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fioiswriting · 5 months

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Reunion | Sequel

[Part 1]

Summary : After the Battle Above the Gods Eye, Daemon returned victorious. Aemond was presumed dead, though his body was never found. Three years later, you've mourned your former husband and are ready to move on. But it seems that some ghosts from your past have come back to haunt you, and that the dead aren't really dead after all...

Rating : Explicit 18+, MDNI

Pairing : Aemond x Velaryon/Strong!niece!Reader

TW : unprotected sex, breeding kink, mention of characters death, angst, possessiveness, p in v sex, oral f receiving, dom/sub undertones, mention of war, AU where the Blacks won the war, anxiety, Reader has a child, grief, fluff, pregnancy, not proofread.

Reader is Rhaenyra and Harwin’s daughter so I imagined her with dark hair like Jace, Luke and Joffrey but feel free to imagine her as you want of course <3

Words count : 9150

Author's note : Hello everyone!! Sorry for the wait, I've been very busy, but here's part two of Reunion (or at least the first part two, let's call it part 2.1 hehe). Thank you again for all you kind comments and the love you've given my fanfic omg!! Spoiler alert: this is the happy alternate ending! But I've got another bittersweet alternative ending planned 😈 If you think the first part was good enough on its own and the sequel may break the vibe, don't force yourself to read!! But if you need a happy ending, here it is <3 The plot still doesn't make any sense, but hey, we're here to have fun so enjoy ❤️

English is still not my first (or second) language, so sorry for the grammar mistakes <3

When you wake up, the first thing you feel is the reassuring embrace of his arms around you. You don't want to move, not even when the sunlight tickles your face through the opening between the wooden shutters, trying to make the moment last endlessly. But the growing anxiety in your stomach chases away the illusion of your fleeting happiness.

You close your eyes a little tighter. Perhaps if you try again, perhaps if you try harder, the world around you can fade away.

Perhaps you can wake up again, in a different reality.

But it's inevitable. You know that now you're awake, it's only a matter of time before the two of you have to say goodbye forever. Your breathing becomes heavier, and you have to fight the tingling sensation at the corners of your eyes.

Why have the gods decided to be so cruel to you? They grant you one last taste of his skin on your lips before taking it from you, again.

Haven't you given enough?

Could they not show you mercy?

You who had forgotten him, you who had begun to turn a new page, to seek comfort in the arms of the cold, far away from the fire and the ashes, why did you have to touch the poison that would once again stain your soul?

Behind you, Aemond buries his long nose in your hair. His hand absently caresses the skin of your thigh, just where the edge of the linen tunic you put on sometime during the night when you were cold ends. The fabric is pulled up, revealing the outline of your bottom, and you can already feel your uncle hardening between his thighs, but you don't move.

If you move, you'll make everything more real. Tangible.

You'll speed up the process of losing him, of him slipping through your fingers.

How can you let him go, now that your heart is full again, now that you feel complete in a way you haven't felt for over three years?

How can you let him go, now that your body has retrieve the extension of itself in the arms of the man who was the cause of your torment, your moments of joy, your pain and, paradoxically, your happiness?

"I know you're awake."

You hold your breath and Aemond inhales into your hair. His hand moves down the inside of your thigh, along the hollow that joins it to your groin. He doesn't venture any further.

His thumb rests there and brushes your skin, trying to arouse the desire in you with gentleness.

Subtly.

He doesn't want to hurry, he doesn't want to rush you.

Not when he's been harbouring the impossible fantasy of waking up with you in his arms since the day he nearly died.

He presses harder against you, as if he doesn't want to let you go, as if he wants to be one with you again, and you feel him pulsing against your buttocks, under the linen cloth that has been pulled up a little higher. He says nothing, but he is pleading, needy, in his gestures, which is rare for him.

Something has changed, after all, and perhaps something has changed in him too.

"I am awake, indeed, " you whisper in a voice that is still half asleep. The lump in your throat betrays the feeling of anxiety gradually creeping into your body, and Aemond seems to notice. Under your tunic, his hand moves up along your belly until it nestles against your chest, close to your heart. His thumb draws small circles, once again trying to bring you back to him.

Trying to calm your mind.

"Let us forget for a little longer," he whispers, his clenched jaw resting over your head. "Please."

And you know he never begs.

Aemond takes and doesn't ask.

Aemond believes he is owed everything and never gives in return.

Hearing him beg breaks something inside you, because this is the first time he does so.

Usually it was you, it was always you, begging for peace, begging for more, begging him not to leave you.

Part of him is as desperate as you are; part of him also dreads the moment when you will have to part again. Forever. It's comforting to know that his feelings are sincere, just like yours.

" Make me forget, then." You reply, moving your lower loins back against him, giving him tacit permission to explore your body once more. His fingers move down to your breasts, which he covers softly with his hand, his thumb skimming over a nipple to make it hard. You let out a gasp between your parted lips.

His hand slides lower, his palm flat against your lower belly, his fingertips brushing the light patch of hair at the top of your mound. You feel the familiar warmth growing between your thighs, in your core.

He sighs against the back of your skull, his head tilted forward. His lips search the skin at the nape of your neck, behind the long hair that has become tangled during the night, while his fingers intimately explore the secrets of your body that he knows all too well. The remnants of last night's lovemaking still smear the insides of your thighs and folds, but it doesn't matter; his fingers easily find the little bundle of nerves that they tease until you close your eyes, until your hand grips the damp, shabby sheet that covers the ragged mattress in the inn where you've spent the night.

Just the both of you, in the comfort of anonymity.

"Let me taste you". His voice, still husky, tickles the back of your neck and you feel him shift behind you. When you feel the warmth of his bare chest, against which you're nestled, leave your back, your body automatically tries to move back against him. You still need him. You still need him to chase away the lump of anxiety in the pit of your stomach and the voices that keep reminding you that you're only postponing the fateful moment. Your hand slips under your white tunic and wraps around his wrist to force him to stay there, to hold his fingers against the source of heat spreading from your core. Your hips are demanding, grinding against his hand. "On your back," he insists, and stands up on his forearms.

With reluctance you turn over. You obey, lying on your back, your hair spilled around your head on the flat, uncomfortable pillow on which you slept badly. The white tunic that serves as your nightgown is pulled up, crumpled, just above your crotch, which it barely conceals.

Aemond has swung over your body, silvery strands loosening from the braid that holds his hair behind his head and sliding down his shoulders, falling in loose loops on either side of his face, tickling your cheeks.

His lilac-tinted blue eye glows with a predatory gaze, a ray of light catching in the sapphire he hasn't removed from his socket.

He captures your lips with his own, begging for access. Aemond marks your jaw and throat with light kisses, sucking at your collarbone to make the violets of possessiveness with which he likes to adorn your body bloom. His lips travel down your chest, playing with one of the two small nipples raised by the cool air and by desire, and continue their journey past your navel.

Your heartbeat quickens as he settles between your legs, spreading your thighs to admire the part of you he covets so eagerly. At the same time you bend your legs, your gaze falling on him, on his unravelled hair, on his eye that locks with yours. He is so close to you, so close to your warm centre, and you know that between your folds the sweet nectar that your uncle longs to taste is already flowing.

But his lips trace the inside of your thighs instead, where the skin is soft and tender, and gradually they reach the hollow that connects them to your most intimate part. He takes a malicious pleasure in building up the tension, in savouring every millimetre of you like a fine delicacy, with only the tip of his lips brushing against your skin.

His thumbs spread the tender flesh of your womanhood and then he places a chaste kiss on the very centre of you. His tongue is shy at first, tracing the slit that connects your entrance to your little knob, collecting the evidence of your desire.

As his tongue wraps around your nub, your hands grip the sheets, knuckles white.

Aemond drinks from your essence like a thirsty man, his nose buried between your folds, rubbing your pearl.

The tip of his tongue catches what drips from your opening, and then the flat of his tongue tastes your slit, working its way up to the little nub gorged with desire.

He maintains the same rhythm, revelling in the moans that escape from your half-open lips. Soon his middle finger begins to draw circles against your entrance, the first knuckle sliding inside, then the whole finger. Your head is thrown back and immediately your hand buries itself in his silvery hair, gripping his braid in a messy bun behind the top of his head. Forcing his face against the most intimate part of your body, forcing his lips to work on your wet warmth, you seek more contact.

Aemond adds a second finger. He can feel you tighten around him as he searches for that particular spot, as his tongue continues to play with your bundle of nerves.

As he devours what is his, utterly his.

His fingers, the ones that aren't buried inside you, close around the flesh of your hip in a possessive grip. "Come for me," he whispers against your womanhood, his eyes lifted to you. "I know you can do it."

Your breathing becomes more erratic, faster too. You tighten the grip of your fingers in his hair, your thighs pressing either side of his face, and he collects the sweet taste of your release on his tongue with a hum.

You feel like you're floating. The waves of warmth still wash over you, less and less intense, your breast rising and falling as you catch your breath.

Your hand tucks a lock of his hair back behind his ear as Aemond lifts his face towards you, and you rest your hand against his cheek. His parted lips still glisten with your desire smeared across the lower part of his face. He stares at you without moving, his deep, regular breathing the only sound to break the silence that has followed your release. You stay like that for a moment, his gaze burning into yours. At any moment he might pounce on you. At any moment he might close the tiny distance separating your mouths and press his lips against yours like the starving man he is.

It's you who makes the first move. You taste yourself on his lips and your tongue entwines with his in a fiery, demanding kiss.

Straightening up, Aemond creeps between your legs, his hand on the underside of your thighs, holding them apart. He is still completely naked from the night before, he has not bothered to get dressed after your lovemaking, so you can catch a glimpse of his erect manhood, slightly curved. He wraps his hand around to guide it towards your still sensitive wet entrance.

He slides into you easily, in one slow movement. The haste of the night before, the urgency of the reunion, has given way to the tenderness and laziness of the early morning, and Aemond rocks inside you slowly. His hips undulate, punctuated by long, deep thrusts, in an illusion of domesticity.

But the damp sheets, rough against your skin, the discomfort of the hard mattress beneath your back, remind you that your lovemaking is anything but domestic.

For Aemond is still the enemy, for Aemond is supposed to be dead.

For your family is probably looking for you at this very moment, worried that you have not returned home for the night.

But you push those thoughts away. The weight of your uncle's body on top of yours soothes the knot that forms in the pit of your stomach at the thought of time slipping away, at the thought of having to leave him again, at the thought of this being the last time you will taste his lips, his skin.

Aemond is gentle, and that is rare enough to be worth mentioning. He has never been so gentle, so soft, in the limited time that you have been married.

Between you, there had been the devouring, consuming passion, the power play that in your submission had granted you dominance.

Between you it had been raw and devastating more than gentle and tender.

His fingers run the length of your body to your core, combining his slow, deep thrusts with the movement of his fingers against your clit.

There are only few words exchanged between you, as if you were both afraid to break the grace of the moment.

His panting, noisy breath echoes in the silence, skimming the skin of your throat, then mingling with yours as the shadow of his lips brushes against yours. He rests his forehead against yours, your hand cupping his cheek, sliding behind his neck, and you are transported into a cocoon of intimacy where nothing else exists around you.

There is only his body against yours, warm and reassuring.

There is only him inside you and the slow movement of his hips.

There is only your breathing, blending in the space that separates your mouths.

"Do you know how much I've missed you?" He whispers against your lips as you close your thighs around him. "How much I dreamed of this tight little cunt?" You swallow his words. Your hips meet his as he pushes against you. He is reaching deep inside you. Despite the intimacy of the moment, his body oozes power and darkness, and you can't help but be drawn to that side of him that complements yours so well.

You can't stop your body from aching for him.

"You could have been my queen," he says as his movements grow stronger. He won't last long, but neither will you. He's inside you, where you like to feel him, and your walls clench around his member. "And I would have set the whole world on fire for you." He thrusts. "Burned it to the ground" He thrusts again. "All for you." And again.

The old wood of the bed creaks with each of his movements.

You seek out his lips, just to brush them against yours.

Without sealing the kiss.

"And I would have accepted," you answer with a whimper. "I would have been your queen, qybor." In another life, you think you would.

In another life, in another universe, you would have been his queen.

A grunt escapes his lips and lands in the hollow of your ear. Aemond straightens on his bent elbow, right next to your head, and he plunges into you one last time, with more power, more vigour, just as his new position allows.

You close your eyes.

A second wave of warmth is about to engulf your body.

And you wait for it, you welcome it.

"Look at me when I come inside you," he growls hoarsely as his seed pours deep inside you, into the most intimate part of your body. "Look at me as I fill you up."

Your eyes lock with his, fiery as ever. A final moan escapes between your lips and you seal them to your uncle's in a feverish, wet kiss. You hold him in your arms for a moment longer, as if to allow yourself the luxury of illusion for a brief instant.

You delay the fateful moment a little longer, fighting the minutes that inevitably slip through your fingers.

"Stay inside me just a little longer," you whisper, burying your head in the hollow of his neck where you can feel the rapid rhythm of his pulse. His arms close around you, holding you tight against him, and you hear him purr against the hair on the crown of your head. He rocks you gently.

The silence welcomes you both into its embrace and you savour it like a treasure. Your body aches in the sweetest way, your insides throbbing around his softening manhood.

And around you, nothing exists anymore.

*** *** *** *** *** *** ***

"I've changed, you know." His hoarse voice vibrates against you, but you refuse to meet his eyes. You keep them closed.

You're not sure if Aemond has really changed. Aemond is ruthless, cold, brutal, calculating, merciless. Cruel. You're not sure if Aemond can ever change, but he shows unusual tenderness, and maybe, just maybe, you allow yourself to doubt. You indulge in the illusion.

Perhaps Vhagar's death has broken something in him.

Perhaps it's true, perhaps he's not the same man anymore.

He's not sorry for what he has done. He never will be. He's too proud, even if you can catch the glimmer of remorse that colours his icy eyes when he is not looking at you.

Does he think of your little brother? Is he haunted by the memory of him, as you have been for so many years?

Does he think of the innocents he killed without flinching, the blood he spilled in the Riverlands that now stains the burned grass?

Is his sanity slowly being eaten away by the atrocities he has committed with his own hands?

He has changed. You are not sure if he's changed for the better or for the worse, but he has indeed.

Daemon has changed too. So has Rhaenyra. So has Jace.

You too have changed.

For war changes people, war makes them weary and wary, it shatters something in the body that will never be the same again. It hollows out the roundness of the cheeks, it deepens the dark circles under the eyes, it fades the sparkle of childhood that remains in the eyes.

Aemond seems to be waiting for an answer, but the words remain stuck in your throat. I know, you want to whisper, I know, but suddenly you've forgotten how to speak. His thumb draws the soft line of the underside of your breast.

The future terrifies you more than ever. You had made peace with your past, you had come to a conclusion that, even if it pained you, had given you some respite.

Seeing your uncle alive had reawakened your demons.

Spending the night in the embrace of his arms had revived everything you had buried deep, deep down.

The past had returned, creeping towards you, gnawing at the corners of your heart and at what remained of your sense of stability and certainty.

Now you are plunged into doubt.

Just as you were a little over three years ago, when you were informed of his death, when you had to learn to live with the choice that had never really been given to you.

Just as three years ago, when you noticed a familiar lilac-tinged blue in Rhaegar's eyes.

Like when you had to live with the memories that haunted you, that were slowly eating away at what little sanity you had left.

Like when you finally decided to leave for the North.

Aemond seems to sense your anguish, because his fingers get lost in your hair.

"What are we going to do now?"

Finally, you dare to utter the inevitable words that have been hanging on the tip of your tongue since you woke up, words you've swallowed so many times this morning. You immediately blame yourself.

Saying them only makes them more real.

They tear at something in the imaginary cocoon you've built for yourselves. You bury your face against his skin, breathe in his scent, as if you never want to forget him.

For you know how fleeting memories can be.

You remember how his face faded with each passing day.

You don't know if you'll ever be able to experience it a second time.

"We could leave," Aemond replies, as his fingers venture to your jaw, caressing the line of your cheeks with the back of his knuckles.

He's so pragmatic, as always.

Even in this situation.

Even now.

It makes you want to shake him.

"We could run away," he says again. His gaze, fixed in the distance, falls on you at the same moment. "To Essos. Pentos. No one would know who we are." You close your eyes, and let his hoarse voice lull you into silence. "To start our own family, the three of us."

You know he is not serious. Even though he looks at you with such insistence, with that flame that flickers in the centre of his iris.

You relish his fantasy, this impossible dream.

But you can't leave your family; Essos is not Winterfell. There, they knew where to find you. They knew you were safe. They knew you were sheltered between the walls of the northern castle, under the heavy furs, under the protection of Cregan Stark.

Essos is the unknown.

You cannot let your mother lose her only daughter, not after everything she has already lost.

The itch is familiar, tickling at the corners of your eyes. There was a time when you thought you'd lost that sensitivity. When you thought the war had left you cold, incapable of feeling anything. Incapable of crying.

"You know I can't." Your nose rubs against his milky skin, made clammy by sweat. You keep your eyes closed because you feel the weight of his cold gaze on you, his furrowed eyebrows as he stares at you blankly, his lips pursed in a long, thin line. You don't have the courage to meet his accusing gaze, let alone the wounded look on his face as you crush all his illusory dreams into dust.

When did you become the more pragmatic of the two?

When did you become the one responsible for bringing Aemond back to reality?

It used to be you, the one who filled your mind with unrealistic dreams, the one who dreamed of stories and fairy tales, back when you could still dream. "They need me, you know that."

A sneer stretches across your uncle's lips as he swallows a chuckle that sounds more like an ironic growl. You feel his whole body tense against yours, a sign that he's holding back his annoyance.

A sign that he has something to say, that he's upset, but doesn't quite know how to put it into words.

"Like they needed you back then?" he replies scathingly, bitterness on the tip of his tongue. "When they used you as a bargaining chip to achieve their ends, hm?"

Your red cheeks burn with shame, as if he'd slapped you. You don't move, merely swallow hard. You know there's something right about what he is saying, but you don't want to admit it.

You've done your duty.

You've done what is expected of you as a daughter.

It was not a question of them using you. It never was.

It was your duty, only your duty, what you were always meant to perform, wasn't it?

And yet a small voice in the back of your head had already given you a similar speech, a few years ago, but you had tried to silence it.

You refused to let Aemond admit it. You refuse to allow him to do it. He had no idea, no right to criticise your family when he'd acted like that.

When he has done what he has done.

He has no idea what it is like to be a daughter.

You don't answer, and silence falls between you again.

You wish so desperately that he could go home with you; that he could tell them that he's sorry.

You wish it were easier.

There is no one left to wait for Aemond but you, but his son, you know that. His family has been decimated, as has yours in some ways, though you still have your parents and your older brother.

For your uncle, there's nothing left but the shadow of his existence, the shadow of who he once was, long ago.

You let your hand trace the side of his throat, your nose buried against it, your lips hovering over his skin. You lean against him, your body on top of his, pressed together as if you were afraid to let him go.

"You could come with me instead," you whisper, but you refuse to meet his gaze. There's something shameful in the words you've just spoken aloud, something naive, and your burning cheeks are proof of your embarrassment.

Almost imperceptibly, he clenches beneath you, holding his breath. This is a bad idea and you feel stupid. Naive to have dared to suggest something like this.

His voice purrs in a hm that vibrates against you. He's about to say something. He searches for words. "You know that -"

"I know." You cut him off sharply - a little more than you would have liked, your eyes raised to silence him.

You know what he thinks.

He thinks that Rhaenyra will never be his queen. He thinks he will never bend the knee to his eldest sister and her authority, which he doesn't recognise.

He thinks that with the death of Aegon, with the death of the children his brother fathered with Helaena, the throne belongs to him.

And you are aware of his ambitions. You know how perfectly the conqueror's crown fits his head. You know how it sets off the sapphire embedded in his eye socket. You remember the look of greed in his eyes every time he stared at the Iron Throne, you remember the look of pride on his face every time he scorned anyone who dared to question his decisions as Prince Regent.

You know how mercilessly he made the soldiers at Harrenhal kneel, forcing them to contemplate their impending deaths. You know the terror he has sown throughout the Riverlands.

Even in the Seven Hells you could have found more mercy than at the hands of Aemond Targaryen.

Aemond may have changed, but you're not sure he's changed enough to put aside the pride that is consuming him from within.

You take a deep breath. "You don't really have a choice, qybor."

Fearing his reaction, you curl into a fetal position, your back to him, your knees drawn up to you. You close your eyes. You wait for his frustration.

You wait for his sentence.

You know that he is aware that he has no choice.

He has only two options: swallow his pride or sink back into the abyss, disappear into the dark meanders of oblivion.

Rhaegar needed his father, of course, but you found him a father in Cregan Stark.

That was a sacrifice you were willing to make.

There was no way you would give up what family you had left.

For Rhaegar needed his grandparents and his uncle even more.

Behind you, you feel your uncle's hand slip under your tunic and around your body, pulling you against him. He presses his bare chest against your back, tucking your head under his chin. His hand caresses your stomach, then his fingers brush the base of your breast.

"You know she will never be my queen. You know the throne belongs to -" But he lets the words drop without finishing the sentence, the knowledge of what he was about to say hanging in the air between you.

As long as he remains alive, will the embers of war never truly be extinguished?

You don't know, but you accept the risk.

You close your eyes, as if you're about to jump into the icy depths with both feet.

"The rest is up to you, Aemond," you whisper, barely audible. "And if you have truly changed, then you will know how to make the right choice."

He says nothing.

You savour the last few minutes of illusion you have left.

*** *** *** *** *** *** ***

The fear of making the wrong choice never really leaves you, but your mother chases your fears away, as she so often did when you were a child, tucking one of your dark curls behind your ear. She has her distinctive little smirk on her lips, the one that pulls the corner of her lips up towards her nose.

The same one Lucerys had, you think sadly.

You still miss him, even after all this time, and sometimes you wonder what kind of young man he would have become.

"You're a clever girl, my sweet clever girl," she whispers against your forehead as she cradles you in her arms. She's as beautiful as ever, as gentle with you as ever, despite the years, despite the wear and tear of war that has hardened her features and hollowed her cheeks. "And I know you have made the right decision." She lifts your chin with her forefinger to look into your eyes, and you feel like you're turning back into that shy, insecure girl who disappeared somewhere in the violence of the war all those years ago.

"And if it should turn out that you were wrong... Daemon will be there to intervene. You know he is just waiting for that." You roll your eyes at her attempt at humour, and she plants a kiss on your forehead.

For a split second, you truly are that carefree little girl again.

But behind your mother's humour lie fragments of reality that make your laughter bitter.

The news of your husband's survival remains a hazy blur in your mind. Sometimes you're not sure if this conversation really occurred or if you're dreaming.

You're not sure if what's around you, if the night you spent in Aemond's arms, is real or an invention of your sick mind.

Sometimes you're not really conscious of the events or how long they lasted, the lump in your stomach grows back, and once again you're destined to carve half-moons marks in the palms of your hands to soothe the tension in your body.

You told your mother first because you knew she'd be more understanding. As a mother, as a woman, she knows the meaning behind certain silences, the weight of words, the unspoken words that float between sentences.

You know she can understand your pain and your doubts, but also your love and your compassion.

She was shocked when you told her that her younger brother was still alive. She smoothed her dress, paced back and forth, then took the time to sit down, her eyebrows furrowed, her eyes riveted to your face, looking for clues that would betray what you were thinking, what you might be hiding. She was afraid that he had hurt you. She was afraid that he would rip you away from her, just as he had once ripped your little brother away from her.

Her fingers had gently taken your hand and her thumb had drawn little circles on the back of your hand to comfort you. She listened to you first as you confessed everything.

Where you were that night when you didn't come home.

Who you were with.

And then she took you in her arms. She reassured you. Soothed you.

You had been so afraid of disappointing her, of disappointing all of them, that the tension paralysing your body had finally loosened and you burst into tears.

Things had proved more complicated with Daemon. When he learned that his nephew was alive, that he wasn't forgotten forever in the deep waters of the lake near Harrenhal, he refused to believe you. He was furious. He said he had seen him fall, that he was the one who had taken his life, tearing the sky apart.

You didn't know where to look, and it was in your mother's eyes that you sought support, comfort, anything in the face of your stepfather's rage. You could feel on you the look of disappointment of your brother, Jace, as he held his shoulders up and his chin high. He wanted to prove that one day he would be a good king. With his jaw clenched, he said nothing, looking at you as if you were suddenly so foreign to him. He probably didn't know what to say, for fear of being clumsy, for fear of unintentionally hurting you, even more than by his lack of support.

You know it wasn't his fault.

He simply couldn't understand.

The words stuck in your throat and you found yourself unable to speak, pearls glittering in the corners of your eyes while you waited impatiently for the final blow.

The final death knell that would seal your disgrace in everyone's eyes.

After all you'd endured.

Daemon stood before you, his eyebrows furrowed, his eyes hard. He was staring at you as if you'd committed the ultimate treason, and you knew he was controlling himself to keep his anger from exploding. "You're going to bring him to me," he had hissed, his hand closing over your shoulder.

" You will lure him here and he will be put to the sword." His tone left no room for argument. With the tension growing in your stomach, you sought your mother's compassionate look to calm you. You could see the fury in your stepfather's eyes, and also a mixture of fear and feelings of betrayal. You knew that, deep down, he was afraid for you because he considers you his daughter. Because Baela and Rhaena are like sisters to you.

It was his reaction you feared most, not your mother's. His fingers dug into your skin, the floor slipping out from under you, the room swaying dangerously, and your mother had come to your rescue, trying to calm things down with her usual diplomacy.

You can't quite remember the words your stepfather said; in anger he muttered something that sounded like are you really thinking of becoming his whore again? and the words hurt like hell, but you tried to swallow the pain.

Endure, hold your head high. That was what you had learned.

Your mother had suggested you go back to your room or spend some time with Rhaegar, her fingers gently stroking your dark locks, and as soon as you left the throne room you could hear their voices echoing through the door.

They were arguing.

Over you.

Because of you, again.

You took a deep breath and returned to the gardens, where your two stepsisters were making your son laugh by playing with him. They had fun running around in the damp grass to the applause of Baela's little daughter, who clapped her little hands in delight.

Your fingers were still trembling when you joined them.

In the end a solution was found, for your mother feared losing you a second time.

She remembered what had happened to Laenor, your father, when he had grown tired of the court.

She remembered what had happened to Helaena, your sweet aunt, when she could no longer bear to suffer.

It was her worst nightmare to see you torn from her again, now that she had the chance to hold you in her arms every day, to protect you again, to see you grow again.

It was her worst nightmare to see her only daughter, her only daughter and the second of her only surviving children, taken from her.

You and Jace were all she had left of her own blood.

After long negotiations with Daemon, you had managed to bargain for your husband's life in exchange for strict conditions; increased surveillance, no bonding with a new dragon, no carrying of weapons, and the assurance that he would be executed if there was the slightest doubt about him. You proposed that you and he leave the capital, with your son as well. To return to Dragonstone. To start over on a new, blank page in a book that was already too damaged.

For you, it was also a way to ease the tensions between your family and Aemond, and perhaps find a more intimate life with your husband and son.

Rhaenyra had declared that this was the best solution: a guarantee for her to have you by her side again, a guarantee for her that you would be there.

You had been afraid of Aemond's reaction, afraid that his ego would not bear it; that he would refuse, that he would rather sentence himself to his own death than to an existence as a prisoner within his own family, condemned to live as a shadow of the man he had once been in exchange for seeing his son grow up.

But in the end, wasn't he doomed to live as a shadow of the man he had once been, anyway?

He would never be the rider of Vhagar again.

He would never be the ruthless Prince Regent again.

He would never again be the second in line to the throne, the second son greedily waiting for fate to turn in his favour.

He hadn't been all of that for a good three years, lurking in the cold, gloomy corridors of Harrenhal like a lonely monster.

And if he went back, if he rejected your proposal, he would have condemned himself to eternal solitude at the side of a witch you would rather forget.

He had no choice, for he would never be that Aemond again.

When you joined your husband at the meeting place, you were relieved to see him swallow his pride and accept. It was difficult, but you convinced him.

For Rhaegar, for his son.

Aemond had suggested that you run away, far away from everything, and you almost hesitated. Running away would have allowed you to forget, of course.

But your deepest wounds had begun to heal. You had begun to be able to face the ghosts that haunted King's Landing, the ghosts that haunted Dragonstone.

To stop there was tempting, and yet so frightening at the same time.

The unknown terrified you. You needed familiarity now, something to fall back on, for you were so tired.

Now you can't help bringing your thumb to your lips, nibbling the skin at the corner of your fingernail with the tip of your teeth as you walk away from Rhaenyra. A handmaiden brings you Rhaegar, and you struggle to breathe.

You inhale.

You exhale.

The thick tuft of brown hair makes you smile. The sight of your son is enough to give you the courage to walk with a more confident stride. It's as if you were filled with new strength, for you know that he needs you more than anyone else. And for him, you've promised yourself to stay strong.

As soon as you reach him, you kneel and plant a kiss on his plump cheeks.

He's growing up so fast that sometimes you wish you could stop time.

"There's someone who'd like to meet you, sweet boy," you explain, and you can recognise your mother's inflection in your own voice. Sweet boy. Rhaegar looks at you with big, round, questioning eyes, and you wonder if he senses your anxiety, because he takes your hand between his tiny fingers.

"Who, muña ?" he babbles, striding down the cobbled path in the middle of the gardens, hopping on his clumsy little legs, and you smile at his carefree attitude. He stops to watch the bees foraging, bends down to pick up a flower and gives it to you. He's always so curious, so full of life. He's a ray of sunshine that brightens your dull days. You finally understand your mother, the agonising fear she has of losing you. You finally understand the horror she experienced when she lost her four other children.

You also finally understand why Helena threw herself from Maegor's Holdfast.

The thought of what Daemon did still revolts you, and you can't imagine anyone hurting your boy like that.

You turn around. Rhaenyra is still there, in the distance, her crown on her head, her hands crossed in front of her on the heavy fabric of her dress, watching over you. She won't move, a comforting, discreet presence.

A stone bench awaits you by the fountain, on which two cushions have been arranged. A dessert buffet has been set up under the gazebo and you immediately spot your favourite cakes, the strawberry one, the blackberry jam one, and you look down at your son. He hasn't noticed them yet, or he would have already run over, dipped his finger in the whipped cream and stolen a blueberry from one of the tarts, his innocent expression on his face.

He is definitely a lot like you. Mischievous and clever. An angelic air. He is an easy-going child who never throws a tantrum.

Who understands quickly, too.

"I love you. I love you more than anything, you know that, don't you, young boy?" your tone is soft, and you kneel down in front of him, your hands on his small shoulders to emphasise the seriousness of your discussion. You search for your words, hesitating. How do you tell a three-year-old that his father, his dead father, is back from the dead and about to meet him?

Of course, Rhaegar knows that his birthfather was valiant, that his birthfather rode the greatest dragon in the world, that his birthfather died in battle.

But there is so much he doesn't know, so much he will inevitably learn as he grows up, and it is precisely that future that frightens you. You hug him as if you're afraid of losing him.

"Princess."

The deep voice of your sworn protector echoes behind you, and you straighten your skirt.

You know he is there.

You know you will see him the moment you turn around.

Your heartbeat quickens.

Aemond Targaryen stands behind your sworn protector, surrounded by two guards. His hands are bound in front of him.

It is so strange to see your uncle in this vulnerable position. He who for so long has been on the other side, he who for so long has been the one who bent others to his will. He looks at you harshly, and you almost feel the need to apologise.

But you know it is a matter of caution.

You know that Daemon, you know that Jace and even your mother would never have agreed to bring him in if such precautions hadn't been taken.

You admire his resilience, his determination. You admire his ability to hold his head high, to be confident, despite the fact that he is being treated like a common prisoner, about to be sentenced to death.

You struggle to swallow the lump that has formed in your throat.

"Who's that, muña?" Aemond's eyes leave you and immediately drop to the small figure that has appeared beside you, reaching for your hand, huddling against your leg, shy and worried.

Immediately, your husband's icy gaze, his lilac-coloured eyes, soften.

"Thank you, Sir Rowan. You may leave us."

Despite the worry on his face, your sworn protector nods, unties his prisoner's hands and walks back to your mother, accompanied by the other two guards. You watch them leave, and a strange silence fills the space between you and your uncle.

He doesn't look at you; his eyes are riveted to your son, whom he observes with wonder. He looks as if he is admiring the most beautiful and fascinating discovery he has ever seen. You look down to see Rhaegar's reaction, and he seems as intimidated as he is hypnotised by that gaze, by that blue and purple eye so similar to his owns, by this man looking at him as if he were one of the most marvellous things in the world.

"Gods, he's perfect," Aemond murmurs as he looks up at you, emerging from his trance. He comes closer to embrace you. And for once, there is something other than his usual brutal possessiveness and ferocity when his arms close around you.

*** *** *** *** *** *** ***

Aemond is shy at first. Awkward.

He's shy and amazed as he follows your son's every move with his good eye. From time to time, his gaze rests on you, as if to make sure he's not dreaming. As if to make sure he is doing right, seeking your approval.

Rhaegar is shy too, at first.

When he sits on your lap, he snuggles up to you, buries his face in your neck, one of your locks curled in his chubby little hand and he rubs it against his nose. From time to time, he turns to give his father a curious look, recognising his own eyes in the unfamiliar face before him.

Aemond's expression grows gentler, a softness never seen in his features before.

Once he has tamed the stranger, the little boy pecks at the blueberries in the tart in front of him. He shakes his legs, hitting your knees in painful little jabs, and your arm wraps around his body to hold him down.

Rhaegar loves cake, and the sugar may be coaxing him, for he's regaining his appetite for talking.

"He really does have my eyes," Aemond whispers incredulously, and his voice, still foreign to his son's ears, causes the little boy to lift his head.

" It is definitely the only thing he has inherited from you," you reply, teasing him with a small smile at the corner of your lips.

Soon Rhaegar finishes the blueberry tart, the cream smeared over the bottom of his face and the tip of his nose.

"He inherited that from you, that is certain." Aemond grins, pointing with his long chin at the boy's voracious appetite for cakes and pastries.

You have to pinch yourself to make sure you're not dreaming. That your husband is really standing in front of you, with your son, like a normal family.

That he was truly trying to tell a joke.

This form of domesticity is so alien to your relationship, and yet so pleasant, that you find yourself thinking that perhaps you have made the right decision, indeed, if every day can be like this.

"Your muña deserves some cake too, what do you say, little one?"

Rhaegar giggles. Aemond cuts a slice of your favourite cake, the one with the strawberries, and puts it on your plate.

You blush. After all these years, he hasn't forgotten which one is your favourite.

You can't even really whisper a thank you because this apparent domesticity, this feeling of completeness, this interlude of happiness makes you uneasy. Anxious.

You have the feeling that at any moment you'll be plunged back into the horror of what you went through all those years ago.

You have the feeling that at any moment the Gods will be cruel and snatch away this happiness that you've barely been able to taste, leaving only the memory of its sweet taste on your lips.

You breathe in and out, as you often do when you feel your palpitations rising in your chest.

"Do you... do you want to take him on your lap?" you ask your uncle with shyness, your hand stroking Rhaegar's thick brown curls. Aemond looks at you as if you have spoken in a foreign language. Lips parted, he is about to say something, but not a sound escapes his lips. His lonely eye travels from you to your son, from your son to you, in silence.

"I don't know if -"

You can hear the doubt in his voice, and it's almost touching to see him lose his confidence in front of his own son, to see him so nervous and unsure of himself.

You let out a little laugh, not in mockery, obviously, just full of tenderness.

You know what he's thinking.

He's afraid of frightening him.

He's afraid of harming him.

"You won't hurt him, Aemond."

He answers nothing. He still doesn't like to look vulnerable, unsure, and you know it has to do with his childhood. With all he has kept bottled up inside him all these years. He will need time.

Your eyes fall back to the little boy sitting in your lap, and you draw his attention to yourself by stroking the curls on his forehead.

"Do you want to go to Aemond for a while? To kepus?"

you correct yourself immediately, and Rhaegar nods in agreement.

You are amazed at how easily he slips off your legs to run to his father, to pull himself onto his lap, when only a few hours ago he was so intimidated by the presence of this stranger with the eyepatch.

Your uncle automatically puts his arm around his waist to make him feel comfortable, his new role taking root in him. His fingers reach for the cloth on the table, and he wipes Rhaegar's face, who can't help but burst out laughing at his father's clumsy gestures.

For a split second you are lost in contemplating the horizon, the stillness of the sea. You taste the sea breeze on your face.

And then you turn your head towards the cobbled path where the guards and your sworn protector are still stationed.

Your mother is no longer there, and you notice that you have not at any time felt the need to seek comfort in her presence.

You smile, for in the end you know you've made the right decision.

*** *** *** *** *** *** ***

Dragonstone, 6 months later.

When you walk the corridors of the place that saw you grow up, you are no longer haunted by the ghosts and their incessant cries. A kind of peace has settled over you, a return to the pleasant familiarity you've waited so long for.

You still think of Luke, of course. Of Luke and Joff and little Aegon and Viserys, your brothers you will never see grow old.

But you no longer feel their disapproving glances at every step you take. You are no longer kept awake by their cries, by their tears, by the remorse that twists your stomach.

You no longer blame yourself.

Perhaps you've finally learnt to make peace with yourself.

The heavy door of the bedroom you share with Aemond is half open, and you slip your head into the doorway, piqued by curiosity.

Snuggled on your husband's lap, Rhaegar is staring at the pages of a large book, the corners of which you can guess are horned, the cover worn, from being carried everywhere. You can imagine the jam stains that mark the paper with children's fingerprints. You know exactly which page is missing, the one you and Aemond accidentally tore out and hid so the Septa wouldn't notice, so many years ago.

It is a book about dragons, the very one the two of you used to read hidden under the table when you were so young and innocent, long before the torment of war.

Without a sound, you lean against the doorframe and contemplate for a moment the perfect vision before you.

You don't have the cruelty to disturb them.

"This one is Vhaegar!" shouts Rhaegar, and you hold your breath, searching Aemond's face for any hint that might betray his reaction. The mention of his former dragon is still a sensitive subject for him, you know it.

"Yes, that's Vhagar." he pauses. "She was brave."

From the corner of his eye, Aemond spots your silhouette in the faint glow of the corridor, and his attention lingers on you for a moment. He's almost embarrassed to be caught in such a vulnerable, intimate moment, but you smile tenderly to encourage him.

"And big!" the little boy adds, energetically raising his arms to the sky to emphasise his words.

"Yes, and big." There's a suspended moment of silence where the words hang in the air, and then your husband gently ruffles his son's hair. It's a tender sight to see them bond like this, and your heart fills with happiness.

Taking a step forward, you step into the light of the room and Rhaegar expresses his joy at seeing you. You smile back at him and approach the chair where Aemond sits, your son on his lap.

Your uncle's hand instantly rests on the curve of your belly, which he still stares at with the same protective instinct, the same fascination, as the day you told him the news. His eyes sparkle.

"Your daughter is restless today."

He looks up at you, not without lingering for a moment on your breasts and their new shape.

"My daughter?" he asks, one eyebrow raised inquisitively.

"I'm convinced it's a girl. You reply, smiling wryly, and take a seat in the armchair next to the one where Aemond and your son are sitting, facing the fireplace. "And she took after her father, given her temper," you tease him, your hand on the top of your rounded belly to soothe the baby growing there.

Rhaegar's eyes close slowly. Nestled against the chest of the man who, just a few months ago, was still a stranger, he fights sleep, he fights to stay awake, but tiredness quickly overcomes him. And then he falls asleep, his mouth half open, the movements of his breath making his chest rise and fall rhythmically.

Aemond finally gets up. You follow his movements with your eyes as he approaches you, the child in his arms, and he plants a kiss on the top of his head.

"I'm going to put him to bed. I'll be right back." He straightens and lowers his voice.

"I wouldn't fail in my duty and neglect my wife." The heat rises to your cheeks, turning them red at the implication of what awaits you tonight. You're already wet between your thighs at the thought.

But you nod in agreement and watch him walk away.

You are left alone in the silence of the room. The only sound around you is the steady crackling of the fire.

It's strange, you think, to be back on Dragonstone, in the familiarity of the stones you've spent most of your life between, after getting used to the idea of not surviving the war.

To the idea of dying from a broken heart.

To the idea of dying, the umpteenth victim of the vicious spiral of conflict that has torn your family apart.

And yet here you are.

With your own family.

For once you have hope for the future. You hear the cries of your little brother, lost in the storm so long ago, but they are quickly replaced by the laughter of a happy memory.

And finally, you have the absolute confirmation that you have made the right decision.

*** *** *** *** ***

Thank you so much for reading!! <3

Tag list : @minttea07 @queenofshinigamis (I'm tagging you since you asked for it ❤️)

#aemond x reader #aemond targaryen #Aemond Targaryen x reader #aemond x you #aemond fanfiction #aemond targaryen fic #aemond x y/n #aemond x fem!reader #aemond targaryen x you #aemond x niece!reader #aemond targaryen fanfic

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satirates · 11 months

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Now that the French cc are mostly offline (it's 2:30 am in France), here's what I gathered from their reactions:

Antoine Daniel: Seems lost. To be fair, it's only is second experience playing minecraft, so he don't know how to do anything X). It looks like he had fun at least. But he's going to sleep early, like the old man he is (33). He also shows no interest on the egg :(

Kameto: He looked lost too. I didn't watch is stream so much, but is chat seems to hate the experience. So I'm not sure if he's going to be there so much. Also, try to rob Pomme the first time he interacted with her

Aypierre: Doing his things as usual. He likes the server and will be back to do more stuff. I'm not gonna lie to you guys, he is probably going to be the main builder for the French. He already started to ask him for everything. He says he's going to take care of Pomme when the others are not there. He is also very skilled in building, I can't wait to see what he's gonna do!

Étoile: He REALLY likes the server. The mod and the new people are interesting to him. He's already running around trying to slaughter mobs X). Every French CC think he is going to accidentally kill Pomme. And, you know what? It's a very strong possibility. He said he will try to take great care of her. He mean well, but we all know he's going to be an absent parent that only return from war to tell their child of the horror they witness. I'ts going to be really interesting on is side

Baghera: She is IN LOVE with Pomme! She's calling her "My little jewels " and everything!!! She started to panic every time she's not around, so cute. She's also already complaining about being a single parent. Furthermore, she intends to come often to the server to build and take care of Pomme. She also has a lot of positives interactions with everybody on the server and look very excited to be par of it!

Pomme: She is so cute OMG! Fun fact, she's called Pomme because the French thought it was funny how the others cc keep saying " Je suis un garçon et je mange des pommes". Other names ideas were... interesting... Her name meen Apple! She's very clumsy so far, I don't think her admin is accustomise to the server yet. She also gets lost a lot XD

#QSMP #qsmp #qsmp french #q.baghera #q.Antoine #q.Kameto #q.Aypierre #q.Étoile #qsmp eggs #qsmp Pomme

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sapphire-writes · 1 year

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Wildest Dreams ~ Aemond x Wife!reader

request: an arranged marriage between yn and Aemond, where he has married her to win the favor of her house, but the war is on and he meets Alys and yn hears the rumors and when she hears Aemond talking about Alys with Alicent she understands that she is not a simple lover, she talks about it with Aemond and he has a certain affection for her so he tells her to have adventures if she wants to and she is heartbroken, but she does not take the offer, but Aemond thinks that eventually he will and continues with Alys until at a ball he sees yn talking to a lord of a noble house and is jealous that she eventually took up the offer. Happy or sad ending, you decide, I just want to read how you develop it. Thanks for your work! ~anon word count: 1.8k warning: angst omg, some spicy themes nothing explicit, jealous & possessive Aemond note: I really liked writing this, especially exploring the relationship between the reader and her sworn protector 🫣 you can read more of my work here 💚

My lady, my Alys.

That name haunts you. It slithers through the halls of the Red Keep. It lives in the pitying eyes of those who look upon you, the forgotten spouse of Aemond Targaryen. His wife. His princess. What a horrid sham it was now.

You knew Aemond to be a man of duty, you knew this when you married him. Though you hoped his affection for you would grow with time, you had never expected him to stray outside the marriage. He simply did not seem the type of man to do such a thing.

Until the war. Until Alys Rivers.

You knew the people of court were aware of the affair your husband was having with the so-called witch queen of Harrenhal.

It only became more apparent when he returned to court on Vhagar’s back, with his paramour securely against his back. Though you haven't seen your husband in months, as soon as you spotted her with him, you excused yourself from the celebrations around his return.

You ran to your chambers and hurriedly pushed by your sworn protector Ser Cassian who stood outside your door.

“My lady?” he asked, with a concerned look on his face as you made your way inside.

He noted the tears on your face. For a moment he hesitated with his hand on the door handle, preparing to close it as he heard your sobs from within. Instead, he released the handle, stepping inside your chambers.

“It pains me to see such a lovely lady crying,” Ser Cassian says as you face away from him.

“Yes well then I would advise you to avert your eyes,” you snap, bitterly.

Ser Cassian does not heed your advice, he simply stands in the doorway. You feel guilt begin to curl its way into your stomach, under your skin. You turn your head to him.

“You must forgive me, Ser,” you begin, keeping your gaze low, “that was unkind.”

Ser Cassian moves to close the door, and you hear his heavy footsteps make their way over to you.

You turn completely to face the knight, who now offers you a piece of cloth. Shame rolls through you at his act of kindness, as you offer him a small smile dabbing at the wetness that pools beneath your eyes.

“There is no need for apologies, my lady,” he tells you.

“Then you are too kind a man,” you tell him, eyes glassy with tears.

“I only wish for your protection and happiness, my lady,” he tells you, as you hand him back his handkerchief.

You confront Aemond later on, in the privacy of his chambers.

“Now you bring her to court to humiliate me further,” you accuse, blood running hot with anger.

Aemond rubs the scarred skin above his eyepatch.

“I’ve no wish to humiliate you, dear wife,” he assures you.

“Then why?” you demand, “why parade her at court, in front of all these people?”

Aemond stands still, his mouth a tight line. He refuses to answer you, causing you to scoff.

“I understand you love her?” you ask your husband, unable to meet his eyes.

There is a moment of silence between you, the weight of your question hanging in the air.

“I do,” he says firmly, confidently.

You did not know your heart could break more than it already has.

“I wish for you to be happy,” Aemond says, coming closer to you, “I am still your husband, I shall give you children to love and cherish.”

You make an offended noise at his words, cheeks heating up. How romantic a notion, being your husband’s broodmare.

“You may do as you like,” Aemond assures you, “as long as you bear only my trueborn children, take pleasure in whatever you wish.”

You look at him, not believing the words he speaks.

“You do not mean that,” you tell him.

The man you married may not have loved you right away, but there was a possessive nature about him beneath the surface of his cold exterior.

“I do,” he tells you.

“I have no wish for anything else. For anyone else,” you tell him.

“You shall, in time,” he assures you, “you have been lonely too long.”

“You think a lover would fix that?” you snap at him.

Aemond does not answer, he simply leaves the room to go to her.

You spend a long time in the gardens, finding solace in the flowers, bathed in moonlight. The air grows cold around you but you would rather be out here than in the castle. You swear you can hear their pants and moans from your chambers. Your husband is taking another woman. Over, and over again.

“You should be inside, my lady,” Ser Cassian tells you, watching as your teeth chatter in the cool night air.

He removes the cloak from his back, placing the gold cloak across your shoulders. Your shoulders drop at the weight of it.

“Allow me to escort you inside,” Cassian murmurs, hands lingering on your shoulders.

You meet his gaze, nodding.

You summon Ser Cassian to your chambers the following night, hearing his knuckles rap against the wood of your door just as you exit the bath. Your lady’s maid holds a dressing gown for you to step into, covering your wet, naked form.

“My lady,” he says, clearly flustered by your state, the dressing gown barely covering your slick body.

“Leave us,” you tell your lady who nervously scampers towards the door, shutting it behind her.

Your hair is damp, sending rivers of bathwater down your neck, traveling through the valley of your breasts.

“I can return when you are decent,” he manages to choke out.

“There is no need,” you assure him, “I am quite comfortable in your presence.”

Ser Cassian does not know where to look, he does not wish to offend you but is finding it increasingly difficult to focus.

“You once told me you wished for my happiness and protection,” you told him, “the latter is true. How are you supposed to assure the other?”

Cassian blinks slowly, eyes focused on your lips as you speak those words, the shimmering of water that rests on your upper lip. You look as though you are a river nymph who has come to seduce him to a watery grave.

You begin to walk towards him, hands fiddling with the straps that tie your dressing gown securely around your waist.

“I shall do whatever my lady commands,” Cassian says, eyes cast toward the floor.

“I do not wish to command,” you say softly, “I wish to offer.”

Cassian meets your eyes then. He is very handsome, with dark brown eyes that match his curly locks.

“You need not offer anything, my lady,” he assures you.

“I want to,” you tell him.

“If you do not wish this, that is fine,” you tell him, “I only ask you to leave and forget this conversation and we shall go about as we once were. Though I shall admit, I will feel rather foolish.”

Cassian watches the blush bloom across your cheeks.

“Otherwise, you need only take my hand.”

You stretch your arm out toward him and for a moment he does not move. For a moment, your breath catches in your throat and you are sure he shall turn on his heel and leave your chambers. Then you shall be left alone once more.

But he does not.

Instead, he places his rough hand in yours and allows you to guide him toward your bed, replacing your dressing robe with his lips, his tongue, and his hands.

You have been happier as of late. Aemond has taken notice. You walk with a skip in your step, a flush on your cheeks.

The maester has been said to visit your chambers weekly with a special brew.

Aemond knows you have taken a lover. The knowledge curls in his stomach like a hissing snake, though he attempts to deny it. How hypocritical is he, to deny his wife happiness when he has found his own in another woman’s bed?

It isn’t until Maelor's name day celebration does he realize how furious your endeavors make him; the fire it ignites beneath your skin.

The feast is a grand affair with singing and dancing, and several lords and ladies visiting from across the seven kingdoms.

Aemond and you arrive together, but you quickly let go of his arm and make your way into the crowd.

Alys is not present, as Alicent will not allow it. A paramour at court is scandalous in itself, she will not subject you to feast with her.

Aemond keeps his eye on you, as you begin to dance. He watches the dreamlike look on your face, the way your cheeks redden and you cast your smile toward the floor as someone joins you.

He is a goldcloak, and Aemond recognizes him. The knight smiles down at you, entrapping you in a dance. Your smile widens as he whispers something to you, and your cheeks darken. Aemond feels a fire in his belly as he watches you dance with the knight, a strange sense of possessiveness flooding through him.

Aemond moves through the dance quickly coming to your side. His hand finds yours dragging you toward the center of the dance floor. You struggle to keep up with his demanding pace, your wrist stinging from how tightly he holds you.

The dance continues around you, people hardly noticing Aemond’s predatory circling of you.

“Is that who you desire?” he asks, voice low.

Your furrow your brow, a confused expression on your face.

“Is he whom you invited into your bed?” Aemond growls.

“I did not think it mattered to you,” you quip back, anger evident in your tone.

“You choose a whoremonger for a paramour,” Aemond says sneering, trying to bait you.

“And you a witch woman,” you snap, causing Aemond’s face to darken, “who I choose to spend my time with is of no concern to you.”

Aemond growls at this, an animalistic noise that comes from deep within his chest, that causes you to back up slightly.

“You cannot have it both ways,” you tell him, noting his genuine anger.

Aemond is breathing heavily, looking down at you, his mouth twisted in a sneer.

“You cannot have me, and her,” you continue feeling brave.

Aemond juts his chin out.

“What makes you think I shall allow you to keep him?” he says referring to Ser Cassian.

You smirk then, stepping closer to him.

“I shall just find someone else,” you tell him bitterly.

Aemond snaps forward, wrapping his hand around your throat and pulling you flush against him. The action sends a wave of warmth into your lower belly. You know you should be terrified, you should try to run screaming. But you do not. And when he brings his mouth to yours, you kiss him back.

When he leads you to your chambers, you let him.

When he roughly tears your dress from your body, you assist him.

When he makes passionate love to you, nipping and biting your smooth flesh, you allow him to.

Aemond stays with you that night.

Alys Rivers vanishes from the Red Keep before the sun rises.

note: ooof im sweating 🥵

#aemond targaryen #aemond x y/n #aemond x fem!reader #aemond x reader #aemond x you #aemond fic #aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond targaryen oneshot #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x y/n #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen fic #aemond angst #possessive aemond #aemond x wife!reader #aemond x wife #aemond x wife reader

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the-cat-and-the-birdie · 9 months

Text

There are two different versions of ATSV in theatres - and the only difference between them in Hobie Brown.

Okay ya'll I came across something so bizarre.

So I've seen Across the Spiderverse twice now, and my theatre was going to stop showing it this weekened - so I went to see it one more time.

Originally, I had seen version one. I knew there were two out there, but I had only heard of version 2. This time I saw it. And the ALL the differences has to do with Hobie Brown.

My man really hate consistency, I guess.

LOOK: This is the shot of Hobie saying 'I quit' that's most used. - THIS is version one

But when I went this time, this is what I saw:

THIS IS VERSION 2. (omggggggg!!!!)

As you can tell, instead of his normal colors - in this shot Hobie is a violet-pink instead, with a lot more texturing on his model.

And these are common throughout Hobie's screentime!

If you saw the top photo - you saw version one.

If you saw the bottom photo - you saw version two.

Chances are if you watched the movie early in it's release (first week or so), or you watched a fancam you have seen version 1.

I was able to capture most of the changes on camera - and it's kinda jarring to see but omg i find it so interesting!!!

I took photos of all the differences and compare them down below, including an explanation of why this happened.

Please let me know which version you saw, and when you saw the movie! Have you seen both versions? I'm so curious!

For the first half of Hobie's appearance the two version are entirely the same - except for what seems like either a different take or wording of his 'Gwendy, how much have you told him-' line. However, the changes begin at the end of Hobie's scene with Miles.

I spoke here about how in some versions Hobie says 'Don't enlist unless you know what war you're fighting', while others 'Don't enlist unless you know just who you're fighting'.

But the biggest differences are his last scene.

Last week I used THIS screencap that was taken from a Version 1 fancam. In it, Hobie is in full color:

In Version 2, he's pink. Also - it's extremely faint in the photo, but if you look closer you can see there are also red spiderwebs behind the blue ones in Version 2:

You can see his pink color better here:

Later in the scene, Hobie changes colors. In Version 1, he maintains the same normal color scheme for the duration of the scene, however in Version 2 he's changing back and forth - even turning black and white at one point.

Version 1:

Version 2:

And can I just say -

This is to show how Hobie is literally the only one in the room who is 1) Literally and physically 'in Miles' corner, (literally) standing 'in the right' - to the right of Miles,

and 2) the only one being honest to Miles (why he turns black and white, he also turns black and white while talking about Miles' parents.)

As the scene goes on, Hobie stays this color - which leads to one of my favorite differences:

His last shot.

In Version 1 - Hobie is white & black for one shot, as he says 'Here we go'. This is the same.

However - for version one, he returns to his natural color for his final line of the scene - 'Good'. And for Version 2, he turns purple.

So why did this happen?

According to the ATSV there are two (and only two) versions that were released in US theatres. Version 1 was released when Sony shipped early copies to translators so they could translate the script for international viewing. The version sent was about 98% done, and made to give the translators a jumpstart prior to release.

However, that version ended up being released.

Afterwards they swapped it out with the full, correct version - Version 2.

It seems like Hobie wasn't meant to be natural colored for the duration of the Canon-Events scene, and that in the whole film, he was the final thing they were putting touches on.

There are other small changes in version 2 - including when Miguel calls for backup - in Version 1 Lyla points at Miguel, however in Version 2 she takes a selfie with him on a AI cell-phone.

In Version 1 - Miles says 'No, no no!' at Pavitrs chai scolding, and 'Sorry, sorry' in Version 2. There are other small adlibs, and they said they removed Gwen's voicelines when she was searching for Miles and the child in the rubble (?? don't know why).

I also think - and I DON'T KNOW, I haven't checked my recording but I did record it - I THINK the watercoloring in Gwen's scenes have different colors in some shots, or different strokes, but only subtly. It just looked more detailed and vibrant to me, but idk. But the trans colors remain completely untouched in every way.

However, it seems that your best and most obvious way of telling which version you saw is by looking at Hobie's lines and coloring in different scenes.

Mans really hates consistency, damn.

______________________________________________

Outside of some split-second shots and ablids, He's the only things that's largely changed, and when seeing it in the theatre today I was literally shocked as HELL. When he said 'eh, what of it?', I was like 'mfer WHY R U PINK'. I hadn't noticed until right then. But I'm literally over the moon I got to see both, I feel like I found something secret.

Maybe being Hobie obsessed and Neurodivergent pays off.

Oh - and here's two more shots that were also changed that I didn't get footage of. If you have a photo or footage of these shots from Version 2 - PLEASE post or send them to me. Thanks!

Version 1 - 'What of it?' / In Version 2 he is a BRIGHT pink color

Version 1 - Standing behind Miles while talking to Miguel / In Version 2 he is black and white with newspaper around him (also doesnt he look so cute look at that slutty waist ugh)

SO uhhhhh yeah Idk if anyone else finds this interesting but I DO and I enjoyed it so much and I WISH I could get better footage of Version 2.

Had I not watched his scenes everyday for weeks and wrote out a dissertation about every one of his lines I might not have noticed lol

If you're not normal about Hobie Brown and found this interesting like me, thanks! Let me know if you read this far and please tell me what version you saw and when you saw it! Ok thxs again bye :)

#hobie brown #miles morales #across the spiderverse #across the spider verse #atsv #gwen stacy #spiderman #spider man #spider gwen #miguel o'hara #spiderpunk #spider punk

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dixons-sunshine · 7 days

Note

Seizing for a part two of young!daryl head cannons omg😩

Shopping Spree, Hangout Dreams AU Headcannons Part Two | Young!Daryl Dixon x Young!Fem!Reader

*GIF isn't mine.*

Word count: 853.

A/n: Here's a part two of my personal headcannons while I mentally prepare myself for the scene I'm about to write in my newest fic. Hope y'all like these!

➳༻❀✿❀༺➳

★ So it's quite common for us Daryl writers to have him call the reader "Sunshine", but I feel like it explains a lot about how he feels about you in this.

★ He definitely called you sunshine long before you actually got together. It's because Daryl sees his life as a bad thunderstorm, but you're the ray of sunshine that breaks through the devastating downpour.

★ Of all the things he loves the most about you, his favourite physical thing about you is your thighs. Whether you guys are watching movies on the couch and are cuddling, whether you're with him when he's driving, whether you guys are doing more... not-so-family-friendly activities, it doesn't matter. He loves gripping them. It's his absolute favourite.

★ Despite that, however, he's definitely a boob guy. He just can't hold them when you're in public, so your thighs share first place with them.

★ He definitely is also enamoured with your smile. It just makes his day so much better whenever he sees it.

★ He wanted to drop out of high school, but you talked him out of it—it wasn't easy, and you promised him that you'd support him either way, but he decided to stick it out and graduate.

★ In the first part, I mentioned that you and your mom lived with your grandparents until you were six. I definitely headcannon that your grandparents didn't love you and were deeply disappointed in your mom—they are really conservative and couldn't come to terms with the fact that their daughter got pregnant at 18.

★ They were abusive to you. Whether it was physically or mentally, that I'll let y'all decide for future fics.

★ Despite that, you remained positive. That was over a decade ago and you had refused a long time ago to allow them to be an anchor around your neck.

★ You talked to Daryl about them a while after you officially got together.

★ You told them about what they did and that made Daryl realise why you were so patient and caring with him. You understood.

★ On a more lighthearted note, Daryl has an unhealthy obsession with playing little pranks on you.

★ He's usually a serious guy, but with you, he allows himself to let loose. He plays pretty innocent pranks on you, like swapping your toothpaste out for mayonnaise. Never anything that could hurt you.

★ You always returned the favour, though, and that started many prank wars between the two of you.

★ Daryl isn't a great dancer, but sometimes he'll pull you into his arms and just sway with you, with or without music.

★ You absolutely loved it, even if you didn't understand why he did it.

★ “D, not that I'm complaining, but what's this about?”

★ “Jus' 'cause.” He never revealed more than that.

★ He would never tell you this, put he loved wearing face masks with you.

★ He kind of loved the way his skin felt afterwards. However, he loved how giggly you would get whenever he put up a "fight" and then finally agree to it.

★ He would always agree to it, but he allowed you to think you convinced him to change his mind. He'd let you have that just to see your radiant smile and hear your radiant laugh.

★ He lives for forehead kisses. Whether it's him giving them or receiving them from you, he doesn't care. He just loves them.

★ You and Daryl had both walked in on your mom being all lovey dovey with a man and teased her endlessly for it.

★ She always teased you and Daryl, so it was only fair to repay the favour, you had told her once.

★ She knew it was all in good fun, though, so she didn't scold you for it.

★ Your mom and Daryl are close. Not in a gross way, but in a familial way. She sees Daryl as her son-in-law.

★ She worked a lot of nightshirts at the bar and more often than not walked in the next morning to find you and Daryl acting all romantic in the kitchen.

★ Has she accidentally walked in on you and Daryl having sex? She would never tell...

★ She has met Daryl's father, as stated in the previous part, and absolutely hated the guy for what he was doing to Daryl.

★ She may or may not have been the reason why he had a flat tyre once and was late to something.

★ She had grown to heavily dislike her parents for how they treated her when she got pregnant with you. She vowed to herself that if you were to get pregnant at that age, she would never make you feel like you were worthless. She may have been a kid having a kid, but she loved you dearly and couldn't imagine her life without you.

★ She knew she wasn't always the best mom, but she tried her best and hoped she was doing okay.

➳༻❀✿❀༺➳

Okay, so here's part two. I might make a part three?

#krys writes .ೃ࿐#shopping spree hangout dreams #daryl dixon #daryl dixon x reader #daryl x reader #twd daryl #daryl dixon imagine #daryl dixon x female reader #norman reedus #norman reedus x reader #the walking dead #young!daryl #young!daryl dixon #young daryl dixon

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luhafraser · 3 months

Text

Let me be clear: although many think I don't have a real life, I do. I'm not just a Tumblr account... I have a family, dogs and a cat. I'm currently recovering from bronchitis 😮‍💨🫁, and dealing with the school holidays 👧🏼🛝 and lots to do at work. 🤯🤯🤯 That's why I'm not at all sorry for being MIA... I have my priorities, my family and my health...

I've said it a few times... Sam and Cait's shitshow is just a pastime for me... So back off, nasty Anons... You're wasting your time here🖕😜

---

It's not a real timeline, but look at this amazing script... Brilliant... 😝🤣

1) Sam in London; 2) a "fan" says Sam was with a "female friend"; 3) Susie in London; 4) P's innuendos; 5) Susie posts latergrams in a hotel room and gym, it looks like one of rooms at the Firmdale hotels; 6) P says she won't publish without a real evidence 🤣; 7) Susie returns to her home; 8) Another "fan" says she saw Sam on a flight to Gran Canaria; 9) Sam shows himself in a mysterious room on IG Live; 10) Sam's small group of stalkers (surprisingly, they're not the evil shippers 😜🤣) certainly discover that it's not a room in a luxurious hotel (the kind Sam usually stays in) ***(Sam has people monitoring his online steps and who he follows on Instagram, etc... Nothing new there... But I'm curious how someone who isn't a fan gets "here"?! And this fandom have some here, they are not fans of Sam and Cait or Outlander. See below 😉); 11) P releases the name of the new blonde; 12) the current blonde posts several pics/videos showing some gym in Gran Canaria and an airbnb Villa; 13) Sam's voice appears in two of the blonde's videos; 14) B posts the blonde's airbnb Villa; 15) The war of the "queens of Mordor" begins (I don't believe anything about this war, but it's funny and keeps people entertained, just what SamCait and PR want); 16) B says that airbnb Villa is not the place where Sam did his Live; 17) B goes back on what she said, and shows that the male SH and the female SH are in the same Villa 🤣; 18) Chaos begins in the fandom; 19) Sam appears in Austria/Audi Ambassador stuff; 20) blonde posts with her son at her home (latergram... 🤦🏻‍♀️); 21) Ok... Susie, Sarah, who will be the next S? ⏰️

😜🤣

***⬇️

Script to look like James Bond... Women and cars... ?! 🤦🏻‍♀️😬 No, you are not Bond, Mr. Heughan... Sorry! 😝😂

---

But on the other hand...

You know.. I'm not on the "gay train", but hey... I can't blame anyone who thinks he's gay. And have you noticed how several women, linked to Sam, are always traveling to paradisiacal beaches or going to gyms with their gay friends... ?!? You don't even need to follow them on Instagram to know this, there are accounts here that posted everything about them... All that was missing was their blood type... 😝🤣

"Hawaiigate Oops Gran Canaria gate" didn't seem like a good script to prove that Sam occasionally has affairs with women... Even because the place is known for...

But, it certainly moves things around here... Just saying 🤷🏻‍♀️😂

---

OMG... Laughing a lot with #Samarah... 🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣

---

And Sam/PR decided to fix a flaw in the script and his speech, something that became a joke in this fandom, at least among shippers...

There are women in Glasgow, people! After 10 years, he finally had time to meet a woman there...

Amen 🙌

🤣🤣🤣

---

I find it very difficult for a taurus man, who calls himself a romantic, who is used to staying in hotels like those from the FS and Firmdale chains and who has already made this type of comment...

Taking his supposed girlfriend to a place with these reviews... 🤔😬😂

After 10 years, Sam knowing how this fandom is, being the guy who claims to preserve his loved ones, would he leave breadcrumbs for "fans" to create a new story if he was really dating this woman? I'm amazed that she, with a son, gets involved in this shitshow, but who will know her reasons.... Even Cait used her pregnancy and child in the Belfast promo.

---

Let's see if Sam will follow P's wishes and take Sarah to the TCND event... And let's pray 🙏.

I see THE RING 👰🏼‍♀️ #Samarah 🤣🤣🤣 This didn't even take 7 days, it seems! 🤣🤣🤣

---

I still spend my free time looking at what SamCait shows and what this fandom says because I want to see the end of this shit, when Sam no longer has P or B and his onlys... One day Sam and Cait will fall into oblivion and that's why that they keep feeding this whole circus... What, or rather, who would Sam and Cait be without all this crap? I think it's funny that Sam pulls all this on himself... Except during promo, he's the one who moves things around here (right now Gran Canaria gate, Austria trip, Scottish Sun article, a new company with an enigmatic name... It could be SDFGINEEDTHISSHITSHOWCVBN 😝🤣, "Audi Quattro",...). But to me... This seems like something from someone protecting their loved ones, taking on all the shit for himself. Although, every now and then Cait needs to show that she is alive and with her husband by her side.

I watch and wait... And I know I'm not alone in this! 🧘🏻‍♀️😜

#sam heughan #caitriona balfe #sam and caitriona #outlander #shit show #fake life #it's a shitshow #fandom #outlander fandom

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lunargrapejuice · 2 months

Note

happy monday luna!! i hope your doing well love ♥️♥️ i NEED to hear more of your thoughts on sephiroth omg please ramble away about anything and everything

AWEA!! YOU HAVE UNLEASHED THE BEAST THAT IS ME ON MY SEPHIROTH BULLSHIT

thank you for even wanting to listen to me ramble about him 😭🩵🩷 it means so much to still get to have fun with y’all even when im going mad over someone most of my followers don’t know lol i adore you to pieces ♥️❤️ & i hope you’re having an amazing day 🩷 here is my insane word vomit

these are all pre bad boy sephiroth thoughts so timeline is more like crisis core & before

i can only see this man in a romance of the slowest burn. not only is he rather intimidating, aloof, & busy but i also think he hasn’t considered a relationship before, he’s never felt for any body in that way & never had time or the desire to, until his feelings start to develop for you but even then, the action he takes towards those feelings are.. almost non existent for a while

but it’s not his fault - he doesn’t know how to express what you bring out in him. he’s only known war & shinra. he hasn’t known a world where love dared to show itself so when he starts to realize what he feels is more than just the attachment of friendship he’s cultivated with few others, he takes his time carefully mulling over it & considering all the possibilities before he realizes he is in fact in love with you

oh but for those that know him well, like angeal & genesis, ooooo they can totally see their boy has a crush probably even before he knows🤭

it may start out as something small like always finding his way to your side when you’re around, trying to have more conversations with you, showing you his dry humor & smiling back at you when you gift him a giggle in return, reaching his hand out to the small of your back when you walk side by side even if his touch never connects even though he does desperately want to touch you (he’s touched starved as fuck i just know it)

he’s an absolute gentleman despite the fact he doesn’t actually know how to properly court you lmao but he will always make sure you’re heard & safe & that if you need anything, you know you can ask him

but one day he will give in, when he least expects it but can’t be held back any longer, he’ll grabs your hand or pull you into him & can hardly let go & then kiss you for the first time only to realize just how intense his love for you is & that he doesn’t want to be without you by his side

from then on he’s yours forever more, if you’ll have him

you’re his first kiss too<3

im sorry did i mention how touched starved he is?? it’s pretty bad & even after you become his it’s still something he struggles with. a part of him worries he’ll hurt you, which he would never ever want to do, that he can’t be as loving & gentle as you deserve so he’ll need patience while he learns & adjusts to both receiving & giving such comforts & displays of affections

but don’t get him wrong, there is nothing else in this world that is more comforting to him than your touch. with the softest of touches you make him feel so.. vulnerable & human. for a moment when you touch him so lovingly, he isn’t the poster child to solider & battle hasn’t been lashed into his bones & the mako within him means nothing, he is just a man who wants to hold, protect & love the person that means the most to him

as he gets used to it though, he finds he loves to cuddle you. will always have you curled into his large frame in bed or on the couch as he reads, a protective arm draped over you & keeping you as close to him as possible. he can get this way in public if he feels like there might be any kind of danger, just immediately having you pressed into his large body so no harm can come to you

he’s incredibly protective over all those he cares for, without hesitation would do anything for them & with you those feelings are only tenfold

he also really really loves to kiss you & good god kissing him would be amazing. he lacks experience but he’s still amazing at it & can so easily draw little murmurs from your lips between sweet kisses he gives you

the duality of a man too - could kiss you in the most chaste of ways, fleeting & soft & leaving you aching for more or the kind that devour you & steal your every breath & make you forget about anything other than him

could melt into a literal puddle when you play with or brush his hair. you can see his broad shoulders relax & his pretty lips part ever so slightly when you do & djdkdkdld he looks like heaven

i don’t think he’d be very comfortable with pda, especially not at first, but when the time calls for it, he doesn’t care who watches as he places a kiss to your forehead or the back of your hand before being pulled away for his duties & work. no one would really dare to say anything about it anyways besides maybe angeal & genesis who i think tease him plenty about you hehe

some nsfw thoughts so minors just ignore this part if you’re here to listen to me be crazy lol

strongest solider or not, this man is a virgin, his first & only being you<3

virgin or no though, he has stamina for daysssss. could go multiple rounds every time but is very attentive to your well being & if you can’t, that’s more than alright with him

doesn’t ‘fuck’ but instead makes love. i think it would take some serious trust for him to be open to having sex with you & i think he would only even have the urges with someone he shares a close bond with so no, he doesn’t go around just fucking anybody even though he easily could, im sure the girls in his fan club are just dying to. but his body & the sexual feelings brought out it in are reserved for only the person he loves

imagine the first time he gets rock fucking hard over you fjdkfkfkfk literally never felt that way forwards anyone before & it’s probably not the best time or place to be sporting a boner but he can’t help himself with you, not when how he feels is burning itself into his chest & consuming him in the best of ways

having sex with him though.. oh my. like the man himself, it’s serious & i think can be really overwhelming but in the best of ways. he wants to show you in this way what you mean to him, what you do to him & share in something that only you do with each other, that he can only imagine with you

he loves to feel you tug at his hair when he’s making you feel good too, whether he’s eating you out or thrusting deep into you or just fingering you while he kisses your neck, give his gorgeous hair a little yank & you’ll undoubtedly feel him get harder, more intense in his touches & movements

the man is huge & his dick is the same <3 no one could tell me otherwise. not overly so but above average for sure both in thickness & length & he’s 100% a man that doesn’t even know he’s packing

#this was me trying not to run away with it #but alas #here we are lmao #thank you again bby! I had so much fun writing this & my thoughts won’t stop moving fjdkdkdkdld #sephiroth #sephiroth x reader #final fantasy vii #🌙asks #lovely moots <3

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miametropolis · 1 month

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My condolences for the containment breach I get how having thousands of ppl say the same joke over and over in the notes of your genuine analysis post can get annoying 😭 😭😭😭 I’m extremely down to hear more about the differences between the ninth and tenth doctors if you have any other insights you want to share though!!! I’ve been turning your post over and over in my brain like a rotisserie chicken ever since I read it it’s so good

omg thank you for your condolences...it really is the containment breach of all time...let me think!! I have a MAJOR tenth doctor video essay I may or may not make so here are the cliff notes:

-To begin. Anne Carson wrote that to live beyond the end of your myth is a perilous thing.

-in many ways, the 10th Doctor is cursed from his inception b/c he is born at the end of the Doctor and Rose's romantic arc (from a certain point of view) AND YET he is born sheerly out of love for her / to love her

-(we all know the fanon--or is it canon?--idea that Ten's face was subconciously selected to be one that Rose would like, and he's gone for her from the beginning...hello, The Christmas Invasion.)

-all that said, by the time The Parting of the Ways occurs, Rose and Nine have completed a full narrative arc:

-Nine whisked Rose away from the life of boredom and sheltered drudgery she experienced on the estate; she brought life back into the eyes of a hardened war veteran/The Last of the Time Lords

-more importantly, they complete a kind of mutualistic ultimate sacrifice (in a Shakesperian sense?) wherein Rose 'becomes' the Doctor by absorbing the literal heart of the TARDIS (we don't have time to get into that) and erasing the Daleks into dust, finishing the last of the Time War AND saving the Doctor's life

-he immediately returns the favor, absorbing the energy that's destroying her with a kiss (let it be known--the ONLY kiss between the Doctor and Rose Tyler proper--neither Tentoo or Cassandra really count imo), returning her to humanity, life, and safety

-all that said, Nine dies both saving AND being saved by Rose in a kind of unrivaled (?) parity between Doctor and companion. it's perfect synthesis.

-THEN 10 is born. uh-oh.

It is here that I would like to quote Michael Kinnucan's fabulous essay 'The Gods Show Up' on Greek tragedies:

The tragic hero is complete. You can call him unhappy (miserable, utterly broken) even before he is dead. For an instant he is something like divine. And then he dies, because there’s nothing left to do. The center of every tragedy is the image of a human being who has already died but keeps talking, someone whose face is a mask.

I think one of the most fascinating 10 v. 9 moments is that one scene that got cut where Rose says "I miss him." and the Doctor replies "Me too."

As many people in the notes of that original post point out (god help me) 10 is ALSO born IMMEDIATELY into heartbreak--whatever vestigal version of Nine lives inside him died with the despair of losing Rose

-TEN is the man that went sauntering away. perhaps that's part of why Ten is so terrified of/resentful towards regeneration. I think he's lived precisely the worst cost of it.

-The notion of 'talking after death' and 'wearing a face that's a mask' is a existentialist take on regeneration itself--ten EPITOMIZES this tragic hero archetype, esp. after Doomsday (literally! Doomsday!!)

-during his life, I wonder if Nine already considers himself lost in a sense? He's lived past the Time War, past the destruction of everything, and he's also the first NuWho Doctor. HIS ability to indulge in love (even in mortality, given his short lifespan) is different.

-TEN on the other hand has that INCREDIBLY frightening (for him) confrontation with Sarah Jane in School Reunion--knitting him back into canon continuum of Doctor Who, stitching him to the myth of The Doctor that has to live on and on and on in perpetuity--and seems VERY haunted by (im)mortality

-How much time does Ten spend running from Jack? A human being who CAN follow him to the end of time? Ten can't decide if he wants to be mortal or immortal, human or Time Lord. Think of the way he acts with Martha, with Wilf, with Donna. He is totally frozen inside of the space of his seasons. He has time paralysis (fatal, for a Time Lord)

-he is the first doctor that we see reallllly try to stave off regeneration

-That's why there's a certain frantic escapism to his adventures with Rose in S2--he knows, more than she does, that they are hurtling toward's disaster.

-he can't love Rose in a consumate way, even if he wanted to (he wants to) b/c he's trapped inside of his myth. he's like sisyphus. or that guy getting his liver ripped out by the eagle. Nine and Rose are lines that can cross. Ten and Rose are parallel lines. if they touch, the universe dissolves. hence why the narrative/God/Russel T. Davies had to lock her away in another universe

anways!

Ten once canonically carved a statue of Rose by hand with every inch of her body absolutely perfect, from memory, and I think that's crazy

#timepetals meta #timepetals #doctor who #doctor who meta #nuwho #rose tyler #tenrose #10th doctor #tenth doctor #the doctor #ninth doctor #9th doctor #ninerose #hope this is fun for you op!!! i also turn them around in my head like rotisserie chicken #or the very real dolls i had of them as a child that i brought to sleepaway camp and talked to #if you couldn't tell that i was that sort of person

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ikeromantic · 10 months

Note

Kyubei - Secret - 🤭

Alas, poor Kyubei. The suitor that deserves to be! Approx. 1700 words.

Kyubei had a secret. In the grand scheme of things, it wasn’t an important secret. No fortunes would be made or destroyed by it. No lives irrevocably changed. If it got out, there would be no wars fought over it or assassinations because of it. The secret was small and his and he held it in him like a child’s lantern held candle-light. The warm glow of knowing it made his life more bearable.

“What are you smiling about?” Mitsuhide’s sharp gold gaze landed on him as he brought in the night’s reports.

“Am I smiling?” Kyubei drew his mouth into a firm line.

Akechi’s own mouth spread in a grin. “You were.”

“Then perhaps I am learning from you.” Kyubei did his best to imitate the razor sharp smile his lord was known for. And then, before more questions could come, he set his bundle down on Mitsuhide’s desk. “There are two missives from Kasugayama, one from Kyoto, and a full report from one of our eyes in the south.”

News would draw away the too-perceptive eye of his lord. And it did. Mitsuhide opened the bundle, long slim fingers graceful as they plucked the important papers from the rest that could be read later.

Kyubei did not wait to be dismissed. He was already backing out with a bow when Mitsuhide glanced up. “Stay. I may have need of you yet.”

“Yes, my lord,” he replied. Because what other reply could he give? Kyubei settled in, watching Akechi read through the urgent reports. He already knew what was in them, and had a fair idea of what his lord would request done. Another agent sent south, some letters and payments to certain merchants that traveled through Kasugayama, and for Kyoto . . .

His musings cut short as the door opened. The chatelaine stepped in with a tray of tea and some food. “I know you don’t break for lunch but I thought -” she paused as she noticed Kyubei standing there. “Oh! Hello!”

“Princess.” Kyubei bowed, hoping the movement would hide his face long enough to subdue the sudden rush of heat in his cheeks.

The chatelaine smiled at him shyly and tucked her hair over her ear. The tray wobbled in her remaining hand and he darted forward to take it from her. “Thank you. It would be just like me to make a mess when I’m trying to be helpful. I’m so clumsy.”

“You are as graceful as a deer, princess. Next time, ask me. I am pleased to help.” He couldn’t take his eyes off her face. She was so beautiful.

“Ahaha, no - omg - no. No one has ever said I am like a deer.” She wasn’t laughing at him or his words, but at herself and it made Kyubei’s heart feel full to bursting to share this moment with her.

Kyubei returned her smile with one of his own. “Then I am lucky to be the first. Though I am surely not to be the last to notice your beauty.”

And then Mitsuhide cleared his throat, reminding them both that he was there and an unwilling audience to this awkward, inappropriate moment.

In just a heartbeat, Kyubei came crashing back to reality. To the world in which he was a vassal, a man that should not even look above the feet of an Oda princess. The warm glow of his secret fluttered in his chest, buffeted by the cold truth. He turned from her and set the tray on his lord’s desk without another word.

“S-sorry to distract you two,” the chatelaine told them. “I just wanted to make sure you ate something today. Besides whatever crumbs are in your pockets.”

Mitsuhide gave a wry laugh. “I promise you, I eat when I am hungry. I do not need you to look after me. You or that meddlesome dragon.”

The chatelaine blinked in surprise. “I didn’t say anything about Masamune!”

“You didn’t have to. This has his mark all over it.” Mitsuhide sighed. “I suppose now that you’ve brought it, I must appreciate the effort appropriately. But you will stay and enjoy it with me.”

Kyubei saw his exit and gladly took it. “Then I will leave you both to -”

“No. Kyubei, why don’t you stay? Have a cup of tea.” Mitsuhide’s smile was relentless.

“As you command.” He poured three cups of tea, tense and reluctant but determined not to give anything else away.

The chatelaine watched him with interest. “You’re so good at that. The perfect pour. Have you practiced?”

“Yes, have you?” Mitsuhide’s grin grew wider.

Kyubei swallowed. “Yes? I am always seeking to improve my service to the Akechi.”

She laid a hand on his arm and the light touch sent heat coursing through him. “Maybe one of these days we can hang out and you can show me your technique.”

Which was exactly the sort of offer Kyubei dreamt of. Time alone with just the chatelaine. Spending time with her, listening to her. But he couldn’t say yes because he was only a vassal and she -

“I’d be happy to lend Kyubei to you for whatever you like. In fact, he’s an excellent instructor for many subjects.” Mitsuhide gave a nod. “You could start this evening.”

“I must - what?” His polite refusal halted as his lord’s words sunk in.

The chatelaine clapped her hands excitedly. “That’s great! But . . . only if he wants to. You can’t loan him out like a bike, Mitsuhide!” She turned the full force of her gaze on Kyubei. “So, would you be willing?”

And of course, he couldn’t say no to her. Not when she looked at him like that. “I would be glad to,” he replied, which was the simple truth.

Mitsuhide picked up his tea and took a sip. “Then that is settled.”

The break felt to Kyubei like a fever dream. Each time a subject came up, Mitsuhide would look at him and say, “Kyubei can tell you more about that.” Or, “Kyubei is an expert in -” Or even, “What are your thoughts, Kyubei?”

And the chatelaine’s eyes were on him and he felt as if his whole body might catch on fire. He fought the heat down from his cheeks but feared his expression made his feelings too clear.

When they finished with the tea and snacks, the chatelaine stood up and picked up the tray. “Sorry again for interrupting. But I hope you enjoyed the food.”

“Certainly. And the company as well.” Mitsuhide grinned. “Feel free to stop in whenever you like, little mouse.”

“Yes, thank you for coming by,” Kyubei bowed low, reminding himself again that she was a princess and he was a vassal and this was a favor to his lord. Not to him. Not for him. Not about him.

His secret flickered, wavering, but held steady. It was alright, he told himself, to hold this one-sided love. So long as she never found out. When he straightened, his expression was appropriate. Only polite. Nothing more.

The chatelaine grabbed his hand and squeezed it. “I am glad you were here when I did! I’ll see you later. Tonight.” She smiled. “It will be fun.”

And he couldn’t help but smile back, genuinely looking forward to it. “I am looking forward to it.”

She let him go and left, and when she was gone the office felt so much emptier. Kyubei took a deep, slow, steadying breath before turning back to work.

Mitsuhide studied his expression and then sighed. “You will have to work on that.”

“On what?”

“Hmm. On what indeed.” He picked up one of the reports he’d been reviewing before they were interrupted. His eyes returned to the text. Kyubei thought he was in the clear until a few minutes later when he spoke up again.

“She’s quite pretty. Not a court beauty, of course. But pretty.” Those piercing gold eyes found him again.

Kyubei chose to play dumb. “Who are we speaking of?”

Mitsuhide’s knowing smile was his answer. Then, a few minutes later, “She isn’t a princess either.”

“The Oda adopted her.” Kyubei’s back tightened as he realized his lord was not going to let this drop. He buried his secret further down, hiding it under the proper words.

Mitsuhide nodded and his gaze returned to the page as if that was the only point he needed to make. But this time, Kyubei didn’t relax. He knew what his lord was like on the hunt. And he was surely hunting now.

“There is more than one tale in which a commoner marries a princess.” Mitsuhide didn’t look up this time, and Kyubei was glad for that because he wasn’t sure what face he made right then. “And those were women born into it. She barely knows what her title means.”

He took a moment before replying, calming the part of his heart that leapt in response to that idea. “Perhaps. But most of those tales end in tragedy, too.”

Mitsuhide scoffed. “Because they were ill-considered.” He did look up then, and there was something in his gaze besides the usual calculation. An unexpected kindness. “I know you are many things, Kyubei. My most trusted assistant. My friend. But you are never careless.” He smiled and it was a gentler expression than his cutting crescent moon grin. “Should you - and I am not saying you are - but should you ever find yourself in love with any kind of princess, take hold of that happiness while you can.”

Kyubei nodded. He understood the fragile hope he was being handed. The gift, given with intent. “I will take that under consideration, my lord.”

“Good.” Mitsuhide’s eyes sparked with mischief. “And when you do, please do me a great favor. Moon after her out of my sight? I think your passionate gazes left syrup on my reports.”

“At your command,” Kyubei chuckled. “But surely it wasn’t that obvious.”

“I could have scraped sugar from the walls, watching the two of you dance around each other. She was about to crawl into your lap.”

“No. She was not! And I was holding back! Trying to be appropriate!” Kyubei protested.

Mitsuhide shook his head. “If that was your best attempt to pretend not to like a girl, I’m going to have to reconsider sending you out to spy for me.”

“You are as cruel as they say,” he sighed and put a hand to his chest. But inside, he was aglow with hope. Delicate as it was, as improbable and unlikely as anything, he was in love with a princess and maybe - just maybe - that was alright. She might even like him back.

#ikemen sengoku #ikesen kyubei #kyubei #fanfiction #fanfic #otome #otome guys #fluff

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mid-nightowl · 6 months

Text

untitled lil fic #1 (jason todd and gotham war)

here's some gotham war rewrites i needed to get out of my head, the brainrot was killing me omg

warnings for violence, cursing, whatever the hell Bruce is doing (just Bruce as a full warning tag, the man is more unhinged than Joker in this)

---

“Oh Jason. How I’ve missed you, my sweet boy.”

The words are sickeningly sweet, poison-saturated words falling from bloody red lips. Delivered with a crooked smile, Joker looks up at him, uncaring at his position. His fingers curl in the clown’s suit collar, lips curling with a snarl.

Jason punches him again, the clown’s jaw cracking and his body straining against the ferry railing. Joker merely giggles, head lolling around through the air before his mismatched eyes meet his mask.

“Shut the fuck up!” He snaps, unholstering his gun and digging the muzzle into Joker’s cheek.

His murderer raises his hands, waggling his fingers in surrender, grinning and smirking and smiling.

He hates it, he hates it, he hates it.

“I want you to think about this real carefully,” He digs his gun into his skin. “This could be the last joke you ever make, you understand? That’s what you want to go with?”

“You know,” His nightmare giggles, chuckles like a wind-up toy before he wipes the amusement off his face. The clown looks up at him, head tilted, pleased and patient and thoughtful. There’s not a single sliver of hate and destructive menace, or anger or disappointment or suspicion.

Wrong, wrong, wrong, he thinks. There’s something wrong here. There’s something wrong with Joker—and not in the usual way.

“The best jokes deliver a difficult truth, but hide it with a fun fiction,” Joker explains, smushed but coherent words strung together despite the gun halfway in his mouth. “Without humor all we have left is being mean and lying.”

“What?” He can’t stop the words before they stumble out of his mouth. He doesn’t let the gun go lax in his hand despite the way the clown’s words throw him off guard.

Off-kilter is a genuine feeling that digs into him, shocking him to the core. The clown does this, he knows it. He knows this is how he does things, how he worms his way out of every situation and every attempted manslaughter, he knows how the clown operates, intimately.

Jason knows him.

Joker, historically, has been so many things. But he’s always been a psychotic, impulsive mass-murderer. Someone without restraint, without limitation.

It’s why he’s always been Batman’s true nemesis. Bruce, he needs a fine-tuned control of everything and everyone. He is someone who has limits and restraint.

Controlled, focused, and without limitations—Jason is almost the happy medium to both of them.

Almost.

The three of them are similar, different, opposites and identical. It’s like walking in one of those mirror mazes where you can’t tell who the real you is.

Who is the real Bruce Wayne? The man who cherishes his children or the one who maims them?

Who is the real Joker? The cold, purposeful mass murderer or the dumped-in-acid man who can’t tell the difference?

Who is the real Jason Todd? The bloody crime lord or the declawed crowbar wielding vigilante?

Joker simply smiles and pats his arm, as if Jason’s not trying to kill him.

He slams the clown against the railing again, snarling.

“Enough games!” He growls and flips the safety off. The noise doesn’t even phase Joker, if anything he grins harder. His mismatched eyes—one red-brown, one green—flick above them before returning to his.

“Are you really going to use that big bad gun of yours with Daddy watching? He’ll be so mad at you.” His murderer grins, letting his head hang limply in his grasp.

“What? Batman-!” He jerks back, head snapping up to the ferry roof cover.

Empty. No looming monster demanding a painful compromise is here.

Joker’s hands push him back, and he grunts, stumbling into the ferry wall. The clown tumbles over the railing, disappearing from view. His laughter haunting the air.

“No!” He shouts, dashing to the railing.

The clown is gone under the waves and ice, sinking into the dark of Gotham Harbor.

He’s not dead. He can’t be dead, Jason thinks, gripping the ice-cold railing, I haven’t killed him yet.

He’s not dead.

But that was mean.

The last words Jason hears remind him of his grave.

No, not the one he was buried in. Six feet of dirt above him and smothered in satin, watched over by that stupid weeping angel.

There’s a memorial in the cave with his name. ‘Good soldier’ and nothing else but his name. Both of them: Jason Todd and Robin.

A monument to Bruce’s failure, his greatest mistake, a grave to his complicated teenage years, his love.

“You’ve always been a good soldier. Rest now.” Bruce told him, jabbing him in the neck with the needle.

A grave, a memorial, a monument. It makes him sick. The reminder that he will always be the dead Robin, the sad Robin, the angry Robin.

Dead, dead, dead.

The violence done to him, inflicted and imprinted into his skin and bones was more important. The guilt and the lesson were more important than his cries for justice, for his life’s blood.

The monument and altar, raised after his murder, were never for him, but for Bruce.

He was dead, why would he care?

The story Bruce will tell would never be the truth, just excuses and wrong-doings. He would take accountability after the fact, but not before.

Bruce would let his murderer walk and let him rot.

Maybe that was why he buried Jason six feet under, so he wouldn’t have to face the decay and decomposition. That he could keep this golden, blurry image of him as Robin, as the straight A student, the good son. And not a weightless body splinted a thousand different ways to look human.

But now that he’s resurrected—not in Bruce’s image, but as something broken and jagged, something lost and filled with dirt and green-green-green—Bruce refuses to acknowledge him. Refuses to believe this is who he is.

Refuses to believe that he remade (destroyed) himself from the ruins, from the broken bones and empty veins and black thread that mended his corpse back into the image of Jason Todd. Refuse to think that if a girl can come back as a soothsayer, that a boy can come back as a gun.

“Hnnng…Bruce,” Jason groans softly, heaving himself off the couch.

Batman turns to him, looming with his face mask in his hands. The fluorescent lights, a nauseous lime-yellow, cut over his figure, his face, his mask. Almost a green-green-green, almost a pool of rage, almost a pit of madness.

His mask crackles alive in Bruce’s hands, Selina’s voice wavering between annoyance and worry.

“Red Hood? Hood, please check in and let me kno-” Batman clicks his comm off.

The resounding silence smothers him.

His exhale comes out shaky, his heart beating too fast behind his bruised ribs, a chill crawling over his exposed skin.

Something’s wrong. Something is very wrong.

“...Batman? You…” He swallows roughly, mouth filled with dirt and blood and thread. “Wha…What did you do?”

“Nothing I’m proud of, Jason.”

His heart sinks and skips a beat at the same time, stomach twisting with anxiety and fingers trembling against the ugly brown couch cushions.

Inhale.

He pushed too much.

Taking Selina’s side?

He went too far.

Hood didn’t kill anyone?

Exhale.

“Hh! Ho…” Jason croaks, getting his boots on the ground. “Y-you…you..”

“Take deep breaths, Jason.” Batman turns back to the computer hub glowing behind him, ignoring his attempts to speak, to demand answers.

His arms shake as he holds himself upright, but when he tries to stand instead he chokes, falling to his knees in front of the couch. Gasping for air, he lays his palms flat against the cool tiles. His legs are quivering, heavy and unable to hold his weight.

His whole body trembles with it, this feeling unfolding through his blood and bones, engulfing his head and voice.

Fear, fear, fear.

“Years ago I created my backup personality, Zur, using techniques I learned from an old mentor and this machine that I built,” Batman starts, monitoring the screens in front of him with one hand on the keyboard and the other on his belt.

Bruce doesn’t turn to look at him, to face him, someone he calls son, someone he considers family, and explain what he’s done to Jason.

He never has.

“I can’t change your personality with it, Jason…” Batman sighs, low and quiet. “But I can add to it. A small thing: your failsafe.”

Failsafe. He slams the heel of his palm on the floor, cheeks tingling with his telltale sign of tears. A failsafe?!

Because Red Hood needs a failsafe instead of justice.

“What?!” He tries to snarl, to hiss and yell and scream his rage. But his voice fails him, anxiety chewing at his throat and tongue, voice tilting too high, too unsteady, too weak.

“Now when you have heightened adrenaline, when you’re about to do something dangerous, your fear kicks in,” Batman continues explaining. “It…I’m sorry Jason. But it’s the only way.” He clenches his eyes shut—inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale—and tries to ignore his rabbit heart battering against its cage, pounding to the frantic rhythm of fear, fear, fear.

“I love you.”

The words feel like gunshots, the knuckle prints on his skin after the two of them fought over Penguin, the smack of Selina’s whip against his fingers, the crowbar on his skull, his legs, his ribs, over and over and over.

“I love you, but you are a murderer,” Bruce condemns him, over and over again. “You’re a bull in a china shop and I go round after round with you, trying to figure out how to help make you a better man, to heal you.”

“H-heal me?” He whispers, rage cut off at the roots. “This isn’t…this isn’t you, Bruce.”

Batman, finally, turns to Jason. He looms, tall and foreboding, darkness dripping around him, drenching him in fear, fear, fear.

Batman takes a step forward and he crashes back against the couch, spine digging into the wooden frame painfully.

He can’t breathe. Batman moves and he knows it in his bones, knows it down to the scars Gotham and its guardian have left on him, that he’s not here to save him, to help him.

“I got you a new identity. A place in Metropolis.” Batman keeps walking forward, despite Jason’s growing hyperventilation, despite the way his blunted nails scratch at the floor. Despite the way he shakes, black stitches snapping apart, the pieces of him falling to the floor of this slaughterhouse, at the feet of his butcher.

“B-bat…Batman,” He whimpers, hand twisting into the fabric of his suit.

“You can live a normal life. Fall in love, do meaningful work. This isn’t punishment, Jason,” Batman kneels in front of him and removes the cowl. “I love you.” Jason shrinks back, shoulders back and legs curled to his chest. Bruce’s face is sharp and pale, with bags under his eyes and days old stubble on his jaw.

His eyes are dark with absolute rage.

Batman is going to hurt him. Batman is going to hurt him.

Bruce is going to hurt him again.

“This is a gift. Any way you look at it, you should be in prison for all the people you’ve killed,” He chokes at Bruce’s words, barely smothering the terrified cry in his throat. “This is me saving you from that. Save you from yourself.”

Jason can only stare at the man before him—the man who took him in, who raised and trained him, who loved him—does his best to bury him.

fear, fear, fear.

“Please..don’t…please,” Jason pleads, covering the girl with his frame, caging her in with his bruised and burnt arms.

“Let’s begin.” Scarecrow’s voice reverberates, it shakes through air to match his erratic breathing.

“P-please, I’ll do anything you want, anything,” He begs, fear, fear, fear burning in his veins. “Please. Just stay…stay away.”

Scarecrow closes the gap between them, rocking back and forth on his crooked, long legs. His mask distorts and mutates, a familiar green-green-green splashing over the darkened void of his gas mask.

“You’re going to die tonight. I know you know this,” Crane looms over him, green-green-green trickling out his eyes, gushing out like an open wound. “But we can still have fun, can’t we.”

The girl trembles underneath his chest and Jason tries to smother the whimper begging to pour out his lips. It’s gnawing at him—rabbit heart frantic in his chest, hands trembling from the burning pain and anxiety, smoke and ash gathering in his lungs—fear, fear, fear.

He can’t think of anything else.

“Those fools were right. Your terror…it’s real and it isn’t mine,” Scarecrow sneers, kneeling in front of him. “There is no thrill in driving terror into the heart of a baby bird.”

Scarecrow takes his jaw in his hand, needles tickling at his exposed skin, forcing Jason to look at him. He can’t help but jerk his head at Crane’s touch, needles pricking into his cheek when Crane holds him tighter, another inescapable cage around him.

His chest heaves with every shaky inhale-exhale, his anxious fear fanning over the rogue’s mask. Scarecrow leans in closer, the glass over his eyes gleaming, reflecting the fire roaring around them. Jason can hear the screams in them, watching the shadows morph around them and the straw on Crane’s shoulders wiggle.

“This is my moment of triumph, and it is snatched away from me by..by him?!” Scarecrow shakes Jason’s head in his hand, needles scratching into his skin but still not drawing blood.

Scarecrow lets his head drop, needles disappearing from his sight before they’re clawing at his throat, wet and cold against his clammy skin. Jason whimpers and clenches his eyes shut, unable to do anything but beg.

He knows praying for someone to help him is futile.

No one is coming to save him.

“Never let it be said Scarecrow has no pity,” Crane says, voice cutting in and out his head like radio static. “I will quickly finish what your daddy started.”

“Doesn’t mommy get a say?”

A voice slices through the flames licking at his skin and the fear smothering him. And when Jason’s gaze finds him, he can’t help the tears.

“Step away from the vigilante, pervert.” Joker grins, dark red lips stretched too wide, too thin. Ash rains down on his green-green-green umbrella, rolling down the crooked dark patches and shamrock-colored nylon.

“You’ve already killed him once. It’s time you learned to share, Clown.” Scarecrows speaks with thin, razor-sharp disdain, glaring over his shoulder at the newcomer.

“You should know this by now, Doc. I don’t play well with others.” The clown throws aside the umbrella, knife materializing from thin air as he descends upon Scarecrow.

“You’re not even really him, are you? Do you think I don’t know about you? Delusions and megalomania with-” Scarecrow baits and taunts the clown, before the two of them are ducking and weaving and slicing at each other with barely concealed rage and annoyance.

“Blah, blah, blah. Do you know why you’re always going to be a C-List villain, Johnny?” Joker jokes and Jason can imagine the sharp grin on his face. “Because doctors aren’t scary. They’re annoying.”

He ducks his head down and curls tighter around the girl. She cries underneath him, hiccups soft under the roar of flames closing in on them, the screech of metal on metal and creaking of deteriorating wood.

He can’t move. He can’t do anything but try to breathe. But all he tastes is smoke, choking him, billowing down his throat and in his lungs. His heartbeat is so loud, jumping under its bone-cage, a heady, heavy thing—badump-badump-badump-badump. It’s too fast, erratic, out of control.

“You’re a bull in a china shop and I go round after round with you, trying to figure out how to help make you a better man, to heal you-”

Always out of control. Jason whines, hands scrambling against the wood below him. It burns, seering through his fingertips. It hurts-it hurts-it hurts, he can’t do this. He can’t.

He can’t breathe.

“Ahhhh! Ack! Achhhhh!” Scarecrow screams, guttural and wobbly and when he looks up, Jason can only watch as Crane crashes through the fifth story window.

Tears continue to stream down his face, his heart trembling in his chest and the realization strikes him then, cracking down on his skull like a crowbar, over and over and over.

Joker saved him. Joker saved him. Joker saved him.

His murderer saved him.

“A-are you real?!” Jason cries out, fingers curling into the withering floorboards. “Is this real?!”

“Oh, don’t worry about him. I didn’t even give him a real dose of Joker Gas. I ran out. Heh!” Joker laughs, rubbing at his jaw. Blood and green-green-green stain the edges of his mouth, smeared down his chin and throat before disappearing under the orange sweatshirt he’s wearing.

“But now, it’s just you and me. And…your daughter? Did you have a daughter and not tell me?” The clown tilts his head in question, tucking away the green-green-green gun in his hand. He steps closer, uncaring of the flames licking over his pale skin.

Jason can’t tell if it's real or an illusion, can’t tell if his murderer is here and saving? rescuing? tricking? him. He can’t tell if this is just another nightmare he’s trapped himself in, or if this is the real punishment Bruce promised him.

“She’s just a kid. Please…don’t,” He pleads, the tears searing down his ash-stained cheeks.

Joker leans down, bringing his face close to Jason’s. His mismatched eyes—one green, one red-brown—bore into his and the clown smiles, too wide, too cracked and broken, too bloody and green-green-green.

He sobs, cracking under everything. He can’t do this, he can’t.

“My, my. Even like this you still think you’re the hero. Batman would be proud if he didn’t hate you,” His murderer says, before his bony hand is cupping Jason’s face, calloused fingers dancing over his skin.

Jason clenches his jaw when it threatens to wobble and tremble, but knows the fear is shining in his eyes. Knows the clown can see it, knows he recognizes it in his baby-blues. He’s been here before.

They’ve been here before, together.

“But don’t worry my sweet boy, I’ll find a way to fix you. Nobody is going to hurt you. I won’t let them. Because I need you.” His voice is honeyed and threatening, curling and clawing and cloying into his head like a sickness. Joker pets his hair, gentle and caring, and Jason knows he means it.

He’s going to fix him. He’s going to heal him.

He’s going to save Jason.

“Don’t worry, sweet boy. We’ll see each other soon,” Joker pats his cheek with a crooked green-green-green smile. “I promise.”

His heart beats frantic to the words—fear, fear, fear—eyes unable to look away from Joker.

Jason believes him.