand is insistent on your elbow, a leading force that beckons you to follow—“lest you lose your husband to your sister’s temper.”

“That would be your own fault,” you say absent-mindedly.

You are unable to tear yourself away from Rhaenar and Aelys just yet. They are calm, yes, but this is not where they sleep, where they belong. You do not know if you can bear the sight of the empty cradle in your chambers or the absence of the sounds they make together with their dragons.

“Must they remain here?” you ask, more a whisper than a genuine plea.

“They are safe here.” Daemon reaches forth to let Aelys grasp his finger, an involuntary action since the babe had fallen into a doze during your visit, no doubt lulled by the sound of your voices. She is the more difficult of the pair to settle; you know Rhaenar will follow easily enough. “You ought to take respite from each other, if only for a night.”

His words are gentle, but the expression on his face reminds you of earlier. Obey me now. Cast those foolish notions from your mind. Listen to your uncle. You hear it as though it has been spoken aloud once again. Even so, the pulsing discomfort in your breasts stays your obedience.

“If I could just—”

 “No. We’re leaving. You need to rest.” It is firmer this time, louder and more decisive. He is not persuading you—he is telling you.

With a sigh of defeat, you lean down and kiss each babe farewell, doing your best to quell the unreasonable instinct to cry at the thought of goodbye. Daemon offers his own departing caresses and steers you determinedly out of the room. The walk is silent, though the heat of his arm against your palm is comforting in its own way.

Your chest begins to truly ache, a sensation beyond simple fullness. The dress you wear feels too tight, too restrictive, and you are forced to concentrate on pushing each breath up and out to avoid friction between skin and fabric. The smallest degree of stimulation is enough to bring your milk forth.

The irony, you think in despair. No milk when the babes need it—and now, when they are full and slumbering, my supply is as bountiful as it ever has been. How cruel, the gods are!

When you are finally back in your chambers, you barely notice Jeyne and Bethany’s attempts at greeting, their offers of assistance, their gentle repositioning and the tugging of the laces at your back. All you are focused on as the gown loosens and spills to the ground is how you will relieve yourself of the weight in your breasts without bringing too much attention to yourself. Daemon is fascinated by the prospect, true, but given the strife you have caused… you know not how any complaint of it would be perceived. Perhaps he would finally be angered by your outburst? Perhaps he would be disappointed that you had been so juvenile that you could not even take control over your own body, decide that you did not need the milk and thus ought to have been able to will it away. You have been lucky thus far. It is not likely that fortune will continue to favour you today.

You resolve to dispose of the excess in the privy. It ought to be relatively simple—your uncle is hardly one to accompany you to such a place. ‘Tis certain that the notion of wasting it, especially when your goal is to increase its yield, is disheartening, but what else can you do?

If only Daemon was less observant.

“You’ve been far too quiet,” he says after your ladies exit, tossing his shirt rather carelessly over the desk and the papers covering it. His eyes trail you assessingly, and for a moment you are worried that he can tell. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” You try to avoid glancing down at your chest. It would not do to give anything away. “I just—I need to use the privy.”

“No, you don’t.” He kicks his boots to the side, fingers working at the ties of his breeches. “It’s not shameful enough to explain the look on your face. Try again.”

“I’m not ashamed!” you say hotly, spine straightening in your affront.

It is the wrong move. Your nipples brush against the weave of your shift, the sensitivity amplified near to pain. You wince, shoulders curling inward and cringing away from the clothing you wear. As a warrior trained to spot the smallest of discrepancies, Daemon’s gaze falls down.

And there—he has it. You know he knows.

“Ah.” His nostrils flare, visage contorting slyly. “Uncomfortable, talītsos?”

Your breath hitches. It would be barely perceptible to any other, but not him. His gaze drifts between your line of sight and the curve of your breasts beneath the thin layer that separates your flesh from the cool air of the room, almost as though he cannot resist the temptation to look.

“I—they did not feed,” you say quietly, resisting the desire to squirm uncomfortably at the intensity directed straight toward you. “If I get rid of it before it overflows, I’ll make even more. That’s what Gerardys says. I should—”

“You should take off that shift.” Daemon’s breeches drop to the floor, discarded easily as he kneels upon the mattress and shuffles into his desired position, reclining like a king against the pillows. He bares himself proudly, arrogantly, the rosy flush of his cock not quite pronounced enough for arousal. His hand extends in invitation, mocking little smirk gracing the line of his lips at the hesitation he can so clearly read. “You’ll not be wasting such a bounty on a hole built to shit in.”

You sway, dubiously convinced. “It’s for the babes, though.”

“The babes are sleeping. Your husband is not—and he is ravenous, sweet girl.” A shiver travels up your spine from the gravelled timbre of his voice, the shadowed fire in his stare. His fingers flex in your direction, beckoning. “Come here.”

The pause you take before you heed his directive to tug open the ties at your neck and shrug the shapeless sleepwear off your form is not borne of any insecurity. You are not unhappy with your body. Naturally, there have been changes: wider hips, softer belly, skin etched with silvery webs across your middle, your thighs, the tops of your breasts. Though you cannot see it, you are sure that the opening from which your children were birthed has been altered irrevocably, too. You are proud of these differences. They mark the finality of your girlhood and the beginning of life as a woman. They are reminders of the lives you have brought into the world. And, like the burns that mottle much of your uncle’s upper body, they proclaim to all who see them that you too are a victor of glorious battle, all the more unique in that the war you had waged was one of life, not death.

No. You pause because you know Daemon, know what he is like. His appetites. His perversions. In any other state—at any other time—you would happily indulge his lusts. But not only is your body not ready to accept him, you do not even think you are capable of experiencing desire at present.

Even so, you step forward, bear the manner in which he leers, take his hand, and allow him to do with you as he will. There is comfort in giving yourself up.

He lays you out next to him, propping himself on his side so that he looms over you. The ends of his hair tickle against your cheek, bringing forth an immediate smile. It is matched by his own answering grin as he dips down to kiss you, and this you have missed. What surprises you is that it is not a kiss of need, but one of softness, fragile as the wings of a butterfly. You exchange breaths as you exchange yourselves in the union of lips.

“Let me help you,” he murmurs against you, the words passed forth to collect on the tip of your tongue. “Let me make it better.”

You nod, tipping your chin back as he presses his mouth to your jaw, your neck, your collarbone, sensual in his languorousness. It is like he carries no purpose other than to let you feel your own body again through his touch. The imprints of cooling damp left behind ground you, remind you of how it felt when you had first come alive under him, around him. When he reaches his target, you expect a shift in his demeanour—but he continues just as gently to take your right nipple between his lips and suckle as weakly as any infant might.

One, two, three pulls, and the relief is near instant. Daemon makes a low noise as your milk lets down, melting to your contours as his arms clasp you tightly against him. The sound of him taking sustenance from you is one of the few things you can hear in the relative silence of evening, carrying with it a peace of its own.

He is able to tell when to switch before even you, shifting swiftly and easily to your left to repeat the slow, tender drags that ease the discomfort and loosen the tight, full sensation weighing you down. The only attempt he makes at receiving his own satisfaction is to rut lightly against your thigh, aimless and lethargic, a base urge to self-soothe in moments of calm. You close your eyes, cradling his head to your chest and mindlessly dragging the tangles from his hair.

In seconds, minutes, hours—you know not—his movements come to a gradual halt. His cock remains hard against your skin, though he allows himself to deliver one final, lush glide of tongue along the fount from which he had supped before pillowing his head on the emptied swell of your breast. Together, you indulge in the serenity.

Eventually, you are driven to speak, though you are loath to disturb the mood that has befallen the room.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

His palms are warm pressed to the dip above your rear, tightening there as his ears register your voice. Otherwise, he does not move.

“I should be thanking you, sweetling,” he says, each word spoken with a gravity that conveys more than just the simplicity of the statement itself.

Vulnerability is difficult for your uncle, and you have learned all the ways in which he reveals the parts of himself too damaged by the world to readily expose. It is second nature to understand what he means to tell you, what he means to thank you for. Your children. Your life here. You. It is gratefulness, protection, apology, love all rolled into one.

You smile.

‘Tis true that nothing has been resolved. You have not succeeded in nursing the babes by yourself. You have not banished the sickening feeling that churns in the pit of your stomach, a constant reminder of the doubts that plague you. You have not spoken properly of the fire and blood of Azorion and Valnissar’s hatching.

But you have begun on the necessary paths to each. Every journey, however great or small, must start somewhere, after all. And—perhaps most importantly—there is not a single ailment that cannot be eased, at least for a time, by the strength of Daemon’s devotion to you.

As you crane your neck to proffer a kiss of your own to the top of your husband’s head, you know that whatever future awaits you is one you can face.

I can do this. I can do this. For the first time in days, you believe it.

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[prettyboykatsuki]

cw for ; cheating like really bad cheating dskfsk, mind games, bisexual reader (its relevant!!!), emotional sadism, yandere in the most uncomfortable flavor, and sexuality fuckery.

readers gender is intentionally left neutral!!. @p00pdev1l tag for my beloved.

You can feel yourself starting to cry again.

You have a headache. The noise of the izakaya is flooding out into the streets. Even with alcohol and cigarettes and other distractions, you can't help but feel like you're about to throw up. The dry-heave works itself up to your throat, and you smoke a little to shove it back down.

You were careful this time.

When you hear footsteps walk themselves next to you, and see nice black dress shoes from your gaze is downcast - you already know it's Suguru.

You feel yourself getting sick again. Your voice is hoarse, scratchy with pain and tears. You're unimaginably angry at him, and you're sure if you were a little drunker, you'd take your pocket knife to his throat.

But the words don't come. You're so frustrated you just ended up crying again, hiccuping. Something falls onto your shoulders, a jacket that smells like cologne.

That wakes you up, makes you turn your head to one side. Your heartbeat is hard and loud, and your anger is the only thing in your body. Your seething, all hard lines and rage.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?"

He shrugs. "It's cold. You'll get sick."

"Don't act like you give a single fuck about me, you psychopath."

His reaction to that is cold. Makes your blood run cold. "Call me whatever you want but don't say I don't care about you."

"Fuck off, Suguru," The feeling of his name is intimate in the same way knives are. Sharp against the roof of your mouth because of the smooth way the syllables slice. The familiarity of a cut. "Go inside and fuck off. Go be with..." Your words trail off.

"I'd rather be out here," He assures, then shrugs. He joins you in smoking, but you turn your gaze back to the pavement so you don't have to look. "She'll be fine without me."

There's a lot of things you don't understand about him. What you understand least though is this. How long has it gone on? How long did he plan on doing this?

The first time Getou stole the girl you loved from you, you're nearly too heartbroken to stay friends with him. It was your first real crush. A girl in the same year as you. You loved her. She smelled soft like roses and put her head in your lap. You managed to confess to her despite yourself at the end of your second-year.

She was your friend, still - even as she let you down gently. Told you that she had a boyfriend now. He was your friend, actually.

The first time it happened, you thought about cutting your ties with Getou. He didn't pretend to be apologetic to you, said she was cute and he liked her. He didn't say he was sorry.

Instead he said: "You shouldn't be with a girl who could get over you so easily." And leaves it at that.

You almost got physical with him, you remember. Gojo stopped you.

Over the years, the incident becomes pattern enough to recognize. The first is a mistake, the second a frustrating coincidence. The third time it happens you do get into an altercation. Each time Getou confronts you he says the same thing. That if a girl really loved you, she wouldn't been with him so easily. If a girl really loved you, she shouldn't have been so easy for him to persuade.

You think abut killing him. It's so frustrating, so humiliating, so painful it nearly puts you in therapy. The fourth time in happens, you try to cut him off but you can't. Your lives are so tied together you can't avoid seeing him and for whatever reason he can't leave you alone.

When there's no one you're interested in, he's your friend after all. That's the strangest part. The part that makes the least sense, that he acts like your fucking friend when he does that to you but he does it again and again and again. It hurt less when it was just puppy crushes. Eventually you grew numb to it. Gave up on love for a while.

When you meet Mikoto, you don't make the mistake of showing your interest. You especially don't show it around Getou. On the job, a sorcerer from a branch in the Nara prefecture who's recently moved. A nice woman with black hair and soft eyes, you seek her friendship first and don't let yourself indulge in anything more.

You don't dote on her more than friends. You don't show your feelings off. You don't tell anyone, not even Gojo whom you tell everything, or Shoko - who you tell when you don't want Getou finding out. You bury the feeling of love in yourself and hope they die there. You hope she ends up with anyone but you, or you in some miracle.

You fall in love with her because it's who you are. Getou shows up with her at your gathering the minute you begin to accept it.

If he doesn't hate you, it must be something much stronger. Disgust or pure disdain. Something stronger than hate must drive him to do this so perpetually.

It's not even something you can tell anyone. What do you tell girls before you go out with them? What do you say to people when they ask why you and him act so odd?

There's nothing to say. Nothing to explain. It's so fucked up that you wouldn't even know where to begin.

Your voice is trembling as you take another drag of your cigarette. "How did you know?"

He laughs a little. "You make it obvious."

"Why do you keep doing this to me...?" You ask, defeated. Broken, maybe. "....I really loved her."

Getou shrugs again. You can tell even if you don't see it. "She was the same as the rest of them. I'm doing you a favor."

"Do you even like her?"

He takes a drag of his cigarette and looks at you a little longer than you expct. "So-so."

"I hate you," You give up on everything else, letting your cigarette fall to the ground. Your voice is shot. "You're fucking horrible. Just leave me alone. Please, please just leave me alone."

There's a minute of silence there. He stamps his own cigarette out and sighs. "You should come in. You'll catch a cold." You don't reply. He sighs again. "I'll buy you a drink."

You break down in tears all over again.

When you're in highschool, you date Satoru for a week.

Suguru remembers this. It's one of the only things about his highschool experience that feel standout. A defining moment of his youth, where the two of you try it just because everyone says you should and neither of you really like it. You end up being friends again, laughing it off after it happens.

But he hated it.

There was a pit in his stomach the entire week. Even though you barely dated, and only really held hands as a joke - Suguru hated it. You kissed Satoru too, you confessed. He was a decent kisser, but you didn't feel much.

It was a joke of a relationship. Still.

He remembers too, the first time you had your first real crush. Up until then, you'd really never thought of anyone else. There was no one for Suguru to care about. But he remembers exactly when it happened, and where - how the four of you were slacking off in the storage room, passing around Shoko's cigarette. He remembers the way you got embarrassed telling them about her. How you could barely keep the smile off of your face.

The first time Suguru steals someone from you, it's during highschool. It wasn't because he had really wanted her. He hated her. Hated how she smiled at you and hated how innocently she spoke. But when he stepped closer to her, she blushed.

It was to get her to fall for him. And that wouldn't do, he didn't think. How could you like someone with so little resolve? When she couldn't be even a little loyal to you?

He asked her out on a whim that time. But he saw how angry it made you. How your eyes were wet with tears and how much you hated him in that moment.

How much you thought of him. Have you ever before then? Considered him so much? Suguru didn't think so.

It becomes an obsession, Suguru can admit. It didn't really matter who it was, though it'd been mostly girls. Anyone you showed interest in. Anyone who caught your eye. Suguru got their first and you always, always looked so miserable about it. Like a puppy who can't get on a couch, he thinks.

He prefers when you've already been with them. He prefers knowing that your skin has touched theirs. The parts of you that linger in their life become Suguru's so wholly. When he can smell your scent and taste your cigarette smoke. It'd be better if it was you, but there was something gratifying in this.

In the roundabout ways of finding you. Of seeing pictures of you in their phone, or of tasting you. It's like being with you, even though it's never enough. Always wants to make him break you more.

He likes when they cheat on you with him. He likes when it's just after. They get some cheap thrill out of it. Suguru can entertain it even if it disgusts him.

It's the only way your shirts end up in his closet. The only way he can smell your new shampoo so deeply because you share it. They think that he must hate you. He's sure you think that too.

But that's not it. He couldn't hate you. All the people he's ever fucked, he's tried to find evidence of your intimacy with them. Kiss marks he didn't leave on their skin, clothes they don't own, music they wouldn't normally listen to. You would. They're all yours.

He'd ask about you to them. Often. Listen to the parts of yourself that you'd been trying to keep secret from him.

He'd take it all by force and discard them all afterwards. That was all he wanted. You were all he wanted.

He liked seeing you angry with him. Liked seeing you cry and weep. Liked that you couldn't go anywhere or love anyone without thoughts of him following you and haunting you.

Satoru thinks he should just ask you out already. Suguru doesn't think he's broken you down enough. You need it to hurt a little more. You need to think of him a little more until you can't love anyone else.

Suguru wants to see you hurt a little more. Until you're so broken you're really begging. When he brings her with him today, you react even worse than he could have hoped for it. He shivers a little thinking about it.

He's getting closer to really breaking you, he thinks.

He looks at you now as he puts out his cigarette, broken from his thoughts.

"You should come in. You'll catch a cold." You don't reply. He sighs again. "I'll buy you a drink."

Suguru turns around to leave after he says it. Goes back inside. Before the door of the izakaya closes again, he can hear the way you sob so desperately.

He smiles at that. Just a little.

[peachdues]

HALL OF GILDED BONES — NSFW TEASER

Yandere Seelie!Kyojuro x Reader • Victorian AU

A/N: a little teaser of the absolute psychological fuckery that will be my next monster-fucking fic. Not proof read in the slightest.

Be warned: this is a yandere fic. Very dark themes ahead.

CW: READ THE FUCKING WARNINGS • Dead dove, do not eat • yandere!Kyojuro •reader is asleep the entire time • non-consensual oral (F!receiving) • non-consensual somnophilia • masturbation • non-consensual fingering

this is all thanks to @kentohours

It is hot, even for late summer. The air is thick and humid, and it seems no one can escape the constant sheen of sweat that clings to everything and everyone like a second skin.

The night offers little relief. And so, even those who make up London’s high society risk leaving their windows unlatched, desperate for air to circulate through their stuffy homes.

Kyojuro smirks to himself as he silently floats down to Y/N’s small balcony from the spired roof of her family’s magnificent townhouse. Never before has he been so grateful for such an unprecedented heat wave to strike the city, for he is able to stride into his beloved dove’s bedroom with ease, for once not having to use his magick to push her window open and allow him entry.

The moon hangs fat and silvery in the sky, and its watery light illuminates his way as he crosses over the threshold into Y/N’s bedroom. Kyojuro summons a silent wind to push the doors of her window shut, a silent click of the latch confirming that his nightly visit with her will not be disturbed.

He’s as quiet as a mouse as he steps down from the small ledge of the windowsill. His ochre eyes glow in the dark as they scan the room for her, narrowing when they find her sprawled out across her mattress, atop her blankets.

The poor thing; even she, too, seems to be struggling with the abnormal heatwave that’s befallen the city.

He already finds himself growing hard with each step as he draws closer to her sleeping form. His mind is wild with options for the night — shall he take his cock out of his trousers and hold it to her lips like last time, or shall he tease both her and himself by ghosting his fingers over the sumptuous planes of her body, never allowing himself to fully touch her, yet still giving himself a sinful taste of her skin?

His nostrils flare, eager to scent out her intoxicating perfume, but then his eyes widen, and he swears he feels his pupils blow wide.

The heat has made her scent all the more potent, and Kyojuro feels drunk as he approaches the edge of her lavish bed.

A simmering fire courses through his blood at the sight of her legs, parted and open, and the papery linen sheath she’d worn as a nightgown that has ridden up her hips. A thin sheen of sweat coats her skin, making it shine in the moonlight, and her cheeks are flushed from the heat.

Devilish girl, he thinks as he perches one knee carefully at the foot of her bed. How can she expect him to be restrained when she has quite literally spread herself out for him, in offering?

The mattress dips slightly below his weight but his love does not stir, too lost in the deep throes of sleep to sense his presence in her chamber — in her bed. Carefully, so carefully, he climbs onto her bed, mindful to keep his weight off her, though everything within him screams at him to lay out atop her and take her once and for all.

But he won’t; not yet, not when the sight of her maiden’s blood on her fine sheets might give rise to alarm among her servants. He will not risk her being sent away before he has properly seeded her, and so, Kyojuro will be patient, even if it kills him.

Besides, he thinks as he settles at her feet, his nose skimming along the length of her calf. He wants to know her body thoroughly before he gives her his cock — he wants to know every sensitive spot, to know how to make her gasp and twitch and beg for him to gift her release.

His hand ghosts up the inside of her right leg, pushing it gently. It falls to the side, bent at her knee, and she is now spread for him, ready for him to feast.

His mouth waters at the sight of the thatch of curls sitting at the apex of her thighs. With a shaky exhale he surges forward and presses his nose right against his center. The scent of her sweet musk sends his eyes rolling back in his head, and he feels a slight dribble of saliva escape his lips before he can stop it.

His hands curl under her thighs, holding them wide open as Kyojuro exhales softly against her, allowing the moisture of his breath to dampen her skin. He runs his nose along her center one more time, and then, with the tip of his tongue peeking out from between his lips, he traces up her slit in a single, tender stroke.

One hand leaves her thigh to fist at her sheets. His skin stretches taut over his knuckles as he fights to keep his moan locked tight in his chest, lest he risk waking the entire household. Beneath him, Y/N twitches, something like a whimper vibrating in her throat.

His eyes flick up to her face, wide in disbelief. Even in sleep, her eyebrows are furrowed, and her pretty lips are turned into a pout as her body spasms again.

Quickly, he brings his mouth back against her and repeats the movement, licking up her seam with more pressure before he lets his tongue circle the small pearl he knows lies right at the very top of her beautiful sex.

This time, Y/N’s hips jolt, almost as though in demand. Below the diaphanous fabric of her nightdress, her breasts pebble, and a soft moan slips out of her mouth as she bucks again.

He can hardly contain his excitement. Very well, my dove, he thinks with a soft chuckle. I shall give you what you desire.

His golden eyes lower to her center and his nostrils flare wide. There, mixed in with his own saliva, is a wetness of her own.

The scent is unmistakable; her pleasure.

A low growl hums in his throat as he surges forward and latches his mouth against her. He pushes her thighs over his shoulders, one by one, and when his hands are free they join his mouth, parting the lips of her cunt, spreading her wide for him to feast.

And feast he does; every lap of his tongue, every movement of his jaw and his lips fills his mouth with more of her honey. His tongue sinks into her entrance and Kyojuro nearly comes apart right then; her muscles instantly close around him, sucking him into her heat and the thought of her walls clenching and tightening around his cock sends him into a frenzy. His hips grind hard against her mattress in time with the fierce movements of his tongue. Above his mouth, his thumb swirls around Y/N’s sensitive little bead, gathering and spreading more of her wetness with each fevered rotation.

Y/N’a breathing gradually becomes labored as he works, until she is panting and writhing against her bed. Distantly, his ears pick up on the increased tempo of her heart as it flutters like a bird against her sternum.

Rationally, Kyojuro knows he should tread carefully — that if he continues this impassioned frenzy of his mouth against her cunt, he risks forcing her awake and will reveal himself far earlier than he intends.

His greedy hands begin roaming her body, groping and smoothing over her soft curves. As one palm flattens against her stomach, he can feel her muscles clench and flex as the movements of his mouth and tongue intensify. Soon, she is vibrating beneath his hands, and as taut as a bowstring.

Blissfully, she remains asleep despite how her body draws closer to its release. He’s thankful; he’d always known that one could dream vividly of pleasure and feel its effects in reality, but he’d always assumed there was a limit; a point at which the brain would force the body awake, to realize that the intense pleasure it was experiencing was not, in fact, real but a trick of the mind.

But this lovely little human was living proof that his theory had been wrong; for she remained steadfastly asleep, her eyes moving quickly behind her lids as she dreams even as her body bucks and twists under his ministrations.

Besides, he thinks as he presses the tip of his nose flush against her sensitive nub, his mouth continues to work steadily at her. Her pleasure was not mere fantasy — it was real, and it was because of him.

The slick walls of her heat begin to flutter and pulse wildly around his tongue, and Kyojuro knows she is only seconds from release. He drags one hand to her lower abdomen, his palm resting flat and pressing down as he rocks his face harder against her, the other resting on her hip to keep her locked against him. Between his own legs, his cock has grown painfully hard, and the Seelie prince cannot stop himself from grinding into her mattress, desperate for friction and relief.

The thumb of the hand on her abdomen stretches and presses sharply down on the little pearl at the top of her sex. With one, muted grunt, Kyojuro plunges his tongue as deep as it will go into Y/N’s cunt and curls it, and it’s over.

His darling little dove arcs sharply away from her mattress, a faint cry falling from her lips as Kyojuro feels her release slam into her. The walls of her cunt seize around his tongue and pulse, and he greedily laps up every drop of her sweet wetness that gushes into his mouth.

Her climax is his heaven; his eyes roll back into his skull as he loses himself in the heady scent of her, mouth noshing away between her legs in an effort to make it last as long as he can afford. He fights the urge to sink his teeth into the meat of her thigh, desperate to mark her, but unwilling to drag his mouth away from paradise that is her sex.

Finally, the last wave of her climax rolls through her, and Y/N collapses back against her bed, limp. Kyojuro tears his mouth away from her center with a ragged pant, his eyes round and full of awe as he gazes upon her sleeping face.

Magnificent; she is utterly magnificent. The sweetest little creature in all the realms, and utterly and completely his.

Shakily, he rises to his knees, a storm of devotion and adoration churning violently within him. His eyes drop to the seat of his trousers where his own desire for her stands painfully proud. He grimaces; now is not the time for him to take her, but neither can he go back to fucking his own hand as he stands beside her; not after experiencing the euphoria of her sweet sex.

His gaze lowers to the sacred place between her thighs, and his cock throbs. Before he can think the better of it, his hands are fumbling with the fastening of his trousers and he pulls himself free, his length springing against the taut muscles of his stomach. A bead of wetness has already gathered at his tip, and he hissed as his thumb swipes over it, sensitive and desperate.

He gives himself a gentle pump and shifts, positioning his knees on the outside of either of her thighs, still spread against her bed. With a shaky breath, he lowers his cock to her center, and nearly swears at the heat that pulses off of her, practically singing for him to cast aside all reason and plunge himself into her.

A curse burns in his throat as his teeth sink into his lower lip, a metallic tang coating his tongue. No, Kyojuro will hold back — he must.

Below him, his beloved’s breathing has evened, signaling that she has slipped back into her oblivion once more, and her lack of awareness only makes him harder, makes his balls feel heavier and fuller.

Slowly, he traces the aching, swollen head of his cock up and down her cunt, her wetness gathering at his tip. With a shudder, he begins working his cock, his hand spreading her slick along his length until he, too, is covered in her release.

Kyojuro presses the tip of his great length flush against her nub and grinds. Instantly, Y/N’s legs twitch once more, and another surge of her wetness gushes forth and coats him as he continues fisting at his cock. The added lubricant results in a dull schlicking sound that joins his quiet pants he pumps away at himself, his eyes steadily trained on his sleeping dove’s face.

The devil in his mind whispers how it would be easy, so very easy to slip inside her. The thought of her warm, tight, dripping heat clenching around him makes the muscles of his abdomen flex, the knot deep within his stomach seizing painfully tight.

His eyes drop down to his cock, aching and shiny with Y/N’s wetness. Just a little, that tricky voice urges, just enough to sate his own curiosity, to know how her body would feel parting around him —

But the question of whether he’d have the self-restraint not to sheathe himself inside her enticing heat, goes unanswered for now. For it takes only two, hard pumps of his hand to make the coil in his gut unwind.

His free hand flies to his mouth just in time for Kyojuro to quiet his own, deep groan. His teeth sink hard into the flesh of his knuckles as his release barrels through him. Hastily, he presses the tip of his cock flush against his sleeping lover’s entrance just as thick, hot ropes of his seed spurt forth, coating both his hand and her cunt in white.

The vision of her face fades to black for a moment, replaced by stars as bright as those which had dotted the sky the very night the universe had gifted her to him. In the back of his hazy mind, Kyojuro remembers to clench his jaw shut, to keep his lascivious moans and curses locked within him as he pumps himself through his climax.

Every muscle in his body is tight, his limbs rigid as he continues to spill over his fist and against Y/N’s slick heat. When the last, dizzying echo of his release finishes reverberating through him, Kyojuro nearly crumples against his love’s plush mattress. He manages to catch himself at the last second, a hand shooting to grip at her blankets as he pitches himself to the side, narrowly avoiding disturbing her body with his own.

He curls into the bed, smothering his shuddering breaths against her sheets. A long moment passes as Kyojuro regains control over himself, and then he pushes himself to his knees, cheeks flushed and chest heaving, to survey his work. Something prideful and smug roars in his chest as he beheld the mess of white left between Y/N’s supple thighs.

As he admires the sight of his mess dribbling down Y/N’s sex, an idea, a wickedly mischievous idea, took form. Though he would remain committed to restraining himself from claiming her until the time was right, that did not mean he had to let his seed go to waste.

His heart thrums wildly as he brings his fingers against his little dove’s beautiful cunt, gathering his own spend around his digits. Her cunt parts easily around him as he pushes it into her, swirling his fingers inside her to ensure his seed thoroughly coats her walls. He repeats his movements again and again until he is satisfied that all of him is inside of her, with nothing remaining on her thighs or the bed below her.

Though asleep, Y/N’s thighs flex around him as he withdraws his hand from her cunt, her body subconsciously wanting to cling onto him, keep him there, between her legs where he belonged.

He huffs a quiet laugh. Precious, he thinks as he runs an affectionate hand over her stomach. Such a precious little thing, his dove is.

“Do not fret, my love,” he murmurs as he lowers himself to impart one, final kiss against her dampened flesh. The combined scent of her pleasure mixed with his nearly catapults him back into a frenzy, but Kyojuro forces himself away.

He stands and tucks himself back into his trousers. Just outside her great window, the sky has begun to lighten, and soon, dawn will spill over the spires roofs of London, and a new day will commence.

And he will return to her, his darling human, wearing the mask of a courtly suitor once more.

He leaps to her windowsill and unlatches the great glass doors, letting them swing wide. He pauses, turning back to cast one last look at Y/N, still fast asleep in her bed and no wiser to his presence than she’d been when he’d first arrived.

He smiles, content. “I shall see you soon.”

banner from @ benkeibear!

[so-many-ocs]

user so many ocs, my beloved, fellow Locked Tomb enjoyer, I am about to finish Nona and I am losing my mind because nothing will fill the Gideon Nav sized hole in my heart (lol). do you perchance have any recommendations of what I can read next that's similar to TLT?

ok i wanna preface this by saying i've only read GtN (i needed time to recover after the first one and left HtN at my parents' house for the semester lol but by virtue of Existing On Tumblr i know most of what happens in the series + i plan to read HtN asap)

BUT LET'S GO!! (storygraph summaries linked)

if you liked gideon the ninth, try:

This is How You Lose the Time War by Max Gladstone & Amal El-Mohtar - maybe i just read these 2 really close together but Time War has time travel, space fuckery, gut-wrenching sapphic yearning, and a drily humorous tone all packed into the span of less than 200 pages.

She Who Became the Sun by Shelley Parker-Chan - historical fantasy, rich worldbuilding, one of my All-Time Favorite Books (right alongside Time War and Gideon the Ninth lol)

Babel: An Arcane History by R.F. Kuang - historical fantasy, political intrigue, silver possesses the ability to manifest any meaning lost in translation between languages.

Cosmoknights by Hannah Templer - graphic novel (2 books out now); princesses, politics, and gladiator-style fights, but in space!

now for books i haven't read (on my tbr) that others have recommended for fans of TLT:

The Unbroken by C.L. Clark - fantasy, desert empire, a soldier and a princess "haggling" over the price of a nation.

The Jasmine Throne by Tasha Suri - fantasy/romance, one seeking revenge, one seeking family.

The Ones We Burn by Rebecca Mix - fantasy, girl who is a monster (favorite trope of Ever btw), witches, kingdoms, and assassinations.

Crier's War by Nina Valera - fantasy with some sci-fi elements(?), humans vs. robots but with a twist! i want to read this so bad but have not found it anywhere

this list has some of the books i've recommended here, as well as a couple others i haven't! most of the books i've recommended are sapphic or at least lgbtq as well if that's something you're specifically interested in :)

lastly, storygraph does have a "browse similar books" feature, though i'm not sure how accurate it is as i've yet to really try it out!

i hope that was helpful !!!

[bassguitarinablackt-shirt]

hey do u have any hcs for leo, reyna, or rachel?? :)

I DO INDEED!!!! although for my leo and reyna hcs keep in mind im only on son of neptune so im coming from a place of limited knowledge

leo:

that boy is NOT cishet. hes pan as fuck and his gender is whatevers funniest to him in the moment

listens to beyonce and lady gaga religiously

had crushes on both jason and piper

has really fucked up teeth, personal hygiene who?

basically lives off of coca cola

keeps trying to jokingly flirt with percy, annabeth is not happy about this

I JUST KNOW THIS BOY WOULD BE A THEATER KID, not a performer though hed be backstage

really likes painting and drawing but hes not exactly good at it so he doesnt do it often because looking at his art makes him hate himself

almost always listening to music

has really bad seperation anxiety

hyperaware of the fact that he is not and will never be charles beckendorf, gets really insecure when the other hephaestus kids talk about beckendorf around him

reeses pieces are his favorite candy

this last one is kinda weird and specific but i like to think he has a stash of ring pops that he keeps with him at all time to either eat when hes anxious or use to jokingly propose to people he finds cute

(wow im projecting hard for some of these)

reyna: (not alot for her agh im sorry)

aroace. i take no criticism im right about this

i wouldnt exactly say shes not cis but she does have a bit of a weird relationship to gender

had a bad case of comphet (compallo???) and it took her a while to realise she was queer

really protective of nico, has basically decided hes her younger brother and she would both die and kill for him

has ptsd that she refuses to adknowledge

listens to a weird mix of classical and emo music (the emo is nicos influence. shed never admit she likes it though)

RACHEL ELIZABETH DARE MY BELOVED:

AROACE AROACE AROACE-

good friends with thalia

never actually had feelings for percy it was just a good ol case of comphet/compallo

going back to the thalia point, her favorite band is green day, thalia introduced her to them

the pjo character whos most likely to smoke weed i think

vibes with being a cis girl but she does enjoy engaging in gender fuckery on occasion

after she realised she wasnt in love with percy she thought she was a lesbian, she was not, she just found girls aesthetically attractive

in a qpr with percy (let me have this okay)

experiments with her style alot but generally refuses to wear an outfit if it doesnt have atleast five bright colors

dyes her hair alot, never the full head just streaks

[rayshippouuchiha]

I've noticed you're happy when people share snippets of things they're writing, so today I want to share with you one of the scenes I'm the most proud to have ever written

To give you a bit of context so it makes sense: Time travel fuckery happens when Naruto uses almost all of Kurama's power to get back in time. What little power was left of the Bijuu merges with his body and gives him orangy-red hair the same color of Kurama's fur so he makes himself pass as Kushina's younger brother when he appears in Konoha around the time young Naruto is 5/6 y/o, going by the name of Uzumaki Kurama to avoid raising any suspicious about two Narutos. Shit happens, he and Kakashi fall in love but are idiots who don't communicate. The scene takes place after Pain's attack and Kakashi dying and coming back to life.

-

The dust has long settled on the destroyed village, and now the moon was high in the sky, watching over Her people in silence.

Tenzō had done an amazing job, Kakashi has to admit. It's thanks to his Mokuton that the people of Konoha have a place to sleep at until the village is properly re-built.

Not him, though. He couldn't fall asleep.

He's not too surprised by the fact that he's awake in the middle of the night. He's used to it. Usually he can fall asleep for an hour or two at some point, but this time is different. He guesses dying and coming back to life will do that to you.

He's not the only one awake. ANBU are patrolling the village. Some of them nod their head at him when passing by, but no one stops to bother him as he stands on top of a mostly destroyed building, away from where the rest of the village is resting.

Kakashi is not on duty. He hasn't been since the day the Sandaime had told him that he was to become a Jōnin Sensei. Yet, tonight he misses the mask. He feels like his head is too full of thoughts, and he needs to put on his ANBU uniform and let that part of him take the lead. The youngest ANBU to have ever been made. The only ANBU with a perfect mission score. He misses not thinking about anything but a mission, his body moving mechanically as his mind takes a step back and rests.

Alas, he can't. He had to give his mask and uniform back all those years ago, leave them in the hands of the Hokage and never take them back.

It's barely past 0300 when someone joins him. Kakashi doesn't hear their footsteps but he does feel their familiar chakra, as bright as the sun and as scalding hot and dangerous as a forest fire.

Kurama doesn't say anything as he sits beside him, and it's in that moment that Kakashi realizes he hasn't seen the man all day, not even when the fight ended and everything went quiet.

Kakashi looks at him, but Kurama isn't looking back. No. He's looking at the village with an expression that Kakashi can't decipher. Oh, but how he wishes that he could. He would give anything to be able to read this man like one of his beloved books.

"I died today," Kakashi finds himself saying, unable, for once, to stand the silence.

"I know."

"I saw my father."

Kurama finally looks at him, and Kakashi can finally see. There's a deep grief in his blue eyes, a grief that looks as old as the man himself.

"How was it?" Kurama asks. He sounds tired, even more than Kakashi feels.

"Meeting him?"

"Dying."

The question hangs heavy in the air, and after a while Kurama looks back towards the village.

"All my life I've seen people either die or leave without me being able to do anything to prevent it. While I was here, I almost forgot how terrible war was for those who survive it," he sighs, then shakes his head. "I know we didn't lose anyone today thanks to Naruto, but..."

But we could have, he doesn't say. But we did, even if only for a short while.

Kakashi finally sits down, and it hits him suddenly that Kurama was probably already around when Uzushio was attacked and destroyed. That he had to witness his home be razed to the ground. His clan, his family, his friends, forever lost. And who knows where those who were able to run away ended up. Did Kurama escape with his parents? With a friend? And where are they, now?

Kakashi already knows the answer to that particular question for sure.

"But we're still here," Kakashi says, a gentleness in his voice he didn't think he was even capable of having. "And, you know, talking with my father made me realize something important."

Kurama looks at him so intently with those deep blue eyes of his, and Kakashi wonders, not for the first time, what is it about this man that makes him want to open up. Hatake Kakashi hates being vulnerable, so why does he want Kurama to know his every secret?

"While I was with him, we talked about a lot of things. I told him about my old team, my students, my mistakes and failures over the years, and," he stops for a moment. Has to look away from Kurama's blue eyes, "I talked about you, too."

There's a surprised sound from beside him, but Kakashi lets his eye rest on the sleeping village stretching in front of them.

"And I realized that, for you, I'd-"

A hand shots out, pressing against Kakashi's lips to silence him. The way Kurama is looking at him now is pained.

"If you're about to tell me that you'd die for me, don't," he sounds even more tired, and Kakashi can see it in the way his body is positioned that he's tense, so much that Kakshi almost fears it might hurt.

Gently, Kakashi grabs Kurama's wrist to pull his hand away from his lips, but instead of pushing it away he keeps it in his.

"I would have, before," he admits. Kurama's hand is warm in his, as he presses it over his heart. He can almost sense its warmth all the way under his jōnin uniform. "But that's not what I was about to say."

He looks at him again, and for the first time in forever Kakashi feels like everything is right in this shitty world they had been thrown in. That everything will be okay, no matter what the world throws at them. And a smile, gentle and small, pulls softly at his lips, hidden under his trusted mask.

For the first time, the little wrinkles forming around his eye are genuine

"I would live for you, Kurama."

[ladyosiriscreates]

Goodness I just read your amazing Soap one shot! So good! Could I ask for Gaz taking care of an unwell female reader (totally not based on my current situation at all)? Thank you 🖤

I kept looking at this so many times in just pure disbelief. HELLO GREATSTORMCAT I love reading your drabbles they're truly a treat to read. Also I love Gaz he is one of my favorites. Rudy Parra is also my beloved. and if you would like something NSFW from him just leave another ask/idea and I will write it because I have FEELINGS AND IDEAS.

I'm in a Sickbed, but at least it's Yours.

Gaz x Fem!Reader for the opulent @greatstormcat (3.2k words)

Tags: Illness, insecurity, fluff, comfort, so much fucking comfort, this man was made to love someone, mutual pining that just boils over,

You had known it was coming. The dregs of winter that brought along pressure drops that threatened to blow your sinuses through the rest of your head. Fever, aches, chills and the incessant fog around your head that clouded everything and led your body to exhaustion… man fuck that.

For the first few days, you thought you might be dying.

But today, you certainly wished it was so. Because surely it would be a greater mercy than whatever fuckery your body was fighting off. 

And that was what led you to now, standing in the kitchen of an apartment that wasn’t yours, wearing soft pajamas that certainly didn’t belong to you, and staring at a fridge that looked familiar- but also wasn’t yours. 

“...C’mon luv, you’ve been staring at my closed fridge door for the better part of fifteen minutes. And as fucking hilarious as it might be to see you disassociate to the hum of it, I’m half afraid you’ll keel over if you take another step.” Came a kind voice, soft laughter permeating the hazy, unpleasant fog of ick that hung around your brain. Turning your head, you met the warm, impossibly dark eyes of one Kyle Garrick. Your long term friend.

Friend.

Why had he always been just a friend?

You two had revolved around each other from the moment you met, always within each others orbit though barely ever colliding.

For that matter… how had you gotten here? And when?

“Gaz?” You slurred, voice light as you grabbed onto the counter. “Don’t think I’m home right now.” Gentle arms encircled your body, coaxing you into his chest despite your weak protests. “No you can’t, ‘m sick, and if you get sick i’m damn near certain your team’ll hunt me for sport. And I promise that is not how I’d like to be hunted.”

But your protests fell on deaf ears as you were lifted into his arms. Which seemed to be for the better with how the room spun as he did. “S’alright, I’m on leave for the next two weeks anyways. I can afford a little bit of sickness. But I believe you when you say you’re not home.” He teased. “Not a whole lot goin’ on in that pretty little head?”

“Well it fuckin’ hurts.” You retorted with a scoff, arms easing around his shoulders as you nestled into the crook of his neck. The gentle scent of mint and earth churned at your senses, weaving their way through your stuffed sinuses to bring comfort to your humming mind. “You think my head is pretty?”

“That’s what you got out of that?” Kyle chuckled in return, shaking his head as he took you past the threshold of his own bedroom and laying you against his bed, sitting at its edge. But you didn’t let go. Like a lifeline you clung to his neck, keeping him bent over you before pulling your head back to meet his gaze.

Perhaps it was the soft light cascading through the window, pale gold in the setting sun, but he shimmered in your vision- elegance and refined beauty. “...If I were more selfish a woman, I’d tell you what I’m thinking.” you whispered, eyes flitting in a triangle between his own eyes, and the lips that were now pursed.

“If I were more selfish a man, luv, I’d keep you in this bed- my bed, and never let you up from it. But maybe that’s just your fever talking…” He soothed, reaching up to untangle your arms from his shoulders and laying you back down. When you protested, he cupped your cheek, thumb rubbing small circles into the feverish skin. “You don’t know how worried I was when you texted me.”

Your brows furrowed, lips parting slightly as you glanced around. “I… texted you?” Surely not- but actually… where was your phone again?

“I’m not sure what you were trying to say, but the words help, medicine and sick were all in it. And all misspelled. You had me worried, and the state I found you in wasn’t much better. Laying under a heap of blankets and groaning to yourself about how death would be better than this?” He teased, but beneath the lighthearted nature, even now you could see it, that concern. The genuine care he possessed. Selfishly, you wished it was only for you.

“So you came?” you asked, unable to hide your own surprise.

“Of course.” Gaz whispered, huffing out a small laugh. “I always come when you call. Kinda wish you’d call more, sweetheart.” 

Finally, you allowed yourself to surrender back into the softness of his bed, suddenly enveloped by an almost overwhelming sense of him. “I have a fever.” You explained quietly.

“Yes, I know this.” he replied.

“I’m hoping it’s high enough I won’t remember this tomorrow, depending on how it goes.” You muttered, lifting a hand to drag across your congested and stuffy nose- what a great way to start things. “...I hate you. No. wait. No, that's definitely not right.” You scoffed, clenching your jaw. “I hate… when you’re not around. I hate being apart from you. I hate the way you make me feel when I know you’re just being kind and genuine. I hate wanting you more than a plant craves the sun-”

Kyle’s eyes grew wider as you spoke, these words the clearest to fall from your tongue since he’d picked you up this morning. And though it seemed you weren’t done speaking, he carefully stole your hand from your face, placing your fingertips to his lips for a moment. “My turn?”

“Your turn.” came your reply, meek beneath the sudden warmth of his voice.

“I hate being apart from you too. I hate feeling like we’re in this dance but always with different partners, and at most I can catch your eye from the other side of a ballroom- but your card is always full and I’m never sure if there’s more room for me.” He hummed, massaging your palm as he held your hand delicately within his own. “I hate that you keep me at arms length because you’re afraid of seeming weak, that the world has made you so afraid to be vulnerable- while you still crave the ability to be so.”

His words floated through your sick-addled brain, finding yourself eager to drown in the sound of his voice. “It’s hard..”

“I know luv. But I want you to let me in. I want to be there for you. I’d drop everything and run if you called my name for even a moment.” He promised, reaching up to push sweat slicked strands of hair from your face.

“I’m a mess.” You argued.

“Then let me help you clean it up. I’m by no means perfect either, as much as you might try to put me on a pedestal. Seeing each other clearly is the best thing we could do, because…  I… I want more. Maybe I always have. But falling into step with you is easier than falling into anything else.” he exclaimed, glancing toward his window at the golden light that began to fade, growing warmer as the sun dipped beneath the horizon. “I won’t say I can fix you, because I don’t fucking think you’re broken. The fact you’re still here is proof of that.”

Tears stung at the corners of your eyes, the feeling dulled by the fog of exhaustion that had snuck its way around your body. “Am i dreaming?”

“Do you want to be?” He asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“...I don’t know. I’m scared.”

“Me too, but honestly- I’m more terrified of going through life wondering what this could have been if I hadn’t told you.” Kyle admitted, his weight making the bed dip, your body rolling slightly in towards him.

“Kyle…” you breathed, forcing your eyes open, desperate to meet his. “Tell me again when I wake up in the morning. Promise me it isn’t a dream then… because if you say it again, I’ll believe you. God, I want to believe you.” You exclaimed, voice pitched as your lids fell heavy again. “My walls have always been made of glass when it came to you… and you, fucking… stupid, handsome, pure as sunlight you… carried a hammer with you all along.”

Kyle nearly gawked in return, your words painting a most vivid landscape and technicolor sky. A lilac sunrise when he hadn’t known purple was his favorite color.  “Luv, I’ll tell it to you every day until you have no choice but to believe it. So for now, sleep. I’ll bring you back some medicine and warm ginger tea…”

“But… you don’t even like tea?” you mumbled, a bit of surprise coloring your tone.

“Yeah, but I like you. You’d be surprised at the pieces of you I keep with me when I wasn’t able to have the real thing.” He explained, resting a hand atop your head so that he might soothingly stroke at your hair, the repeated notion lulling you into slumber. “...but I’ll admit none of it compares to having you here and now.”

When morning came there was a soft weight on your chest- warm, but not unpleasant. Different than the weight of stuffiness and congestion, of the phlegm and cough that had been plaguing you. As your eyes opened and you shifted up to prop yourself on an elbow, you found Gaz beside you in a chair, his head resting on your hip as he slumbered. It couldn’t have been comfortable, draping himself over the edge of his own bed. But like a flood the memories returned, gentle touches and words spoken beneath a setting sun. Every piece of him draped in gold and idolatry.

You pressed your hand to his cheek, before turning your head into your shoulder and coughing. Not truly the way you would have preferred it, but the end goal was the same as he lifted his head, giving you a dizzying smile as he pushed himself up on his arms.

“Mornin’ sweetheart. Get some better sleep last night?” He hummed, voice a bit warmer and gravelly than usual.

For once you’re happy that you don’t currently possess a hold of all your mental faculties,  as otherwise you very well may have jumped him right there. But instead, like a reasonably more dignified moron, you found yourself nodding. “...I’m in your bed.”

“Astute observation skills, you should be a detective with that level of perception.” He taunted, reaching to the bedside table and bringing back a mug of now cooled, half drank tea. “It’ll be bitter as hell, but let’s get a bit of fluid into you before you try to get up, sweetheart.”

“Kyle, I'm in your bed.” You stressed again. 

“Yes and it’s about time, really.” He sighed, grin cheeky as he watched you go through phases of surprise and confusion. “Alright, alright, calm down Inspector Gadget. You’re gonna give yourself an aneurysm thinking that hard.”

With a steady hand you stole the mug of tea, that even cold, you could tell was your favorite, made just the way you’d prepare it- how long had he known such fine minutiae of your being. How long had he been memorizing the way you existed so he could mimic it for your comfort. “...am not.” You muttered, giving him a half-hearted withering glare over the mug of tea.

The bed dipped again as he sat upon it, pulling you forward by your shoulder before pressing his lips to your forehead. Time itself seemed to suspend, small bits of dust hanging in the air as you relished in the feeling of soft lips and a gentler hand upon your forehead. “I think your fevers finally broken… which makes sense, you seem a bit more with it this morning. I’m relieved.”

Dumbfounded, you lifted your gaze to his lips as he pulled back, before finding their way ever higher to meet the amused deep brown eyes that could churn you like the earth itself. “I feel a bit better today.” You finally admitted, finding your voice again- as thick as it was. “I can probably head home-”

“No.” He exclaimed, shaking his head. “Shoulda known the first thing you’d try to do is free yourself like you think you’re a burden at my side.” Kyle sighed, clenching his jaw for a moment before standing up. Fear struck you, like a white hot iron at your spine. You didn’t want him to leave.

The fear was only present for a moment before you were lifted by your hips and pushed back against the headboard, Kyle climbing atop the bed to straddle your waist and pin your shoulders. “I need you to pay attention, sweetheart.”

Inhaling sharply, you could do little but nod, meeting his gaze with wide eyes and blown pupils. If you weren’t still sick, the places your mind went would trail ever darker. Even now, you could imagine the feel of his lips attacking every sensitive spot from your throat to inner wrist.

“You told me I had to tell you this again, and I should have known you were serious.” He exclaimed, one hand climbing until he cradled your chin between his thumb, pointer and middle finger. “I’m in love with you- and trust me, falling in love with one of my best friends hadn’t been the plan, but God above it was so easy. You are so easy to love, not just for the positive attributes you put on display for everyone, but for the pieces of yourself you show me when we’re alone. For the way you allow yourself to crumble and break just a little bit when you’re with me. For being my safe space. So yes, I meant it last night when I said I wanted you to stay and be with me. Because I’m in love with your dense ass. Just like you’re in love with me. I hate being apart from you. And I hate that we overthink ourselves into these goddamn ruts and it’s kept us apart for even longer than-”

His words were more than enough, but the mounting desperation in his voice, his gaze was enough to spurn you, hands reaching up and cradling his cheeks. “You’re right.” you interrupted softly. “I’m in love with you. Your diligence, your determination… I love all of it, Kyle. When we’re out with friends all I care about is seeing you, because if you’re enjoying yourself then I feel like I can enjoy things too. You make my soul sing, and when it does it’s just trying to mimic whatever you’re humming.”

Kyle’s face broke into a grin, the corner of his eyes crinkling as he pulled your forehead to his. “We’re idiots.” He admitted. “Took us far too long to get here.”

“What matters is that we got here- and I-” unceremoniously the moment was shattered as you abruptly turned away and coughed, groaning through the interrupted moment. “Fuck.”

“You fuck?”

“I take it back, I hate you.” You groaned, hearing the musical rumble of his laugh as he let up off of you, popping out two pills from the packaging on the bedside table. 

“No you don’t.” Kyle teased, taking a sip from your mug and tossing the pills into his mouth before grabbing your chin and inclining your head. There was barely a moment to question it before you were met with the feeling of lukewarm tea and medicine pouring past your lips. It was nearly seamless, only a few droplets slipping from your lips as you swallowed back the tea. But for a moment, you both lingered there, the taste of ginger and orange stinging at your lips before leaning into him, unwilling to part with what you’d finally found.

No, you didn’t hate Kyle Garrick. There was little he could do to truly anger you, so hating him was out of the question. He accepted your surrender by wrapping his arms around your waist, pulling you closer into his arms as he deepened the kiss. It was warm, making up for lost time. Like two galaxies finally collapsing into each other and spinning into something beautiful and new. You didn’t part until you were breathless, which was unfortunately much sooner than you would have liked.

“You’re gonna get sick.” you whispered.

“If that means I get to stay in bed with you for the rest of my leave, I think it’ll be worth it.” He promised, slowly slumping over onto his side before drawing you into his embrace. He massaged slow, soothing circles into your lower back, his other hand keeping your head tucked against his chest. “I made some soup for you last night, pots on the stove so I can get it simmering again soon.” Kyle murmured. “Stay with me? Ride this out- just stay for the rest of my leave?”

Your laugh, as small as it was, seemed like true music to his ears. A heavenly chorus to a man who hadn’t believed in years. “I’ll stay. Maybe I’ll get the turn to play caretaker once you get sick from kissing me, dumbass.”

“All part of the plan.”

“There’s no plan, Kyle.” You snorted, though your gaze was warm and soft as you both stayed trapped against the sheets.

“Well… just existing with you is good too.” He promised, lips turning up as he brought your foreheads together.

The next two days were spent in a most confusing sort of reverie. Anytime you moved, Kyle shadowed you, his hands covering and guiding yours. Grabbing things before you could think to want them, even carrying you from his bed to his couch as he bundled you up before situating himself beside you. He kept you hydrated, setting timers for your meds and keeping you nearby when your weakened body slept. But as your body grew stronger, the telltale signs of illness began to take their toll on Kyle.

You laughed, as three days later you were nearly normal, and he was standing in the kitchen, head bowed and lips pouty as he looked at you beneath thick lashes.

“I did warn you.” You chastised, moving forward to press a chaste kiss to his lips.

“No regrets.” He grumbled, spinning you in his arms to rest his head atop yours, and keep his hands on your waist. “Think of it as a return on investment.”

“Then I guess we’ll be investing forever, hm?” You teased, chuckling softly as you allowed your weight to lean back into his.

“Rich in love and rich in life… I love you.” Kyle sighed, somehow looking forward to the rest of the week and a half ahead of them, even with the misery of illness looming over him.

“I love you too, forever and always.” You promised.

“Forever and always.”

[mitsuki91]

Okay I think I decided it.

I have two snowbaird starting plot in my mind.

One will degenerate in some sort of fuckery college!AU and our beloved Coryo will end up with both Lucy Gray and Sejanus and I will force myself to write plenty of smut because I am naughty and silly.

One will be more serious, only snowbaird (sorry rip Sejanus but the starting point is after canon) and will have some angst (but still an happy ending, don't know how yet but it will have) and fluff and two people who have to learn how to trust themself again. Still plenty of sex because oh boys these two can not take their hands of each other.

So! What do you want to read first?! 😂 So I can start more plotting 😂

(and yes, before all of this I will finish the serie of "The play of songbirds and snakes", I promise)

[kfruityouth]

the agents are cool and definitely not capitalists and i very like them.

great now ive got your attention So the limn is obviously a series of *ahem* unfortunate events. well its fucking with the world. its making all these "anomalies" so to speak happen.

what the fuck is the limn?

sydneys resurrection!

was oddities, space and time, and general fuckery rampant in memories from before he was ressurected, as dictated by memories (sydney is known to manipulate retellings of circumstances and such but for the sake of this, lets assume he's completely truthful), which we know from the transcripts were somehow distorted or lost as stated by the agents ??? NO!!!!

at the beginning of each transcript, it startes with something like "audio data from ...source... on day 900andsomething". now now now now. between october 2018, sydneys death, and june 2021, the beginning of the end (haha get it), theres approximately 900, or the same amount of days as there are in the day-900. just further evidence. do the math if you really want unfortunately i dropped out of math and will not be doing it.

the agents record this information because its significant. because its what theyre investigating.

SO. theres 5 agents we know of:

agent 1 - just a guy. read the chnt wiki :]

agent 7 - the guy writing the descriptions if we're to get all meta

agent 23 - the silly i love her so soso much

agent 15 & agent 16 (tony 1 and tony 2 my beloveds)

agent 15&16, or the tonies as everyone knows them by, are frequently seen delivering CONTRABAND goods for jedidiah's little project.

-----based on what we can infer, the episode descriptions are written AT THE TIME of the episodes canonical place in the timeline.

now....................... chnt is vehemently anti-government. lucille is vehemently anti-government. contraband goods are obviously... well, they're contra-BANNED haha im funny by the government. so we can infer that the agency is seperate to the government. but why then are they providing jedidah, or ENTITY1, the materials for his project? although in my own personal theory/hc, i do think the agents are seperate to the actual government, which i firmly believe will be the overarching 'antagonist' of the series as a symbol of oppression and such

its contradictory, see? the government bans necromancy. theres HUGE propaganda about necromancy--they push the line that its impossible way too much for it to just be a bit.

but now, that its possible and theyve seen it in action and theyve seen the shit its caused... theyre in on it.

but basically: the limn has shattered reality (as made literal in the shattered sky in the clock of meantime)

i dont know how to word vomit my thoughts in a legible way. ill add to this or edit this post if i come up with coherent thoughts. i genuiely feel like im grasping at straws and like red string and polaroids and shit. my heart is palpitating and everything why am i so worked up about this im so sorry

please please please talk to me. send me your theories, nitpicks, additions, anything. im actually losing my mind

[inexplicablymine]

SOULMATE MIND READING???

Chrissy this is my beloved Halloween Huh Prompt that grew legs, arms, a brain of its own and then ran like Usain Bolt very far away from me into a seriously extreme long fic.

I present Mind Over Matter ~ or “MoM” haha

This is my take on a world where casual magic, and slightly enhanced abilities are a thing, think being able to heat tea up to the perfect temperature always, never falling, always hitting the green lights. It’s technically called your sixth sense and researchers have found the genome that makes those with “powers” more likely.

But the Claremont-Díaz’s could never be normal could they. An old legend meets new magic and Alex and his sister have the ability to hear thoughts passed directly to them. This isn’t just everyone’s thoughts though, but the thoughts of those most compatible with you.

Sometimes they are muddy, sometimes they are a little more clear like hearing someone talk through a stream of water, or a thunderstorm.

But Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor’s thoughts about Alex, in all their dirty concerning glory, are not only crystal clear, they are the loudest thoughts Alex has ever heard.

Canon divergence, canon fuckery but they are still in their same positions in life.

I have shared one single snippet from this work linked below ~ tis a doozy and the next long fic I am working on after I finish posting Little Drummerboy

If you would like to read an excerpt from Mind Over Matter

If you would like to ask about one of my badly explained WIP’s my inbox is open!!

[gabessquishytum]

Screaming about dark human!Morpheus capturing Hope AND collaring him because…the potential.

Hope wandering this big lonely house, staring out the window at the flying birds outside, longing filling his heart.

Morpheus providing him food and books and attention and Hope walking the fine line between advocating for his freedom and not pushing Morpheus over the edge …

Hope sometimes breaking down and yelling at Morpheus only for Morpheus to manhandle him back down the basement stairs for a cold night, or tying him to the bed for some humiliating punishment even an Endless never imagined.

And sometimes… Them sitting in a room together, sharing a meal and suddenly Morpheus says something witty and Hope is laughing and has always been so head over heels for Morpheus that for a moment he forgets about the collar around his neck.

Hope is unable to reach Morpheus as he needs to without his powers. He isn’t used to a limited human form, so he must rely on what the collar can’t contain: his wits and determination.

They are two immortals locked in a fucked up mental chess game, with Hope’s entire being and the world at stake. Hope can’t afford to lose, but he isn’t sure anymore that he can win…

…And yes, lots of dubious and morally suspect sex. Morpheus has been waiting a long time to see his beloved on his knees.

Ohh yes the mind fuckery of it all. Hope has these moments where he's actually kind of happy and feeling good? It's built into his nature to see the best side of things and it's almost like he can't help himself. He still loves Morpheus and hopes that he might see the error of his ways, and everything will be ok and maybe they can have a proper, loving relationship...

And then Morpheus will do something to completely humiliate him, and Hope suddenly feels like there's no way back from this. And sure, humanity can get on without him and generate hope by themselves, but they do need him! He's tried communicating it to Morpheus, but...

"Humanity has had you for millenia, while I only saw you once every century. Its my turn to have you, all to myself this time."

The logic is fucked up, but Hope has learned the hard way not to argue.

Perhaps it would be easier if he didn't enjoy the sex quite so much. His body reacts so well to Morpheus, and he doesn't know if it's natural or the collar making him like that. Even the sex that he doesn’t think he would have enjoyed before is now extremely pleasurable to him. It’s strange. It hurts his heart. He aches.

[aemiron-main]

Was Edward Creel Born Evil? Did I Ever Believe That Edward Was Born Evil?

So, for some reason, a fair number of people seem to be under the impression that I believe that Edward was born evil, so I want to clear this up.

I’ve already talked repeatedly about Edward also being innocent- for example, I made this post about Eddie, Edward, and "The Man Who Did This," and Brenner’s connections to things that seem, on the surface, to be Edward’s fault.

And I’ve made 10 million posts at this point about the idea of one of the Brenners having combined himself with Edward, resulting in Vecna & resulting in Edward having minimal control.

And so, the answer to both questions in the title is NO!!!! No, Edward isn’t evil/born evil, and no, I didn’t ever think he was. I do think he did a lot of things that Henry gets blamed for (see: Vecna), but I also think that Edward had minimal (if any) choice in the matter/I think that it’s far, far more complex than “Edward’s Bad And Is Doing All These Things As Vecna Because He’s Evil/Mean/Wants To”.

When I talk about "free my boy Henry, he didn't do that, it was Edward," it's specifically in a “regardless of the morality of whatever action/event I'm talking about, I think that the evidence demonstrates that Edward was the one who did this," way and not in a "Edward did Everything because he's Bad and Evil" way, which, that THEN ties into things like “okay so WHY did Edward do this/why does the evidence seem to point to it being him that did this/him being Vecna etc?” and then ties into things like “well, one of the Brenners seems to have merged himself with Edward” and “all of the mind control references with HNL.”

Like, if Edward did something under mind control, I’m going to say “Edward did it,” and THEN elaborate on it with “Edward did it because of mind control/because of XYZ/because he wanted to,” etc. I’d do (and currently do) the same with Henry.

Like, on the surface it's "yes, Edward Did This,” but then there's the extra layer of "but he did it because of Brenner fuckery etc".

Anyway! Hope that clears things up, because I've seen this sentiment pop up a few times re: people criticizing the Edward theory because "well Em doesn’t think Henry was born evil but now he's just saying some OTHER boy was born evil," which is not what I'm currently saying, nor has it ever been what I've said.

If you read the words "Edward is Vecna," and take away "Edward Is Evil and was Born Evil," from that, especially when you ignore the further context of "Edward is Vecna BUT was also very very likely merged with one of the Brenners," then I feel like that's a you problem/a reading comprehension problem.

Edward and Henry are both my beloved little guys <<333 Free my boys from the allegations!!!!