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galacticgraffiti · 11 months

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I Am Nothing (Like You Thought I Was)

Summary: Astarion changes after his Ascension, and while you hate what he has become, you cannot seem to love him less.

Pairing: Ascendant!Astarion x gn!reader Rating: Explicit (for a few nsfw lines and mature themes) Wordcount: 2.6k Descriptors: Reader is not described in detail, though there is one (1) line implying that they bottom when they have sex. TW: Angst, emotional manipulation, power imbalance, emotionally abusive situation, blood, biting, blood drinking, non-consensual drinking of blood, non-consensual... taking away of bodily autonomy (?)

A/N: Please read the warnings carefully. This is not smut, this is hella angsty and was - at least to me personally - somewhat emotionally taxing. Take care of yourself. If you have any questions, feel free to message me!

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I Am Nothing (Like You Thought I Was)

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You can’t remember what changed, exactly. It was something in his eyes, perhaps, something about the way he looks at you. The corner of his mouth not forming the half-smile you have gotten so used to, or even the possessive sneers he adopts sometimes.

It has been so long since he looked at you as anything more than his… pet. His pretty little consort, if he is in a good mood.

In the beginning, you didn’t realise that that was what you had become to him: A pet, a companion only because he did not want to be lonely after all these centuries. A trophy he could show off at his dinner parties. His own personal meal, ready whenever and wherever he wants - especially in front of hungry guests who know exactly they could never have you.

Hells, you even enjoyed the thought of it at first: To belong to him entirely - to be his and his alone. Forever.

His fangs have marked you hundreds and thousands of times through the years, and you have borne it willingly. Because you love him.

There is nothing else to say, really. Astarion has just… captured you. He is it for you. You knew it the moment you laid eyes on him, knew it the second he held a dagger to your throat only to apologise and join your mission moments after. You knew it when he bared his back to you, bearing the scars of years of abuse, and of… the Ritual.

Ah, yes. The Ritual.

It changed everything. It changed him. Seven thousand souls, sacrificed - killed - in the name of your love, and all you could think about was that he would finally be free. Sometimes, you think back to that moment, and you try not to feel ashamed that you did not even try to persuade him otherwise.

But you had never seen him as scared as he was the night you faced Cazador. And you had never seen him angrier, either. So when Astarion ripped Cazador from his coffin, when he stabbed and slashed and twisted his sword in the belly of his abuser, you… let him.

He deserved revenge. He deserved to kill him, to be free of him, to never be made to feel small and powerless again.

You liked it. You loved it, even: Loved him, free of torment, bloodied with his eyelids heavy from violence. Because you thought it meant his freedom.

And when Astarion turned to you, face smeared with warm blood, the infernal runes on his back glowing, and his eyes so big and full of bloodlust and fear, you could not say no. When he carved the runes into the back of his tormentor, savouring every scream of agony, you could not say no. You watched, and you loved Astarion all the more for every tear of pain he wrung from Cazador’s wretched body. And you let yourself forget it would not just be Cazador who would die for your love to be free.

The Ritual is by far not the only moment of weakness you have ever afforded yourself throug the years, but it is the one that has changed your life the most.

Seven thousand souls. All for the happiness of your love. All for him, for his freedom and his might, for him to live in the sun and never know hunger again. For him to be able to love you without fear.

Thing is- the Ritual never made him happy. It just made him other.

Astarion looks at you different after the ritual. He looks at you like… he owns you. You don’t realise it in the beginning, not for a long time. His words are sweet as ever, his hands gentle when he touches you. His fangs are sharp but his lips are soft, and he calls you his pretty little thing and his love. He calls you His, and you take it to be an affirmation of love, not one of ownership.

Eventually, though, you start to understand what he really means. It starts to sink in when you deny him, and he talks of still taking what he wants. When you disagree, and he does not hear you out. When your neck is covered in bruises, and you still don’t find it in yourself to deny him. Because even with the blood of seven thousand souls dripping from his hands, even with the way his eyes turn cold when he looks at you, even with the things he asks you to do and the kind words he used to have so many of growing few and far between, you cannot stop loving him.

And so you stay, through the cruelty and the ecstasy, through the nightly soirées and the everchanging guests of the palace, through the dark masses and the bloodlust. The joy of his kisses is enough to keep you chained in place without needing to lock you up.

You remember how he used to be: scared and alone, eager to manipulate if only to save himself, because no one else had ever looked out for him.

You remember what he became as you travelled together: kind and thoughtful, even though he kept pretending like he wasn’t. Sweet and caring, protective and assured. How much he overcame to love you, and surely that must be worth something, mustn't it?

When you look at the man that stands in front of you now, in all his glory, bathed in the light of his Ascension, you decide that he is still worth staying for. Every time.

You sit next to him, you offer your neck to him, your wrist, your thighs and your shoulders, wherever he can reach, though he does not hunger for your blood as he used to. But he likes showing off, and you are his favourite trophy.

You can’t say how long you have lived in Cazador’s palace. Years, maybe.

Astarion takes you to bed every night, to drink from you, to hold you. And that is the thing that keeps you here, with him, even after all this time: He still holds you like he cannot sleep without you, and you are always there when he wakes up from his nightmares, gasping for air, crying out the name of his tormentor, of his long-dead parents and friends. In the darkness of these nights, there is a humanity to him that you cannot find when you look into his eyes in the sunlight that he so craves.

You are not so foolish as to think you could save him. You gave up on that thought long ago, after he made you sit at his feet with your wrists still dripping in blood, just to let it flow down the stairs before his throne and tell the guests of his soirée that they could never have you - that they were not even allowed to lick your blood from the floor - because you were his and his alone.

No, you can’t save him anymore. A small sliver of your soul holds onto the hope that he might… get bored. That he will grow tired of the favours that people ask in exchange for gifts of gold and knowledge, that he will grow tired of sitting in the sun while you read to him. That he will get tired of you. That he will make you leave, because you are not strong enough to do it on your own.

And as Astarion stares at you from across the table, his fangs showing as he curls his upper lip in displeasure, you think that, maybe, you will be so lucky.

You are not.

Astarion’s hand grabs your jaw and tilts your head into the light of the candelabra.

“What’s that?” he asks, and he sounds so disgusted that you nearly start to cry from his words alone. For all the hope you had that he might let you go, you never wanted him to hate you.

“What is what, my love?” The nickname falls easily from your lips, years of habit and a tinge of truth. Your love. For all his mistakes, he is still that.

His finger traces your brow in a surprisingly gentle movement, and your breath catches. But the look in his eye is still one of revulsion and contempt. He pulls at you until you get up to follow him, stumbling through the halls of the manor to stop in front of the big mirror he usually keeps covered.

The mirror. One of the only things his ascension did not fix: Astarion still can’t see his own reflection. Sometimes, you wonder if he keeps you around just to ask for accounts of his beauty that he will never be able to see.

Dozens of portraits have been made in his honour, the artists killed so they would never surpass their masterpiece: Him. None of the portraits manage to capture his ethereal beauty, the cruel twist around his mouth or the pain that still lingers in his eyes. None of the artists understand him the way he would need to be understood to be painted the way he wants to be seen. The way he wants to see himself.

You have caught him on bad nights, standing in front of the empty mirror you see before you now, staring into the silver surface with flaming eyes like he could will himself to appear if he only wanted it enough. It has been years since then. Now, he only asks you to describe him to himself, when he is buried deep inside you, when his pale hands glow on your skin in the moonlight, and his fangs are sunk into the bruised flesh of your neck. You excel at it, because after all, one thing is still true: You love him. You understand him in ways nobody else ever could.

The mirror has been covered up for a long time, collecting dust as you assumed its supposed function.

Now, Astarion pulls at the velvet cover, and your mirror image is revealed to you. Astarion’s hand wraps around the nape of your neck as he pushes you closer to the silvery surface.

“What is that?” he asks again, so accusatorily that you shy away from your own reflection. You see nothing out of the ordinary: Your own face, his mirror absence behind you. Maybe your hair is a little messier than you would like, maybe the bruises on your neck more prominent than you would prefer. But you look just like you always do.

Astarion’s finger traces your brow again - and you realise what has him this riled up.

A faint wrinkle, barely visible, stretches across your forehead like a thin, twisted branch.

You worry too much, as Karlach would have put it. Gods, you haven't seen her in ages. You don't even know if she still lives.

“I-” you set on to explain, though you don’t know what exactly you could say to calm him. When Astarion is in this mood, there is little to do but wait it out. The storm always passes eventually; with sharp fangs slicing your skin or cold hands finding their way beneath your robes to watch you writhe and beg.

Astarion’s gaze now is colder than it has ever been, and it makes you shiver.

“You are ageing.” He spits the words at you like venom.

“Such is the nature of things, my love.” Your voice is dry with annoyance, but you cannot find it in you to care. What a useless thing for him to lose his mind over.

Astarion’s face glows with the beauty of an anger that is senseless as much as it is boundless. You can barely look at him when he twists you around until you are pressed up against the wall, his body so close to yours you can feel the coldness of his skin. Nothing hurts more than to look at him like this, his red eyes devoid of any affection. He didn't used to look at you like this in the beginning… did he? You can’t remember.

His words are poison, his fingers digging into your throat with every syllable he spits at you.

“No, no no. Not in the nature of me. Not in the nature of my world, the universe I have created.” He is aflame with an anger you have not seen in years. It tugs at your heart. All of a sudden, he looks almost as he did before the Ritual: passionate and full of emotion. It doesn't matter that it’s not affection that sets his eyes aflame. At least it’s not indifference.

Astarion wrinkles his nose in disgust, looking you up and down.

“This… this just won’t do,” he mumbles, tilting his head and eyeing you up and down.

To say your heart leaps in joy would be a lie. It leaps in terror. You know what happens to things Astarion has no use for anymore. They are discarded, and if they used to be alive, they are discarded dead.

He might make an exception for you, for his consort, his pet, his trophy. But he might not. These days you can never tell.

“I have waited too long,” he whispers, almost like he has forgotten you are even there. His iron grip on your neck loosens, and you twist around, trying to escape his grasp, not to have to look at him anymore. You can’t bear it. You close your eyes and breathe.

When you open your eyes and see how he looks at you, tears fill your eyes at the expression on his face.

There he is.

After all these years of hoping, of waiting and praying to every god, he is standing before you again: Your love, unchanged by the years, eternally beautiful as he already was before his Ascension. His eyes glow red and his fangs are sharp as ever, but his face is delicate and full of fear. You have not seen him like this in… forever.

“I have waited too long,” he says again, sadness dripping heavy from his eyes. “I… We have waited too long.”

His hand runs up your side, caressing your face, and the look in his eyes is so warm that for the first time in years, you don’t feel like you are freezing from the inside out. You bask in his affection.

“What did we wait for?” you whisper as Astarion buries his face in the crook of your neck, his soft lips warm on your chilly skin. He presses against you and you let him, even though the wall is cold and hard behind you, because this is all you have dreamed about for so long. A sign that he is still in there, that he is still capable of loving you the way he used to.

His lips move against the delicate skin of your throat when he answers.

“For you to be ready.”

Your head falls back as his nails rake down your back, and his thigh presses between your legs. Your fingers weave into his silver hair as your breath catches at the warmth in your chest.

“Ready for what?” Your tongue feels heavy in your mouth. The familiar sharpness of his fangs sinking into your skin is no surprise.

“To be mine.” Astarion’s words sear holes into your skin, deeper than his fangs ever could. “Forever.”

You let him push his fingers into your mouth without resistance, your lips parting easily as blood red eyes burn into yours. Astarion smiles a smile that is only fangs and cruelty.

By the time you feel the world flicker, your consciousness fading into darkness, it is already too late.

You are not only His. You have become His Creation. Forever.

Dive into Angstarion - become insane with me.

@purgetrooperfox @ashotofspotchka @dream-alittlebiggerdarling @ulchabhangorm @queen--kenobi @samspenandsword @pinkiemme @baba-fett @witchklng @ladykatakuri @certified-anakinfucker @fanfiction-i-llike @voidinfernal @foxferret02 @rosieofcorona @savagemickey03 @perseny @margoisthemoon02 @shiiunn @saucyhedgehog @darlingbravebelle @tonysoffice @pupshr00m @midnightdragonzero @thatweebitch @triangleshapewinner @supercalifragilisticprincess @palpipeen @fuckalrighty @meabravo @silly-gooseastarion @mila-bee @shit-i-say-throughout-the-day @idkwhatsgoingonwithme @aeryntheofficial @jekasha @cometstail @beesherbsandivy @gub @codename-indigo @nogitsune-the @solarrexplosion

#astarion #astarion bg3 #angst #astarion x reader #astarion x you #i cannot stress enough that this is not smut #bg3 #gala writes #angstarion

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loserlvrss · 4 months

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꒰ 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐌 𝐎𝐍 𝐀 𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐃 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 ꒱ 최종호

summary : you had been having what seemed like the longest and worst shift, but once it was finally over everything got better

genre : fluff, jongho x afab!reader, slice of life tws : language, complaining, kissing, pet names, mentions of not eating (doesn’t have to do with a eating disorder) author notes : okay guys i gotta stop this fluff shit before i start actually going crazy dude word count : 0.8k

your feet ached, and helping the customers were more taxing today than normal. you found yourself glancing at the clock anytime you got a chance to. you were counting down the minutes — since you punched in, truthfully — you couldn't wait for the shop to close.

it must've have been the month where the most people celebrate their birthdays because you swear it was busier than the holiday season.

you couldn't wait for the moment when you could close out the cash register and lock the glass door. you wanted so desperately to wash away the stress and put on your pajamas, curl up on your couch and distract yourself. you'd been so anxious the whole day that you skipped lunch, opting to hide for your break because you couldn't muster up enough strength within you to not go non-verbal. you could feel pain in your lower back, it getting more noticeable the more time in between customers. you, at least, wanted to sit down while you were slow, however there always seemed to be a task you needed to complete.

when you finally turned the lock, turning off the lights, and making your way to the back to gather your things, you found yourself checking your phone for notifications from your boyfriend.

jongho was supposed to be getting back from tour today, but you didn't have enough leisure time to check when he was landing. maybe that's why you felt like time had being moving in slow motion. but honestly, you wouldn't blame him for instantly going to bed, or dance practice. he was hardworking by nature, and that always inspired you to do your best despite being willed to do the opposite.

you knew him well enough to shoot you a quick message before his head hit the pillow though.

you pulled a grey hoodie — he had let you keep before leaving, per your request, wearing it over and over again so it smelled like him — over your head and slinging on your cross-body bag.

the outside air was crisp at almost nine at night, causing you to bunch the sleeves around your fingers as you locked the backdoor. you mentally prepared for the walk home, taking a deep breath.

usually, jongho would walk with you and stay over; of course, when he was available to. so, safe to say, you've been walking home alone for the past couple months — save for the few times your friends would show up with beer clutched within their hands.

of course, you were happy to see them, but it wasn't the same feeling you got when you saw him. he was comfort within a person; a living being you didn't physically posses, but emotionally. and, that was more than money could ever buy you.

"y/n," you swear you missed him so much that now you were hallucinating his voice, "y/n."

you blinked a couple times in disbelief of being face-to-face with your boyfriend, who has been away way too long, in your opinion. you almost had to do a double take, pinch yourself, maybe even slap yourself out of this dream state.

your head cocked to the side, and a chuckle rang through the air, "baby, don't make me wait any longer, please."

and you really didn't need to be told twice before you embodied usain bolt and jumped into his embrace. "w-when'd you get back?" you took him within your palms, kissing his face all over, "oh my gosh, i missed you so much. how was tour? i can't believe you're back, shit, this is the best ending to a bad day."

you rambled on about it being the best surprise ever, planting feather-light kisses to every inch of what you could reach. it might've overwhelmed him when you two first started dating, but it was something he now craved like air.

you made physical affection his love language. it’s like he was an addict, love being his fever and drug.

he unwrapped his arms from your waist, no longer holding you up to be face level, grabbing your cheeks and finally shutting you up by pressing his lips over yours almost desperately.

he knew you missed him, plainly spelled out through various texts and calls while he hid from his members. and he missed you just as much. he missed the lingering smell of your perfume, the melodic tune to your laugh, your soft skin and honest perfection. he missed your touch, your hand in his, body-to-body and heart-to-heart. he just missed your whole aura, simply put. you were the sun on a cloudy day, the voice of reason to his hardship, his warmth on a cold night.

you were everything. and, he only realized this the more time you spent apart because of his career. its safe to say that the heart does grow fonder with the distance.

“i missed you more, believe me.”

reblogs, likes and comments are greatly appreciated! thank u!

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twstwinnie · 1 year

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Hello, i just discovered this blog and i really want to read your work more. If you don't mind can i request malleus x reader where reader feeling empty or brunedout due to study and overblots. You can edit it as you like or write as headcanon or one short it depends on you. Well have nice day/night.

♚ Tea for the Prefect : Malleus Draconia

tags: hurt/comfort, fluff, burnout, reader is the prefect, gn! reader, ch.5 spoilers!

desc: upon noticing your growing distress, malleus takes matters into his own hands and bestows a gift of relaxation upon you. sleep well, dear prefect.

a/n: finally being more consistent with posts!! thank you for the request! I thought this was a lovely concept and a great opportunity for some lovely stress comfort fluff! also, I love writing for malleus! the reader in this is the prefect, but the reader is not explicitly yuu! with that, enjoy! — winnie <3

Time is fleeting, whether he likes it or not.

Such is a fact that Malleus is painfully aware of. Every day that passes is but a fraction of his extended lifespan.

That is until he met you.

Most people talk about time flying when one’s having fun, but for Malleus, time slows when he’s with you. Being in your presence reminds him of all the little things life has to offer. Despite his extended lifespan, he chooses to live in the present nowadays simply because you’re a part of it.

That being said, he’s still able to pick up on things when they happen so suddenly.

Like your fatigue.

Malleus is unaware if your fatigue slowly built up in terms of a human lifespan, but to a fae like him, it seemed almost immediate. However, he knows full well that it isn’t without reason.

After Ashengrotto’s overblot, he conversed with you out of curiosity, questioning how you used the advice he’d given you earlier. That’s when he learned that you’d been handling student overblots since your arrival on campus. Lilia further confirmed this fact, noting your involvement in Kingscholar’s overblot as well.

He didn’t realize how emotionally taxing it must’ve been until recently.

After Schoenheit was pulled from his overblotted state, Malleus appeared. He witnessed the aftermath firsthand.

More importantly, he could see the exhaustion in your eyes. He noticed the way you tiredly limped backstage once he’d repaired the stadium, and saw the way you brushed off your situation.

When he asked you about it, you insisted that it was nothing.

After that conversation, many things clicked into place for him. Not only did you deal with these treacherous battles without the use of magic, but you did so in tandem with your studies and other responsibilities. You had an incredible amount on your plate and everyone seemed content to continuously pile more and more atop it. He had to wonder if you truly ever allowed yourself the opportunity to rest.

Malleus, in good conscience, cannot sit by and allow you to remain in a perpetual state of stress and exhaustion. You’re precious to him, his dearest treasure, and if he can prevent you from losing your luster, he will.

Given your mortal lifespan is already so limited, he refuses to watch you crash and burn out.

So, he decides he’ll lend you some much needed assistance.

After a week of testing and schoolwork, the weekend finally arrives. The first thing Malleus does is convince Grim to stay at Diasomnia for the weekend. Silver (and, begrudgingly, Sebek) agree to watch over the small feline. A promise of food is all it takes.

Then, Malleus gathers various things he remembers that you like from your various conversations: tea, biscuits, warm blankets, and a book about gargoyles that you’d wanted to borrow from him.

With that, he sets off to your dorm, announcing that he’ll return the following morning. The fae certainly hopes you won’t mind him spending the night. Either way, he merely wants you to relax. Surely, you won’t turn him away.

Upon arrival, he knocks curtly on the door. While he typically preferred strolls around the quiet forests of Ramshackle, he didn’t mind having a day in at your request. You seem to enjoy cozy things when stressed, so he hopes this is enough.

You soon answer the door, a panicked expression on your face. “Tsunotaro! Have you seen Grim? He ran off earlier, and he didn’t say anything!” you insist. Malleus gives you a simple smile.

“He’s spending time with Silver and Sebek at Diasomnia. My apologies, I thought he left you a message. He’ll be there for the weekend,” Malleus explains. You heave out a relieved sigh, leaning against the door frame.

“Thank the Seven! He really needs to tell me before he runs off… but wait. Really? He’s staying at Diasomnia? Are you sure you don’t mind…?” you ask nervously. Malleus chuckles and shakes his head.

“Lilia is in charge for the weekend. I assure you, he can handle a few unruly creatures. He quite likes the challenge, actually. He doesn’t mind,” Malleus starts. “Actually, I was hoping you’d allow me to stay with you. I’d enjoy your company.”

You regard him with wide eyes for a moment before stepping aside. “Sure, I don’t mind. Come in,” you say. “Ah, but it’s a bit of a mess. I’m sorry— it’s been a hectic week.”

Malleus walks in and glances around. Sure enough, it’s a bit disorganized. Papers are strewn across the floor and judging by the mess of blankets by the table, he’s certain that you’ve been sleeping while studying.

“No need to offer apologies to me, Prefect. Actually, it’s fitting for the topic of conversation I wanted to bring up.” Malleus continues, “from what I’ve noticed, you seem overwhelmed. I’ve even heard that you’ve been falling asleep in class. Are you resting properly?”

He watches as you deflate, walking over to the couch and sinking down into it. With a sigh, you respond.

“I’m glad someone noticed. I’m exhausted, Tsunotaro. Our useless Headmage doesn’t help with overblots or money, so I’ve been working at the Lounge on top of everything else—

“Not to mention, I need to help Grim study so he doesn’t get caught in any dealings with Azul again. With everything going on, I hardly have time to sleep! I’m so tired… I’m really sorry, Malleus. I’ve been so busy that I’ve hardly had time to spend talking with you,” you mumble sadly. Malleus walks over and seats himself next to you.

“Why apologize to me, dear Prefect?” he questions. You huff and lean against him, shutting your eyes.

“I actually enjoy your company, but I’ve been so busy. I’ve skipped so many of our usual late night walks. I miss spending time with you,” you express. Malleus can’t help but give a fond smile in response. He gently runs his fingers through your hair as he hums.

“I’ve felt deprived of your company, but I’ve never once blamed you for such a thing. Don’t you think you’re the last person who owes anyone else an apology? You’re an unwilling participant in all the messes you find yourself in,” Malleus mentions. You sigh quietly.

“That’s true, but if I don’t take care of the overblots, who will? We both know Crowley won’t do a thing,” you mutter, a tinge of bitterness in your tone. Malleus chuckles lightly.

“Forgive me if it came off in this manner, but I wasn’t suggesting that you change your ways. I quite like you the way you are now, even with your needless prying into dangerous trouble,” he teases lightly. “All I’m requesting is that, when you find it’s too much to bear on your own, you allow me to take care of you.”

You pause. Met with silence, Malleus turns to face you, shocked to find your face red with fluster. You let out a shaky breath and smile, looking down.

“Don’t say things so cryptically like that, Tsunotaro. If you do, someone might mistake it for a confession, y’know,” you mumble under your breath. Malleus regards you with a gentle expression, placing a finger on your chin and lifting your head to meet his gaze.

“Perhaps I wish for it to be taken in such a way. Have you considered that? If you’d prefer me to properly court you in order to be convinced, I don’t mind. Though, I thought it’d be best to inform you of my intentions at the very least,” he says with a smirk. You find yourself speechless, unable to tear your eyes away from his gaze.

Malleus awaits your response patiently, and once you find your bearings, you sputter out a response.

“I-I’ve never considered that, but I’d be happy to accept your feelings,” you whisper. “Oh, but no courting— please, I can only handle so much embarrassment. I don’t wanna know how far you’d go if I let you court me.”

Malleus smiles, leaning in to peck your lips softly before pulling back. “I’d only go as far as fae tradition allows. Alas, I’ll respect your wishes. If you accept my feelings, will you allow me to take care of you?” he asks. You return his smile and nod.

“Please. I’d appreciate it, Tsunotaro,” you say. With your permission, Malleus quickly gets to work.

A quick spell organizes the disarray that was once your lounging area. Then, he steeps the tea and prepares the snacks that he brought. He refuses to let you lift a finger to assist, insisting that you remain seated.

Once he pours you a cup, he’s happy to see the way your tense frame relaxes as you take a sip. Your dull eyes regain their shine as you both chatter away about whatever you please.

When he notices you yawn one too many times, he carries you to bed, much to your embarrassment. After changing into more comfortable clothing, he joins you in bed.

Sitting up, he allows you to wrap your arms around his waist and lay in his lap. In one of his hands, he holds the book you’d wanted to borrow, reading the contents aloud to you. With his other free hand, he gently runs away the knots in your back.

Malleus glances down every couple of minutes. Your expression of bliss and comfort brings warmth to his heart. It’s a far cry from your exhaustion earlier, the bags beneath your eyes slowly fading away.

“Mm… Tsunotaro. ‘m gonna fall asleep soon,” you mumble tiredly. Malleus hums in acknowledgment, shutting the book and setting it on the nightstand.

“Then sleep, my dear,” he insists, idly running his fingers through your hair. You shift your body to look up at him.

“Will you stay here? Please?” you ask. Malleus smiles, leaning down to kiss you gently.

“As promised earlier, I’ll remain by your side. When you awaken, I will be here to greet you, so fret not,” he assured gently. You grin, leaning up to steal another kiss before laying back down.

“Alright then. Good night, Malleus. And thank you for helping me.”

Malleus smiles.

“Of course. You needn’t thank me. You’re my dearest treasure, and these simple things are merely proof of that,” he says. He watches quietly as you quietly drift off into slumber, your built up exhaustion finally catching up with you. Smiling, he leans down and kisses your forehead gently, whispering one last thing before falling asleep by your side.

“Good night, dear prefect.”

— fin.

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𖤓 Don't You Dare Do This Without Me 𖤓 Ch. 3

Pairing: Rhaena x Aemond

Warnings: Smutty content mentioned, dirty erotic thoughts

Word Count: 5.9k

Summary: Aemond returns from his afternoon "activities" and is accosted by his mother in the halls of the Red Keep almost immediately, all the while he can't help but eagerly wish to return to his chambers...to return to his wife.

Ch. 1 | Ch. 2 | Ao3 |

—

Aemond did not dottle once he returned to the Keep. There was no need, seeing as he still had one thing on his mind.

One person, really...one woman.

Though it would seem that news of his exploits had already preceded him, the castle was a buzz. Huddled courtiers leading whispers from one corridor to the next. Careful to linger frightful gazes upon his moving form only to quickly flick them away as he matched them frigidly. Causing them to hurry on, to flee from their monarch.

They were so blatant with it.

But he was a hurricane, he could care less. His long slender legs moved with the speed of a man possessed and he most certainly was. However, he was, to his dismay, just as emotionally tangled as he was before he stormed out of the castle earlier this afternoon.

Burning that farming village down to the ground was meant to release this tension. His frayed nerves had blurred with a sting of pleasure when he'd willed Vhagar to breathe her magmatic green flames down from their perched swell in the sky. He'd felt a smoothing ache settle in the pit of his stomach, a roaring deep within the center of his cock.

Truly…it was monstrous and he knew it. The swelling power that coursed through him as he ended all of those pitiful little lives. It was the sound of the flames engulfing everything, the sweep, the swoop of it. It was the screams...the terror...the horror of it all that engaged him in what he thought would be a form of great release.

It had been before...her.

Only now, it felt like a false climax.

By the time he'd circled back over to King's Landing, his abdomen clenched with the returned weight of it all. The conscious memory of how his council had droned on in his ear during their meeting this morn. Harping on about the countless great Houses who would not truly bend to his will. While they had bent the knee in his presence, their loyalties were a falsehood. And as his council had so boldly reminded him, this handful of Houses were great enough that he could not simply burn and diminish them. He could not simply end the bloodlines of each and every single one of them, just because he wished it so. Dérogeance was barely an option in itself, though he had considered it.

No, it was a fact that he needed their banners, he needed their men for any such upcoming battle that would require foot soldiers.

Even still, it was an insult, the snide tones used during that meeting as if he were a fucking imbecile who hadn't even bothered to realize the fucking obvious-

He should burn something else.

Deplete the levels of rage that threatened to burn outwards, harm those closely around him. This anger of his that was still so embedded in his veins...it was building and in truth, the flight had done nothing to calm him. The stench of death and charred remains had done nothing to ease his mind. And he knew worst of all that he needed it to. Above all else he needed to return home calm enough to interact with his children with due care. He'd barely seen them today, and he'd be damned if his sons' were ever brought up to view him as a monster.

As the rest of the realm continued to do so. Even after he’d done so much for Seven Kingdoms. He’d managed to restore trade, abolished Rhaenyra’s taxes, and had loans given out to rebuild holdings that had been destroyed during the war. The city gates had been duly strengthened as he’d overseen the initiative of constructing several huge fortified granaries set throughout the kingdom, filled and made accessible for the people. Ten new war galleys had been commissioned and more were still yet to come.

And while it had not been his idea initially, his Queen had argued to the need to re-instill the respect of dragons amongst the smallfolk. As she’d once argued that he’d singlehandedly been responsible for the disillusionment the small folk now felt towards dragons. Although, while she’d hoped he’d find a peaceful way of going about it…he’d instead used terror. She wanted the dragon’s unchained in the dragon pit, and he did just that, riding amongst them upon Vhagar’s back. Purposely close, low to the city to remind them of the untouchable might of House Targaryen.

Yet even still…

Even after all of that.

Four years of what Aemond would like to consider held mostly acts of benevolence as far as he was concerned. Executions only held for those who’d earned it, torturing the likes of the conspirators responsible for the three royal assassination attempts he’d squashed under his leadership.

Aemond had been a good King…he had made it his mission to serve the realm to the best of his capabilities.

And yet…to them…to the smallfolk, to the Lords and Ladies of the realm…to his own wife…he was still nothing more than a kinslayer.

The Kinslayer King.

He was still a monster to them. As his wife surely still saw him as. Deep down, in her heart...he knew that thick black hatred for him still lived embedded within her like a poison tipped blade. Especially since she drew upon it far too often for him to ignore it.

Perhaps that fuelled her behaviour this morning as well, he could always blame her for his mood at this very moment if that was the case. His lovely little wife, one half of the ever sought after Dragon Twins. It was by his hand that he made her the most powerful woman in the realm. He'd had her crowned as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, it was by his hand that he made her the mother of the future heir to the Iron Throne. The future of their bloodline, of the Targaryen dynasty.

All she need do was behave accordingly, give him what he wished for when he asked for it.

As any other dutiful docile demure noble wife would.

Instead, he chose a dragoness for himself...a right fucking stubborn little pin in his side. One that he'd unfortunately managed to find himself utterly entrapped by, enraptured by a woman who enraged him more often than not. But still, like a fucking hound, he still found himself crawling back to her. Desperate for the slivers of affection he could coax from her. To be so unequivocally wound around her finger as opposed to the opposite, the unseemly fact that it often felt like her body could solve a great deal of his mental woes.

It was unheard of surely, more akin to an illness than the likes of genuine love.

At the very least, he could tell himself so at times such as this. That he'd once spent his nights laying with a dark miskept witch in the days before his marriage, and even her visions, her less than shapely body had felt like nothing in comparison to plunging into the heat of his sweet curvaceous Valyrian wife.

Only sweet when she chose to be.

Forever embittered with him if she could help it.

Yet she seemed to come around on the pleasures of his company when it suited her needs. Somewhere along the way she’d welcomed the conception of both their second and now third child into her womb, even if she only reluctantly tolerated their first. Those particular behaviours had translated to everything else. With each babe welcomed to their family, it seemed she’d grown more bold and assured of herself. It started with miniscule requests; the return of her dragon Morning, access to the royal library, freedom to walk the grounds of the castle without him. But then her requests shifted into tactile demands. She'd demanded her spot on his council. Was in the making of demanding a complete overhaul of the Keep itself, she wanted the Seven pointed stars removed from the Great Hall and all public view as his mother had once initiated the placement of. She wanted to begone the wearing of stark dark Hightower green, to forgo the dozens of green gowns he'd had her fitted for as she'd always called the colour 'hideous, drab and disrespectful to their family name'. She had hated having to swaddle their babes’ in green blankets and wraps, and she hated to see the 'false' green Targaryen banners hung around the castle.

As she'd put it...she was no member of the blasted House Hightower. She was not a Green Queen, and he could forget the notion of ever referring to her as such.

Aemond had recalled chuckling at her indignation, retorting if she’d rather be recognized as a ‘Queen for the Blacks then.’

A remark that earned him only the coldest of responses, ‘no. Because there should no longer be any blacks or greens. The majority of both factions have perished. There should only be House Targaryen, as it once was. Before your mother declared war against a house she was lucky to have even wed into.’

That hatred for his mother…that still remained.

Though as time went on, Aemond couldn’t find it in him to defend his mother’s prior actions. Not when he could finally see through them. Instead, he found himself far more enamoured with his Queen’s bold fire. It made him think that perhaps he was underestimating his feelings for her, at times her defiance brought him great sense of joy. In fact, more often than not, it most certainly did.

Even now, he nearly smirked to himself. Recalling the way she'd crossed her arms over her swelling belly a few days ago, proclaiming that she wished to return to wearing true Targaryen colours. Reds and black, the true House they were meant to represent.

She was right, of course.

Her statements had set a fire beneath him to see her demands met as soon as possible. Seeing as the Dance had long since ended, and in truth he had no interest in being remembered as the Green King Aemond Targaryen. Kinslayer King that he already was, he'd facilitate his reign by wearing their family's trueborn colours. By having pride in their Valyrian ancestry, their history and their culture. He did want for those things...it was his right to have them. He'd just never thought to put them forth so front and center as of yet.

See, it was in those instances of defiance that he found himself allowing it. She'd coax what she wanted from him when he was at his most vulnerable. Her pale lilac eyes gazing upon him, freezing his heart in place, her long pale lashes batting daintily at him. As they lay in their bed, her beautiful body bare to him. Her plush thighs spread for him, her leaking wanting cunt taking him in full as her legs wrapped around him. By the Gods, he could envision it all so clearly as he’d fallen victim to this embrace over a dozen times. With the way her hands always clutched onto him...welcoming his cock to delve deeply within her. It was the easiest way for her to get exactly what she wanted from him.

Even if that was only a fraction of the time. For, when the roles were reversed, she somehow still managed to keep her wits about her with her answers. And out of their marital bed, well, he could never have her simply follow his instructions when he gave them. It was much too difficult it seemed to simply follow his command, as her King, as her husband—if it had nothing to do with their bedchamber.

The inequality of it all, truly, in all instances his word should be law. If he wished to have her company, he shouldn't even have to say the word.

It should be a given.

It should be happily offered to him.

His mind still burned with the churning thoughts of his wife and that of his council. As the wind whipped past Aemond as he rode on horseback, only adding to the windswept appearance of his once neatly made singular plait. Ruffling his black leathers as he rode through the streets of Flea Bottom with such vigor. Dismounting his horse in a smooth yet rattled hurry, jumping off before taking large strides to the western entrance of the Red Keep. Needing no greeting or gesture made for the guards standing on duty to push the doors open for their King. It was there that he stomped through the halls with the falsely made cool collected saunter he'd perfected in his youth.

The swirling aggravation that clouded his every thought, his body felt taut, itching to strike should anyone stand in his way. It was the look upon Rhaena's face earlier that still remained in his mind. Etched to his memory, he couldn't help but recall the look she'd made when she denied him what was his by right.

To simply lay with her in their marital bed, with his head nestled upon her ample bosom.

It was a simple request.

He only wanted a moment of peace with her. To feel the soft warmth of her body laid against his own, wrapping his arms around her hips. To rest his hand upon the taut yet soft curve of her swollen belly, feeling the life they'd created growing within her womb. Aemond only wanted to listen to the calming rhythm of her heart beat, to deeply inhale the sweetness of her floral scent. To feel her nimble fingers deftly comb through his hair in soothing strokes as he nuzzled his cheek against her pillowy bare chest. To feel the sun warm their skin as they ignored all else in the world and just…

In truth, he only wanted a peaceful hour alone with his wife.

Instead, her beautiful face had frowned in defiance. Razored verbal attacks were levelled at his feet as if he'd wronged her in some way.

He had not.

Did she think he paid so little attention to her that he would not notice the discomfort she was in. The last few weeks of council meetings were waning on her. Waking for the meetings themselves was something she'd grown to dislike in her current condition. As well as the long walk it took to arrive there, the stairs she had to descend and climb back afterwards. The fact that she clearly found the chairs in the council room much too rigid and hard to sit on for an hour or beyond, no matter the cushion used to ease her bottom or her back. There was the fact that she'd often need to excuse herself every time the babe pressed against her bladder, every time she felt overheated or a bout of morning sickness fell upon her. And her feet were often swollen by the time she returned to their chambers after every single meeting.

Aemond was a keenly observant man…perceptive to the plights of those closest to him. As far as he was concerned, Rhaena was eight moons along in her pregnancy, nearly to term. That was simply the fact of the matter. Confinement for most noble women would have begun at least a moon before now if not even sooner. And here his wife was fighting him on the very chivalrous kindness he'd done her.

The absolute decency he'd offered her as a proficient loving husband and father to his children, any other woman...

He'd paused when he caught sight of his Lady mother just up ahead, fucksake, he sighed to himself. She was commingling with the Grand Maester, Orwyle, when her eyes caught sight of Aemond moving with assurety. There was a member of Aemond's chosen Kingsguard walking five paces behind him, Ser Rickard Thorne. As Aemond picked up his pace, so did his guard. He did not need to look back towards the man to affirm his assumptions, "my wife, the Queen. She is in my royal chambers, yes?"

A quick beat was all that was needed before the older man intoned, "yes, your grace. I was informed that she returned shortly."

As expected.

As he wished it-

Wait a minute…returned?

In an unconscious effort to prolong the obvious interlude that would be conversing with his mother. Most likely on the events that had just occurred…burning a small village and that of the repercussions of it.

Aemond instead, glanced back at Ser Thorne and asked the question that formed on the tip of his tongue, “returned? From where?”

Seeing as his little wife was meant to be in confinement…the mere fact that Ser Willis Fell saw fit to even let her vacate their chambers was a problem in itself. She was meant to be resting, slowing down her daily activities…she was meant to be waiting for him.

“Your grace, I was only informed that the Queen took to the gardens for a stroll. A short one, with her sister, the Princess Baela,” the knight quickly blustered up a suitable response for his King, surely hoping his slight error would not be seen as incompetence, “Ser Willis Fell and Ser Rickard Thorne were with her, of course. A proper detail guarding her grace.”

“But of course,” Aemond intoned with a bitter tang, it would seem he’d have to clarify the meaning of ‘confinement’ not only to his stubborn wife but as well to the guards of his sworn Kingsgaurd.

As he made his way down the great hall, the inevitable drew near. With his mother bidding ‘good day’ to the Grand Maester of which she was conversing with, her large brown eyes then locked on to Aemond. Those eyes of hers, they'd always had the power to still him the moment he felt their pressure laid upon him. Her gaze pierced through him in an instant. It was instinctual within him to heel at the sight of her disappointment, the child within him who was still so eager to please her. That child he once was, the little boy who was almost always met with a grim vulnerable look in her eyes, her lips already set to frown as they always did.

There was no pleasing her...that was a lesson he’d learned with time. Though he was sure she had her reasons this time. It was an often occurrence over these last few years, especially ever since he took his cousin, Rhaena, to wife. But this was not the time, his mind was far too preoccupied. Did he outright wish to ignore his mother entirely, no, he knew better than that. So he did greet her presence with a meaningful nod, but he did not intend on standing by to be lectured by his mother like a boy of ten years of age once more.

“Mother,” he nodded.

"Aemond," the dowager Queen gritted back, ah, so she most definitely sought to admonish him. With all the force of a verbal lashing that would befit the crime of tripping up a sibling or something lesser, so unimportant. It wasn't until he aimed to rip his gaze away from her, side stepping past her, that her voice grew more assertive, "Aemond! You cannot ignore me. What have you done?! When your reign already lives in a constant state of peril, you move to make more foes rather than alliances?"

The common tongue, it felt so utterly grating at this moment. Especially coming from her...how his mother itched to remind him of his Andal roots.

With an irritated sigh, he pursued his lips down at her, "believe me, mother. I am in no mood for this," the words rang out like a gravely hum, anymore inflection and he would have seethed them out. As his body already ached with annoyance, that quiet rage he'd managed to tamp down as he rode back home...it was rushing to the surface once again. The very rage that eased him into the idea of burning fields and small villages as he wished in the first place.

Though it was unfortunate to say that Alicent Hightower was never one to back down from such a warning. Whether it was a verbal one or a quietly made physically looming one standing before her. Especially when it was her own offspring who permitted it, it was as if she could not see the full grown men her little boys had become. She still viewed them as children, attached to her will. Still in need of her guidance in some way, she still fought to remain so relevant in their eyes. To hurry her shorter legs along, to match Aemond’s long steps just to keep in stride with him, "I am not concerned with your current disposition. I speak with importance. Your allegiances with the North are already wavering, it is true, your council did not lie to you. The point was not made to berate you-"

Agh…such repetition once again.

"Mother, I know," he tried to cut her off sharply, in hopes of ending this admonishment before it could properly begin. But it felt as if there’d been no effect. Like a shattered piece of stone that simply would not burn no matter how hot the flames blasted upon it.

His heart thumped violently within him. While the heels of his mother's flats only stomped with all of her weight, as she straightened her shoulders and raised her chin. Her eyes no longer remained pinned to him, she instead focused on the hall ahead. To give the appearance of a simple casual conversation being had between a mother and her son, "you know, do you? As you currently threaten our bonds with the Westerlands. If you know all this already, then what is to be done? Four years have passed, and you've offered the North nothing of note. Footholds and trade agreements. Clearly they want something more substantial. The North still remains loyal to Rhaenyra's faction even in death, her spirit commanding their stale oaths. They would sooner ride out to face you in record numbers in the name of honour to another. Their loyalty to the name of Jacaerys Velaryon. As opposed to raising their banners for you and any war you might call them upon."

'I KNOW! I FUCKING KNOW!' is what he wanted to roar aloud, damned the look that would fall upon his mother's visage. Damn the fucking peasants who would have heard him, Lords and Ladies be damned, he was at his wits end. He'd had enough for one day. He only needed quiet solitude to think properly, to draw up real plans to secure the North truly to his side. Pacify the damage done during the war…make his mind up on what to do with the Westerlands…

But if all anyone wished to do was drown him in information he already knew-

Grunting as he rolled his shoulders, his eye blazed down at his mother. Tilting his head as he nearly spat his retort, "yes yes and all that stays their hand is their loyalty to their Queen, Rhaena Targaryen. As well as her sister, Aegon's wife, Princess Baela Targaryen. Yes, mother, I know. I chose them strategically. The North will not attack us. And the likes of the fucking Dowager Lady Johanna Westerling has already proven she has no mind for war or true retaliation," Aemond's jaw was grinding as he purposely focused on the corridor ahead. Ignoring the nobles that spotted a heated discussion between their betters as they passed through the halls.

Making their way up several flights of steps, Aemond found the world around him to blur slightly, the voices around him numbing to the faint mumble of incomprehensible jargon…then focusing in. He shook the uncomfortable feeling from himself, rattling his neck slightly, as he finally turned the corner with his mother. Heading towards his royal chambers, he lowered his voice to a smooth yet dull tone, "see, mother. I'm not some hapless fool. I know the North needs placating. I've known it since Aegon abdicated the throne to me, since my first son was born and then my second...."

There he took another silent moment to breathe deeply, unlatching his hands from behind his back. This level of fury and restlessness, it was convulsing within him, violently transforming into this warped unsettling thing in his gut. Soon enough, unconsciously he found his right hand had sprung up towards his throat. His thumb found comfort in stroking the old vertical scar that spanned down the side of his jaw, spanning the length of his neck.

Such a clean scar…a straight mark.

His deranged love for the wound that was given to him by his once caged bird, it was more of a cozy reminder than a haunting. And his chest felt as if heavy laid bricks rested against his heart, it was this reminder of the old slash his wife had once handed him that seemed to calm him. The confident fact that he’d have her in his midst soon enough. And with that certainty in mind, it was becoming far more difficult to not simply dismiss this conversation and leave it as he wished, because he could. Because his mother could no longer order him about as she once did.

No one could.

No one but-

She was not present in this hallway.

His dragoness…

He’d join her in their shared chambers soon.

He'd much rather be dealing with her than his mother at the moment.

Rolling his jaw, he knew he had to regulate his emotions. He could not explode, not here, not with his mother. With his dragoness, it was different, it felt mutual. She would fight him on anything...but his mother, she was just a woman. An older one grappling with the changes of the world, the changes in her station. The utter power she’d lost and had failed to ever regain…

Breathing in and out, Aemond continued on, "this is a task that needs planning, precise planning. Does it not? Treating with the Northern Houses, worse yet possibly offering marriage pacts and or true dragon allegiances. I have not taken this lightly. But Targaryen blood is scarce now and I cannot waste it so eagerly. Sending mine or Aegon's own offspring North just to appease a few sour Lords. The bloodline must be secured first and foremost, and other alliances may be needed in our future."

"Aemond-" she'd started, the lacking tone had already informed him of what she might say next.

But he'd given her no room to continue, "mother, when I say that I've considered everything, know that I have. When I say that I am devising a plan that may yet gain the North's favour, before we are set in a truly perilous situation...you must take my word for it."

"A perilous situation," Alicent’s frown set deeper, her brows creasing as her eyes sharply fell back onto her second born son, "and was it peril that emboldened you to burn the town of Oxcross? Peril or the basest peak of your petty fury at your own humiliation? That is what the council meeting settled within you, is it not?" she stood firm, her feet planted as they were now safely standing in the royal wing of the castle. With her hands delicately folded in front of her emerald green satin gown. Her fingers itching to fidget with the encrusted jewels there, if only to mitigate her own emotions as she boldly asked the question so few would ever dare to.

Though she seemed to forget that she held little power over him now.

Dowager Queen mother that she was.

Aemond slowed his own steps, eager to end this encounter out in the hall before he stepped into his chambers to face the other bold woman with whom he shared his life with.

"Mother...careful now. It’s uncouth to pry," his voice lowered to the base of his throat as he slowly stepped towards her, his polished riding boots clacking against the hard stone floors. Echoes permeating the otherwise empty corridor. It was there, he could see it, at the end of the hall. Almost glowing with a direct ray of sun beaming upon the door…Aemond could see the guards there. At his chambers, his sanctuary away from all of this. It was all so close...yet his mother stood in the way like a blockade of the most egregious kind.

"Is that what you're doing now?" Alicent hummed darkly, twisting her own lips in the process. The auburn waves of her unbound hair falling back behind her shoulders as a look of doubt and subtle disgust fell upon her face. She looked him up and down along his form, the wordless gesture of it all was all too clear even before she spoke, "my own son, threatening me once again. First with your wish to rule the Seven Kingdoms, to snatch what was rightfully your elder brother's. What we fought for here, the freedom, our very lives. And then you made the unilateral decision yourself. To bestow upon the two of you, wives that were of the blood of our enemies. The man that almost killed you!"

Exhaling with the whole of his body, he maneuvered around his mother, rolling his stiff shoulders, flexing his fists away from her. Stroking that scar of his, the one that laid just opposite of the one that nearly severed his head that day. Above the God’s Eye, when the Gods’ saw fit to save his life instead.

No…when Gods’ left everything up to the will of pure luck itself.

Daemon Targaryen had almost killed him that day…his uncle would have taken them both to oblivion.

And now here he was stroking a scar made by that man’s own daughter, the daughter he’d chosen to take to wife the very same year.

His mother surely knew as much, even as she watched his actions with perplexity. Surely clueless as to why he felt the need to knead his wound as he did. But it was a precaution taken on his end. Because he could feel it building within him, something dark within his soul. Doing his best to tamp down the feeling, trying to remind himself that he could not unleash it here. He couldn't harm her...

However, he could halt this line of questioning. Straightening himself, he stood to his full height, towering above his mother. He watched as the mix of emotions filtered across her face, as the fearlessness in her eyes began to waver. Not that he would ever lift a physical hand against her. But she did doubt him now...ever since the war...ever since Lucerys...she did doubt him.

She thought him a monster...just like all the rest.

"Do not forget yourself, mother," he eyed her with cold precision, watching as she took one step back and then another. Her hands were trembling just a bit as he in turn settled his hands behind his back, hardening his countenance in the process, "Aegon handed me his crown, that was his choice, he knew he was not fit for it. But in the case of our wives, no other would do. The war depleted the amount of dragon's blood in the realm. It is my goal to replace what was lost, that cannot be done with any old bride. Andal or otherwise. Both Aegon and myself needed Valyrian brides. And we have since brought forth several trueborn Valyrian children to the crown, to this house. House Targaryen."

Every statement he made was punctuated with a step towards his mother, so that he could see the understanding settle in her eyes. Watch as her gaze fluttered about his face in a course of action that seemed desperate to find the little boy she was so used to squashing beneath her. The boy she once used to serve her needs first then looked to appease his own.

But that boy was gone.

He died during the war.

In some horrific form of symmetry or horrid cosmic karma, that little victim of a boy that lived within Aemond had died the day Lucerys Velaryon...Strong had died. Where the anger and pity that swirled within him in a mix of blinding fury and flurried uncertainty. That fury is what led him to chase his young nephew and his tiny dragon up into that storm. With the sole wish of killing the young boy at the forefront of his mind. It was never meant to be a game to him...the sick thrill of it all, terrorizing that child as he gleamed all of the joy in the world from the power he'd felt.

It had all been so glorious.

Justice...for himself, finally delivered.

There was no hesitation, he did not wish to fall back.

Until it happened... he'd bade Vhagar take her moment, strike while the young pair were unprepared. Only then did uncertainty finally strike at Aemond's core...only once he'd done the deed.

Once the boy was dead.

Scattered strewn limbs tossed to the sea...the rest devoured by Vhagar.

A fate worse than a simple death, to be of the blood yet eaten by a dragon.

A cardinal sin, surely.

The act of killing one's kin...the act of severing a line of dragon's blood, no matter how thin. It wouldn't have mattered if he regretted it...the life was already lost. Rhaena had once screamed something along those very same sentiments towards him once before. The truth of the matter had settled there.

And now, looking back at it all, he knew it just as well. The death of Lucerys was the day Aemond knew he could never return to living beneath the will of another. Not as he had existed before...not beneath Criston fucking Cole's will, or his mother's, or his grandfather, and certainly not beneath Aegon in that fashion.

He was King now.

His word was law.

To be obeyed above all else.

Aemond finally relented his stalking pursuit, his mother seemed concerned enough. And truth be told he only needed her attention for one final statement, simply rasping the words, "I've never threatened you, mother. I've only ever stated what is. When I brought the dragon twins here, I stated they'd be made to wed myself and Aegon. It was a decision I made as King, not a Prince, not Prince Regent...but as the highest power in the realm. It was not to be argued with, and most certainly not to be overturned by you or my grandfather. The same could be said about this matter now."

Finally, stepping around her, he made his way towards his chambers. Relieved by the simple fact that he could not hear his mother's footsteps following him, instead he heard her voice trembling off, "and with no one left to guide you any longer...you'd what? Rain ruin and death upon all the land, nobles and smallfolk alike? When you feel insulted? Or denied…wronged in some way? Or just because it makes you feel strong?"

"Neither...or all of the above, feel free to choose for me. Clearly you’ve already decided," he'd shrugged carelessly, not bothering to attach an emotion to his mother’s otherwise heartfelt deliverance. Nodding for the two guards at his door to unlock the room and give him entry. The respectful taste that would normally sour in him, to bid his mother 'good day' or to at the very least 'excuse' himself had evaporated. He'd instead left his mother alone in the corridor, with his back turned towards her, entering the bright sunny haze of his chambers with a breeze of warm Spring air wafting towards him.

His sanctuary.

Within that breeze was the familiar scent of his wife, sugary sweet wild berries mixed with a bright lilac air. It was Rhaena's signature scent, a mixture of the fragrant oils, soaps and creams she always used to ready herself.

Gods, how he'd missed it.

It’d only been a few hours away from it…but he’d wholeheartedly missed it.

—

Notes: In-universe backstory, that will be fleshed out in the full longform fic that's coming later on. The scar that Aemond is touching so fondly in this chapter was given to him by Rhaena! (there's more detail about this incident in the notes on Ao3!)

#aemond targaryen #rhaena targaryen #rhaena x aemond #aemond x rhaena #rhaemond #hotd #hotd fanfic #chapter 4 will be out in a few days!! probably some time during the weekend! 😌#Don't You Dare Do This Without Me

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hyuuukais · 1 year

Text

✧˖°ʚ🍓ɞ♡ SUNSHINE AND STRAWBERRIES

pairing ☆ lee felix x fem reader

synopsis ☆ Y/N is a new streamer. after months of planning, and her best friend & now fellow streamer han jisung convincing her, she makes a twitch and youtube account. thanks to jisung giving her a shoutout to his own huge following, she gains some unexpected overnight fame. but what was more unexpected was waking up to see her long-time favourite comfort streamer _sunshine.bbokari_ following her.

warnings ☆ swearing kind of

[TAGLIST -> CLOSED]

MASTERLIST | PREVIOUS | NEXT

☆ partially written chapter, 6 screenshots ☆

CHAPTER FIFTEEN ☆ THANK YOU

His car pulls up shortly after you get back downstairs. Chan pulls you into a hug, whispering in your ear about how you'll be okay, that the world is mean sometimes, but you're strong.

"Y/N," You let go of Chan, turning around to see Felix.

This is the first time you've seen him in real life.

Well, minus the one convention you went to that he attended, but that was different.

Up close, he was even more beautiful, eyes bright and a soft smile. He looked like he just woke up, hair disheveled and still in pajama pants. Like he rushed out as soon as he could, not caring about anything else but your safety and comfort.

"Y/N," He was closer now, he smelled like freshly baked brownies. Something about the way he looked at you and opened his arms with no hesitation, inviting you for a hug, made something in you ache. You fell into his arms easily. It was like you were always meant to be there.

You clutch onto the back of his sweater, trying hard not to let fresh tears fall, but his warmth and the way he caresses your back and cradles your head makes it impossible to keep in all the emotion. He pulled back, the hand that was cradling your head now resting on your cheek, wiping away your tears. No one had ever looked at you so softly.

The two of you made your way to his car, waving goodbye to Chan. Once you got in, you closed your eyes, feeling drained. Today had been one of the most emotionally taxing days of your life. Felix got in shortly after, stopping briefly to talk to Chan first. You smiled when they hugged goodbye.

"Alright... no one should be home when we get back. I told them to clear out so you had room to relax," Felix said, starting up the car.

"Oh," You said, voice going up in surprise. "I figured you'd take me back to mine."

"I-" He blushed hard. "If you're more comfortable with that I can! But I just figured my place is closer and you'd be tired and maybe we could watch your favourite movie or show so you could take your mind off things..." You smiled at his rambling, biting your bottom lip to contain a laugh. "And I got strawberry ice cream so we could make milkshakes to go with the brownies I made for you-"

"Wait," You put a hand up. "You made them for me? Like... specifically? And went out of your way to get my favourite ice cream? You're gonna make me cry again!"

The two of you laughed, Felix looking away from you shyly. As you pulled away from the hotel, you head fell to the side, eyes begging to close again. You were about to let yourself drift to sleep when something- no, someone- caught your eye.

notes ☆ secret things with han and chan revealed!!!!! will y/n finally get some well deserved rest? sounds like it!! and as always, thank you all for your love for this fic, i appreciate it greatly. i always look forward to what u guys are saying in the tags and replies, hehe

taglist ☆ @marcillfll @toplinelix @neri-ner @tfshouldidohere @imasimplol @samvagejkflxhrt @yennifersgeralt @aestheticsluut @cherryuqii @tenebrisirae @roseidol @veryjeongintxtkid @amara-mars @nobuttpics @bmnyy @sheeshhhhfelixsworld @ellelabelle @gini143 @mrsseals16 @veedoesntknaur @channiesstars @daydreamer5006 @luvvvash @amesification @skzswife @blamemef0rit @soulphoenix1618 @lovingmny @stvrfir3 @boo-ven9eance @adestayskz @rag-iii @enchantedgrunge @mytherapisttoldmenotto @oh-my-fancan @lucktales @cookielino @fantasyaddict123 @sleeplessmin

pink means it won't let me tag u

#✧˖°ʚ🍓ɞ♡ SUNSHINE AND STRAWBERRIES #skz #stray kids #skz smau #lee felix x reader #social media au #stray kids smau #lee felix #lee felix x fem reader #lee felix x yn #lee yongbok #non idol au #non idol felix #stray kids streamer au #felix streamer au #streamer au

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nishayuro · 8 months

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Excuse me, ✨The Amazing Madam Nisha✨ but I would like to send in a request. I would like Tamaki, Tsuyu, and Eraserhead with a GN reader (platonic) that has a similar personality to Hu Tao because my girl deserves better. Also her is cake for your hard work 🎂

My Hero Academia with Hu Tao! Reader (Platonic)

A/N: Hallo! Thank you for the cake ^^ I hope u enjoy this!

Genre: Fluff

GN! Reader

Warning: Mention of dead people (nothing graphic)

Character building!! Your quirk lets you summon a sentient ghost buddy (It’s similar to Dark Shadow.) that for some reason has fire powers, you speculate that its a demon, but who are you to judge really.

Another thing about your quirk is it lets you see the memories of dead people when you touch their corpse. Kinda creepy, I know.

Your family runs a funeral parlour, so your whole life you’ve been exposed to the notion of life and death, and you’ve long ago removed that fear in you. Human lives are meant to end one way or another, But that doesn’t stop you from dreaming of being a hero, so that even for a few more years, those people can live their lives and die of natural causes and not of evil doings.

You’re a very cheerful person albeit your fascination with death, which drives some people crazy when you go up to offer them coupons for your family’s business. But hey, who can blame you? Business is business.

Tamaki Amajiki

You’re one of the Big 3, well, now known as the Big 4 along with Mirio and Nejire. Your quirk has been helpful with lots of murder investigations, and you’ve trained your ghost buddy with controlling its fire.

Tamaki at first was scared of you, I mean, you did offer him a coupon for a coffin one time when he was to be deployed on a mission.

But he later realised that it's just a personality of yours, and got used to you.

Whenever he has his panic attacks, you’d let your little ghost buddy out for Tamaki to play with as a form of calming himself.

He sometimes gets scared when the Big 4 hangs out and Nejire asks about your missions, because most of the time, you’re deployed to help solve murder cases. And that’s not entirely a fun topic.

But overall, Tamaki is glad to have a friend like you, who shows they case in even the weirdest ways.

Tsuyu Asui

You’re one of class 1-A’s top fighters, along with Bakugo, Todoroki, and Midoriya.

Tsuyu is a naturally friendly person, so she was able to befriend you right away, and you earned yourself a place with the Deku Squad.

She does get a bit creeped out when you offer up coupons and promos, but she’s there to pull you away from possibly angering or creeping out anyone else with your antics.

She knows you’re a very dependable friend though, and goes to you for advice whenever she has a problem.

You also come to her whenever missions get taxing, sure, you’re used to the face of death, but it’s still a whole new can of worms to be sent out to missions where you know you’ll see bodies, some more gory than others.

When days like that come, she’ll be there to help you through them and get you back to your ever so energetically weird self.

Aizawa Shouta

You’re his student, and with the rise of Nomu cases, your quirk has been in demand to help solve it.

Being able to see the memories of dead people helped with solving many murder cases, so naturally, they’d wanna see how your quirk works on the Nomus.

Aizawa at first was against this, I mean, this was emotionally draining even for someone like you.

But you assured him that this was a way to properly give justice to the poor souls who suffered.

So he’ll let you, but will be with you when you do it.

He knows you’re dependable and strong, and he admires your resilience.

He’s also another one to wrangle you up before you cause trouble with your ways of promoting the funeral business.

He’d do everything to protect your cheerful energy, he’d hate to see that light of yours grow dim.

Masterlist

Navigation

#boku no hero academia #my hero academia #Tamaki Amajiki #Tamaki Amajiki x reader #tyusu asui #tsuyu asui x reader #aizawa shouta #aizawa shouta x reader #my hero academia fic #my hero academia headcanon #genshin impact hu tao

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silverskye13 · 1 month

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Hello! I'm one of your readers and admirers, been sending asks before too - it's just the topic makes me self-conscious.

You're writing very long and articulated things, with intricate details, and you're pretty darn good at it - so I believe you can give advice here. Do you ever feel discomfort/anxiety about writing long works in form like "it will take me ages to do it, and if I can't finish it will haunt me forever"? Do you have any methods of fighting it?

Oh hmm. Well! I used to have those anxieties yes. I haven't had them for a while. My method of fighting it is less of a fight, and more of a,,, change in perspective I suppose.

So, I don't go into any project assuming I will finish it.

Now, important note: I go into every project wanting to finish it. Most things I work on, especially long form things, have a finish line. I know generally how I want the story to go, and why, and I go into it knowing that it will change and evolve as the project continues. The finish line might get farther away, or rarely, closer, if I cut things down.

But I've stopped assuming something I start will ever get done.

This does a few things for me. Firstly, it takes away the guilt of "but if I don't finish! I won't be able to live with myself!" My goal was never to finish, so there is no guilt attached to not finishing.

[Well, that's a lie. I do feel a little guilty about unfinished projects, but it's "I should get back around to that someday" guilt, and not "this is a personal failing that is indicative of my character" guilt.]

The other thing that not starting a project purely to finish it does, is it recontextualizes your goals and rewards. The good feelings you get from working on the project, and making your shorter term goals, becomes the motivation to keep working on it, as opposed to a much farther away and more ephemeral end goal of "done someday."

If you have already made the goal of "done someday" on a long term project, and you have pinned your sense of success to it, the best advice I personally can give, is to unpin your sense of success from that far away point. That point might be years away, and while some people can definitely wait years for payoff, I, personally, can't. I need something closer and smaller. Otherwise I get worn down and tired, because I am slogging on something very emotionally taxing that isn't paying me back in any way. Why would I do that? That's very rude to myself! We don't suffer for art around here!

I would recommend instead, picking a closer point. If you're writing a long fic, pick a scene you really want to reach. [I pick several. If you ever hear me ramble about "story arcs" it's a product of this.] If you're making a comic, pick a scene, chapter/page number, or character introduction you're excited for. If you're making a video game, pick several programming or story milestones, etc.

Base your success on reaching those milestones. You will get your dopamine rush from Doing The Thing. Congratulate yourself! Bask in it! Celebrate the small milestone the same way you would the finish line. Buy a favorite treat, take the weekend off to rest, gush about it to your friends. It might feel silly the first few times you do it. That's fine! You're training your brain to appreciate milestones. Your brain will figure out what you're doing and get with the program.

Aside from milestone goals, I think it's also good to remember, a project is never abandoned if you don't want it to be? Like, really embrace that idea. Unless some fortune teller has divined the exact date and time of your death, for all you know, you have ten, twenty, hell, fifty years to finish your project. Long Term Project has no end date [unless you are professionally publishing something with a company, in which case, you have negotiated your end date with a client.] You can say "I'm tired of this for now", drop it and come back later. You aren't a failure for needing a break -- even if that break spans years, and you pick up 3 more long term projects in between. I have been working on a webcomic for 3 years now. It has 30 pages, and I take 6 months breaks in between working on it. I don't see that as a personal failing.

I don't know, I feel like this is getting a bit incoherent. Long story short: most people's anxieties about long term projects [and their ability to finish them] have to do with being deeply unkind to themselves, I feel. You aren't a publishing house. You aren't a TV show producer. You aren't a film director. You are one person, working on something potentially massive. Recognize that will take time. Recognize taking your time isn't a bad thing. Recognize you might need to take breaks -- long ones. Recognize that you need sustaining goals that are small yes, smaller than finishing, but also deeply, deeply important. And also recognize if you can't finish your long term project? That's not a moral failing. You're allowed to walk down the road with an idea, love it to bits, and then change enough as a person through the process, that it no longer serves you. And then you can drop it.

Do not make the end goal of a long project your finish line. If you do, every project you don't finish is a disappointment. Make finishing the project the happy accident that came from working on it long enough.

#answering asks #anonymous #i hope?? this helps??#oh boy im very bad at giving advice

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am-i-the-asshole-official · 7 months

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WIBTA if I told my mother I do not want to help her

💚💙💚 <- to recognize the post

I have two sisters who are older than me, we are all teenagers.

My mom designates the weekend to grocery shopping and cleaning the house. Because of her chronic pain making it more difficult to function at times, she often asks for my help. I would be fine with this, but the problem here is she only ever asks for my help.

Most of the time I only finish up with my homework right before I am meant to get ready for bed (I struggle with motivation and focusing), and sometimes I'm working well past that time. Because of this, I rarely ever have time to myself during the week. I find it reasonable that I want to use the time I have on the weekends for myself. I feel like I never get to do things that I enjoy during the week, and by the time the weekend comes my brain feels like it's soup. As far as I know, neither of my sisters suffer with this problem as they both get right on their hobbies the second they get home. Despite this, I am the only one who is asked to help clean and do shopping.

When helping her clean I try to get things done as fast as possible and sometimes when I am focused it's difficult for me to mask how I am feeling. This makes it very obvious that I would rather be doing just about anything else. And when shopping starts to take a bit too long I get very restless and fidgety. I have, on various occasions, nearly completely blocked myself off while at a store because it is very overstimulating and emotionally taxing, and it takes everything in me not to get incredibly frustrated.

When my mom notices this, she gets upset. She tells me that I do not HAVe to help her and if I really don't enjoy helping her then I can tell her that I don't want to. However, I have never taken her up on this offer in fear of upsetting her.

so. WIBTA if I actually did tell my mother I would rather be doing the things that I enjoy during my free time, or if I reminded her that she could ask my sisters for help instead of me? Or should I continue to help despite the fact that I rarely get time to myself?

What are these acronyms?

#aita #am i the asshole

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derekgoffard · 1 month

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Colin's older sister is a very small part of his background, however Ive had some characterization down for a while now so I thought I'd make a little post about her 🤲.

Her name is Claire Midland! She has virtually no relationship with Colin and probably does not ever wish to see him again yayyay 👐. She also has those mother issues that make you a bit mean and desperate for comfort all the time but that's okay 👍.

Some extra trivia under the cut 🕊️

( THESE ARE ALL WRITTEN VERY MESSY + INCOHERENT. IM SORRY IF U ATCUALLY TRY READING THIS 😭😭😭😭😭 )

- she went into nursing because she wanted to give others the kind of care and attention she herself craved - however she eventually realized that was not at all the reality of nursing. She kind of hates her job 👹.

- her life revolves around this funny little cycle of her feeling this constant sense that she is unloved, which leads her to constantly be seeking comfort ( physical and emotional ). However she never feels comforted for long, hence the cycle continuessss la la la🤸.

- her favorite thing ever is being coddled, she's a hard worker but she wishes she wasn't.

- She loves flowersss, but she can never keep them alive. Despite this she continues to buy them, only to have them die in days. Her favorite flowers are sun flowers 😊.

- her necklace has her and her mother's birthstones ( emerald and topaz ).

- she's never held a steady relationship for over a year but she has alot of positive one night stands. Not necessarily sex either - usually she just wants to be cuddled and coddled over for a night, y'know how it is ☹️..... Let me tell you what tho her aftercare game is unbeatable LOLLLLLLLL.

- she was a very clingy and emotionally demanding child. ( example; Claire would absolutely NOT enter school without her mother, and so her mom had to sit next to her desk in school for most of her early education ). This was okay for a little while, but when Colin was born, their parents got a divorce, and their already mentally ill mother could not really cope with two children.

- Since Claire was the oldest ( still very very little, like 7 years old )- it fell on her to help her mother, while Colin would bounce between their father and mother. Claire has never had a relationship with Colin, but she secretly blames and resents him for their parents divorce, and their mothers declining mental health. While ofc Colin resents her for basically gatekeeping his own mom LOL.

- Her relationship with her mother is surface level and distant. No matter how hard she may want to- she just can't connect to her mother. Claire is too emotionally taxing and her mother is pretty much unwilling to deal with it at this point. Claire reminds her of the lowest times in her life, and she sees Claire's attachment to her as a failure in how she raised her. She thinks Claire needs to grow out of it by herself. I think her mother does feel guilty about how Claire's childhood turned out- and so she really does think trying to let Claire find her own way is what's best for her.

- oh and also Claire is pretty much the reason Colin received so little attention from her as a child LOL- she would get HIDEOUSLY jealous of baby Colin taking attention from her mother and throw really intense fits about it 👤 I'm thinking she even went as far as trying to hurt Colin in some way. Sorry Colin, no healthy relationship with mom for you. your sister is too emotionally demanding.

- I think she's doing okay now. She's a little unhinged but I'm thinking she has a steady job and nice girlfriend now. I kinda want her to be happy y'know. 🕊️

- unrelated but Claire has not seen Colin since they were young teenagers so she has no idea about his dyed hair or fashion sense. I don't think she'd be able to recognize him to be honest LOL.

#i probably wont ever bring her up again but ive had her design in mind for a while. 🤲#i kind of adore siblings whos resentment runs so deep it ruins any prospect of a relationship with eachother. 👍 its yummy to me #girth.art #oc.stuff #Colin Midland #Claire midland

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rin-and-jade · 1 year

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I'm Definitely Faking: A Post about Self Doubt

Alright, i get it. Many people had done things like these but it won't stop me from taking this topic deeper than anyone had done (as i ever read them too) so, for any of you who are interested, or attempt to find a dedicated answer/discussion around this topic, please and PLEASE read it, you will not regret this.

I'm very sure most of you are doing your usual routine, until a thought strike at you fast as lightning, "wait, what if i'm just faking __", or if you knew something you "shouldn't" (say, being a system) then it makes you spiral down the rabbit hole, right? And it is not beautiful, it's extremely taxing both emotionally and mentally. Nobody wants to lie accidentally to people, what if we're actually fine? How would you know? Are you tricking people to get the attention you never received as a child?? How would you actually know?? And etc. I will tell you how. It will stop those doubts for good.

Where it all started..

First of all, anything can be the starting point to where it all goes down. But, generally speaking i think it stems from how people think of what being a system is like, and i mean it in a personal view. Too rare to have one? Probably faking, Good communication? Faking, aware of other presence of parts? I'm faking, can't switch? Faking again, darn it. You get the idea here, right?

About that crippling doubt of mine..

Why would someone panic when they think they’re faking, when real fakers never gave a fuck? The problem is not on the disorder but more on the lack of proof for certainty,, and because you start to doubt from it, you then think you’re actually faking. I have a few to say about how it attacks, so bare with me:

Tendency to think on extremes When you start to think that having something means needing to suffer for like every single second.. that one minute period of ease and relieve will be the bullet in the gun to trigger a thought of "faking". Getting a better view that, for example how depression means you can laugh or feel good from a comfort show, does not mean you don't have depression due to that particular moment.

Focusing on the wrong dot What if i tell you, that you might be looking at the wrong side? Be it only looking at one side of the coin (biased towards looking for clues to prove yourself wrong, e.g. alters are not distinguishable from each other, and so it means you're not a system) or focusing too much about how other's experience is like and if you don't relate then you're not real, or maybe you have your own assumptions/expectations about how the disorder should look like and when it doesn't meet the criteria.. well.. you know what to say.

"I feel like.." When emotions hits to the roof, logic gets thrown out from the house. Tell me who can think well in stressful moments,, the answer is no one, some can appear more collected or have a higher tolerance before they can panic but you get the point. We all have feelings at the end of the day, no one is unfeeling and no one can escape from it,, i'm not saying you have neglect it, more like i want you to be aware when those said emotions are controlling (more like affecting) your thoughts. Too much of it can throw off the balance in rationality, easier to dismiss proof, and worser decision making. So, if you feel overwhelmed,, make a quick choice on calming yourself down, it will be easier to challenge the worries and negative thoughts once you are aware and actively practicing.

This isn't my first time..

You guessed it. Sometimes one assurance won't do the trick anymore after a few weeks, it comes back with more and more bullets to shoot you down, who says the bullets are gone when someone makes a post about people that their experience is valid? You have to work on yourself, because one day, you will doubt about something people never post and you are alone,, dealing with all the murky thoughts will be less harder, if you follow these tips:

Everyone is different, the disorder never look static and same for everyone. Having a different struggle or way of functioning never equates to being a fraud. Tell yourself that.

Focusing on evidence, not on what you don't experience or have, being a green apple does not make you a pear,, you are still an apple because of its shape and taste and overall appearance. Not just because you're green, it invalidates every other evidence of what counts as an apple.

Throw away all those unhelpful confirmations, you don't need to constantly check wether your other parts are real, you don't need to know having a blackout means you're still not faking, you don't need anything related to this? Because we are going to heal and learn, confirming becomes obsolete,, as things will change, clinging onto an image on how you should be or live like will do no good. Seeking constant assurance does more harm.

Never downplay your own experiences. Easier said than done but i know someone will say right on my face that being beaten up regularly by a father is not that bad to develop trauma or a system (for example) while it darn is. If things are downplayed more often and to many aspects, you will be more prone to thinking that you're "faking". Due to the nature that developing this disorder requires severe and ongoing trauma, and guess what,, trauma comes in all forms.

With this, it will be much easier to accept you have a disorder,, and accept that it's not all black and white, actually this can be applied with anything, but my point is that. Practice more compassion for yourself, by understanding and being aware,, and not resorting to self negativity or elses, this will not be a major problem for you ever again. Also noting that yes its alright to relapse and question everything again, but this time you fight back,, you hear me soldier?

Do you copy that, *walkie-talkie sound*

- j

#did #actually did #did community #did osdd #did system #dissociative identity disorder #plural #system stuff #sysblr #jeducates

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positivelybeastly · 13 days

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Does Hank ever get happy when someone gets angry on his behalf?

"If I had my way, no-one would get angry at anyone for anything. We'd all sit down, take a deep breath, and talk about our issues and work out a solution, like adults."

". . . That being said. There is a degree to which it is . . . appreciated, to have other people stand up for you."

Oh, he absolutely does. The thing about Hank is that he is, by nature and by necessity, loud. He is a bright blue man covered in thick fur with claws and fangs, he is loud by his very existence, and that pairs well with his natural extroversion, but he also forces himself to be loud to fill a room and control the narrative, as it were.

If you're paying attention to him being an obnoxious nerd or a chattering wit or a goober or a sarcastic peanut gallery, you aren't paying attention to everything else going on, and Hank prefers that.

And yet, in spite of this, he very much can have his moments of shyness. Where a social situation crops up where he doesn't know what to do to navigate it, and he just. Hits the eject button.

Hank is a consummate, perpetual performer. He fills a room. But that betrays a need for attention and validation, and when he doesn't get that? When his tactics don't work? He doesn't quite know what to do. He's used to a certain amount of eyes on him, a certain mood, a certain tone, and when that tone shifts, he can go to emotional extremes to get himself back where he wants to be - sometimes he retreats, and other times he feels obligated to try change it back, play it loud, dictate the situation. It's something he does a lot, especially during his time on the Avengers.

And it's something that does start to stop as he grows older, more secure in himself - something with coincides with him becoming recognised more and more for his genius and his ability and his accomplishments - because, well, he doesn't have to act out as much.

But it does still flare up from time to time, if he's in an emotionally taxing situation. He vacillates between quiet and making a scene, and it can be hard to predict which one he's going to go for next, because it's all dependent on his emotional processes, which can be a bit - erratic.

He flipped from making a scene with the opera house staff, to leaving without even a word when he had an opportunity to leave. He was quiet with Kitty in the cafe for a while, and then he exploded. It's very easy to see why Grant Morrison characterised him as bipolar, and it's a characterisation I agree with and that I play to.

But, the most direct example of Hank liking it when someone is angry on his behalf comes from New X-Men . . .

The little !!! around his figure when Emma becomes absolutely massive in the mindscape - he isn't expecting this. He's literally not even thinking about what that journalist said, because he's heard it all before and it's just water off a duck's back at this point for him, but for Emma?

She will not let it stand.

And this goes even further than you might think, because Emma is a character with high standards and a very select group of friends. She is not easy to get close to. She does not have many people that she will defend, loudly, vociferously, without prompting.

It's really, really clear that Hank was touched by this, and I like that Emma doesn't shy away from his psychic 'physical' contact here, because she knows that Hank respects and likes her, that he's expressing his appreciation for their bond. These two are very emotionally complex, and the fact that Emma is allowing Hank to touch her here, and would later even initiate touch, is important.

Compare and contrast with . . .

Which is all a very long way of saying, yes. Hank very much does like it when you stand up for him, even if he'll only express it quietly. He feels it even more than you think he does. He will remember.

#vinial453 #outofmuffins #hank mccoy #emma frost

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irlbop · 2 months

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Imagine, though, that the first three Papas hadn’t been assassinated, and there really was a plan to have them reincorporated into the Ghost Project. Perhaps not as the frontmen audiences were more familiar with, but there was certainly use to be found. The Ministry could be resourceful when it wanted to be, after all.

Primo would probably feel confused at best, fatigues at worst as the memories of touring and strutting about began to reappear in the marrow of his bones. He was far from young when the Ghost Project had been revived under his visage, and he’d certainly not gotten any younger in the decade that had passed since he passed on the position.

Ever the diligent shepherd throughout his life, the eldest Emeritus son had found himself quite enjoying his retirement: It had allowed him more time to rest, more time to tend to his personal passions. Further to the point, though, what more did he have to offer? Ghost had prospered with each succession. As far as he was concerned, he had done his job: It was now up to the Next Guy to keep it going.

But, ever the good son and dedicated brother, he hears out the proposal. The stage may not call him back, but the Church does. And for that, he just listen.

Secondo would furrow his brow, almost reflexively creating a slight sneer. Though, it’s not out of disgust so much as uncertainty. And Secondo is very rarely a hesitant person.

He knew how the Church saw him: Angry, bitter, so on and so forth. The very things that contributed to the decision to end his tenure.

…Well, that, and perhaps his exorbitant spending on the Ministry’s dime. There was only so much he could get away with under the justification of gluttony, lust, and sloth, evidently.

Regardless, though, he found the prospect somewhat suspicious. After he retired the mitre, the Ministry appeared to want little to do with him. The Clergy kept interactions to a minimum, and most paperwork had been designated to other members often before. Most who look forward to his presence are Siblings with an appetite they claimed only he could satiate — and frankly, he was content with that.

He was far from a dullard, but Secondo couldn’t fathom what the Ministry realistically could pull from him at this point. Perhaps, then, “conflicted” is the better expression he wore: Eyes narrowing at the prospect as he pondered what this could mean, quiet anger that they would demand more of him after he had given them plenty, but also curiosity.

And a bit of temptation. Best to hear the details. Perhaps maybe even confirm the perks. He would keep his guard up of course, but maybe he could regain access to the Black Card if he played the right cards…

And then…There’s Terzo. Of the Papas present, he was the most emotionally expressive.

“Prone to fits of flamboyancy,” Primo would muse if he were in a gentler mood.

“A shameless twit with no damn self-control,” Secondo would insistently correct.

If that moment had been someone’s first exposure to Terzo, however, they probably would not have guessed it. He is the picture of calm. Almost ennui. Heterochromatic eyes sit beneath bushy brows, hooded as though the proposal were someone waxing poetry of the gilded lily that was doing taxes.

If someone who did know of Terzo and his antics were to see him, they might have concluded one of two options: That he was either zoning out, fantasizing about all the schlong and balls and pussy he could be investing time in; or he was hungover and/or high and thus not computing a single syllable that tumbled into his ears.

But Terzo was stone-cold sober. And he was hanging on to every word like claws sink into flesh.

The fact of the matter is that yes, Terzo could be loud. He could be showy. He was outspoken, enduring, a consummate performer. But that didn’t mean Terzo was dumb. It was so easy to simplify him down to a happy-go-lucky himbo of some sort that people — even his own brothers — would often forget the bottom line: He was still an Emeritus, born from a line coated in blood and shadow.

And in that moment, the blood and shadows within him were boiling, as though the essence of The Pit had found itself replaced into his mortal form.

In that moment, he was putting those years of breathing exercises to use by tempering his inhales and exhales to feel less heated, less sharp. Without the papal paints to give illusion to his features, his features seemed sharper, but not necessarily menacing. He was white-knuckling it in those gloves he was almost never without, ever thankful that their cloth texture didn’t give away his feelings like the squeak of leather would.

They want them back? They want him back? How about a proper send-off to his papacy first? How about an actual final show, one last thing to give to the followers he’d busted his ass off to give to the Church? An apology card signed by the Clergy, an Edible Arrangement, something!

He brought home a goddamn Grammy. And how did they repay him?

By dragging him off of the stage, mind-song. This was the way the most successful Antipope to date’s reign had ended: Not with a bang, not with a kazoo, but with a whimper.

He had given the Church everything he had: His youth to studies, his adulthood preparing for succession, his mind, body, and soul put to the form of song for them to exploit. He even gave them things he did not actually possess, but dressed up just enough to superficially please them. Yet now they come back, ready to take even more? What was even left in their eyes to snatch, he might’ve wondered beneath it all?

A dark bile flowed through his veins like the Serpent through Eden. And oh, how this domain did love its corruption. That is, except for when it conflicted with what they wanted. And what this church of expression and freedom wanted, as far as Terzo saw it, was control. Power. All that uncreative jazz. You were only as free as they saw fit.

Well. Fine. This church loved serpents so much, why not become what they loved? He could slither pitifully on his belly. He could sit in wait. He could speak honeyed words. He could remind them he was but a soft, simple creature.

He could bite.

What this proposal to reincorporate himself and his brothers foretold, he did not yet know. And it frankly didn’t matter to him: He would take it. He would take it and cradle it and slowly nurture it with his venom until the Ministry would recognize the necrosis developing far too late to stop it.

He was, after all, an Emeritus: The favored bloodline of the Dark One. He was insurrection, he was spite.

“I see…” he uttered, stifling a nonexistent yawn.

“And this…idea that you have: What’s in it for me?”

#the band ghost #ghost bc #papa emeritus i #papa emeritus ii #papa emeritus iii #does this count as fanfic??#…technically it is but idk what to even tag this as…#I just like the theory that Terzo is actually critical of the Church #and that was why he got so abruptly removed #because don’t you think that would manifest in some very dark ways?#fun fact: most of this was written while sitting on the bus waiting for a cop to come by #bc the back end got clipped by a car running a red light #anyway! this got away from me lol #me when I wrote this coming off a 7.5 hr shift: Gorgeous. wonderful. I’m truly speaking words #me reading this now: 🥲 Whaddafuck is this #aw well. suffer. *posts*

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hiding-in-my-blanket-fort · 2 years

Text

Demisexual!Jake Seresin x Reader headcanons

Saw this post where people were being little piss babies that Jake Seresin can't possibly be aspec. So *cracks knuckles* since people can't seem to stay in their own fucking lane, I'm gonna be That Bitch and write some aggressively positive demisexual headcanons for our favorite flyboy.

(Tagging my aspec!Jake partner in crime: @gonnabreakhisheart)

Jake is an outrageous flirt. But he doesn't mean 99% of the things that come out of his mouth. He's just blowing smoke and hot air, talking smack.

When someone flirts back, he cranks it up to 110%. But when it comes time to follow through, oh hell no, Jake aborts so fast and hightails it out of there.

Despite what other people accuse him of, Jake has had only two one night stands, and no one ever believes him when he says that so he stopped trying to convince them.

The first time, he was young and reckless, running on the adrenaline high of getting into flight school. His classmates pressured him into it, too, insisting that he was a man now and he needed to prove himself.

It was not a good night and the girl left him in the morning without saying anything, which made him feel like shit.

The second time, Jake had watched one of his pilot buddies die in flight training and it messed him up really bad. He had no one to lean on because he'd learned not to show emotion in the military.

So he ended up at a bar, trying to drown his feelings, and somehow found himself deep in conversation with this woman. She'd lost her boyfriend in a car accident a year ago so she understood what it was like to deal with grief.

They spent most of the night talking and finding comfort in each other.

But they both agreed to part ways in the morning. They still text occasionally and check in on each other now and then.

Jake's reputation as a playboy is purely hearsay and mostly fueled by the jealousy and insecurity of other men. But he gave up trying to deny the rumors a long time ago. His protests seemed to only dig his grave deeper.

So in true Hangman fashion, Jake uses his reputation as a shield. Only the people who will truly stick around for the long haul get a glimpse underneath his armor.

Jake actually takes FOREVER before he decides that he likes you. Being a pilot demands a lot of his time which he knows can be very taxing on a relationship and he's upfront about that right from the start.

He's had a lot of people come and go in his life, and he's careful about getting emotionally invested too early.

You and Jake were friends for years, and he was fiercely protective of you.

Trying to get a guy's number at a bar? GOOD LUCK Jake is gonna be hovering at your shoulder, poking his nose into your business and making sure your potential date knew that you had a curfew, home by 10pm. Or else.

You relentlessly dropped hints that HE could ask you out, which you'd been hoping might happen for...an embarrassingly long time. But he never got the hint.

So YOU finally ask him out, which he tries to laugh off with a joke because you can't possibly be serious. Until he realizes you're not kidding and he finds that it's surprisingly easy to say yes to you.

At the beginning of the relationship, Jake doesn't know what to do with himself. He's on the verge of bolting because this is too good to be true.

About the six month mark, Jake settles down and he starts looking at you in a new light. You fell asleep on his couch, comfortable and safe in his presence while watching television and something in his heart tugs.

In the morning, when he sees you in the kitchen with your messy bedhead as you poured yourself some cereal, wearing the oversized pajamas you'd borrowed from him last night...oh my god, that's the hot button. That's when Jake realizes he found something truly special and he's going to fight for it.

He gets a dog tag engraved with your name and wears it all the time alongside his military dog tags.

He has a picture of you in the cockpit of his airplane. Before every flight, he kisses his fingertips and touches the picture as a good luck charm so he makes sure that he comes home to you.

Honestly, instead of sex, Jake prefers weird 3am chats with you where he can make you laugh until you're gasping for breath.

Jake loves taking a bath with you, especially when you slip into the tub behind him and wash his hair. The first time you did it, he thought he'd died and gone to heaven. No one had ever done that for him before.

He has zero ability to stay mad with you after a fight. He leaves to cool off and then comes back with this kicked puppy-dog look on his face. He takes your hand, kisses your knuckles.

"I hate fighting with you, baby," he whispers.

"Well, if you would just admit I'm right, we wouldn't have to fight."

He can tell you're teasing and you end up hugging each other really hard for several long minutes because you both know just how lucky you are and you don't want a stupid fight to come between you.

Sexy headcanons below the cut (18+ only)

Jake actually doesn't like quickies. They're never satisfying and they're always over too fast.

Cuddlefucking drives him batshit crazy. There's something about how time seems to slow down with the lazy touches, sleep-warm skin, the kisses that feel more like a dream than a reality.

He's actually very worried about hurting you. He's heard some terrible stories from guys in the military who clearly don't like their girlfriends, and he would never dream of treating you like that.

So if you want something more intense, Jake will require an in-depth conversation with clear guidelines and a lot of reassurance that this is what you want.

For that reason, Jake is very uncomfortable with hate sex. It doesn't make any sense to him. He doesn't hate you and he doesn't want to bring that vibe into your relationship.

Jake really looks forward to aftercare. He takes note of everything you liked for future reference.

He loves to absolutely worship your body. Massaging that kink out of your shoulder. Stroking the washcloth over your chest and back in the shower. Propping your leg in his lap as he rubs lotion into your skin.

Jake doesn't care how much shit people give him for saying it but he LOVES missionary. He wants to look you in the eyes. He wants to guide your leg around his hips. It's a classic for a reason.

One time, the two of you decided to get adventurous and try a new position. It was complicated as hell and you fumbled around so much that you ended up collapsed together, Jake's face beet red from laughing so hard.

You didn't actually have sex that night. But you fell asleep in each other's arms without a stitch of clothing between you, and then you had leftover pizza for breakfast, which felt just as good.

Jake is a MONSTER when it comes to non-sexual intimacy. He soaks up every drop like a dying man in the desert.

Sitting on the couch watching tv? He's going to tuck his head into your lap and coax your fingers into his hair.

Brushing your teeth? He'll slide his arms around you from behind and nuzzle into your neck.

Out to dinner with his buddies? He has a hand resting on your thigh.

When you're walking side by side, if you don't hold his hand, Jake will take your hand and tuck it into the crook of his elbow. Every single time. And he gives you this look like, this is your spot, don't you know that by now???

When it's cold, he wraps his hand around yours and tucks it into his coat pocket to keep you both warm.

Masterlist

#top gun maverick #jake seresin #jake hangman seresin imagines #jake hangman seresin #jake seresin x you #jake seresin x reader #writing tag

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