#spider is such a good son 🥰

[anxiousdreamcore]

Read the first chapter of “From sky to sea” , a fanfic written by @eirianerisdar , I got inspired to make a tiny AU. I present Metkayina!Spider ✨

In this AU, Tonowari, while visiting in the Omatekaya, had found young Spider in the area and after growing attached to him, decided that he had to take the boy and so, without much resistance, he did. Years later, the blonde blossoms into a fine young man, famous for his physical strength and industriousness (or more like stubbornness), but his past comes back to haunt him when the Sully family begs for refuge in Awa’atlu. He reconnects with his old friends and eventually faces the clone of his biological father. What will happen then…?..

Who knows! Headcannon time 😎

Deep inside, Spider is afraid that if he doesn’t do his damn best and work hard, he might loose his place among the people. He often pulls way more than his weight and exhausts himself, so the rest of the fam make sure to reassure him about it.

He’s a very chill older sibling. While fairly responsible, he’s still quite playful and is known as the “village jester”. Very good with little kids and loves entertaining them. Will not stop his siblings from getting themselves into trouble but will tell them that whatever they’re about to do is stupid af.

He and Aonung bully each other CONSTANTLY. Aonung is a little shit, but Spider had learned to fire back. Hates it when he and his gang of jocks pester people and bluntly calls him out on it. They fight a lot because of that, especially when the Sullys arrive.

Aonung may or may not be jealous that the sully siblings get along with Spider so well. He wishes he could have a relationship as open as they do and hates Kiri the most because of that. That girl and the blonde become practically inseparable when they reunite and it rubs him the wrong way.

With Tsierya, Spider turns into the biggest hype-man. He supports and complements her constantly, as well as does her hair. Their relationship pisses Aonung off as well.

When the Sullys arrive and Spider reconnects with them, she begins feeling a bit insecure. She knows that her big bro comes from the forest and often misses it, so in her darkest moments she gets scared that the boy might leave with them when the threat blows over. She doesn’t voice her concerns though, as she does not want to ruin her sibling’s fun.

Ronal was initially wary of the demon boy, but he grew on her, especially when she heard of all the neglect he’s endured. It did not feel right to leave such a sweet kid up to fate and now he is her son as much as Aonung. He helps her with the chores a lot and even opts to tag along with her and Tsireya when they cook. It makes for good bonding time.

It is more difficult with Tonowari, though. On one hand, this man saw Spider at his worst, his rock bottom, when he was an abandoned nobody, but on the other, he’s still a chief and The blonde wants to make him proud and show that he did not make a mistake when adopting him. Tonowari tries not to let his son spiral though, and reassured him that all he wants for him is to be happy, as he wants that for all of his children.

“What happened to his chest tho?”

A skimming incident 😐 I will not elaborate

.

(Please do not repost my artwork on any other platform, with or without credit. I do NOT give my consent to do so and I will find it🥰)

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

When The World Is Crashing Down [Chapter 9: We’re Friends When You’re On Your Knees]

Series summary: Your family is House Celtigar, one of Rhaenyra’s wealthiest allies. In the aftermath of Rook’s Rest, Aemond unknowingly conscripts you to save his brother’s life. Now you are in the liar of the enemy, but your loyalties are quickly shifting…

Chapter warnings: Y'all, you are not ready for this one. Language, warfare, violence, serious injury, alcoholism/addiction, sexual content (18+), murder, Aemond "there are other Targaryens" Targaryen having feelings again (good ones?? not good ones?? both?? who knows bestie, not me!), an unexpected family reunion, must be the season of the witch... 👀

Series title is a lyrics from: "7 Minutes In Heaven" by Fall Out Boy.

Chapter title is a lyric from: "Our Lawyer Made Us Change the Name of This Song So We Wouldn’t Get Sued" by Fall Out Boy.

Word count: 8.4k.

Link to chapter list: HERE.

Taglist (more in comments): @tinykryptonitewerewolf @lauraneedstochill @not-a-glad-gladiator @daenysx @babyblue711 @arcielee @at-a-rax-ia @bhanclegane @jvpit3rs @padfooteyes @marvelescvpe @travelingmypassion @darkenchantress @yeahright0h @poohxlove @trifoliumviridi @bloodyflowerrr @fan-goddess @devynsficrecs @flowerpotmage @thelittleswanao3 @seabasscevans @hiraethrhapsody @libroparaiso @echos-muses @st-eve-barnes @chattylurker @lm-txles @vagharnaur @moonlightfoxx @storiumemporium @insabecs @heliosscribbles @beautifulsweetschaos @namelesslosers @partnerincrime0 @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @yawneneytiri @marbles-posts @imsolence @maidmerrymint @backyardfolklore @nimaharchive @anxiousdaemon @under-the-aspen-tree @amiraisgoingthruit @dd122004dd @randomdragonfires @jetblack4real @joliettes

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged! 🥰💜

You watch her from the shadows of the dungeons, rusted iron, phantom echoes of falling water, chilling drafts that come from nowhere and everywhere. She has not yet noticed you. She is beautiful, regal, arrogant, even as she sits gnawing on crusts of bread and the gristle of chicken bones, scraps that Lord Larys throws to her like she’s a pig nosing its way through a trough, an animal that is clever and yet condemned. And if she is livestock, then what are you? A creature of darkness, of nightfall, lethal and treacherous, a wolf or a bat or a spider. You step forward and into a ray of light that cuts across the stones like the path of a comet.

Baela gasps and drops the tibia she’d been working on, cracking it in two, sucking out the dead-blood marrow. Her wide-set, almond-shaped eyes catch on you. She is not afraid; you have never known Daemon Targaryen’s eldest daughter to be afraid of anything. She is fascinated.

“I’m sorry,” she says, crawling across the floor of her cell. She grips the metal bars and peers out at you, kneeling there like she’s praying. You suspect Baela has never prayed to anyone or anything. “I didn’t mean to almost burn you. I didn’t realize you were standing on the steps with him until after I’d given Moondancer the order. It all happened so quickly.”

You cannot appear to be angry. You have no reason to be angry if you are Aegon’s captive. “I take no offense. I wasn’t harmed.”

“No one had any idea the Usurper was here,” Baela says. Still her eyes are bright, entranced. “We believed Dragonstone to be vacant.”

Good. You give her a dismal smirk. “No. Not so vacant after all.”

“Are you with child yet?”

A bolt shoots down your spine like cold lightning. “What?”

“That’s what he’s trying to do, isn’t it?” Baela says. “He wants an heir from you. His wife is dead, his sons are dead. He couldn’t get his claws on me or Rhaena. But you can give him a Valyrian-blooded prince.”

Aegon has never mentioned having children with you. You don’t know if this means he doesn’t want them, or if he does not wish to place demands upon you, or if he is indifferent, or if he believes it to be impossible. “I have nothing to show for his efforts.”

“Has it been unspeakably awful?” And if Baela seeks to console, this is secondary to her personal interest; she is curious, she is absorbed. Her fingers close more tightly around the iron bars. “He’s a drunk, a degenerate. He’s vile. He’s deformed. Has he tortured you? Has he violated you in a hundred different ways? Does he tie you down, does he strike you, does he cut and bruise you?”

And this is the Blacks’ story, one they could never begin to suspect might be fiction: that you are a martyr, that Aegon is a monster. In place of an answer, you give Baela the treasures you have brought her. You pass them through the gaps between the bars: a bottle of ink, parchment, a quill with a point like a blade.

Baela takes these objects, amazed. “You can help me send a letter back to Harrenhal?”

“I don’t know if I will be able to get to the rookery. But I’ll try.”

“The Usurper allows you this much free rein?”

He trusts me. He loves me. He’s bedbound and in agony. “He’s rather distracted at the moment.”

“He’s dying, hopefully,” Baela says. She has already begun to write. And there’s a reptilian sort of coldness that is snaking deeper into you, constricting around your bones, gliding through the blood-slick chambers of your heart, too much a part of you to ever rip out. But now Baela’s face softens. She looks up dolefully. “Moondancer, she’s…she’s gone, isn’t she?”

You bow your head as if this is something tragic. “She did not survive Sunfyre’s attack.”

“Fucking beasts,” she seethes, resuming her writing. “When my father learns of this, he and Caraxes will come to rescue us. And he will burn the Usurper alive.” She finishes her letter, rolls up the parchment, and hands it back to you.

“How will Daemon know that you authored this and under no duress?”

“My signature,” Baela says, grinning. “I end all of my correspondence to him with Your ever-obedient daughter. It is a joke between us. If it was absent, he would notice. His suspicions would be aroused. That is how I would signal if I was ever forced to write to him against my will.”

There is dark satisfaction like a spell shimmering in your arteries, nerves, the void-black pupils of your eyes. You return her smile. “Perfect.”

“Don’t fear,” Baela tells you, and reaches through the rusted iron bars to clasp your hand. You fight the reflex to tear away from her, this woman who certainly maimed Aegon and might have killed him. You find yourself studying her, measuring her height and weight, calculating how much milk of the poppy it would take to end her life. “Cregan Stark is south of the Neck now. He will move heaven and earth to possess you, everyone knows that. Soon we will have Northmen marching through the Riverlands with Caraxes and Sheepstealer safeguarding them from above. And after the Riverlands they will be in the Reach, and then finally King’s Landing to stabilize the capital. The Usurper and Sunfyre cannot fight. Daeron is scarcely more than a boy. The Betrayers are avaricious, overconfident drunks. The Greens will be vanquished before winter.”

“And what about Vhagar?”

“Together, Caraxes and Sheepstealer can bring her down.” But there is doubt in Baela’s voice, yes, a vacillation that is rarely heard from her.

“I hope so,” you reply, one of countless lies.

You take Baela’s letter to the rookery, open it, examine it carefully for the subtleties of her handwriting: slopes and dots and lines. Then you get a fresh piece of parchment and painstakingly draft a very different message. Not a plea for help, but an assurance that all is well; not a summons to Dragonstone, but a confirmation that the castle was found to be unoccupied and is now held firmly by Baela and Moondancer.

And you end the letter before tying it to a leg of the raven trained to fly to Harrenhal:

Your ever-obedient daughter, Baela Targaryen

~~~~~~~~~~

“Please eat something, Your Grace. I beg you.” Lord Larys Strong’s face is creased with servile, attentive worry. On the plate before you is fresh, warm bread and a dish of salted butter. In your bowl is a crab soup thick with vegetables, the broth tomato-based and red like Autumn’s hair, like blood.

“I can’t.”

“Would you like me to bring you something else? I could have the chefs prepare roast chicken, or duck, or boar…”

“No.” You push the bowl of soup away. You and Larys are alone in the Great Hall, seated at the high table which presides over a silent, vacuous chamber. The room was built to resemble a dragon lying on its belly; the entranceway is its mouth, two massive doors edged with stone teeth. There are dragons everywhere, these talismans of Aegon’s house, these creatures that are monsters to some and saviors to others.

Larys studies you closely. His voice is tender. “Your Grace, please. Can I do anything for you?”

You consider him, an enigma that is useful and subtle and dogged in his loyalty. “What is it that binds you so faithfully to Alicent and her children, Lord Larys? House Strong was so favored by Rhaenyra. Her heirs were your blood, no matter how much she tried to deny it. You could have risen high in the Black Council. Make no mistake, I am very thankful for your service to the Greens. I am glad to count you among the greatest of our fortunes. But what inspired you to turn your coat?”

Larys smiles at you. He has eyes like rain, the wavy abundant brown hair of his spurned family. His hands rest on the handle of his cane. “Your eldest brother is an acclaimed swordsman.”

“Yes,” you agree, caught off-guard.

“And so was mine,” Larys says. “House Strong, is it any wonder what we valued most? My father loved Harwin. He was so fiercely proud of him. He was interested in him, he understood him. They would whisper to each other all through feasts, all through tourneys, conspiring, chortling, enmeshed in this synergy that left no air for anyone else to breathe.”

“And your father never understood you.” Just like Bartimos Celtigar overlooks Everett, a son gifted with books and quills instead of horses and swords. “Never even tried to.”

“It is a terrible thing to be in the midst of your family and yet feel alone.”

“It is,” you say, remembering the Blacks’ festivities in King’s Landing.

“Now Lyonel and Harwin Strong whisper to no one,” Larys says, his smile widening into a dark, victorious grin. “And I am the Master of Whisperers.”

You remember the words that Otto Hightower spoke to you as he waited for his execution in the dungeons of the Red Keep: These dark, contagious facets of life change us all. They ruins us. Time, heartache, violence. You become capable of inconceivable things. You would scheme and deceive. You would murder. “Do you ever regret it?” you ask Larys softly. Becoming a sinner, a killer, a kinslayer.

“Never,” he replies. “Dowager Queen Alicent was the first person to ever truly listen to me. To make me feel worth something. Worth anything. To advance her interests in every way possible…that cannot be an injustice. It is the cleanest kind of loyalty. And I have no doubt my sacrifices will be repaid. If the Greens triumph, that is. When this war is over, Alicent’s son must sit the Iron Throne.”

“You mean Aegon.”

“Yes, of course.” But something mournful passes over Larys’ face like a shadow; he peers down at his hands to hide this from you.

He doubts Aegon will live. He foresees Aemond or Daeron inheriting the throne instead. You stand from the table, your chair squealing shrilly against the stone floor. “We should bring the king his supper,” you tell Larys. “He needs his strength.”

Aegon does not like you to be there when the maesters prod at him, scrub his wounds, rebandage his shattered legs. You were once his healer, yes, but now he believes you to be his wife. He does not want to be your patient. He does not want you to see him as a wounded man writhing in bed, as someone helpless, pathetic, weak, doomed.

The maesters are just finishing when you arrive with a tray of buttered bread and fresh soup, steam rising from the bowl of red like entrails that litter the earth once a battle has ended. The maesters are gathering up bloody strips of linen to be burned. Aegon is sobbing; his silver hair hangs in chaotic waves, both hands cover his face.

Your voice is hushed and heartbroken. “Aegon…”

“No, I’m okay,” he says, sniffling, mopping the tears from his cheeks with his bare palms. Then he reaches out to you. “Come here, come here, come here.”

You go to him, sliding the tray onto his bedside table until it clinks against the glass bottles there: rose oil, red wine, milk of the poppy. You climb onto the bed and Aegon’s arms circle around your waist, pulling you in closer as he buries his face in the warmth of your chest, your throat, covering you in hurried, imprecise kisses. Dimly, you wonder what he tastes when he breathes you in; you wonder what colors bloom in the sunless passages of his lungs.

“I missed you,” he murmurs. You can feel the dampness of his tears on your bare skin, the roughness of his scars.

“I was only gone for a few hours.”

“Too long,” he says. “Far too long. How’s Sunfyre?”

“He’s down on the beach, Your Grace,” Larys answers from the doorway where he has materialized like stars at dusk.

“Is he eating? Ambulatory? Wading in the water?”

“He’s…” Lord Larys hesitates. “He seems to be in a great deal of discomfort.” And yes, you know this to be true: Sunfyre the Golden’s wings hang in shreds, his wounds are inflamed with infection, and there is something wrong with him inside as well, a wheezing when he inhales, blood that seeps from his nostrils and his jaws. There’s nothing anybody can do for him. No one can touch him but Aegon, and Aegon can’t leave his bed.

Aegon says to Larys, low and sinister: “I want Baela dead. I want her burned.”

“She is far more valuable to you alive, Your Grace.”

“I am the king and I wish her to die.”

“Corlys Velaryon is her grandsire,” Larys implores. “If he discovers you executed Baela, he may recommit himself to Rhaenyra’s side. He may launch his own rebellion even after Rhaenyra is defeated. If you wish to win and keep the Iron Throne, I advise you to spare her.”

Aegon sighs and glares out the window that overlooks the Narrow Sea, his arms still linked around your waist. You begin to weave his braid for him. “Aegon,” you say gently. “We’ve brought you supper. Please eat it.”

“I’m afraid I’m too nauseated by my own inadequacy. Perhaps later.”

“You want to be well again. And you will be. But you have to eat.”

“I really don’t think I can.”

“Aegon, please.”

“Well…” He glances over at the bowl of soup and then gives you a mischievous smirk. “I suppose nothing tastes better than a crab, does it? Particularly when it is served in bed.”

“Or on the floor of a library.” You smile and kiss him: his pale face, his trembling lips. You finish his tiny braid like a silver chain and tuck it behind his ear. Then you pour him a cup of milk of the poppy, just one pearl-white splash, just enough to sand the serrated edges off his anguish.

“No.” He stops you, a hand on your wrist. “I don’t want to be useless again. I don’t want to be swimming in dreams. I want to be here with you.”

You shake your head. There are tears stinging in your eyes. “But you’re in pain.”

He grins, brushing your hair back from your face. “I’ve been in pain my whole life, Angel.”

And he manages to force down half the soup and two brimming goblets of wine before he sinks beneath the sea of his consciousness, while outside waves crack open against the rocks and Sunfyre leaks viscous threads the color of crimson, roses, flames.  

~~~~~~~~~~

“You sent that raven a week ago,” Baela tells you when you bring her your offering, your clandestine kindness: apple cake, black tea. “More than enough time has passed for it to be received at Harrenhal and acted upon.”

You fill a porcelain cup with tea from the kettle and give it to her through the iron bars of her cell. “Perhaps the raven went astray.”

Baela ponders this as she alternates between unladylike chomps on a wedge of apple cake and slurps from the cup. “Maybe my father has been away from the castle. Maybe he’s out on the battlefield with the Stark men.”

Or maybe he believes you and Moondancer to be perfectly well and presiding unopposed over Dragonstone, and therefore not in need of his attention. What a welcome delusion to live under. I’m sure he’d rather be fucking Nettles anyway. You take the empty cup when Baela has drained it and refill it with tea. Baela accepts the nearly overflowing cup gratefully. She has had nothing to drink since she was taken captive except muddy rainwater that pools in one corner of each cell, guided by stone gutters that run along the outside of the castle. The tea is cloudy with cream and laced with sugar; still, her nose wrinkles a bit when she swallows it down.

“Bitter,” she notes distractedly.

“It’s made from leaves grown here on Dragonstone. Formidable, but not very sweet.”

Baela cackles; it echoes through the dungeon. This is the same voice that commanded Moondancer to brutalize Sunfyre, to send Aegon plummeting to the sand. Are her eyes already losing their viperish sharpness, is her heartbeat slowing? “Just like me!” She finishes her cup of tea and eagerly holds it out to you through the bars. You pour it full of the earth-colored brew once again.

You ask her as she licks apple cake crumbs from her fingers: “Why is Cregan Stark so determined to wed me?”

“He wants you. He considers you worthy of him.”

“But he doesn’t understand me. He doesn’t really know who I am.”

Baela shrugs indifferently. “None of us love anyone because of who they are. We love them because of who they make us believe we are.” She sips her tea and blinks groggily. “In any case, he will be your honorable savior, and you will be his illustrious damsel, and when the traitor dragons are dead he will spirit you away to Winterfell to bear his wolf pups. It’s not so bad a fate, I think. Not for someone like you. You aren’t ill-suited to matrimony. You are docile enough. A caretaker, a healer. You seem like the sort of woman who would be content with just one man.”

Yes. If he was Aegon. As you watch her kneeling on the stone floor of her cell, Baela sways and almost nods off, seemingly unaware that she is doing it.

“Burning might be too swift a death for the Usurper,” Baela says, smiling dazedly. “Cregan should have some of the Boltons flay him. They can all take turns wearing his hideous scars.”

“Yes. Skins shed, skins regrown, some of us change them over and over again.”

Baela stares at you inanely. She is beyond comprehension. Then she collapses to the stone floor, the porcelain tea cup spilling from her grasp and breaking into jagged white shards.

You take the key to the cell off the hook out in the corridor and unlock the door of iron bars. You step inside, still holding the tea kettle in one hand. You set the kettle down and drag Baela until she is propped upright against a wall. Her pulse is slow, but still present; she moans feebly as you position her. But it is all for a good cause; you must ensure she drinks the rest of the tea, the witches’ brew of leaves and cream and sugar and a fatal dose of milk of the poppy. Outside you hear a deep, prehistoric rumble as Vhagar flies over Dragonstone and scouts for a landing spot large enough to host her. Aemond is back again.

You angle the spout of the tea kettle between Baela’s paling lips and ply her with a small amount, less than a mouthful, then you rub her throat in just the right place to trigger her reflex to swallow. You know this trick well; you have used it on grievously wounded soldiers. You used it on Aegon after he was burned. You repeat the steps until the kettle is empty. Then you lay Baela flat again and watch her chest rise and fall slower, slower, slower until it stops. But still, you leave nothing to chance. You nick Baela’s wrist with a paring knife from the castle kitchens, until now tucked away in a pocket of your gown, emerald green silk to match the side of this war that you are pledged to. Her blood, unpropelled by the rhythm of a heart, dribbles sluggishly rather than spurts. She’s gone; she’s with her mother and Luke and Jace and the young sickly Viserys and Rhaenys, Otto and Helaena and Jaehaerys and Maelor and Autumn’s silver-haired son that she never had the chance to name. You wonder if the struggle goes on in the afterlife. Perhaps presently Otto and Baela are scratching and yowling at each other in a castle made of clouds.

Upstairs, Aemond is already in Aegon’s bedchamber. They are speaking in whispers when you enter, and you catch only pieces of the exchange: capital, Cregan, marriage, Daemon, crown. Larys stands in the corner of the room, his hands laced atop the handle of his cane. He gives you a reverent bow in greeting. He might not be so pleased to see you once he learns what you’ve done.

Aegon stops talking abruptly when he spots you and gestures for Aemond to go quiet as well, a commanding sweep of his hand. Aemond follows his brother’s gaze to the doorway. His lone blue eye climbs up and down you like a man on the rungs of a ladder. His hair is in one thick braid from his flight; stray white-blond strands that have been ripped free hang in disarray around his stoic, unreadable face. Aemond does not bow to you and never will. He only leers, a silver-haired wolf, a hawk with unhollow bones.

“Hello, Angel,” Aegon says, beaming or at least attempting to. He is frail and pallid and too thin and dripping sweat. There are indigo rings around his eyes like bruises. His legs are swollen, grotesque mountain ranges beneath the blankets. You rush to him and sit on the edge of the bed, feeling his forehead for fever and combing your fingers fondly through his hair.

Aemond sighs irritably. “Anyway, I’d like to torture her.”

“My prince…” Larys urges.

Aegon holds up a palm. “Now now, Lord Larys, let’s hear his proposal. Exactly how much do you intend to torture Baela?”

“Quite a bit,” Aemond says.

“To death?” Aegon asks hopefully.

“I don’t see why not.”

“My prince!” Larys says again. “Please, consider the possible ramifications, she is a prisoner of substantial strategic value, if your mother was here she would caution—”

“I’m afraid that Baela can no longer be interrogated,” you confess, and they all turn to you. There is a long, laden pause.

“And why is that?” Aemond says.

“Because she is dead of poisoning.”

“What?!”

“In her cell. Her body is there now. Feed her to Vhagar or Sunfyre, throw her in the sea, do whatever you wish with her. But she has paid her debt for the harm she inflicted upon us.”

Slowly, a grin splits across Aemond’s face. Larys shakes off his shock and resigns himself to it. But Aegon is neither proud nor reconciled. “You did that?” he says softly.

“You wanted Baela dead.”

“Yes, I did. But you don’t take life,” Aegon says, remembering what you once told him in King’s Landing. His oceanic eyes are stunned and fearful; not because Baela is was murdered, but because you were the one to end her. Because until now he was still able to tell himself that you could somehow escape this war unscarred, unruined. “You preserve it.”

“I preserve yours,” you reply. And when you offer him milk of the poppy—with no fear, for you know precisely how much it takes to kill a man—Aegon refuses it again, taking his suffering pure and sharp like the glass of a mirror.

~~~~~~~~~~

“What will happen to him?” Aemond asks you. You’re sitting on the stone staircase together under overcast midday skies, sipping wine and watching Sunfyre amble lethargically up and down the beach. You aren’t sure what’s made him so restless: his own dire injuries, Aegon in torment within the castle walls, something else entirely, some premonition that only beasts of ancient magic know. At last, Sunfyre seems to have exhausted himself and crumples onto the sand.

“I think Aegon will walk again. Eventually.”

“But he won’t be able to fight.”

You shake your head. “No.”

“Fuck,” Aemond hisses caustically, glowering out over the ocean.

You look at Aemond, needing to ask but terrified of the answer. “Can you win without him?”

“Can we win, you mean?” He smiles faintly, then sobers again. “I think so. Just before I left the Riverlands to come here, I received reports that Daemon had sent his lowborn little child bride away with Sheepstealer. He is trying to protect her from Rhaenyra’s assassins. My bitch of a half-sister has thus done us a remarkable favor. If Daemon is alone, I have no doubt that Vhagar can slay Caraxes. They say Daemon has fled Harrenhal. He’s hiding from me. I will find him, and I will burn him. I will end this war.”

“You need to be with Criston when his army faces the Northmen.”

“Of course,” Aemond says; but something in his face worries you.

There is a high-pitched shriek overhead, a glimmering flash of vivid gemstone blue. You startle and Aemond’s hand juts out, grabs you by the forearm, yanks you closer to him; then he relaxes when he recognizes who it is.

Aemond sighs loudly. “Why the fuck can’t he stay where he’s supposed to be?!” Then he stands, helps you to your feet while he’s at it, and heads down to the shoreline to meet Daeron and Tessarion.

The Blue Queen circles the beach several times, Daeron peering down as if struggling to understand something, his long white-blond hair whipping in the wind. At last Tessarion lands, her claws sinking into the wet sand, ocean froth bubbling around legs. Her long, swanlike neck stretches out towards Sunfyre, soft inquisitive squeals emanating from her jaws. Daeron leaps down from the saddle and strides to where Sunfyre is sprawled helplessly on the beach.

Alicent’s youngest child is clad in mint green—including a cape that billows out behind him in the seaside breeze—and glinting gold accents everywhere, buckles on his boots and the clasp of his cape and even a freckling of studs in his ears. He props both hands on his waist as he scrutinizes the crippled dragon. “Well, you’re not Moondancer.”

“He ripped Moondancer’s throat out,” Aemond says. “And then he ate her.”

Daeron whistles and gazes at Sunfyre admiringly. “I heard that Baela and Moondancer had taken possession of Dragonstone. I came to murder them. But now I see my services are unnecessary.”

“Baela is dead.” Then Aemond adds, nodding to you: “Here is the executioner.”

Daeron considers you, then laughs and assails you with a spirited embrace that nearly knocks you off your feet. “Welcome to the family, Lady Celtigar.”

“She’s the queen now.”

“Is she?” Daeron asks, eyebrows raised. “I was not under the impression that our brother was in any particular hurry to marry again.”

“His priorities seem to have shifted,” Aemond says.

“Can I see him?” Daeron looks around the beach and then up at the castle, shielding his eyes from the greyscale daylight. “Is he not outside with you? What is he doing in there? Not reciting prayers and composing poetry, I’d imagine.”

In Aegon’s bedchamber, Daeron cannot conceal his shock, his dismay; he gawks at the king like he is a three-legged dog, a blinded orphan. He stands thunderstruck at the end of the bed, taking in the vague yet horrifying outlines of Aegon’s shattered legs, the gauntness of his face, the fact that he is incapable of playing any meaningful role in the war for the foreseeable future. You sit on the bed beside Aegon, Aemond lurks by a window, Larys observes intently from a respectful distance, his eyes following every word as they flit through the air.

When Daeron recovers somewhat, he says: “I need to know what to do about Hammer and Ulf.”

“Why?” Aegon replies wearily. “What’s wrong with them?”

“Apparently, Mother once offered them the seats of House Costayne and House Merryweather as compensation for their efforts on behalf of the Greens, and they accepted. But now that’s suddenly not good enough. They’re asking me for the Riverlands and the Vale.”

Aegon turns to Aemond. “Is there anything left of the Riverlands these days? Should we find a new name for them? The Smolderlands, perhaps? The Everything-Is-Dead-Here-Now-Lands?”

“This is serious,” Aemond says flatly.

“I’m entirely serious.”

“Should I just tell them they can have whatever they want?” Daeron asks. “And then when the war is over and we’ve won…you know…pretend not to remember that conversation?”

“They can’t be given territory of any importance,” Aemond says. “They aren’t nobility.”

Daeron amends: “More relevantly, they are devoid of accountability and self-discipline. They drink all day and whore all night, and…oh, I mean no offense, Your Grace.”

“Fine,” Aegon says, preoccupied. There are fat beads of sweat on his bloodless face, glistening misery in his eyes. He gazes sorrowfully down at his left hand where he once wore his golden dragon ring before he lost it the same day he destroyed his legs. You pour him a cup of red wine and he drains it in seconds. You fill another.

“My point is that Hammer and Ulf are increasingly unreliable. I am only halfway convinced they could even show up for a battle before it was over. And yet we need them. Especially if Sunfyre cannot fight.”

“Agree to their requests,” Aemond says. “And if they survive the war, we will deal with them then. Rhaenyra’s faction is the greater enemy. We cannot risk the Dragonseeds racing back into her arms.”

“Lord Larys?” Aegon prompts dimly

“I could not agree more, Your Grace.”

“And on the subject of Rhaenyra,” Daeron continues. “Tessarion and I can take King’s Landing. Syrax is the only dragon in the city now, and Rhaenyra has never ridden her into combat.”

“No,” Aegon says. “We cannot risk setting the capital ablaze and turning the people against us. And Mother is there. Everett is there.”

“Everett?” Daeron looks around, baffled. “Who the fuck is Everett?”

“Angel’s brother. Not the firstborn son. The other one.” And as Aegon explains this, his chest is heaving and his eyes are glazed over. He tries to reposition himself in bed and has to bite down on his lower lip to keep from crying out, hard enough to draw blood.

“Is there anything else?” you ask Daeron and Aemond, a warning in your face. He needs rest. He needs to sleep, to heal.

“No,” Aemond says. He paces towards the door and snatches Daeron’s cape as he passes by him, hauling him out into the hallway. You follow after them.

As soon as he is out of earshot of Aegon’s room, Daeron tells Aemond: “He doesn’t look good.”

“He’ll be fine.”

“Aemond, I think you should prepare to—”

“He’ll be fine!” Aemond snaps.

“You don’t think I’m losing something too?” Daeron demands furiously. “You don’t think I want him to be well again? Of course I want that. But if wishing people to live made it possible, the world would be a very different place.”

“You are needed in the Reach,” Aemond says, and that’s all.

Daeron glares up at him, incredulous, defiant. “This will be over soon. I hope you’re ready for what comes next.”

Then he storms out of the castle, soars down the long stone staircase, meets Tessarion on the windswept beach and takes flight into the southwest where the earth is green but the nights are an inescapable, dreamless black.

~~~~~~~~~~

Aegon is weeping again; you hear him from the hallway. It is after nightfall, and the castle is illuminated only by firelight. Candles flicker; the hearth crackles and pops. In the shadows, Aegon lies with his dragonfire scars and his fractured legs and his useless hereditary magic, tears streaming down his face. You have a vision of what he will look like when he’s dead; you imagine the Stranger reaching up from underneath the bed to seize him with claws like a raven’s talons and drag him out of existence.

“I need it,” Aegon sobs when he sees you, grasping for the glass bottle of milk of the poppy. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t want to need it, but I do.”

“I’m here, Aegon. It’s alright. Let me help.” You pour him a cup of the bitter remedy, a strange gleaming white like pearl, opal, moonstone. Then you tilt the cup against his lips. Aegon gulps down the milk of the poppy and then falls back into his sea of pillows.

He murmurs, eyes closed as you graze the backs of your fingers feather-lightly over his unmarred cheek: “I wanted to start over with you.”

“You’ll still get the chance.”

“No,” he whimpers miserably. “I ruin everyone. Everyone I’m given, everyone I touch. Helaena, Jaehaerys, Maelor. We don’t even know where Jaehaera is, in Storm’s End, lost on the road, taken captive, dead. Otto, Autumn, Aemond, Mother, Sunfyre. And now I’m ruining you too.”

“You’re not,” you plead with him in a whisper. And not for the first time, you think: What do you require from me, Aegon? Wrath, compassion, healing, children? What can I do to give you hope again? Tell me and it’s yours. I’d do anything. I’d become anyone. “Aegon?” you begin, trying to ask him; but he is already unconscious. He’ll likely be out until sunrise.

You drink cup after cup of red wine and sit in the flame-lit shadows with him, in the quiet, in the liminal space between decisions, envisioned sins and prospective virtues. Then you leave the bedchamber like a ghost, a creak here and a tap there and no other trace. You wander down long, twisting corridors framed by dragons of iron and stone. And at the other end of the castle beyond a door you’ve never opened before is the lair of a very different breed of dragon: tall and lean and ambitious, his eyepatch removed and stowed away for the evening, his long silver hair hanging freely to his waist.

He is wearing cotton sleeping trousers but nothing else. He is seated at his writing desk and scrawling something onto parchment in black ink, a list or a diagram or a design for a new crown upon his ascension to the throne, you don’t know and you have no intention of asking. You have far too many things on your mind already. You feel nauseous and unsteady, you feel like you can’t possibly go through with this. You can’t imagine it. You can’t fathom what he would feel like, taste like.

Aemond steals a nonchalant glimpse of you, having no sense of your inner turmoil. “Can I assist you with something?”

“Yes,” you say simply, sipping your wine under the stone arch of the doorway.

He looks up at you again, his quill suddenly still in his hand. His two eyes are on you, one wide and river-blue, the other a soulless glittering sapphire in a tangle of ruined flesh. And now he understands. There are other Targaryens, he had said. “Take off your clothes. Sit down on the bed.”

You step inside his bedchamber and close the door behind you, setting your empty cup on the edge of his writing desk. You walk to his bed—dark green blankets, gold thread—and shed each piece of clothing you have on, a black gown and everything under it, not looking to see if Aemond is watching you, too anxious, trembling wildly. But you know his gaze is on you when you—standing naked and shivering in the firelight—begin to pull back the blankets and hear the sharp reprove in his voice.

“I did not tell you to hide yourself from me,” Aemond says. “Sit at the edge. Yes, there. Good.”

You perch on the bed and wait for him, your ankles linked, legs swinging restlessly, arms crossed over your chest. Aemond is staring at you from the opposite end of the room. You can’t look at him; you look elsewhere, at the tapestries of dragons hanging from the drafty stone walls, at the thick candles that drip white wax. And this won’t be like lying with a stranger, but it won’t be like lying with someone you want either, because you are profoundly uneasy and monstrously ashamed and perhaps even afraid.

Aemond is approaching now, firelight skating over his smooth, unsinged skin. He is undoing the tie at the waist of his trousers. He yanks them off, revealing himself to you. He is already hard, and he is massive, vast in length and width. The panic hits you like a breaking wave.

“Oh,” you gasp in alarm, unable to stop yourself. Then you explain so he won’t be offended: “I’m not going to be able to take you if I’m not ready.” You rest a hand on your bare thigh, slip it between your legs, begin to stroke yourself the way Aegon does, trying to relax, trying to think of him…

“No,” Aemond says, moving your hand aside. “Let me.”

Obediently, you rest your palms just behind you on the mattress, open your thighs for him, inhale sharpy as Aemond’s long, artful fingers touch you somewhere only one other man ever has. And you’re a traitor, the worst kind of traitor, because it’s working: you can feel yourself opening for him, hungering for him, coating his hand in slick warm wetness.

Aemond isn’t looking at your face. His eye is fixed on the place where his fingers are circling, where he is now pushing two inside of you, and while it happens abruptly and roughly enough to startle you it is not quite painful, or maybe it is, just the tiniest bit, but the pleasure eclipses the pain, the pleasure is a current you are powerless to swim against.

“You can tell me to stop,” Aemond says as he strokes you from the inside with his fingers buried to the knuckles, his breathing labored. “I don’t want you to. But if you tell me to stop, I’ll listen. Okay?”

You nod, and instead of an answer you give him a moan, stifled but unmistakable, dark treasonous forbidden ecstasy. And this snaps something in Aemond, it unleashes a part of him he’d been keeping tied up like an untrustworthy animal, one that could maul or maim or kill. He drops to his knees, hooks his arms beneath your thighs, drags you to him until his lips and tongue are on you with dizzyingly blissful pressure. You fall back onto the bed, one hand twisting into the blankets, the other in his waterfall of unruly silver hair, pushing him even harder against you as he licks ravenously. Aemond doesn’t seem to mind; with each roll of your hips and bitten-back plea his enthusiasm blooms, hums and triumphant chuckles spilling from his mouth as he swallows down the proof of your desire. It’s starting, that swift climb towards a high like nothing else on earth, something Aegon once taught you was possible. You are a betrayer, but with the very best of intentions; you are making a sacrifice, but it feels so much like a gift.

“Aemond, I’m ready,” you pant, your fingers hopelessly knotted in his hair. “You can do it now, you can…” And then you lose your words because instead of rising to his feet, Aemond stays right where he is, his tongue insatiable, his face drenched in your wetness.

He’s going to make me…I’m so close…

“Aemond, what are you waiting for…?”

His lips close around the spot where you are most sensitive and he sucks forcefully, and that feeling like a shuddering, irresistible unravelling strikes you harder and faster than it ever has before, so intense it is almost painful, sharp and commanding, not something he is doing with you but to you, and you know even in the golden haze of the climax that this is not about love but about power, pride, control, worthiness.

He doesn’t stop. He is licking you again, opening your folds with one hand, thrusting two fingers inside of you with the other. You are still feeling the pulsing, involuntary aftershocks of one high when the next begins building, building, building, and when you close your eyes all you can see are waves on the ocean in a storm, swelling to impossible heights and ungoverned by anything except the dubious mercy of nature.

“Aemond please,” you beg in a frayed whisper, bathed in sweat and guilt and frenzied lust. “I’m ready. Just do it, please…”

And then he wrenches you into another vortex and it takes everything in you not to scream, not to jolt awake the skeleton crew that tends to Dragonstone and its surreptitious guests. You are beyond complete thoughts, beyond sentences. You are boneless, your muscles have turned to mist and air, you are entirely under Aemond’s control and that’s where he has wanted you all along.

“Aemond, please, please, please…”

Unable to resist any longer, he stands—wiping the glistening, dripping sheen from his face with the back of one hand—and forces his cock inside you to the hilt. He does not slow down when he meets resistance, and you don’t tell him to. You moan in shock at the disorienting fullness, you cannot help it; it is a feeling on the knife’s edge between ripping agony and euphoric pleasure. It is something you would gratefully die of. He moves within you, deep and quick, his hands clasping your hips. Emotionally, you feel nothing but a razored, perilous, impersonal intensity; in your body, it is paradise.

Again? Again…?!

“Are you going to come for me one more time, Angel?” Aemond taunts you as he thrusts; and that’s Aegon’s name for you that he’s using, and it’s wrong, and Aemond knows that, and there is absolutely nothing you can do to break the spell he’s got you under, you can’t tell him to stop, you don’t have the will to, and if this is about power then you know who’s won out of the three of you, you know who has steel in his bones and lightning cracking in his veins.

It’s different this time, pleasure rising like the tide in your whole body, a peak that is not concentrated so clearly between your legs but everywhere: fingertips, spine, belly, heart.

“Come for me, Angel. I know you can do it.” And then for the first time Aemond leans in close to you, his pristine scarless chest pressed to yours, his lips traveling from your throat to the curve of your jaw, his tongue darting into your mouth before you can turn away, and he tastes like pure, mineral lust, and maybe that’s not just because of what he’s done to you, maybe that’s all he is all the way down, hunger that is never satisfied, a need to consume like fire burns flesh.

You whimper, a desperate vulnerable sound, a pleading for him to finish what he’s started and give you this one last high, just one more, just one, please, please, you’ll do anything.

“I’m better than him, aren’t I?” Aemond demands as he fucks you, and there’s no other word for it. This isn’t making love, this isn’t a meeting of souls, it is using someone else’s body to patch up all your hollows, all the pinprick voids you’ve been walking around with for years, losing yourself one blooddrop at a time until you pass by a mirror one day and think who the hell is that? “I know how to take care of you. I know what you want. I can do things Aegon never could. I’ll make you come again. I’ll give you a prince.”

And he coaxes it out of you like the memory of a dream, more like an ether than something you could name: a shimmering elation all over, a cry you can only muffle by biting down on Aemond’s neck as he pounds into you, and then he at last he surrenders what you came here for, but only after all the rest of it. He fills you with himself, so much of it that you can feel it pouring out onto the blankets, immense flooding wet warmth that gives you no satisfaction whatsoever.

I’m a traitor, you think, and for all the times you’ve changed your skin this is the very worst of them. I shouldn’t have done this. I wish I hadn’t done this.

Aemond lifts himself off of you and rolls onto his back, panting alongside you as you both stare up at the ceiling, drenched in each other’s salt and knowing things that were once so unthinkable. Aemond is gazing over at you. His clear blue eye is tracing your lips, your breasts, your hips, your folds that are soaked with his sweat and seed. You don’t want him watching you. You feel sick knowing he’s watching you. You get up from the bed and begin putting on your gown.

Aemond says: “We should probably try again tomorrow.”

You shake your head. “I can’t,” you reply quietly.

He sits up on the bed, his lone eye narrowed and suspicious. His hair is damp and now flows over his shoulders in disheveled silvery waves. “What?”

“I can’t do this again. I’m sorry, I just can’t.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes.”

“So that’s it,” Aemond flings. “Just this once and never again. Never again in our whole goddamn lives.”

“It feels like betraying him. It is betraying him.”

“And what if he can’t father any more children?!”

“Then I’ll be barren.”

Aemond glares, petulant, affronted. “I thought you wanted to help this family.”

“You didn’t do this for your family. You did it for you.”

“Yeah, you’re right. I’m a fucking monster.” He tears off the bed, tugs on his trousers, ties the knot with swift furious hands.

“Aemond, I didn’t say that, I don’t think—”

“You’ve done enough,” he seethes, pawing through a chest of clothing. He finds a shirt and pulls it on, gathers up his things, rages to the bedchamber door. He whips it open and disappears into the nightscape corridor.

“Aemond!” you call after him in a fierce whisper, as loudly as you dare to. “Aemond, where are you going?!”

“To take Harrenhal,” he pitches over his shoulder. And then he’s gone, and maybe it’s your fault, and maybe it isn’t, but either way you are wholly convinced that it is.

You bathe in one of the massive tubs heated by the lava that runs deep beneath the rocky earth of the island, scouring away every trace of Aemond, lathering yourself with soap scented with pine, rinsing, lathering again. Still, you can feel the way he moved inside you with such battering, rapturous force. Still, you miss him, you miss being able to talk to him and look to him and trust that he will protect Aegon in every way he can, for no matter how much envy Aemond is built of you believe his love for his king is stronger.

You return to Aegon’s bed, always so careful now not to jostle his legs, his shattered bones that are only just beginning to mend. You are petrified that he will know somehow—that he will see it on your face, smell it sweating from your pores—but Aegon has nothing for you but seeking hands and contented, drowsy sighs.

“Where’d you go?” he mumbles, still half-asleep, drawing you in closer. “I missed you. I keep dreaming that everyone’s gone. I watch you walk through the doorway and I’m left here in bed all alone.”

“Aegon?”

“Yes, wife.”

“Do you need children with me to be happy?”

He waits a long time before he answers. When at last he does, he chooses each word carefully. “I have never felt a calling to be a father. I’ve never been any good at it. Jaehaerys, Jaehaera, Maelor…they were mine, but they also weren’t, and I can’t explain it. I felt nothing for them except a vague sort of sympathy that they had the misfortune of being born to me. Now, did a lot of that have to do with my relationship with Helaena? Probably. And do I think things would be different if I had children with you? Yes, I believe they would be, to some extent at least. But I don’t need children to be happy. I just need you.”

You say with tears in your eyes and your voice splintering: “I’m so sorry, Aegon.”

He is mystified. “For what?”

“For not being a better person for you. For not being able to cure or protect you. For not being able to end the war.”

“Angel, nobody can,” Aegon says, fingers snarled in your hair, lips to your forehead. Then he smiles; you can feel the warm, playful curl of it against your skin. “Well, except Aemond, of course.”

~~~~~~~~~~

She is there to greet him when he arrives. She creeps out of the shadows like a spider, long limbs and volcanic-glass eyes, whispers like wind in brittle fall leaves and flesh that will never refuse him. She wears black, not for one night like you did but always; she has long dark hair that she never cuts or braids or ties back. Sometimes there are raven feathers in it, sometimes herbs or powders from spells, sometimes twigs and petals, sometimes blood. It all washes out in the cold cryptic currents of the Gods Eye. Once Daemon Targaryen was here, but he did not have a wound in the shape that she could fill, could walk into like a doorway and stitch herself into the velvet-gore lining of his lungs, his liver, his heart. But now Daemon is gone. And Harrenhal has a new king to reign over the city of bones and ashes.

She meets him under the starlight that trickles in through the ruins of Harrenhal, less a castle than an architectural graveyard, less a place of beginnings than of calamitous ends. Her fingernails trace his scar and she tells him it is the mark of a hero. She touches her lips to his sapphire eye and tells him it reminds her of a god. And thus the doorway opens, and Alys drifts through it, silent and resistless like smoke, like a plague.

Perpetual Resurrection, Aemond thinks. He knows they are the words of House Celtigar. He has studied the mottos of every noble house in Westeros; but none speak to him more than these.

She touches him and he sees everything he could be. He tastes her lips and drinks down the smooth intoxicating fire that burns the boy he once was away.

[sachiko1309]

Let the poor woman come

Summary: some smut, but not too detailed, a surprise visit ;)

Generally this is just some short drabble from my story "The prophecy of the elvish warrior - a Haldir love story" which ccan be found on Wattpad and Ao3 (account name in my tumbler description) have fun with it 😉🥰

Word count: 1164

Warnings: smut, threesome, female orgasm, surprise visit from the elven daddy himself 😉 (but its mostly our blond warriors) Minors DNI !!!

Translation: hûn nin = my heart

I was completely bare between the two men. After our talk with Thranduil, they proceeded to rid me of my clothes and now here I was. Sitting on Haldirs lap, his cock deeply sheathed into my core, my legs spread by his strong thighs. Legolas kneeling in front of me, edging me. I was a quivering mess, sweat and slick sticking to my body, but it didn’t look like either of the elves cared. Haldir had stopped thrusting into me, just relishing my twitching pussy around his cock, leaving it up to Legolas to pull another orgasm from my body.

“So beautiful.” He murmured in my ear. “Do you like Legolas making you cum, meleth?” I let out another strangled moan, when Legolas finger danced over my clit. “Answer us, meleth. Tell us how good we make you feel.” Haldir pressed on, gripping my hips tighter, when I clenched around his cock. “Good!” I whined. “So good…”

A knock on the door interrupted us. “Yes?” Legolas answered, his voice sounding like he didn’t just finger me. To my fearful surprise the door opened and closed again. A light ‘thump’ indicated someone leaned against the wooden frame. Luckily the room we stayed in was rounding a corner, so from where the door was placed, you were unable to see the fireplace and bed. Legolas lips contorted in a devilish smile, when he started to stroke my clit again. From behind Haldir snuck a hand around my mouth to keep me from making a sound.

“I wondered…” My eyes went wide, when I realized it was Thranduil, who was standing there. “… whether it would be possible for you to help me organize a few things regarding the kingdom.” Slowing down his movement, to keep me from cumming, Legolas answered: “Of course, Adar. What exactly needs to be discussed?” The elven king sighted. “Ah just the way we intend to keep our borders safe. The war has strained our armies and as far as I am concerned the spiders did not seem to have gained as many casualties as we did.”

My muffled cry, forced Thranduil to stop mid explanation, but after a few seconds he kept on talking: “As well I want to show my apology by inviting you, Haldir and Visha to Mirkwood. I guess since the three of you are content to make this relationship work, I might as well invite her and the Commander to Mirkwood.”

“See it as done, Adar.” Legolas answered, not letting my face out of his sight. I was now twitching and panting from how close my orgasm was and I wondered why Thranduil didn’t pick on the tension and noises in the room. But my hopes were soon shattered on the ground, when the king spoke again: “Thank you, my son.” I heard him turn around, opening the door. “Ah and another thing. Let the poor woman cum. I am afraid the whole realm is yearning for her release.” Legolas chuckled between my legs, signaling for Haldir to take away his hand. “I will. Don’t worry.” Then, he circled my clit with the uttermost sinful touch, he ever used, pushing me over the edge. Even though I didn’t hear Thranduil leave the room, I couldn’t help myself. A loud moan, ripping from my chest, ringing through the room.

“Thank you.” Was the last thing I heard, before the door fell into its hinges. The sound shuttering through my body, freeing the insanity of what just happened.

“I fucking hate you!” I exclaimed. My breath still irregular. Legolas got up from his knees. “No, you love us.”

“Why did you do this? He is your father!” I asked, feeling something between arousal and embarrassment. “I will never be able to look him in the eye!” This had Legolas smirk again. “He was the one, prying on our intimate life. I guess he got what he wanted. Besides don’t tell me, you didn’t like it. I could see it in your eyes. The fear of being caught just went straight to your filthy little pussy, didn’t it?”

I gasped at his boldness, unsure what to say. He was right. I enjoyed the thrill of it, but I didn’t expect him to be this bold.

“Don’t worry hûn nin*. My father was never one to let people go against his believes and rules. If he really had a problem of engaging us in this situation, he would have waited. You know, elven hearing can be a big asset deciding whether to enter a room or not.” Legolas smiled at me, making his way to the bed, ridding him from the rest of his clothes.

Then he proceeded to take a seat on the broad bed in front of us. “Ride him.” Was all he said, slowly stroking his hard cock in his hand. I was stunned at his sudden change in demeanor. Legolas wasn’t usually the one to overtake Haldir in extruding dominance, but sometimes there were slight glimpses of the princes’ natural power slipping through. “What?” My voice was hoarse and thin of breath. Tilting his head to the side Legolas lips twisted into a cocky smile. “You heard my father. You are to be queen of Mirkwood at my side. Now show your commander what his queen likes. Take him as you please.”

I froze on the spot unsure of what to do. My brain reeling from the change of pace in the room. The newly found power sending butterflies through my stomach. Haldirs warm hand on my back startled me back into reality. I could feel him shuffle underneath me. Sliding towards the edge of the chair and leaning back. “Go on little starlight. Ride me. I am yours to take. Your throne to sit on. Well to be honest I would rather have you use my face as your throne, but this will do for now.”

His words had Legolas chuckle: “You see how eager the Commander is to please his queen? You are a natural.” “Both of you need an ego check.” I grumbled. “You are having way to much fun, teasing me like that and then throw me into cold water.”

Underneath me Haldir leaned forward, his lips brushing over my shoulder. “Would you rather have me rail you on the floor to Legolas feet?” Him growling into my ears, send goosebumps over my whole body and I involuntarily started to shiver.

Desperately trying to gain my stance back, I straightened up, forcing as much power into my voice that I could muster. “No. I am just fine.” Still unsure about what to do, I started to roll my hips in circular motions, as I was not able to do much more, since my feet barely touched the ground. But by the groaning noises coming from Haldir I was doing good. Following Legolas order, I completely focused on my own pleasure, riding my husband in the most sensual and deep way I ever did.

Taglist: gt13tbbart

[teyamsgrl]

Hi guurl, how you doing? good?

SO .. as a girl who obsessed with Neteyam ! I need to request you this ><

How about reader gives birth to twins! tow boys!

they became 14 YO .. they are famous in the clan because no one gives birth to twins before and they are always in troubles and the clan used to it lol

love your writing btw 💋🫂💋🫂..

hiiiiii i'm doing well, and thank you for the request! i love dad!neteyam and i think this is such a cute idea, i'm so excited to write it! and thank you i'm so glad you enjoy my fics! 🥰

i've restructured the storyline of atwow happenings for this - when lo'ak, spider, kiri and tuk encounter recom at the old shack, i'm making it that they never leave for awa'atlu, but rather spider just gets kidnapped. it'll make sense in the fic!!

p.s: so sorry for taking forever to complete this i feel terrible 😭 life def got in the way of everything including my writing which is so unfortunate BUT IM COMING BACK I SWEAR

troublemakers ✧ neteyam

°˖➴ warnings: fem omatikaya reader, mom!reader, agedup!neteyam, dad!neteyam, mention of pregnant!kiri, mention of children/parenting, mention of spider being taken by recom - muntxatan: male spouse/mate

as you sit on the floor of your hut weaving a basket for kiri as a pregnancy gift, you look up as you hear someone else enter your space. "hey, love" neteyam says, squatting down in front of you and examining your handiwork. "looks great, she will love it" you smile up at him and reach for his hands, dropping the basket from your grasp. "thank you, i really hope so.. she made me such a beautiful one while i was pregnant with the boys" your eyes glance over to said basket that rests atop the table across the hut, "speaking of, have you seen them?" you ask your husband.

"not for a while, i saw them while i was visiting my mom then they headed out towards... fuck i know exactly where they were going!" neteyam shoots up from his squatting position in front of you, holding a hand out to help you up. "old shack?" you question, grabbing a hold of his hand and heading towards the entrance of your hut. "definitely... they're gonna hear it from me" you two start to walk deeper into the forest, following the familiar trail towards the old shack. "ma'teyam... don't give them too much trouble, don't you remember when we used to sneak out here too?" a purple hue fills neteyam's cheeks as he recalls your younger times, squeezing your hand tightly as if to agree with you without words.

as you approach the shack, you instantly recognize the sounds of your sons; them arguing with each other was often a common occurrence. "stop being such an asshole! give me it!" mar'ue scolds his brother, chasing him around the old shack. "no! you'll have to catch me first!" kal'el taunts back, climbing on top of the shack. once they come into your view, you and neteyam squat behind some of the large foliage surrounding the area. you start to giggle as you watch them, a giggle also escaping at the protective look in your husband's eyes. he was quite the emulation of his father, always wanting his family to be safe and therefore expecting them to listen to instruction. your boys were quite the opposite of neteyam in this sense, they loved to mess around and constantly looked for trouble.

once mar'ue jumped on top of the shack as well, the boys instantly started to wrestle each other for whatever item kal'el was holding captive. they were hissing and growling at one another, lanky bodies rolling around atop the dilapidated shack. you watch as they get dangerously close to the edge of the shack, neteyam lunging forward to make himself known. "what brings you two out here? huh?" he questions, crossing his arms across his chest. you bite back a smile as you emerge from the plants as well, watching your boys freeze in surprise at the sudden presence of their dad. "w-well-" "it was his idea!" kal'el blurts, pointing to his brother. if looks could kill, your son would've been done for. "are you fucking serious-" "hey! watch your mouth" neteyam scolds, gesturing for them to come down. you smile at them as they head towards you both, leaning to hug neteyam's arm.

"what have i said about this place?" neteyam stares them down as they shift around under his gaze. "not to come out here..." they mumble in unison. "exactly. i wasn't allowed out here, and neither are you two. you have no idea how dangerous this place can be!" you rub neteyam's arm, trying to encourage him to calm down on the boys a bit. you knew what happened with spider back then still affected him, even though his adoptive brother has been home for a long time now. "you boys have to understand why your dad is so against you both being out here..." you squeeze neteyam's arm before continuing, "you know how uncle spider was away from home for a bit when your dad was younger?" you watch as your sons nod, curious as to what you'll say. the incident was hardly ever talked about as it was hard for everyone, especially spider. "well, it happened here. the sky people took your uncle spider right here, and kept him from home for a long time. not only is this a sensitive place for your dad, but it is risky to be out here. sky people are still coming to pandora and there is always a risk, especially in places they've visited before. i know it's fun to come out here and it feels exciting to go behind your dad's back, but this can be a scary place..." you trail off as the boys' faces fill with guilt, eyes locking on their dad.

neteyam lets out a heavy sigh after your words, moving to wrap his arm tightly around your waist. "i'm sorry, dad.." mar'ue says, looking for his brother to repeat the words. "me too, we didn't know, it won't happen again..." kal'el steps closer, coming to hug his dad on his free side. neteyam pulls him in tight, "it's okay, son. you were right, you didn't know" he rubs kal'el's shoulder before pulling mar'ue in too. you smile and make it a group hug, happy that the boys understand. "now go on, there's still hours until dinner, have some fun elsewhere" neteyam sends them on their way, chuckling as they run off towards the nearby pond. neteyam then wraps his arms around you, pulling you flush against his front. "you're so amazing.." he whispers, lips ghosting over yours. "i could say the same to you, muntxatan.. our boys truly look up to you" you press a kiss to his lips, pouring every ounce of love into it. he hums into it, hands trailing up and down your back.

"thank you for explaining it to them.. it wasn't fair for me to get so mad at them without explaining why" he whispers, one hand coming to push a braid behind your ear. "it's okay, it's not an easy topic for you or anyone in your family for that matter, it isn't just something you can effortlessly talk about" you whisper back, leaning into his hand. he nods at your words, pulling your head close so he can press his lips to your forehead.

you two head back to the village holding hands, delightfully in love just as you were years ago.

[kdogreads]

Imagine Chibs coming home to you and the boys

Set in the same world as this imagine 🥰💕

You’re sitting on your covered front porch, legs comfortably folded beneath you on a cushioned metal chair. A sweating glass of lemonade sits beside you alongside a bowl of freshly cut watermelon you’d just brought out.

Thomas and Abel are running around in the grass. Abel is usually the ringmaster and designates who is the cop and who is the robber, or who is Spider-Man and who is the Green Goblin. Thomas follows his brother’s lead loyally and happily goes along in whatever game Abel’s made up this time.

You were pretty sure you’d just heard Abel tell Thomas it was his turn to be the dog when you called for them.

“Boys! I brought the watermelon out!” You projected across the lawn that was spotted with indigenous plants and your abundant love of flowers.

Both their heads zipped in your direction before bike handles and action figures were being tossed to the ground. They basically ran each other over trying to get the first piece of the sticky sweet fruit.

You let out a laugh as they clamored up the walkway to get to their snack. You placed the bowl down on the side table and they dug in, red juice dripping down their hands and onto their arms.

You slid your phone out to snap a picture of the cute, sticky mess in front of you. Big cheeses from the boys, both holding a slice bigger than their faces graced your sight. You sighed and leaned in to kiss Thomas’s head.

The sweet picture quickly pops up on Chibs’ phone. A wide smile spreads across his face as he buckles his helmet and his bike roars to life. He was so excited to get home.

You always heard him before you saw him. The boys had resumed chasing each other in the grass when the faint rumbling started.

They looked at each other and then to you, silently asking if they were hearing what they thought they were. You nodded enthusiastically and the boys erupted in giggles. Their little bodies could hardly hold their excitement in.

Abel and Thomas stayed in the grass like you’d taught them and leaned on each other trying to get a better view down the road.

Finally, Chibs came into view, turning the corner onto your street. Excited squeals almost covered the loud rumbling until he quickly cut the engine and all you could hear was a jumbled mess of, “Uncle Chibby!” “Dada!” “You’re home!”

His helmet and glasses practically flew off his face as he rushed over to the plush grass, bending down do greet both of his boys at their level.

“Hi my boys! Were ya good lads for yer Ma today?” Chibs beamed as he spoke to his sons.

Each of them set off into a detailed description of their whole day from when he left until now. You picked up mentions of popsicles, petting Uncle Happy’s dog, and helping Uncle Tiggy change a tire, but everything else was a fast-paced jumble.

Filip looked up at you amidst the adorable chaos and, ever the flirt, sent you a knowing wink. He was silently saying “just wait until it’s your turn.”

A wide smile spread across your cheeks as you adoringly watched Filip interact with your boys. He nodded and encouraged them with a “s’that so?” or “really?” every now and then.

It had been several minutes when he just couldn’t wait any longer to get his hands on you.

“Whaddaya say you lads see who can run around the house the fastest, huh?” He suggested, both boys jumping up to get in starting positions, “Ready, on yer marks, go!”

The boys shot off as fast as their short legs could carry them and Filip stepped his way up to you. You stood up and let his strong arms wrap you up in a warm, tight embrace. You melted into his chest, soaking up his musk of something crossed between sandalwood and motor oil.

“How are ye, my love?” Filip cooed info your hair.

“Better now,” You stretched your neck up to give him a sweet peck on the lips, “We had a good day, but we miss Daddy.”

“Oh, lass, dinna worry, Daddy will see to ya later tonight,” He punctuated his thought with a sharp smack to your ass.

“Filip!” You squealed and jumped a little, still wrapped up in his thick arms, “You are a pig!”

“Aye, but I’m your pig, my love.”

He tipped his head back and huffed out a laugh just as both boys rounded the corner info the front yard. You twisted your head over to see them running their hardest next to each other.

“Eww!” Abel cried out, “Are you gonna kiss?”

Filip lifted a hand to wave them off, “Yous better take another lap if you don’t wanna find out!”

Both boys took off squealing as he leaned in to kiss you sweetly, one hand still waving the boys on to keep going.

You both let out a laugh as Filip turned to settle into the oversized porch chair and pulled you down with him.

There you sat, perched on the broad thighs of the love of your life, on the front porch of the home you’d transformed into your oasis, his strong arms pulling you close as the sounds of giggles and squeals of joy began moving closer again. It seemed so simple and, yet, it seemed like everything.

“How did I get so lucky?” The words fell from your lips before you even realized.

“Nay, lass,” Filip’s calloused hands held your face gently, tilting your body until your gaze met his, “I am the lucky one.”

He kissed you again, his lips convincing you that every word he spoke was the truth.

Giggles and screeches turned into you groans and gagging noises.

“I told ya not t’look, lads! Am I no’ allowed to kiss yer Ma?”

More giggles filled the air, including yours and Filip’s, as you settled into him, happy to watch the boys run around for a few more minutes before heading inside to settle in for the evening.

[marymary-diva17]

Avatar Masterlist

fluff - ☁️ angst - 💢/ 😠 romance 🥰 sad - 😢 wholesome - 😊 requests - ✉️/ 📨

(human, hybrid, avatar, na’vi reader)

omcaticaya

Jake

Broken vows (2) (3)(4)😢 😡 ☁️ 📨

Broken hearted 😢 ☁️ 📨

my past and future (2) 😢 ☁️ 😊 ✉️

a mother will

my sister

neytirI

Overprotective mom ✉️ 😊 ☁️

In love with her 😊 🥰 📨 ☁️

neteyam

Love at first sight ☁️ 🥰 😊

dance with me ☁️ 😊 🥰

Mute 😊 ☁️ 🥰 ✉️

yawne

born twice

Less favorite twin

sweethearts or yawne ☁️ 😊 🥰

the return of a son

in laws

healer of eywa

loak

pair of disappointment (2) ☁️ 😢 😊

my son my boy (2)(3)😢 😠

heartbreak (2) (3)😢 😠

the bond between brother

kiri

why are you awake little one

spider

My baby you are my baby ☁️ 😊

your are my son spider 😊 ☁️

talking about him ☁️ 😢 😊

Tuk

my precious daughter

a new friend means new adventures

sully family ( daughter/ sister reader)

Overprotective mom ☁️ 😊 ✉️

eywa bless child (2)📥 😢 ☁️ 😊

the ones left behind (2)😊 ☁️ 😢 😡 🥰

a good sister indeed

mom

mother and kids ☁️ 😊

talking about the past ☁️ 😢 😊

mama boys 😊 ☁️

gift of music 📥 😊 ☁️

sugar

mad or disappointed

sneaking off to be with you

our human mom

Tsu'tey

his dream walker ☁️ 😊 🥰

marry me 😊 🥰 ☁️

family 😊 ☁️

always me one of the people 😊 🥰 ☁️

she my wife my wife

matchmaker for love

Jake x y/n x neytiri

Overprotective mates ☁️ 😊 🥰

talking about the past 😢 😊 ☁️

our human wife

Jake x tsu'tey x reader x neytiri

New life 📥 😊 ☁️ 🥰

Their wife or yawne 🥰 😊 ☁️

Wouldn't change anything

Jake x tsu'tey x neytiri

our family 😊 ☁️

falling in love

Jake x tonowali x reader x ronal x neytiri

possessive mates 📨 😊 🥰 ☁️

your all my babies my babies 🥰 ☁️ 😊

new addition to the family (2)😊 🥰 ☁️

how did you meet mama

metkayina

ronal

happiness 📥 😊 😞 ☁️

friendship last forever 📥 😊 ☁️

rotxo

our little family 📥 😊 ☁️ 😔

tonowari x y/n x ronal

soft hearted warrior 🥰 ✉️ 😊 ☁️

heart of a warrior 🥰 📥 😊 ☁️

the warrior ways 📥

the ways of eywa

Miles/ Recoms

where is she (2) (3)😠 😢 ☁️

[naavispider]

Oh my god!!!💖💖💖💖💖💖💖 that ask about Spider calling Quaritch dad was so incredibly heartwarming!!!! Could we possibly get Miles’s POV on this?

Read Spider's POV here 🥰🥰

Quaritch frowned against the familiar eye strain that typing for too long on the holoscreen caused. He closed his eyes and rubbed the haze out of them, trying to refocus. He was so nearly done typing up the day's report. Wording the mission updates was always a tricky task - he was sure Ardmore would be checking them when she had time, continually assessing the effectiveness of not only the mission, but of Spider's participation.

So wording the reports right was crucial.

"Do you want me to finish off?" Wainfleet called, noticing the Colonel's discomfort. "You can proofread before I submit."

"Thanks Lyle," Quaritch murmured gratefully, eager to take him up on the offer. He passed the screen to the squad leader and stood up with a sigh, looking around the deck to see where Spider had got to.

There, sitting at the bow. His silhouette was barely visible against the brightness of the setting sun, and surrounded by the warm glow, he looked more like a boy than ever. Feeling bubbled in Quaritch's chest again - that old, familiar feeling that only Spider could cause. Damn that kid, he was probably taking years off Quaritch's lifespan.

Wanting a break from being Colonel, he made his way towards where Spider was sitting, and slowly sat beside the boy. Spider didn't look at him as he threw his legs over the side of the ship and leant back on his hands. He was staring straight ahead, admiring the glorious sunset.

"Not thinking too hard are we?" Sometimes Quaritch worried that the more Spider retreated into his pensive phases, the more certain the kid would become that Quaritch was an evil person after all. Of course, he would never voice that fear - not to anyone, even Wainfleet.

"Hmm," came the reply. Spider was nodding, but Quaritch could tell he didn't really care for the conversation. A great start, then.

"You did good today, kid," he persevered. It was true. Spider had held it together remarkably well, and Quaritch had to admit that every time Spider spoke Na'vi so fluently, it was very impressive.

"I'm honoured," Spider replied flatly.

This kid.

"Just trying to be nice," Quaritch countered, though he repressed a laugh. Of course Spider couldn't take praise.

Spider looked at him then, perhaps unsure why Quaritch was amused. He looked quizzical, his brows knitted together. Quaritch paused for a moment, taking in his son's naivety. The feelings in his chest multiplied. He hated when they did that, goddamnit. It was just so... endearing how Spider got confused whenever someone said a kind word to him. Quaritch just added that to the growing list of reasons to hate Jake Sully.

"Thanks, I guess." Spider looked away, staring back out to sea.

Quaritch looked closer. Was the kid blushing? Jesus, he should compliment him more often. "You've gotta teach me more Na'vi sometime."

Spider seemed to consider this, and Quaritch waited patiently for an answer. He knew Spider loved teaching Na'vi. It made the kid feel useful. Plus, Quaritch liked listening to him when he spoke in the strange sounds. It was kind of fascinating.

"Maybe." Spider paused. "But your accent's crap."

Ha! Alright kid. "Well, that just proves I need more practice then, doesn't it?" He was grinning, because Spider was grinning, and Quaritch couldn't give a shit about the insult. It had been too long since he'd seen the kid smile. "How do you say 'thanks'?"

Spider rolled his eyes at the sea. "Irayo."

The word sounded perfectly formed, rounded and accentuated in a way Quaritch knew he was about to butcher. "Well. Irayo, Spider."

That pulled another reluctant grin from the kid. Quaritch could see him trying to conceal it, but he couldn't fight it for long. Spider looked back at the sea to hide his enjoyment, and said in another flawless string of syllables, "Nìprrte."

Whatever that meant, Quaritch didn't care. He'd either just been insulted (again) or the kid was saying 'you're welcome'. Both were okay with him. Besides, insults were Spider's love language.

Quaritch decided to try his luck, and shuffled closer to Spider by a few inches. When the kid didn't react, he thought he'd really try it, since Spider was in such a good mood. He threw his arm over Spider's shoulders.

If Spider found it heavy or uncomfortable, he didn't show it. After a moment, Quaritch could feel him relax into the touch. There were those cursed feelings again. Sometimes he felt like he could burst with the strain of keeping them contained. Surely his body wasn't meant for this much emotion? He needed to get checked out at some point tomorrow by the ship's medic. It would be just his luck after all this to find out that Spider had actually caused him to have a heart problem.

They sat like that for a quarter of an hour, watching the sun go down beyond the horizon. At some point, Spider's head began resting against Quaritch's side. Woah. Quaritch looked down at his son fondly, curious. It was hard to tell from this angle, but he thought Spider's eyes were closed. He was falling asleep.

Quaritch never wanted this moment to end. The mission could wait, the squad could wait, Jake Sully could wait. The world would have to stop spinning if Spider was asleep against his side. Quaritch would make it.

The scraping noise of metal and engines sounding behind them told him that the crew were beginning to close up the top deck for the night. Dusk had fallen in earnest now, and Quaritch could sense the squad behind him restless for dinner. He sighed. It wasn't within his power to stop the world spinning after all.

"Come on," he forced himself to say. "Dinner. Let's not have you falling asleep on me here."

Spider sat up sleepily as Quaritch roused him.

"Thanks da-"

... Uh.

Quaritch froze. Had he heard correctly? Judging by Spider's furious blush, he had.

But he couldn't have.

Spider had been about to call him...

No. He couldn't even say it.

Dad.

What did that word even mean? It wasn't one Quaritch was familiar with. Perhaps it was a Na'vi word that Spider was trying to say.

He stared at the kid as Spider turned quickly away, also seeming to freeze as he fixed his eyes on a point below the waves.

Holy shit.

Suddenly, Spider hastened to get up, retreating away back to the squad without a word. Quaritch had half a mind to stop him - but he couldn't find his voice. He just stared hopelessly after him. Spider disappeared inside the airlock and Quaritch was left alone.

He returned his gaze to the horizon. When had he become breathless? When had his body become so heavy? He pulled in cool breaths as he let the half spoken word sink in. Spider had stopped himself just in time, but now Quaritch was sure what he had intended. Dad.

The word felt alien. Quaritch couldn't get over it. Yesterday, it was just a word. Dad. People had dads. Everyone had a dad. Now? It was like he'd never heard of it before - the concept was forever changed. He choked a gasp as he realised that for the first time in his cursed existence - whatever that may be - that he had someone in his life who relied on him as a father.

He had thought of Spider as his son for a while now. He was, after all - if in a roundabout sort of way. That hadn't changed. But he never expected Spider to return the feeling... Especially after all Quaritch was putting him through.

It was impossible.

And yet, here it was, right in front of him. The undeniable fact that he had crossed that line, no coming back. Spider viewed him as dad.

What now?

[frankenstein-ate-my-left-shoe]

🔔 FIC RECS!! GET YOUR STEDDIE FIC RECS HERE!!! 🔔

🥰=fluffy • ❤️‍🔥=spicy • 😭=there may be tears • 🖤=READ THE TAGS!!!! • 🙃=will not be the same after reading this • ❤️=they are just straight up in love • 🕰️=timeloop • 👻=ghost fic

Comfort fic: The Shire is NOT on Fire 🥰❤️‍🔥❤️ by @kissesforcas ; the party manages to convince Steve to take them to the ren faire/LARP

Recs:

Take the Money and Run 😭🥰❤️❤️‍🔥🙃 by thisapplepielife; OH MY GOD THIS FIC CHANGED MY LIFE. post s4, everyone lives, nobody dies, Eddie is healed, the party gets their hush money and Eddie convinces Steve to go on a roadtrip with him. They do, Steve has car rules, Eddie navigates, they fall in love, it's absolute perfection and I cried.

i’ve got you under my skin 🥰❤️😭 by @strawberryspence; The Proposal AU and this is THE steddie AU fic, i’m in love with all of it

anyway, don’t be a stranger 😭🙃🖤 by strawberryspence; the party convenes to hear the reading of one Steve Harrington's last will and testament.

bigger than the whole sky 😭🙃🖤 by strawberryspence , @undreaming-fanfiction ; Steve loves the sky, until he doesn't.

A Gem Beyond Counting ❤️❤️‍🔥 by teddywesworl; Eddie comes back from the upside-down not quite all the way right; basically PWP but it's a real good plot underneath, sex pollen, not actually unrequited love (author tagged this with dubcon because of the sex pollen aspect, but it is far from unwanted on either side, just a forewarning just in case!~).

i know you want me baby (i think i want you too) ❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥 by champselysees; Eddie has been staying with Steve since his trailer was demolished, and Steve comes home early from work one day.

STRIKE TEN 🥰 by oaseas (@metaldeads here on tumblr); S3!STEDDIE MY LOVES!! THE quintessential S3 / "Eddie meets Steve while he's working at Scoops" fic. absolutely perfect in every way.

steve harrington’s six-step guide to getting the guy 🥰❤️ by oaseas; Told in a pseudo 5 + 1 things type way, Steve is giving Lucas advise on his current Max Situation™ by telling him how he's been woo-ing Eddie.

Star Star 😭❤️(mild❤️‍🔥, if i remember correctly) by poorlittlegreenie; modern AU w/ no upside-down, slow burn fake dating that turns into real dating, angst with happy ending.

this is your home. these are your people. 😭🥰 by oaseas; Claudia Henderson and Wayne Munson start getting cozy and Steve feels like there's no room for him in Dustin and Eddie's newfound family.

Be Kind, Rewind 🕰️👻❤️ by @glutenfreeace ; Eddie died. Max dies. They won, but now undead/Ghost!Eddie and Ghost!Max use a portal through the upside down to travel back in time to their 1983 selves in order to fix everything right at the start.

That’s One Romantic Poltergeist ❤️❤️‍🔥👻 by appledagger; Ghost!Eddie fic where only Steve can see him. Just a classic ghost x living fic, angst with a happy ending, smut, just *chef's kiss* muah

like you wanted it forever ❤️ by cpressmn; what Eddie should have done after his "Hey, Steve?"

STEVE’S FIRST BRUISE 🥰 by cairparavels (Spider-man!Steve AU)

Dreams of Summer 🥰❤️❤️‍🔥 by Lazarus_Greene (@transizzyhands here on tumblr, one of my besties IRL!!!!) slice-of-life type fluff and getting together, Steve's dad is an ass, Wayne Munson is the best uncle ever, only the best for the blorbos.

We’re Better Off As Lovers and it’s companion fic We Could Never Be Unhappy 😭❤️‍🔥❤️🖤 by @appledaggerst there’s not much i can say about this one that won’t spoil things, but i promise you it’s so good!!!! modern au

One need not be a House 👻❤️ by @ohliooh; YouTube paranormal investegator!Eddie x Ghost!Steve; the long forgotten son of the Harringtons died alone, and haunts his former home alone. Things change when Eddie and Gareth decide to do some investigating into the Harrington house and their maybe son?

Top Recs/obvious Recs (top Kudos’d on AO3/more well known fics but these are my faves):

You’re Divine 😭🖤❤️‍🔥🙃❤️ by oonionchiver ( @azrielgreen here on tumblr) Kas!vampire!monster!Eddie. Beautiful writing, beautiful smut, beautiful story.

the most remarkable thing about you standing in the doorway is that it’s you (😭🙃🥰❤️, mild❤️‍🔥) and it’s sequel frozen with joy right where i stand (😭🥰❤️) by @greatunironic ; takes place 16+ years in the future, ​starting with Max and Lucas' wedding. Certified rockstar Eddie Munson (now Ed Levy) reconnects with basketball coach Steve Harrington and life happens from there.

The One in Which a Time Loop is Fucking Exhausting (😭🙃❤️🕰️) and it’s sequel Steve Harrington’s Deaths (And The Times He Maybe Saved The World). (😭🥰❤️) by @badpancake ; This is the first timeloop fic I read and it remains my favorite.​

the affliction of the feeling ❤️‍🔥❤️by nondz (pinkjook) smut, smut, smutty smut, smut. This fic made me fall in love with bottom!Eddie and I haven't let it go since.

Heartbreak Hotline *69 ❤️🥰❤️‍🔥 by appledagger; Eddie and Robin pull a one-time, totally harmless prank on Steve. Key words being "one-time". RIght, Eddie?

Good Ol’ Fashioned Sexuality Crisis During the Apocalypse 🥰😭❤️‍🔥 by words_reign_here; They lost, but didn't lose Eddie, didn't lose Max, now they are just waiting for him to come back. In the meantime, Steve finds out more about himself and introduces his newfound family to his grandparents. Found family, fluff, canon-divergent but close to it.

You Were Sleeping With Your Rings On 😭❤️❤️‍🔥 by its_steddie_time; Steve loves the rain

[hyperfixatedfandomer]

Can you pretty please write something really really angsty like Spider being insecure and having issues with self worth and feeling conflicted with having an actual father figure that actually cares about him?

Really have been enjoying your writing 💜💜💜

Awww sure! I’m always up for writing angsty Spider and Quaritch feels 🥰

Burden of a lone pup

Spider was a loner for most of his life, that was his fate. To be a stray cat, a drifter, a hermit.

The kid tried so hard to fit in from a very young age, but it seemed as though no one really wanted him. Or, well, it’s not like Spider was hated per ce, but no one was willing to make the leap and take responsibility for him as a proper parent. Some tried, like his "foster parents" at hell’s gate, but they haven’t bothered to provide for him beyond physical objects such as a roof or clothing.

And for the longest time, Spider convinced himself that it was fine. He was a tough kid, he could handle being a lone wolf (though he was perhaps more of a pup at the moment). It wasn’t anyone’s fault that he was born at the worst time and from the worst person imaginable.

However, humans are sadly social creatures who long to have a community or a family to fall back on, whoever that might be, so the kid kept drifting, trying desperately to gaslight himself into thinking that it was alright, that it was no one’s fault for not needing him. He was the son of a man who lead a war on Omatekaya, he should be thankful that they haven’t killed him yet and keep his head down.

But then, one day, while on an outing with friends, the boy got kidnapped. Taken away from everything he’s ever known by a man who he never thought he’d meet face to face.

Miles Quaritch. Could this twist get any more insane?

Oh yes it could, because Spider found through the past several weeks of going on "trips" with him and his squad that, to his horror…it wasn’t that bad.

It wasn’t that bad because Quaritch actively accommodated their translator. He kept him close, warm, and well fed at all times, though he didn’t have to.

Spider couldn’t remember last time he didn’t have to hunt his own food, or the time an adult gave him a piece of clothing to wrap into when Pandorian nights became too frigid. Miles’s jacket was big and puffy and felt nice to sleep in. He’d never admit that aloud though.

The attention given to Spider felt weird to him at first, even suspicious, like Quaritch was for whatever reason interested in getting on his good graces.

But it seemed genuine, disgustingly so.

And Spider hated it. Hated the way Miles’s years would perk up and towards him whenever the boy spoke, all attention on him, even when he talked about the most useless, trivial things that had nothing to do with surviving the hostile environment. He hated how the tip of marine’s tail would wag when Spider showed a rare smile or a laugh.

He hated how, when the camp went to rest at night, Quaritch would crouch where the kid slept, far from other recoms, and whisper a gentle "good night, tiger" thinking Spider was out of it, when in fact he’s quite a light sleeper.

He loathed how, on one of those nights, Quaritch approached his lying form and leaned down, giving his son captive a kiss on top of his head. And he resented the way his heart exploded at that gesture.

Spider only knew this man personally for a month and a half, and before that, he used to watch him on screens for more than a decade, learning of all Miles’s atrocities.

Yet in that moment he wanted nothing more than to leap up, hug this monster and plead with him to never leave. His eyes teared up at the realisation.

It was pathetic. How could Spider want something to do with Quaritch? He knew of all his sins, of how cruel he could be, how soulless and cold.

So why did he yearn for those small bits of affection he’d receive from him every day? Why did he melt at the praise? Why did he want to be taken care of?

It must be because he is a horrible person. It made total sense now. Spider had Quaritch’s blood running through his veins, it was only fair he’d be an asshole just like him and as the thought sank in, he felt like taking off his mask and throwing it away.

Spider was a traitor now, so he didn’t deserve to live, he thought, ignoring that small, crying part of him that just longed to be loved, to not be alone anymore, to be seen, because he wasn’t worthy of it.

Spider Socorro was not worthy of love, and it made Quaritch’s gentleness all the more painful.

He wished none of it ever happened. He wished he’d never experience parental love like he had in these past few weeks. He wished he could just be a hermit again but alas, Miles has the boy in his clutches, and he isn’t keen on letting go.

So why not give in? Spider thought, just a little?

Just this once?

.

.

.

It’s not much, but it’s honest work 😮‍💨 hope you like it! 💅

[ao3gobi17]

Hi I have two questions - What would you have done differently if you’d written AWOW? And if Custody was set in Pandora what would that look like? 🥰

I really loved AWOW and any changes I'd make would be dependant on whether I knew what was coming up in Avatar 3 and beyond.

A couple of things that come to mind are:

1. I don't think it's super clear why Ardmore still has the recoms chasing after Jake after Jake gives up the fight and runs away. If they think he's still leader of the Omatikaya and is just recruiting the Metkayina/drumming up support from other clans I would have made that a little more obvious.

2. It seems like Neytiri giving Spider the scar is meant to parallel Jake giving up leadership earlier in the movie, but I'm not clear on what that parallel is.. presumably its the son for a son thought from Jake later since Spider has never been a leader? I would have either changed the earlier scene or made this more obvious.

3. I think they did a good job with so many characters in the climatic sequences, but there was a lil bit 'one gets captured then freed then another captured and freed, people are split into twos and threes then split into different twos and threes', esp with the kids... I mean I loved it, I'm glad it was a long sequence, but I reckon it needed tightened up, with the Metkayina being a little more visible.

4. This is less for plot reasons and more for selfish reasons but I would have liked one more (short even) Q and Spider scene. Especially during the Seadragon period because they'd got super comfortable with eachother, Spider is now 'betrayed' and upset as Q is decimating these villages and it would have been good for him to have had a bit more animosity towards the Seadragon crew and esp after he sees that they hunt the Tulkun for just the Amrita.

5. I would have had Lo'ak and the other kids name check Spider during the Metkayina sequences - when Jake references him to Kiri when she's upset, it feels like a very barren single reference, like they only just remembered him.

6. I would have only had the one recom die when Neytiri and Jake (and Neteyam) ambush Q to save the kids. I understand that it helped establish Neteyam and it would be weird for Jake to not get a successful kill, but I'd have preferred if after Neytiri's first shot there's just a lot of diving for cover etc like the recoms are actually pretty worth opponents? Would help with the shock impact later of Neytiri's rampage.

7. I probably would have given Payakan a voice... like a telepathy type thing... maybe not using a lot of words and maybe only for Lo'ak but I wanted to get a 'human' vibe from him.

8. I would have de-Americanised Spider and Lo'ak a bit and I would have had Q do the haircut and get clothes on Spider.. It would be good for showing time passing and esp if Spider is slowly reverting back to his original form without Q stopping him, while Q himself is getting more Na'vi.

The Custody question is tricky, because I deliberately went modern AU to avoid Pandora! You could have a scenario where Q appears to have killed Paz but I imagine he'd be court marshalled and sent back to earth or else he'd be 'forgiven' to continue work as normal. Q and the RDA are the main authorities on the human side, so it's less likely we'd see the combo of him stitched him up by someone internally and also remain in his post.

So I guesss... I'd have him captured by the Na'vi? Spider doesn't visit him because of the whole war criminal thing. Jake and co are keeping him alive for intel. Q is still demanding to see Spider that way. He could be recom!Q or regular!Q - and then his team probably rescue him and grab Spider same time?? Or maybe they rescue him and try to find Spider but grab a Sully kid instead and that plays out like the Leo thing but with the comms. I'm not sure the Paz thing would be much of a murder mystery though, so aside from Q attempting to bond with a reluctant Spider, it would prob diverge a lot from the original plot! <3

[imintoomanyfandomscuzihaveadhd]

Avatar Modern au | High School edition (Metkayina kids)

A/N: The ages and grades are just based off me. Also all these head cannons are either based off of common high school experiences, my high school experience, or things that happened at my high school. I made these half asleep and I’m to lazy to proofread 🥰

Aonung

15 so he’s a sophomore

Him and the sully boys are frenimes

Probably walks around with his speaker on full blast

Also In ROTC

Him and his gang of fugly thugs be taking up all the space in the hallway

One of the biggest and badest boys in the school but is scared to ask his crush out

Plays football in fall and on the swim team in spring

Kiri pierced his ears and he cried

Surprisingly good at art

A, B student

Wears tank tops and shorts during the winter

Probably was a SoundCloud rapper in middle school

Quite as hell when he’s not with his friends

Man’s a respectful bully

Like he’ll beat yo ass but he gonna use your preferred pronouns

Plays that one football game on his chrome during class

Him and roxto stole his moms car in 9th grade and went for a joy ride at 3am

They got their ass beat

Roxto

15 so he’s a sophomore

Basically lives with aonung

Has all the movie websites

Everyone thinks he aonung and tsireyas brother

A, B student

Also on the swim team

Probably takes psychology with kiri

Literally everyone’s friend

The people that don’t think spider is dating kiri thinks roxto is dating kiri

Blanks out a lot

Lets girls play with his hair

That one kid that randomly shows up in underclassmen classes to hang with the teacher

Has or had braces

That one boy that has like 50 female friends

He’s their son

Quite like aonung

Sleeps in class

This boy is never paying attention

How is he passing

Tsireya

14 so she’s a freshman

Her and lo’ak be matching outfits

Goes all out for homecoming

Like she Has all the best costumes

On the dance team

Also on the swim team

Dose hair and nails as a side hustle

Goes to all lo’aks games

Always has gum

Literally so nice

Has a belly piercing

Yk she be bringing them good packed lunches

Will give you some if you ask

Also friends with everyone

In theater with lo’ak

A student

Always getting caught texting on her Apple Watch

Probably had a vsco phase in middle school

Makes TikToks in the hall

Makes those interview TikToks with the little microphones

@hyperfixatedfandomer @dirtytransmasc

[anxiousdreamcore]

“You’re human-kind’s "savior"…and I’m a father.”

Phew! Finally finished a piece that has been in my WIPs for MONTHS. Maybe it’s obvious with how the style got a little outdated, since I’ve been progressing quite rapidly this year 🤷

Anyway. Na’vi! Quaritch fighting the RDA for the sake of his son! Will never happen in cannon and I doubt there is a good way to redeem an asshole like him but it was fun to play around with the concept, with what kid of jewellery he’d wear, what kind of war-paint Spider would give him (spoiler, it’s inspired by Neytiri’s look in A1) and what he’d put into his songcord (the blue bead is Spider’s blood encased in amber. Jake has one on his songcord as well)

.

(Please do not repost my artwork on any other platform, isn’t or without credit. I DO NOT give my consent to do so and I will find out🥰)

[sotwk]

Can you tell us more about Mirion's wife and children 👀

Hello Anon! I believe this is the second time you've asked me about Crown Prince Mirion and his family, and appreciate your interest so much. 🥰 Mirion is my personal favorite of the OC Thranduilions, so any inquiries about him are dear to me.

I have been keeping the details about Mirion's family under wraps for so long, but I no longer see a good reason to keep them secret, so here we go: some basic headcanon info that will hopefully satisfy your curiosity. 😉

For those who might care: some SotWK AU Spoilers ahead!

SotWK AU Headcanons: Crown Prince Mirion and his "Golden" Family

Although Mirion tragically died in his attempt to free his homeland from the Necromancer (his efforts did drive Sauron out of Dol Guldur for a time and gave Mirkwood four centuries of respite), he left behind a beautiful wife and two children to continue his legacy. His son gave Thranduil a new heir and continued hope for the future of their line and kingdom.

Because Mirion's wife was an Eldar of powerful lineage and incredible strength in her own right, she and their children helped Mirkwood to stay strong and protected through the dangers the realm faced in the Third Age.

And when Thranduil's grandchildren took over the rule of Eryn Lasgalen in the Fourth Age, it ushered in a new Golden Era for the last remaining Kingdom of Elves on Middle-earth.

MIRION'S WIFE - PRINCESS ITARILDË

SotWK Fancast: Teresa Palmer (A Discovery of Witches)

Mirion's wife is Princess Itarildë, an elleth with a rare mix of Noldor-Vanyar-Teleri blood with "royal" lineage on both sides of her family.

Itarildë’s mother is Nimeithel (a SotWK OC), the younger sister of Nimloth and niece of Celeborn.

Nimeithel is featured in my ongoing Thranduil x Maereth series, Sins of Our Fathers. She grew up with Thranduil in Doriath, and was the one who introduced him to Maereth.

Itarildë’s father is Maranwon (SotWK OC), the grandson of Glorfindel and his wife Elemírë (SotWK OC), who was the sister of Elenwë, late wife of King Turgon.

Itarildë has a high Eldar "pedigree" due to her lineage, but that was not what attracted Mirion to her. On the contrary, her noble background nearly caused the Crown Prince to decide against pursing her hand in marriage, despite their deep love for each other.

Before ever meeting Itarildë, Mirion had intended to choose his wife and future Queen among the Silvan elves of Greenwood, out of love for his people and his wish to honor the land's native race. (Something Thranduil was unable to do by marrying a Noldor.)

Mirion agonized over this conflict between his duty and his heart until his parents persuaded him to pursue his own happiness.

Itarildë is older than Mirion by a few decades, born in Lothlorien but raised in Rivendell. Her father died in the War of the Last Alliance fighting alongside his surrogate father, Gil-galad.

She takes after her father's side of the family; she is passionate, joyful, strong-willed, and has a radiant presence that commands and captivates every room she enters. She has a compassionate heart and a determination to effect good changes in the world.

She adores her husband's brothers and counsels and cares for them as an elder sister.

She is a fearless and skilled warrior (what else would you expect from the great-granddaughter of Glorfindel), who more than holds her own whenever she marches into battle alongside the princes.

It is later discovered that something about Itarildë’s presence causes the Spiders of Mirkwood to flee; just looking upon her somehow pains or deters them, and so they never attack her directly.

Mirion's death broke Itarildë and very nearly caused her to fade; she was brought back only by the healing efforts and pleas of her daughter. But her joyful spirit never recovered.

MIRION'S SON - PRINCE ARANION

SotWK Fancast: Bradley James (Merlin)

Aranion is the elder child of Mirion and Itarildë, making him the eldest grandchild of Thranduil and second-in-line to the throne of the Woodland Realm.

Upon Mirion's death, Aranion inherited the title of Crown Prince of Mirkwood. (This responsibility never fell to Legolas, which is why he remained free to travel, join the Fellowship, and and even sail to Valinor as he eventually did.)

After Maereth died, Thranduil became very focused on preparing Aranion for the throne, since he was then resolved to sail for Valinor and rejoin his wife--once the future of Mirkwood and his people had been secured with his grandson in place.

The name Aranion translates to "Son of the King" in Quenya, but the prince was actually named after the plant kingsfoil or athelas, also known as asëa aranion. Kingsfoil did not grow naturally in the Greenwood forest, since it thrived in the Western lands.

However, in the year of Itarildë's pregnancy with Aranion, kingsfoil began to sprout in abundance in the lands surrounding their home.

Although the Mirkwood Elves previously had no use for kingsfoil, later in the Third Age the plant became an vital resource in their healing for wounds inflicted by orcs and other beasts coming from Dol Guldur.

Aranion is utterly devoted to his homeland and the Silvan people of Mirkwood, a sentiment that they reciprocate with fierce love and loyalty. While not as politically-savvy as his forebears, he is a "people's prince", spending most of his days working alongside the common folk of the realm.

Although he is often compared to his great, great-grandfather Glorfindel, Aranion's cheerful, energetic, and light-hearted temperament is actually most similar to that of his uncle Legolas, to whom he was always very close.

The Prince is a fearless and naturally gifted fighter, whose innate talents were enhanced by centuries of intensive instruction and training from the greatest warriors on Middle-earth, including Thranduil and Glorfindel.

As the darkness worsened in the Third Age, Thranduil grew extremely protective of Aranion, increasing to paranoia at the loss of his wife and each of his sons. As decades passed the prince's very existence soon became unknown to outsiders, which was what Thranduil had intended.

By the events of the Hobbit, Aranion was forbidden from traveling outside of Mirkwood, and was not permitted to participate in the Battle of the Five Armies.

MIRION'S DAUGHTER - PRINCESS ANARIEL

SotWK Fancast: Gabriella Wilde (The Three Musketeers, Poldark)

Anariel is the younger child of Mirion and Itarildë and second grandchild of Thranduil and Maereth.

Beautiful and sweet beyond compare, she is very much the darling treasure of not only her grandfather Thranduil, but also of her loving uncles who have doted on her since she was a baby (probably because they never had a little sister of their own).

Unlike her boisterous older brother, Anariel is reserved, introverted, and avoids drawing attention to herself. She prefers to listen rather than speak.

Large crowds and excessive noises make her very uncomfortable, and it is possible she suffers from a mild form of sensory overload.

However, she very much carries the courage and willingness to serve that runs in her family, and devotes herself to the welfare of the people of Mirkwood.

Anariel is highly intelligent, much like her uncle Arvellas. Being a voracious reader and learner herself, she grew especially close to the Scholar Prince and gained knowledge and abilities from him.

She lived in Rivendell for periods of long years throughout the Third Age, during which she was mentored by Lord Elrond himself, and became skilled in the healing arts.

Anariel has actually already appeared in one of my WIP fics, although she was not yet named/identified. The first person to comment and tell me correctly which fic/character I am referring to, will receive a special prize from me from the Tumblr Market!

For more Thranduil/Mirkwood headcanons: SotWK HC Masterlist

Tolkien Headcanon tag list: @laneynoir @auttumnsayshi @achromaticerebus @tamryniel @friendofthefellowshipsnerdblog @blueberryrock @aduialel @glassgulls @ladyweaslette @klytemnestra13 @creativity-of-death @heilith @fizzyxcustard @absentmindeduniverse @lathalea @tamurilofrivendell @jordie-your-local-halfling @ladyk8tie @scyllas-revenge @asianbutnotjapanese @conversacomsmaug @lemonivall @ratsys @a-world-of-whimsy-5 @entishramblings @stormchaser819 @freshalmondpandadonut @beekieboo

Interested in more SotWK AU content?

Introduction to SotWK

My Headcanon Masterlist 

My Fanfiction Masterlist

[makoodles]

Not me making children OCs for Tìtunu 🤪

Daughter 1 -> Nawm (great, noble) + Vitra (soul) = Nawmvitra [Great/Noble Soul]

Daughter 2 -> Kosman (wonderful, terrific, fantastic) + Txe’lan = Kostxe’lan [Wonderful/Fantastic Heart]

Daughter 3 -> Tsyeym (treasure, something rare and of great value) + Tìtaron (hunting) = Tìtarsyeym [Hunting Treasure or Treasure Hunting]

Son 2 (Son 1 is Spider) -> Lenomum (curious) + ‘Awpo (one *individual*) = Leno’awpo [Curious One]

Tsu’tey would make such a great father 😩🥰

TSU'TEY IS A GIRL DAD TSU'TEY IS A GIRL DAD TSU'TEY IS A GIRL DAD TSU'TEY IS A GIRL DADTSU'TEY IS A GIRL DAD TSU'TEY IS A GIRL DAD

i love those names, they're so beautiful!

he's be SUCH a good dad to his kids, but i just know he'd be a goddamn nightmare when those kids reach their teenage years. if you thought he was a protective dad when they're babies, think again! you haven't seen protectiveness until his kids start the process of their iknimaya and he realises that courting/mating comes next. he's gonna be vetting everybody. those poor kids

[dirtytransmasc]

Mama Neytiri to Kiri,Spider and Tuk: my baby’s my baby’s 🥰🥰

Mama Neytiri to her other sons: ILL PLUCK YOUR EYES OUT-

100% accurate, though neteyam is good at getting on her good side.

spiders just her little baby boy who can do absolutely nothing wrong and her girls are little angels.

[screechingchaoscrusade]

THIS ONE GOES AT TO YOU. THE REALEST MVP.

Spider is scared of a particular horror movie. Quaritch tries his best to comfort his son.

Spider sat on the couch, huddled under a blanket, his eyes wide with fear as he watched a particularly terrifying horror movie. His heart raced, and he couldn't help but jump at every unexpected sound or shadow. Quaritch, noticing his son's distress, sat down beside him, concern etched on his face.

"Hey, Spider, it's just a movie," Quaritch said softly, placing a reassuring hand on Spider's shoulder. "Remember, it's all make-believe. Nothing in there can hurt you."

Spider looked up at his father, his trembling lips forming a shaky smile. "I know, Dad, but it's just so... intense. The suspense and jump scares really get to me."

Quaritch nodded understandingly. "I get it, son. Some movies have a way of getting under your skin. But you're not alone. I'm here with you, and we can get through this together."

As the movie played on, Quaritch stayed by Spider's side, providing a calming presence. He leaned in closer, wrapping his arm around Spider's shoulders, offering a sense of protection. "Remember, it's just special effects, clever editing, and talented actors. They're really good at making things seem scarier than they actually are."

Spider took a deep breath, trying to steady his racing heartbeat. "You're right, Dad. It's all just movie magic."

Quaritch smiled reassuringly. "Exactly. And hey, if it gets too much, we can always turn it off. There's no shame in that. Your well-being is more important than any movie."

Spider nodded gratefully, finding comfort in his father's words. "Thanks, Dad. I appreciate you being here for me."

Quaritch squeezed Spider's shoulder gently. "Always, son. I'll always be here to support you, even during scary movies. Remember, fear is just an emotion, and you're stronger than any fictional horror."

Together, they continued watching the movie, Quaritch providing words of encouragement and occasional jokes to lighten the mood. Slowly, Spider's fear began to subside, replaced by a sense of comfort and safety. In that moment, he realized that his father's presence was the greatest reassurance he could ask for.

As the credits rolled, Spider turned to Quaritch with a grateful smile. "Thanks, Dad. I feel a lot better now."

Quaritch ruffled Spider's hair affectionately. "Anytime, son. Facing our fears together is what makes us stronger. And remember, real life is much less scary than any horror movie."

With a newfound sense of confidence, Spider leaned back against the couch, grateful for his father's unwavering support. Together, they embraced the power of their bond, finding strength in each other even in the face of fear.

STAWPPPPPPP OMG WHATTT LITERALLY TY TY TY

I haven't been so active sorry about the late response! Tysm I appreciate it sm you're literally the best 🥰