#elle writes fanfic

[darlingofvalyria]

❝Dragons do not seek permission, niece of mine. Dragons take.❞

[ Betrayal clouds your judgement, for when Jacaerys' indiscretion takes the form of a child, your anger lands in the palm of the Rogue Prince. ]

[ +18 MDNI ] [ 3,412 ] | Daemon Targaryen x Targaryen Niece!Reader, Jacaerys Velaryon x Manipulative Aunt!Reader | this set in an au inside of in hightower green. | this is able to be read as a oneshot.

contains— canon divergence to the second power - an au of an au - targcest, use of 'bastard', infidelity, profanity, revenge, violence, pureblood Valyrian bullshit - thinking about death as a revenge but no suicide/suicidal ideation- angst, smut - two wrongs apparently make a right - mentions of children, pregnancy, childbirth - nsfw: rough sex, biting, degradation, breeding kink, smidge dacryphilia, creampie - no kinslayers, no kings, no betas.

a/n— special thanks to @ahristata and @hiraethrhapsody for kicking my pursuit of this thread!! i woke up (almost literally) to this line of inquiry, & though writing for daemon is difficult, i had a way, way too much fun with this one m'fraid. Ihad so much fun I started laughing at the absurdity. + comment, reblog & like at will, mi luvs, mwa!

You can't breathe.

You stand there, your daughters by your sides, no more than five or so name days, dutiful as ever, the princess of the realm— the heir's wife, blindsided. Betrayed. Lied to. And you can't show them your grief, your anger, your shock— you smile, not betrayed, not realised, stupid.

Your act of stupidity protects you, for you can just tell that others, sharp-eyed as they are owning of sharper tongues, calculate the similarities between your husband and the child he is cooing at, at the arms of the Warden of the North's sister.

His bastard fucking sister.

You can't blink away as the facts, the threads, make a beautiful web in front of you. The conclusion is unmistakable. Jacaerys' consistent travels to the North, despite the campaigning for his mother's seat had not required the frequent stretches of long travels. How Aemond had remarked that the bastard is doing twice as much work in doing so, "as he should," Aemond murmurs darkly. "He casts a disgusting shadow on the Iron Throne, 'tis the least he can do."

The insistent of personally greeting the delegates from the North, you thinking it is just his wondrously formed friendship with the Lord Stark, had you dressing up and bringing your girls with him. So that your daughters can meet their father's fucking friend, one that occupied his time when he could have been at home, tending to his duties, his heirs.

And the woman who follows after the Wolf, the bastard Snow, his beloved sister. Dyanna had told you beforehand, as Lord Stark adores his only sibling. Their parenthood is unmistakable, dark hair and sharp chins. A Northern Beauty.

And then you stop, as there is a babe in her arms, no more than two name days at least.

And you see Jacaerys in his gaze.

His beautiful, warm brown eyes in the child in her arms, and as he stands there, your Prince of the Realm, too close for comfort, too close for platonic friendship, a familiarity one cannot deny— and that fucking, sweet-edged, tender smile on his face...

The same one he wore when you had given birth to his daughters. Soiled sheets, bloodied babes— it didn't matter. He held them to his arms with the very same smile, thanking you for birthing his babes.

A gut punch, a sharp inhale, an anger that coils and burns and roars.

Your bastard of a husband had fucked another bastard, and made himself a bastard little fucking family.

Life can ever be so cruel as it is humorous.

Daemon could have laughed at the prediction you found yourself in.

He sits to the left of his wife, the Queen who— in enough of itself, the evidence of the turmoil the court is about to get under, amusingly is talking quick with her Lord Hand; Corlys and Rhaenyra had not stopped pointedly looking at her heir, words too fast but unmistakable what the topic is if their gestures, the knot between their eyebrows, and unmistakable sighs and determined noises.

He, on the other hand, is pointedly staring at you.

You, who tries so hard to piece together an armour of stupidity, an air of nonchalance. As if there is no anger in your visage at your husband's attention completely stolen by Wolf's little sister and her son... who looked completely like him. Dark colouring, the First Men blood thick in his nose, his hair, at the curled edges of his baby-cheeked giggles.

When standing so close, faces to each other, there can be no doubt a mirror.

Or the lovesick smile on the mother's face, watching the Prince of the Realm interact with her son.

Together, the trio of them don't hint as much as a bead of Targaryen blood. One is able to pretend they are nothing more than a small... brown haired family.

Daemon presses his lips, trying desperately not to laugh so loudly.

He admired the boy, truly. Rhaenyra loved each child from her bosom with equal fervor, and Daemon was prepared take him as purely one of his own... but after he broke the betrothal with his daughter (though Baela could give lesser of a shit, though mildly dissatisfied as she was to become Queen, and the girl held her duties between canines) to marry a Hightower cunt... he had distanced himself from the boy.

Daemon viewed it as a sign of weakness, for he knew you. You were just like your mother, prodding into softened parts of his family— that green whore with his brother, young as she had been, his good sister Aemma had not been cold in their memories before she had found herself weightily pregnant with new heirs, and then Jacaerys, new to womanly spells, new to cunt, and you had him making vows in the ways of the dragonlords.

Though he can surmise that much of your mother's movements had not entirely been her own... Daemon knew that calculative look you got in your eye. Blink and it's gone, but your gaze sharpens, your mouth curls in a winning, prideful little smirk.

You were Otto Hightower's granddaughter alright, and you had wanted the Heir's Heir.

But now, it seems like, once a vow broken, it didn't really matter if it was a betrothal or a marriage to Jacaerys.

It brings a sick pull of satisfaction in him, that tugs him to look at you. Every time.

You laugh, tither, still evermore the gem of the feast— a feast you organised with the Lord Hand for your husband's absolutely exceptional diplomatic achievements in the North, truly, Daemon is laughing in the sidelines as the jests and songs make themselves — but Daemon is overtly familiar with dragons. And anger. And you simply stink of it. The way your eye twitches, the occasional grind of your jaw to how your fingers dig crescent moons into your palm. He catches blood in one blink then smeared, then gone, in another.

Your hold onto your armour— the Darling of the Realm, curated so painfully by a young, sly girl moving about the cesspit they call a crown's court — is breaking in pieces and tatters at each hour the feast went on.

It snarls. Like a dragon locked in the pits, tugging at reins, wishing to burn cities.

Maybe you aren't just another Hightower cunt after all.

Not purely at least, he thinks in distaste, staring at the dark green of your gown.

It is a childish tantrum, more than anything, for what is your Hightower green will do now? A bastard has been made, worse, a son. And though Jacaerys himself has muddied blood, he is still a Targaryen. His mother is Queen, prepared to make him an Heir to the Iron Throne as he had been legitimised as Laenor's son. A Velaryon. He bears the name, the crest, and the support of its house.

What is stopping him from marrying the Snow Bastard, legitimising the boy as his own, surpassing your own daughters?

Targaryens marry siblings, they also marry multiple wives.

It is a thought that he can see it dancing in your head— raw, enticing rage and bloodlust that tightens his breeches.

It is an interesting thing.

The green is disgusting, but Daemon can appreciate a young, fertile, Valyrian beauty.

Something your mother had ingeniously provided you and your siblings with, reining in her muddied blood to produce unmistakable Valyrian children. And as a smart little tart, you understood what to do with it.

When Daemon first met you, you were just one of the Hightower spawns that his brother had made to further his line. His brother's daughters—apart from Rhaenyra — were quiet things as babes and children. Odd the two of you were, but not really hostile. When you were introduced to him, your fat babe of a twin brother was teary-eyed and clinging to you, a quiet child with round eyes, staring at him inquisitively, as if challenging.

Then and there, Daemon disliked you so.

Even as you grew, the little of what he could see as he paid no mind of Viserys' other children, you grew up a fine royal, a princess of every word and sung note. Mentions of your progressive fight for the small folk, your charitable heart, your sweet nature that even his brother had made a note once or twice—

He thought it had been Otto Hightower who put you up to such machinations. Wouldn't be below him.

The night you bedded Jacaerys Velaryon, he was pleasantly surprised to find out it had been you all along.

And now here you are, betrayed as you had betrayed his daughter, delicious in your righteous anger and ripe (two babes before the year ended, Jace is an inglorious fool) for the taking. And youthful still. Smooth, soft skin, pretty lips and bright-eyed.

All your scheming, going as far as throwing your grandsire to Oldtown, it is obvious no one has wrangled the clever, spoiled little brat out of you.

As he sips his wine, amused and pleasantly hungry, he muses he might do a job or two of being the strong arm to do so.

He snorts, eyes straying back to the little First Men family.

There it is again. The jest that keeps on giving.

It was pride, truly, that kept you for most of the feast. That kept your gritted teeth to yourself, ducking into corners whenever your anger burned at your eyelids, stubbornly brushing stray tears away.

All is not lost, you stubbornly thought. You just had to plot.

But when Jace had taken your daughters, your Daenera and Aemma, gently tugging them to his bastard whore and his actual bastard to meet— finding your eyes, at that very moment as Daenera's precious, pureblooded hand shyly took the hand of her bastard brother, a fool's tender fucking simpleton of a smile on your husband's face —

Something in your head had snapped. A clean break.

And your armour had fallen. Like limestone from a fortress. Caved in ruins at the pool of your feet. Dark, furious loathe unfurled in your chest. Unable to handle it anymore, you had taken your dress and got out of the feast, for you could feel the urge of unsheathing a sword and going on a bloodied massacre, crowns and titles be damned.

You may not have a dragon, but you have its bloodlust.

Just as you are rushing to your chambers, you stop and make a different turn, knowing that if your husband had caught wind of such an ugly expression on your face, he would try and find you, talk to you, and you don't have the patience to cater to him at the moment— you find what you know of is an empty chamber, reserved for guests at the Keep.

It is a simple room with all the usual accruements. Most of the fanfare, the sheets, are in storage.

You start with a candelabra.

Raise it high before you are violently smashing it against the dresser, shrieks and guttural screams out of your mouth as you tear through the room like a typhoon, cursing Jacaerys, the North, and bastards to the Seven Hells.

None will be the wiser, for you had built your network well. Your spiders will pivot guards and strangers from this area, ensuring you a reprieve where your anger and grief can unfurl and manifest.

So you lose yourself, a dragon untethered. You get so into your rage, quiet in your thoughts, that you don't hear an intruder entering until there is a low, amused laugh too close for comfort.

You whirl around, tear-stained and rage-filled, and though the Rogue Prince expects you to fall into stutters, your eyes slit and you grip— when had you picked up a tome? — the tome tighter to your chest, snarling, "Get out."

Instead of surprise, or even offense, Daemon laughs as if you are the most amusing thing to him all night. Jesters and whores alike.

"I shall not." He makes a noncommittal hum around the dark room. "I rather like it here. It seems this chamber holds a much better entertainment than anything beheld at the feast."

You let out a dark, incredulous laughter. "I have no time for your toying, uncle, get out!" You toss the tome with fervour, but he's a warrior and he anticipates your anger, sidestepping easily before he's back to casual prowling.

"I do not have time to play jester for your entertainment," you hiss, unable to stop the hateful tears from spilling, brushing them away harshly as you watch him watch you.

He raises an eyebrow. "I am not asking you to."

"Are you here then for my humiliation? Press a bitter wound while it's still bleeding, is that it? Is that what would make the glory of your night?"

He snorts. "What would make the glory of my night is a warm body and a tight cunt."

Your face scrunches. "You are disgusting."

He barks out a laugh. "Not as disgusting as your brother."

"Aegon is no longer—"

"— or as stupidly naive as your husband."

A sharp intake of breath before you're once more cracking in broken rage and ghastly pain.

"Of course you would notice, who would not, he looks so much like his fucking bastard."

"Watch yourself, girl," he barks. "You are still talking about the Queen's heir."

A beautiful guard dog, you think, you snort. You push past him, gasping into the crisp, cool air, holding onto the balcony for dear life.

"His already diluted blood makes this conversation entirely hilarious to me I'm afraid." You look down and wonder how fast you will fall. How messy would such a death be? How much care there is left in your wake? Will your husband even care, now that he has his heir? Borne out of true love no doubt, despite such bastardly blood— or is that what makes it thrilling for them?

Mangled bone, spread thin blood— if you die such a way, it should be pretty. You hope it haunts the Keep of so many before you.

But if you die now, you will be replaced so easily. So prettily.

And your daughters—who will care for them? Will Jacaerys even care, if his bastards soon no doubt fill your once home, your mother, your brothers— your daughters pushed aside to make way for fucking dogs.

There is no satisfaction in such a plan.

There are many others.

The Rogue Prince makes his presence known by standing close to your back, close enough that you can smell him, that his heat is your own, as he hums, peering below as you have.

"Have you been drinking, zaldrītsos little dragon?" he whispers, tangling his fingers through your hair, running a lone finger down your neck, up and down in a tantalising movement. You can't help it, it feels comforting, leaning close to it despite such a breathy huff out of your lips.

"Since when am I dragon, kepus uncle? Haven't you always likened us muddied blood, filthier than dragonseeds?"

"I see that I am wrong," he says, almost idle as if he isn't devouring you in his gaze. How you feel soft, pliant under one finger after weighted in wine and the ruins of your anger, how you're almost purring and sweet like this, your fire alive but consistent. "Aōha perzys burns jehikagrī. Nyke hae ziry. Your flames burn bright. I like it."

"Hm. You've had sons, don't you uncle?"

"I have," he replies, amused.

"And many a children." You reach for his chin, your thumb rubbing his bottom lip. He's old, sure, but men don't have the same bodily issues as women. You know he could reach your father's age and be able to produce five more brats.

But his shoulders are strong, spry only as a swordsman can be.

And he isn't like he's loyal to Nyra, turning fully to you with a hand caressing your side.

His hand comes for your neck, halting your movement as he tests a squeeze. There is only much hatred as there is lust. And his cock is winning over his mind, for when your free hand, watching him intently, reaches for the hardness straining against his breeches, giving it a stroke, his breath stutters into a groan whilst his hips push into your hand.

"Dragons do not seek permission, niece of mine," he hums darkly. "Dragons take, or do you have too much of your Hightower cunt of a mother that you—"

You curl your hand over his cock until his breath hitches.

"I want a son. Surely you'd rather want for your true blood to sit on the Iron Throne? Your wife would remain Queen, her and her heir none the wiser. Any son of mine would be King regardless." Your voice is barely above whisper, stroking him as your squirm in his hold, his breath heavy by each promise, each tale you spin so tall. "Wouldn't you like that better? I am a Targaryen, as are you. Our blood would be pure."

"I have pureblooded sons, riñītsos little girl."

"But will they be king? With my husband as your wife's heir?" When his hold softens on your throat, you push yourself forward, pressing yourself against him. "Wouldn't you want your family's legacy, your legacy, unsullied with prettier blood?

"I want a son, uncle," you whimper, thickened with need and desire, willing him to bend and fold because men like Daemon are easy, because a loving marriage is one thing, a man who holds his house as his pride in another fist is another. "I want your seed to take root in me."

And it isn't like you're asking him to betray his Queen.

Daemon is surprisingly a soft lover, prone in a way to worshipping you even as you had gotten impatient and tried to get your way. His punishments are quick and precise, a hit on your thigh, a tighter squeeze in your throat, a firm bite in your breast enough to draw blood. He's soft but by choice, almost as if he is amusing you in each caress while one hand is holding you by your hair, fucking you down into the sheets.

His words aren't better, spun in hisses and spits, mocking laughter and groans.

"Do you want my seed, you little whore?"

"What would your husband say now, his pretty wife mewling for another? Or would he even care?"

"Your tears are pretty, if you want my seed, I think you need to be sobbing, hm?"

When he finally spills inside of you with nothing less of a broken, guttural roar, hips chasing the high, meeting your sensitivity once, twice, again— you are shattered in pieces and contradictions, floating and wide awake, pleasured and in pain.

He slaps your face gently after he's cleaned himself up, tucked his flaccid cock back in his breeches as he comes to your eye line. "Come to me again when you want my seed, hm? I shall prioritise your wants for the good of the realm but I dare say—"

He cocks his head with a smirk, feeling stirrings at the sight of your fucked out state, his seed spilling from your pretty hole that he can't help himself as he chases it with a finger, forcefully pushing it back in while your body trembles and twitches.

"— you may be with child soon enough, niece. I shall congratulate you and my son with the happy news."

Your eyes flutter close at the echoes of his disappearing footsteps.

Nine moons later, through a hearty, blood-soaked birth that rocked the keep with your wails of pure pain— much more painful than when your girls had come into the world — a baby boy is born of pure Valyrian colouring.

A fat babe who cried murder in his first seconds of life, and it is Caraxes who snarls and screeches into the high noon sky.

"I shall name him Daemon," you say to your husband beside you as you beheld the babe with a wondrous smile and a full heart.

"After your brother and my father," Jace says, smiling. "That is wonderful, my wife. He does look much like them."

Your smile curls, a finger rubbing your babe's fat cheek. "He does. And he will be strong swordsman." Your lashes flutter to Jace, poisoned vowels in each word that he blinks, startled. "Just like his father."

TAGGED @inkareds @marihoneywk @caterina-caterina @ahristata @xxvelvetxxxx @but-i-write-so-i-must-count @bunbunbl0gs @yazzzmints @bellstwd @hiraethrhapsody @watercolorskyy @fulla02 @menaosama @cookielovesbook-akie

#daemon targaryen x reader #daemon x reader #daemon targaryen fanfiction #daemon fanfic #daemon smut #daemon targaryen smut #hotd fanfiction #hotd fanfic #hotd smut #daemon targaryen x you #elle writes !! ꒱ ↷˗ˏˋ🍒 #₊˚ପ⊹ hightower green 🕷 #-ˋˏ ༻addendums & extras 💮༺ ˎˊ- #🌼━━･❪ requested ❫ ･━━🌻

[spacedace]

So I don't know a whole lot about DC/Batman canon but I do recall seeing something about Tim trying to clone people (his parents? I'm unclear about what happened to them but I think remember seeing something about cloning) and I feel like there's some good opportunities for some dc x dp stuff there.

Like, don't get me wrong I love everything where Danny and/or Elle adopt Con, but consider:

Tim, waking up after passing out from sleep deprivation for the nth time that month, groggily becoming aware of some guy sitting - wait no, floating, he's crisscross applesauce a full foot above the bed - staring at him unblinking. And Tim has half a second to think this white haired, weird looking - is he green? He kinda looks his skin is green, and h's glowing a little? - guy is his (okay, he can admit it, pretty attractive) sleep paralysis demon before attractive-sllep-paralysis-demon gives him a terrifying smile - oh God that's way too many teeth and they are way too sharp and why is that doing something for him??? - and says:

"Oh good you're up! We can get started then."

And then pulls out a laptop from somewhere?? And turning it so that Tim can see there's a PowerPoint pulled up with "So You've Started Cloning People: The Ethics and Responsibilities of Creating and Caring for Your Clone Children (AKA: How Not to be a Total Fruitloop)" It's entirely in comic sans.

Danny is just happy that things are going better than when he tried to do this with that bald weirdo in Metropolis. Though at least he'd been able to snack on the guy's rock candy while he did his presentation there. Maybe cute-sleep-deprived guy would be down for breakfast after this, provided Danny doesn't have to body him for being a shitty Clone dad.

#the list #dc x dp #dp x dc #danny phantom #batman #tim drake #danny fenton #brain dead #fanfic writing prompt #Tim is having a TIME #it's not until he's sitting across his - much more human looking - nightmare demon at Dennys to figure out he's not hallucinating #by then Elle's joined them for chocolate pancakes and talking about Talia being next on #*the list* #which isn’t ominous AT ALL

[herb10]

Justin as a Dad... (Part I)

Summary: headcanon list of Justin as a new father from pregnancy to birth Pairing(s): Justin Herbert x fem!reader Warning(s): mentions of pregnancy, mentions of childbirth, mentions of sex, swearing, etc.

Disclaimer: the following written work comprises "real person fanfiction" (RPF); any characters mentioned are entirely fictional or fictionalised versions of real people. Any dialogue, circumstance, and/or any other trait of this work that bears semblance to reality is coincidence.

[masterlist]

- Justin would be so excited to hear you're pregnant

- "are you serious?" "you're joking with me, right?"

- when you hand him the pregnancy test, he just stares at it with a soft little smile

- his smile would grow until he was beaming with joy as the realisation sinks in that, no, you're not joking, you really are pregnant

- he'd wrap you in his massive arms and give you the biggest bear hug

- he'd definitely get emotional and maybe even tear up, but would try to hide it by burying his face in your hair

- his voice would be all choked up when he tells you that he's so happy and that he loves you, clearing his throat to try and compose himself

- he would be so excited to tell all of your family and friends, but would definitely wait until you were both ready to make the news known however

- he would get so emotional when telling his mum and dad that they were going to be grandparents omg

- big hugs from his parents as they congratulate both of you on the happy news

- he would be so protective of you and your baby's privacy and wellbeing

- everyone would be under strict instructions not to advertise the pregnancy unless both of you were ready to make the news public

- he'd legit be furious if the news somehow broke on social media or in some article without his or your consent

- would probably speak in code to not reveal the news to anyone outside your trusted circle

- "taking our cat to the vet" = going to the doctor's with you lmao

- would sometimes forget that you're pregnant in the very stages until something reminds him that he's going to be a dad

- seeing a baby in a stroller in the supermarket? "Oh yeah, I'm gonna be a dad". Cute baby shoes at the Nike store? "I'm gonna be a dad!"

- would feel awful for you during the morning sickness phase

- he'd get up no matter the time to comfort you, hold your hair back, get you a glass of water, or whatever else you needed in that moment

- grabbing you food at the store on his way back from the facility or getting food delivered randomly when you have a sudden craving for taco bell

- he'd understand that being pregnant isn't a disability and that you could still do things for yourself, but he'd still kinda treat you like you were made of glass lol

- "I got it" would become his catchphrase and he'd use it whenever he saw you trying to do anything that involved bending, reaching...or moving lol

- Justin: "I got it!" You: "Justin, I can get myself a glass of water just fine 😅"

- he'd be in his Acts of Service element, taking care of you as best as he could

- he'd know that pregnancy is a big change for you, so would be as patient and as understanding as possible if you were experiencing mood swings

- however...don't expect him to be a pushover and bend to every whim or allow unreasonable behaviour just bc of pregnancy-induced hormones

- Justin: "babe, I get that you're pregnant and that you're going through a lot right now, but I'm doing my best"

- he'd still expect you to be his partner and that you could face the challenges of pregnancy together

- on a more happy note, this man would have his hands all over the bump when you start to show

- tbh he'd have his hands all over you fullstop

- he'd let you know every opportunity he got how sexy he thought you were, even if you didn't feel that way about yourself

- You: "I look like a beached whale...". Justin: "You look so fucking good..."

- back hugs with his arms around you, his hands on the bump, to show you the changes to your body don't detract from your beauty, only add to it

- the pregnancy sex would be so fire omfg

- he'd be so gentle and let you command the pace until you were crying out for him to pound you and oh boy would he oblige

- probably some of the best sex you ever had tbh bc he'd be trying so fucking hard to make you feel good

- he'd love any hormonal feral horniness from you too and would be practically running home to you after practice lmfao

- would be so fucking excited when you felt the first little kick

- would probably make kicker or punter jokes about the baby

- would probably come up with cute little nicknames for the baby, like "peanut" or "shrimp"

- would sneak daddy-and-bump time in the early morning before leaving for practice whilst you were asleep

- speaking to the bump, gently laying a warm hand on your belly to feel the baby kick in response

- he'd really treasure those quiet moments where he could connect with his child before the birth

- would be proactive in preparations for the baby

- helping you buy and build furniture for the baby's nursery, no matter how tired and bruised he was from football

- he'd help you organise and make an inventory of everything you could ever possibly need

- he'd have a birthing bag packed and by the door very early on (and probably a spare in the car, y'know, just in case)

- big gender reveals aren't his thing but he'd be ok with a small gathering and a more tame reveal idea, like a cake with a coloured filling, etc.

- kinda think he'd like the surprise and wouldn't mind not knowing the gender before the baby was born

- he'd be more than happy for you to have a baby shower if it was something you wanted tho

- he'd be a bit wary of any social media attention and probably would prefer if photos of the occasion were kept off social media however...

- as long as you had both talked and agreed on if/when you would go public with the news, he'd be fine with it

- would desperately want to be at all of your scans and antenatal classes and would make as much effort as possible to be there

- he'd work late some days so he could take time off to attend "baby stuff" with you; this man would not want to miss a single milestone

- he'd especially love going to scans bc he'd get to see his child, hear their strong heartbeat, and it would all feel a bit more real to him

- this nerd would be paying so much attention in antenatal classes omfg he'd practically be a TA again

- ...being real, football would definitely factor into the birth plan; you and Justin would have to decide on a plan of action for every possible outcome

- if you were due during the season, you'd have to be prepared to be induced during a bye week or between games

- he'd also arrange for someone you trust to be with you in his absence if something happened and you went into labour when he wasn't there

- if you did go into labour whilst he was at a game, I don't think he'd leave until the game was over ngl

- but he'd be stressed as balls not to be at your side

- you can bet your ass he would be running out of the stadium the moment the game ended (still in his cleats and uniform probably) to a waiting car or a private jet on standby so he could hightail it back to you

- anxious facetiming with you the entire way home, checking to make sure you were ok

- Justin's all about being prepared so he'd plan for every situation imaginable to avoid that tho

- he would absolutely want to be there to support you and welcome your baby into the world

- he'd want to be there to rub your back, hold you up when you needed to stand or lean on something, get you hot or cold compresses...

- whatever you needed he'd want to be the one doing it for you

- during labour, he'd truly hate to see you in pain and would probably feel a little impotent

- for a man so used to being prepared and being in control, seeing you in pain and not really being able to help would absolutely cut him to his core

- the one thing he would be able to do was be the ultimate hype man when it came time to deliver your baby

- he'd speak words of encouragement to you like he was cheering on teammates from the sideline

- "you got this!" "you're almost there!" "you're doing awesome, babe, keep pushing!"

- he'd let you grip his hand so hard, he'd hold up your legs to help you push, he'd kiss your sweaty forehead and stroke your damp hair back from your face...

- literally anything to comfort you as you worked to bring your baby into the world

- would absolutely cry with joy when your baby was finally born and bundled up against your naked chest

- he'd be so damn proud of you and amazed by what you just accomplished

- would kiss you full on the lips and would put every ounce of love that he was feeling at that moment into it

- he'd just be so fixated on the blissful serenity of you and the baby, kissing you sweetly and placing his hand and yours on your baby's damp little head

- the chaos, pain, and anxiety of the moment, the buzz of the medical team working around you would be nonexistent to him in that moment

- he'd be so eager to hold your little baby boy or baby girl, but also slightly terrified by how tiny and vulnerable they seemed

- would spend forever just staring at them, marvelling at how you had both created something so utterly perfect

- he'd run a finger down their little button nose and count their tiny toes over and over, just to make sure they were all still there

- pure elation the moment those teeny fingers, with fingernails as small as a grain of rice, wrapped around one of his fingers

- this man is sentimental, so if your baby were a boy, I honestly think that he would love to honour his late Papa Schwab by naming his son for him

- and he would melt with love for you if you were the one to suggest the idea

- post-birth acts of service would include helping you up out of the bed, helping you wash yourself, changing the baby when you need rest, helping you with breastfeeding, etc.

- he'd encourage you to sleep for two reasons: 1) bc he loves you and you need the rest 2) bc it means time with the baby for himself

- would hold them, rock them, speak to them about literally anything and everything, maybe sing quietly (and badly probably lol) to them

- he'd especially love to do skin-to-skin with them and just have his baby bundled up against his bare chest, feeling their warmth and listening to their little grunts and squeaks

- would facetime family and probably get a bit emotional again but would do his best to keep it together lol

- watching him dress the baby for leaving the hospital would honestly be so cute and hilarious

- he'd be so damn gentle and cautious like he was defusing a bomb or something lmfao

- "just gonna move your arm over here, buddy" "sorry princess, daddy's gotta put your socks on" "jeez, when did clothes become so complicated?!"

- defensive driving the entire way home from the hospital bc he's got the most precious cargo in the back seat rn

- Justin: "doesn't anyone know how to drive anymore?!" You: "Justin, it's LA, no one knows how to drive"

- he'd be so excited to have friends and family to visit and introduce them to your baby bc he'd be so damn proud to show everyone what you ✨ made ✨

- but he'd want to make sure you were both settled first and adjusting to being new parents

- he'd have so much fun telling visiting family and friends about how amazing you were and teasing you affectionately

- Justin: "she was awesome, you should've seen her..." "could use her on my o-line!"

- as tired and as nervous as he'd be at times being a new dad, he'd be so happy to be home with you and your baby, both happy and healthy

- as someone who seems to be pretty family-oriented, he'd just love to be together with you as a newly expanded family of three, ready to face whatever parenthood threw your way...

༝༚༝༚

©2023 » HERB10 » All Rights Reserved. DO NOT Copy, Translate, Re-Upload, and/or Re-post ANY of my work. Thank You.

#elle writes #justin herbert #nfl fanfic #nfl imagines #justin herbert x reader #justin herbert fanfic #justin herbert imagines #nfl fanfiction #nfl imagine #justin herbert imagine #nfl headcanon #justin herbert headcanon

[cmkinkbingo2024]

It’s time to get kinky! Welcome to Criminal Minds Kink Bingo 2024.

The goal of a bingo challenge is to get a bingo on your card, either by crossing out one line, two lines, or a blackout (full card) by creating fanworks for the prompts randomly provided on the card.

This could be a written piece of a minimum 500 words, a piece of finished art, or another kind of fanwork of your choosing.

Please note that this challenge and blog is for people 18+ only.

Timelines/Deadlines

Until sign ups open, we are accepting kink nominations to be included as options via our ask box. We have a list already, but we will add to it if something is missing.

Sign ups start on May 1st 2024 and will be open until May 15th.

Individual cards will be issued by May 22nd, and the event officially starts on May 26th (you can start creating as soon as you receive your bingo card).

As soon as the event starts on May 26th, you can post fanworks whenever they’re created, in whatever place you prefer. You can tag your fills, bingo updates or WIPs with #cmkinkbingo2024 on tumblr. We also have a collection on AO3 for your works here.

You have until June 23rd 2024 to complete your bingos!

How Bingo Works

Lines can be made by crossing out squares in any direction - horizontal, vertical, or diagonal. To cross out a square, use the prompt on it to create and post a fanwork.

You will choose from a large list of potential prompts, marking the ones you would be happy to have generated on a 5x5 square bingo card. This will also allow you to exclude prompts you would not be happy to have to create for. 

While that does mean you could create the perfect bingo card, we encourage you to select upwards of 25 prompts, to allow for some randomness in the challenge.

Every card will have a free space in the middle, where you have the option to choose a prompt yourself. 

You can request additional bingo cards if you complete a line, 2 lines or a full house and want to try for a second win!

Rules/Guidelines

No plagiarism, art theft or AI generated content will be tolerated in works for this challenge. Participants/works will be excluded at our discretion in these circumstances.

You can post your fanworks wherever you prefer.

Just like kinks are not always sexual, works do not have to be explicit to be entered. As long as it relates to the prompt, SFW content is entirely allowed. 

Some of the kinks utilized in this challenge will fall under “real world” kinks, and others under things considered a kink in the context of fanwork creation.

You are responsible for how much you stick to the spirit of the challenge - ultimately this is meant to be fun, and to spur people to be creative, and create content for a fandom we love!

Safety/Your Kink Is Not My Kink

Some of the kinks listed may indicate extreme, upsetting, triggering content, or content you personally find immoral, or that “squicks” you. You are ultimately responsible for the content you consume - if something is not for you, scroll past and/or use the necessary blocking/muting features to exclude this content from your feed.

Please make sure to tag and rate all works appropriately for their content, such as using Archive of Our Own’s warning, rating and tag system, or tumblr’s ‘read more’ function.

You can add any fills posted on Archive of Our Own to the collection here.

Please check out the Frequently Asked Questions, or send us an ask if you have another question!

#criminal minds #fanfic #fanart #writing #kink bingo #cmkinkbingo2024 #spencer reid #aaron hotchner #derek morgan #emily prentiss #jennifer jarau #david rossi #penelope garcia #elle greenaway #alex blake #ashley seaver #luke alvez #tara lewis #jason gideon #matt simmons #stephen walker #kate callahan

[basilpaste]

here it is! the elle thing!!

Loop picked their name on the spot. From the moment they introduced themself — it was something you'd known. It's the name they chose to represent themself with, though! You don't have a right to question it. It wouldn't be fair if it was a name they liked. It would be even less fair if it wasn't. You don't want to push. To risk hurting them.

That's kind of cowardly, isn't it?

Ah… but um. Calling them Loop feels kind of strange sometimes? You usually call your friends nicknames! Loop is your friend, aren't they? In your time stuck in the same two days they've grown into someone you really trust. So it feels too formal when you call them it! Especially when they don't call you your name… ever.

You also wonder if… maybe they called themself Loop in an attempt to dehumanize themself? You don't want to psychoanalyze them, that feels cruel, but it makes sense, doesn't it? Whatever happened to them — the thing that did this to them — you have a feeling that their information on the loops you're trapped in is… more than just bestowed knowledge. It feels awful knowing that someone like them (like Sif, you don't let yourself think) could be trapped like you are now. In what world is that fair?

Maybe they used the name because it was easier. Easier to claim to just be related to the loops. Fundamentally less than human. A guide and nothing more.

You don't like thinking about someone you care about like that. They've let their walls down a lot since you met them! Even if they won't admit it. They aren't as cold as they were when things started. It's comforting to have someone on your side through all of this. You hope that maybe, somehow, you're a comfort to them, too.

So… you finish your prayer to the Change God. Sif passes you right on schedule, finished making their wish. You wave even though they can't see it (it's good to have habits!) and make your way back to the Favor Tree. This is routine, too, but you let yourself hope things will be a little different this time. You have a plan, after all! Something you'll change!

You slip past the low-hanging branches of the tree and sit across from Loop on its roots. They regard you with a simple nod. You wave back cheerfully.

"Hello, Fighter."

Ah! It's go-time. Okay! Play it cool, Isabeau! It's just like any other nickname you've ever given a friend! You give people nicknames all the time! You shouldn't be nervous! Oh crab, why are you so nervous??

"Hi, Elle!"

The flow of the conversation shatters before it's even really begun. You catch Loop's eyes widen just a fraction before they force themself to settle. It seems like reigning in their expression let something else slip, though. They let out a startled laugh. Wildly different from the rehearsed 'teehee' you're used to hearing from them. It's high-pitched and fluttery and when they realize it's happening they slap a hand over the mouth they don't have to muffle it.

It reminds you so much of the first time you called Sif 'Sif' that it makes your chest ache. You push past it. Now's not the time to be thinking like that. You're talking to Loop, not Siffrin.

"L?" They say finally, a barely restrained wobble in their voice.

Somehow — you know they aren't thinking of it the same way you are.

"Yeah!" You nod, "Elle like… E-L-L-E. Like the first letter in Loop! But just calling you a letter felt kind of weird, heh."

They look at you for a long time. You think you've gotten pretty good at reading their expressions, but… you're not quite sure about this one. All you know is that there's a lot of emotion they're working really hard to hide. Oh no! Is this anger, maybe? Did you step in it? Maybe you should backtrack, pretend this never happened—

"Elle." They whisper, holding a hand over the shape on their chest — right where their heart would be.

They turn away from you, "You really are something, Fighter."

Oh. You think they're trying not to cry.

#in stars and time #isat #in stars and time spoilers #isat spoilers #isat fanfic #isabeau isat #loop isat #of stitches in sequence #basil writes #WOO!! elle thing.

[zylev-blog]

Dc x dp prompt:

Elle gets transferred to Gotham Academy. She gets paired with Damian and Jon on a school project. The two boys think she’s the normal one. She thinks they’re normal. Nobody realizes they’re not normal. Chaos ensues.

#danny phantom #dp x dc #dp x dc au #dp x dc fanfic #dp x dc prompt #dp x dc writing prompt #dp dc crossover #elle phantom #damian al ghul #damian wayne #jon kent #jonathan kent

[some-little-infamy]

(Read on AO3)

“How would you feel about getting married?”

Eddie doesn’t mean to ask the question, or at least not so bluntly, but the words tumble out of his mouth after spiraling around his head relentlessly for the last hour of his date night with Marisol. They’re cleaning up after dinner, Marisol beside him at the counter drying off the dishes he washed and put on the rack.

“Like, as a concept? Or…” Marisol questions, carefully placing the glass she was holding down on the counter before turning fully to face him.

“To me,” Eddie clarifies, choosing to double-down instead of backtrack.

“I mean… if I’m being honest, I hadn’t thought about it a whole lot. Yeah, it’s crossed my mind in a hypothetical future scenario sort of way, but… you’re not talking about that, are you?” Her eyes narrow as they watch the emotions cross his face. “You’re talking about right now.”

“Not right now,” he says. “But soon.” “Where is this coming from?” Marisol asks. It isn’t a no, but it also isn’t a yes.

“Christopher,” Eddit admits.

“Christopher wants us to get married?” Marisol asks.

“Christopher needs something constant. He needs something long-term. He can’t keep losing people… I can’t keep bringing people into his life who leave.” If he’s going to spring something like this on her then the least he can do is be honest about it. He knows how this must sound otherwise, bringing up marriage out of nowhere. They never spoke of it before, they barely planned for the next week or two, let alone months or years from now.

“Eddie…” Marisol starts slowly, and it’s the tone of a gentle let-down that leaves an immediate pit in his stomach.

“Don’t say no, just-” “I can’t say yes, though. And that’s the problem. I can’t promise to never leave, Eddie. We’re not there. Or I’m not there, at least. And if that’s something you’re looking for… maybe it isn’t fair for us to keep doing this.”

A silence falls between them.

“There’s no chance you’ll be willing to pretend this conversation never happened, is there?” Eddie tries, sensing the line they just crossed and already knowing what it means for them. It means the very thing he was hoping to avoid.

“I don’t think that’d do either of us any good, do you, Eddie?”

Eddie doesn’t know what to think any more. Every move he makes seems to backfire, no matter how good his intentions are, and he’s starting to think that maybe it’s just him.

“I’m sorry,” he says finally.

“Me too,” Marisol agrees. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

“Me too,” Eddie echoes. If Marisol hears him she doesn’t give any indication, making her way to the door without turning back.

  “There are only two plates,” Christopher says as he takes his seat at the table. “Isn’t Marisol going to come over tonight?”

Eddie’s thankful that he has his back turned, scooping the potpie onto two plates at the counter. His face immediately pulls into a deep frown and he takes a deep breath for a second to steady his mind and his heart before turning to face Christopher with a small smile.

“Not tonight,” he says. “Actually… Marisol isn’t going to be coming around here any more.”

“But I liked her,” Christopher sighs.

“Me too, buddy. Me too.” Eddie forces the rueful smile to remain on his face despite every single instinct wanting to sigh right back.

“Then why did she break up with you?” Christopher asks.

“Hey,” Eddie says, feigning indignance. “What makes you think she broke up with me?”

“Because I heard you talking to Abuela when you dropped me off last night.”

Eddie winces. He remembers bits of the conversation he had with her - how he might ask Marisol to move in with him, or how he wondered if she might be ‘the one’. How much had Christopher overheard? How high did Eddie get his hopes up only to crush them the same way his own were the night before?

“I’m sorry, Chris,” Eddie says.

“It’s okay,” Christopher says.

“I know you liked having someone else around the apartment-”

“Now Buck can come over more often!” Christopher points out.

“Yeah,” Eddie agrees with a laugh. “But it isn’t the same.”

“Why not?” Christopher asks. “Buck plays games with me, and eats dinner with us, and helps me with my homework, and watches me when you and Abuela can’t. He even gave me advice about girls,” Christopher adds. “Much better advice than you or Marisol.”

Dinner is growing colder by the second, but Eddie doesn't seem to notice as the seconds of silence following Christopher's statement stretch to a minute, and then two, as his son's words settle over him.

“It isn't the same when Buck is around,” Eddie tries to explain, his words coming slow and carefully chosen. “As it is when I bring a date over.”

“You're right - Buck always leaves at night. But I wish he wouldn't. I like it better when Buck's around. You do, too. Right?”

The question is so casual, so innocent. Christopher talks between bites of dinner while Eddie’s own food continues to cool, untouched in front of him.

If he's being honest with himself, he has missed having Buck around as much as he used to. If he's being really honest, maybe he's been pushing himself to date to try and not think about just how much he likes it.

Likes Buck.

So when Christopher so easily points out that Buck is the most constant part of his life - of both their lives - Eddie wonders why he didn't realize the true weight of that sooner.

As if reading his mind, Christopher fills the silence.

“You should just date Buck. Then he'll never have to leave.”

Eddie's breath catches in his chest.

“It isn't that simple, buddy,” Eddie says.

“Why not?”

Why not, indeed. Because what if Buck doesn't feel the same? Because what if Eddie doesn't just ruin his relationship with Buck, but Christopher's, too? What if he runs the entire dynamic at work, and their friends have to pick sides or avoid him or-

“Areeee you okay, dad?” Christopher drags out the first word, waving his hand - fork and all - in front of him in Eddie’s direction.

Eddie is most certainly not okay, but he isn’t about to explain to his son that he’s having an existential crisis over the affections of a man Christopher is so certain of.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay,” Eddie says, picking up his own fork and taking the first bite of a dinner he’s no longer hungry for. It wouldn’t do to leave the table without eating at least a little, though, or else he’ll never hear the end of it the next time Christopher tries to boycott eating his own food.

“You’d really be okay if Buck and I… dated?” Eddie asks, tentatively easing into the conversation Christopher is already fully having whether Eddie wants to or not.

“Of course,” Chris says.

“And that wouldn’t be… weird for you?” Eddie continues.

“Nope,” Christopher answers, dropping another bite of food into his mouth. “Did I eat enough to go play video games now?”

Christopher eyes Eddie’s barely-touched plate as if daring him to say no.

“Yeah, go ahead.”

“Thanks!” Chris pushes back his chair and moves as fast as he can before Eddie can change his mind.

Eddie sits there another minute or two, head racing with everything that just happened. Every point Christopher made was not only valid, but also so painfully obvious looking back on everything. All of the nights they spent together, or days helping Chris with projects or sports over the weekends… hell, Eddie made Buck Chris’s guardian if anything ever happened to him, for fuck’s sake.

Eddie has no trouble admitting that Buck is the best thing to happen to the two of them in a long while, so why is he so hung up on taking that one step further?

His cell phone rings, jolting him from his thoughts for just a moment, but of course the name that lights up on his screen shouldn’t be a surprise.

Evan.

Eddie considers not answering it, but changes his mind at the last second, answering it just before it would’ve gone to voicemail. Thankfully, Buck can’t hear the way Eddie’s pulse picks up at the sound of his voice in the context of all the other thoughts running through Eddie’s head just then. “Hey, Buck,” Eddie says by way of a greeting. Now or never. The thought is in his head, the possibility of more, and he needs to know if it’s just him (okay, just him and Christopher) who’ve seen it and thought about it. “Just the guy I was looking for. What are you doing tonight?”

#9 1 1 #911 abc #911 fox #911 fanfic #buddie #buck x eddie #eddie diaz #christopher diaz #elle writes a few deadbeat lines #AO3 is down right now so I'll put the link in later #but read in here in the meantime! :)

[spn-fanfic-reblog-writes]

@rewritetheages Bang

Title: Master of Spells

Author: FriendofCarlotta @friendofcarlotta

Artist: spn-fanfic-reblog-writes @spn-fanfic-reblog-writes

Rating: E

Warnings: Nightmares (Body Horror)

Tags: Alternate Universe - 1950s, Man of Letters Castiel, Man of Letters Dean Winchester, Magic, Banter, Nightmares, Hallucinations, Happy Ending, Rewrite The Ages 2024

Summary: 1955: Man of Letters Castiel Novak is assigned to discover what killed the agents previously stationed at a remote chapterhouse in Lebanon, Kansas. It feels like a punishment at first, but it doesn’t turn out that way when Castiel meets Dean Winchester, the other Man of Letters investigating the case.

As the two of them settle into the underground bunker to conduct their investigation, Castiel finds himself growing closer and closer to Dean. But he soon realizes there is something else in the chapterhouse with them... and it's out for blood.

#supernatural #dean winchester #castiel #spn #men of letters bunker #destiel #deancas #casdean #rewrite the ages #author: friendofcarlotta #artist:spn-fanfic-reblog-writes #elle em bee

[eviesaurusrex]

“15. finding excuses to be alone with each other” With Bucky Barnes 🥰

I always do this too but then I get really nervous when it actually happens 😂

I never did that, but it sounds so bloody sweet. I hope you like with what I came up!

Bucky Barnes x (implied) Stark!Reader (sorry)

warnings: fluff, maybe some anxiety and intrusive thoughts by our baby boy, short mention of mind-reading abilities

word count: 1.5k

***

The team—consisting of Steve, Sam, Natasha, Clint, and Bucky—had just returned from their mission in the snowy depths of Poland, still partially in their tactical gear, heavy duffle bags thrown over their shoulders or tiredly carried in their hands. Bucky felt as if he could sleep for hours if he hit the bed any time soon, and even thought the nightmares wouldn’t plague him as much as they usually used to, but he couldn’t fool himself that much. Instead, he dreaded the return to the empty bedroom he called his ever since joining his best friend and being out of rehab. He would much more prefer it if he could grab one of the books neatly stacked on the bookshelf—the only furniture, other than his closet, really in constant use—and make himself comfortable in the lounge or in the labs with…—

As the thought struck him, not really out of the blue because he was constantly thinking about her, Bucky stopped in his tracks and made Sam almost run into him on his way to his own room on their shared floor. “What the…? Could you please not randomly stop in front of my face?!” The brooding soldier didn’t even spare a glance at the complaining man in his back, who got on his nerves on a daily basis and let the duffle bag fall from his left shoulder as if suddenly pummeled by almost excruciating pain.

Steve had turned at the commotion in his back, eyes swiftly moving over the two men he considered his closest friends, before taking Bucky in, who now had even grabbed the base of his freshly crafted metal arm and let his shoulder slowly but steadily rotate. “You alright, Buck?” The brunet felt awful for worrying Steve in such a matter, knowing how the blond tended to be the mother hen of the entire group, always looking out for each and everyone, but he couldn’t help himself. So, he shrugged with the unharmed shoulder, fingers still closed around the metal covered by the rigid fabric of his combat jacket. “Not sure. Felt it earlier too. Probably should get that checked out,” Bucky muttered and attempted to gather the bag from the floor, but Steve was fast to stop him. “I got this, pal. Go and let someone take a look at it, but I need their approval to let you back in the field.”

With that, the blond soldier grabbed his bag and continued his way while Sam threw him a suspicious look as he walked past him, following the whispering and gossiping rest. He didn’t bother to listen in on them and instead turned back to where he came from and entered the labs next to the landing pad with the best view over the lake after a swipe of his keycard. The music, which had played until the glass door opened in front of him, stopped as soon as he stepped into the spacious room, equipped with the best of the best—at least, he assumed it because he didn’t know a single thing by name or function in his line of sight.

Tranquility found its way into his constantly working and often haunted mind, letting the tension in his shoulders disappear like snow at the sight of spring’s first sunshine, and he finally was able to take a deep breath, even before his eyes found a messy mop of hair peeking between screens and equipment.

“If you think you need to drag me out for another unnecessary father-daughter lunch date, you can immediately turn on the spot and move your ass out of here agai—…”

Her sentence ended as she looked up and saw him standing in the middle of her sacred space instead of her father. Bucky could see how her eyes widened a fraction, only a second, before a radiant smile crept onto her already pretty face. “James,” YN greeted him with the same tone she always used when talking to him—always so incredibly soft as if he was something precious she needed to protect. He didn’t think he was or that he even deserved an ounce of her kindness and gentleness, but he couldn’t keep his distance either.

“Hey, doll.” The nickname had started to slip naturally some time ago, but gladly, YN never seemed to hold any objections against it. Quite the opposite because he could always hear her heartbeat increasing while her cheeks blushed adorably. He could witness it just now, and that made him smile the first genuine smile since going on that mission. “What can I do for you? Is everything alright?” He remembered again with what excuse he had found his way into her presence and nodded, shame practically swirling in his body. “Uhm… I think something isn’t right with-with the arm,” Bucky managed to get out and felt even more ashamed at the sight of worry creeping up into her mesmerizing eyes, which had captured him since she first had laid them on him. “Oh, fuck. Okay, okay. We’ll get this fixed, yeah? I’m so sorry if it hurts or if the mission was at risk or if it troubled you or—…”

YN only stopped her rambling apology the moment she had reached him, and Bucky had gotten a soft hold of her hand. “It’s alright, doll. Really. Everyone came back without a scratch.” Except for your mind, the voice inside his head tauntingly whispered, but her touch was fast to silence it again. “Well, okay. Still, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have let you wear it without running some last tests after the transport from Wakanda.” The soldier followed her lead and tenderly squeezed her fingers, still entangled with his, as he sat on the chair she pulled out for him. “Actually, it’s nothing major. Probably have to still get used to it.”

It was a masterpiece she had crafted for him with the assistance of Shuri and the Wakandan materials, reminding him once more why he didn’t deserve this woman.

Her soft hands helped him out of his combat gear, leaving him with a bare chest in her labs, making him almost regret it. Bucky never liked it when she saw the many ugly scars and the deformed tissue that once was his left shoulder. But the moment her gentle fingers started to trace along the edge of his new arm where it was connected to the new prosthetic head, those thoughts almost entirely vanished, and his mind was only able to capture every angle and every expression of her face as she started to do her work.

“It looks good, great even. Almost… perfect.” Her whispering voice sounded as if YN was in a trance as her eyes wandered over every inch of his shoulder and the arm now resting in her hands, making him feel every single touch. “How’s the haptic feedback? Can you still feel…this?” He tried to look, but with a laugh, YN stopped him from moving his head by cupping his chin with her fingers. “No, don’t look. That’s not how those questions work. Your brain would tell you you feel something even if it’s not the case,” she grinned while Bucky thought his heart would explode every second at the even closer proximity of their faces.

At least he knew he wasn’t the only one realizing it, and a grin started to tuck at his lips. “Again. Do you feel this?” YN started to trace indecipherable patterns on his arm’s black and gold-infused vibranium, letting shiver after shiver run down his spine. “I never was good at guessing letters written on me,” the soldier mumbled, eyes almost entirely closed, imagining the sight of her fingertips tracing his arm wrapped around her middle in the morning light. “That’s okay.” Her words were just as quiet as his, and the sudden feel of her soft, warm lips pressing a gentle kiss to his temple made him gasp for air like some kind of unkissed boy whose crush took the first step in their own hands. His eyes shot open, and Bucky was faced with YN’s face and a tender smile playing around her lips. “You could’ve told me that nothing really was amiss, you know? I’m the last person who’d judge. I thought we already went past that.”

Swallowing, Bucky shrugged his shoulders and took the black shirt out of her hands after YN had handed it to him. “Steve said he would need your approval so I thought… No, wait. I didn’t really think. I’m… Shit, I’m sorry, doll.” Now he felt even worse than upon entering her safe space and bothering her with his nonsense, but as both her hands cupped his neck, he couldn’t hold back and wrapped his hands around her tiny-seeming wrists. “You never need to apolgize for coming here, James. I love your company. You’d never be a bother or a hassle or a nuisance, so stop thinking that.”

His eyes widened at that last comment, and YN shrugged, an embarrassed expression settling on her face. “It’s harder for me to shut your or anyone’s thoughts out when they trip into that direction. Sorry for prying and invading, and—…”

He shut her up by taking a leap of faith and kissed her.

***

Send me prompts!

#elle’s askbox #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x fem!reader #bucky barnes x female!reader #bucky barnes x stark!reader #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes oneshot #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes fic #james barnes x reader #james barnes x fem!reader #james barnes x female!reader #james barnes fic #james barnes fanfic #james barnes fanfiction #james barnes fluff #prompt writing #prompt request

[bebepac]

Six Sentence Sunday 03.31.24

Is it me you're looking for? Yes, I know I've been M.I.A. for a bit, but you guys I'm really trying to upper level adult here. I have decided I'm going to buy a house. So I have hired a realtor and have started the process. When my lease is up again, I WILL be moving into my home.

Let's see if I remember how to set one of these up!

Original post 03/31/24 at 8:02PM EST

Chapter 9: Riley Brooks's Day Off

The Series: Life of Riley Book 2

The Book: TRR

Pairings: Liam x Riley (Liam x F!MC)

Status: Still in the writing process

Since the challenges Constantine had been coming up with weekly for the suitors were getting a lot of publicity for the crown, the suitors met weekly for a meeting with a PR specialist to make sure they had the crown’s best interests in everything they did. They also passed out weekly itineraries of what the Suitors would be doing. Did it ever reveal any events they would be participating in? No, but that their sponsor would be revealing the new task and prize for that week."

Riley thumbed through the itinerary, once than again looking confused.

“Is something wrong Lady Riley?”

“Jenna, my booklet seems to be missing a page. I have nothing for Friday’s itinerary .”

“Actually no you’re not. None of you are. Since I've just been brought into this role, I know you ladies are going through a lot being thrust into the public eye in this magnitude. Lady Riley, you for example, you are coming to us from America and have no experience with dealing with the nobility on a daily basis, and are completely learning how to navigate court successfully from scratch. I recognize this to be quite the experience. The potential reward of all of this is indescribable, but you all need breathing moments for mental and physical wellbeing. We are building in “off days” to your schedule to do what you want with it, a recharge day of sorts, or a mental health day if you will.”

“Well if you’re weak you need days off. I will spend my time training.” Olivia chimed in.

“If that is how you want to spend your day Olivia, there are no wrong answers, it’s free to do whatever you want, as long as you enjoy it.”

That evening:

“Of course, you would have an off day when I’m out of the country.” Liam sounded genuinely disappointed.

“I know I thought about that too.”

“Take it as an opportunity Riley, do some exploring, sleep in a little bit, we both know you like your sleep. Relax. You know, life moves really fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.”

“You’re completely right Liam. Thanks.”

“Sounds like you have a plan.”

“I do.”

When she hung up with him, she called Maxwell.

“What’s up Little Blossom?”

“I need your help.”

WIP 2

Part 3: Spice Spice Baby

Series: Not officially one: Previous Parts include: Cinnamon Spice and Everything Nice

The Book: TRR

Pairings: Liam x Bebe (Liam x F!OC)

Status: Still in the writing process

I have never required that much sleep. There has always been something so peaceful about the world at night for me. I glanced at her once more before getting out of bed. She was soundly sleeping and didn’t even stir from her slumber as I rose. A good mattress will do that, and honestly I think she needed the rest. I slipped on my pajama pants and walked to the kitchen to grab a bottle of water.

Night time was when I did my best thinking, and the thought crossed my mind that the two of us would be able to pull off this ruse with my coworkers. Bebe really did seem invested to make “us work.” Or maybe she was invested in the paycheck.

“Was my snoring keeping you awake?”

Bebe was standing in the doorway of the kitchen, resting her hip on the frame, her robe loosely tied.

“You don’t snore.”

“And you,” she gently tapped my nose with her pointer finger, “are a liar.”

“I wasn’t lying, I didn’t hear you snoring, or if you were, you weren’t disturbing me.”

“Why are you up, Liam?”

“Why are you up, Bebe?”

She quirked her eyebrow at me, crossing her arms over her chest.

“I rarely sleep through the whole night, I’m always up for a bit.”

“Why?”

Her stare from across the room was almost piercing my soul.

“Therapist was not one of your duties I'm paying you for in our contract.”

She looked surprised, but more importantly, hurt by my remark. In a split second I had turned her into a business arrangement that she was a prostitute, that I was paying for a service.

“Oh, well you’re paying me a handsome sum, therefore I feel like I should be anything you need me to be at the moment. I’ll just….”

I had hurt her feelings, and snapped at her, and I didn’t even know why, and the look in her eyes, I didn’t want to ever see that again.

“Life.” I called out to her before she was out of the room. Bebe immediately stopped and turned to face me.

“I can relate to that. Do you mind if I just sit up with you for a bit then?”

“No, not at all.”

Bebe settled into the couch next to me. She didn’t say a word, but I found her silence and non-judgment strangely comforting.

WIP 3

Part 4

Series: The Vampires Live On

The Book: TRR

The Pairing: Liam x Riley (in this decade Gabriel x Alice in the past)

Status: Still in the writing process

“We’re here.”

“I really didn’t think it would be this clean here. I know what you said, but looking at the other graves along the way here, I expected the same condition.”

“You know, I can be very persuasive, and keeping in contact as the groundskeeper’s changed over the years, very important in this. “

“I didn’t think they would be buried side by side.”

“Because that didn’t matter here, and since he died, protecting the two of you, his family wanted nothing to do with him.”

“Poor Max. He was such a good sweet guy. What we were, or not completely, never mattered to him.”

I placed the small flower arrangement into the vase at his grave.

“I have missed you dear friend,”

“I’m going to give you some time alone with your sister and friend.”

“You can stay.”

“No, I’ve been with you for an eternity, you have not had any time with her or him since that night. I want you to have some time alone with them. You deserve that.”

“Thank you, Liam.”

Even though the space around her grave was clean, I found myself picking up and pushing the few leaves and debris away to make her area more pristine.

I sat down in the grass in front of her grave and closed my eyes, letting the emotions of finally being here with her again wash over me.

“Hi Clara. I have missed you so much.”

WIP 4

Chapter 17: Finale Part 4: The Wedding

Series: The Rotten Apple 🍎

The Book: TRH & Beyond

Pairings: Eleanor x Nico (Elle x M!OC) / Liam x Riley

Status: Still in the writing process

Final exams for Liberty had ensured that she wouldn’t be able to come to Greece early to take part in some of the pre-wedding festivities that Elle had planned. Elle felt guilty that Liberty would be missing her graduation from the Crown Academy to come to her wedding; her father had wanted to pull some strings for Liberty, but Elle declined, citing the importance of her education, though she did want her there.

Elle smiled as she panned the camera around the back yard.

"I really wish I was there Ellie."

"I really wish I was there. Libby! Look at you in your cap and gown. Father and I stepped away for a bit to watch the live feed of the baccalaureate."

"Thanks Ellie."

"For what?"

"Just making an effort. I can't wait to see you and everyone."

“Does that include Michail? He looked so sad when I told him you would not be here tonight.”

A slow smile crept over Liberty’s face.

“He looks sad?”

Elle laughed, “You’re clearly not about that.”

“Did he dance with any other girls?”

“Just one.”

“Who?”

Elle’s smile widened.

“Only me, when he could pull me away from Nico, all he talked about was you. He really likes you Libby.”

“You think so?”

“I know so, and he can’t wait to see you tomorrow and neither can I.”

“Neither can I!”

#bebepac writes #choices fanfiction #trr fanfic #trr fandom #liam x riley #the rotten apple #the life of riley #choices fic writers creations #six sentence sunday #elle x nico #the vampires live on #Riley goes to cordonia

[darlingofvalyria]

❝I am the Heir's Wife. I bore the Heir his lineage. I will not be swept aside.❞

[ The Prince Jacaerys Velaryon should have known his wife better— or at least, her ire, for when his trysts with the bastard Snow reached the Spiders and soon, the ears of his Princess Consort, rage and war drummed for Winterfell, demanding heads.

—Maestre Kevan, Volume IV of The Bastard Eater, passage chapter under 'The Flame that Sung for the North'. ]

[ +18 MDNI ] [ 10,062 ] [ series masterlist ] | jacaerys velaryon x targaryen aunt!reader (aegon's twin sister), one-sided aegon ii x reader, jace x sara snow

contains— canon divergence - manipulative reader, targcest, smut, angst - post-vizzy t death, rhaenyra is queen - mentions of children, pregnancy, childbirth - allusions to infidelity & character death(s) - targaryen madness, revenge, domestic violence (not jace), unhinge behaviour, intense use of 'bastard', profanity, gaslighting, guilt-tripping - this is basically gone girl, you gone girl jace - dark fic - mentions of depression (aegon ii), allusions to suicide (not reader) - nsfw: oral (f receiving), breeding kink, creampie - no kings, no martyrs, no betas.

a/n— i didn't think i was going to do the sara snow thing, but herewe are. also i just wanted an excuse to go absolutely ape shit. reader gets very intense, like thoroughly unhinged. this is literally me supporting women's wrongs. it is also quite insane that this reached 10k and it's still just the first part lmaooo + comment, reblog & like at will!

"THAT FUCKING BASTARD! THAT GODSDAMNED, WHORE-FUCKING STRONG HALF BREED!"

Your shrieks echo stone and shadow, interrupted only by the things you pick up and hurl. Anything your hands grab, you throw and spit obscenities against, rage and tears ruin your pretty visage. The fury swept past your cherub features, a dragon breaking through the Hightower seams, upending fire and roar from the pits of your being.

"HOW DARE HE?! I GAVE HIM AN HEIR! I BROUGHT HIM PEACE! I BETRAYED—" you roar, pulling your pearl dagger— a gift from your Strong Bastard of a Husband — and throwing it to your vanity mirror, glass shards exploding. "— MY KIN!"

"DAUGHTER, PLEASE!"

Arms wound across your torso—hardened and chain-mail — as you fight against your bounds before a pain flashes to your cheek. Your rage quiets, hard breaths from your lungs. You turn your tear-stained anger to your mother and her palm, fright and terror on her regale visage.

Death of a spouse becomes the Queen Dowager in her pale blue robe and unbound spirals of auburn hair. Peace had begotten a realm that is balanced on the lineage you had produced for the Queen, her heir, and your own, as the new Princess of Dragonstone. With Otto Hightower for evermore banished to Oldtown, Kings Landing had been brought to a flowering kindness.

Queen Rhaenyra's ascension had been a wondrous affair, fit the for the first crowned Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Not a Queen Consort, not a Queen Regent. An heir who rose for the crown always meant to be hers.

But the calamity that brewed in her ascension... no. You paved the peace. T'was you who wrangled the Great Houses that proved allyship to your twin brother's banner, you who blessed her with tranquility of a rule that will be known for ages that will precede you all.

And now her son... her son dared to destroy everything.

A conversation floats above your head, by your Queen Mother and her sworn shield, the Ser Cole, but you barely hear anything past the ringing in your head.

The Targaryen Madness the sheep so call it, an idle voice, faint and familiar, whispers in the niches of your brain. It has infected you so. It breathes, fuelled by the air wrought by your husband's betrayal. It sings, sweet love. It sings.

"—your grace, I urge to hold her—"

"—she is my daughter, Ser Cole, I am not in danger. Release her."

Justice, the voice shrieks? Screams? But it is so soft in your head, a wail of a memory, a woman or a man? must be had. No dragon falls in such disgrace.

The tight wound over your torso is unleashed but the knight is not far, tensed to cage you, when your mother grasps your elbows as you grab hers, nails digging into the thick fabric of her hem that she still winces, your grip steel-tight.

"My darling, please. I cannot help you if you do not speak what ails you." She brushes her hand desperately across your face, smearing your tears, trying to find the daughter she bore past the savagery and madness that beholds you now. "What has happened?"

You draw a tightened, harsh breath to your lungs, rattling your bones that you quiver in your attempt for sanity.

"I am being shamed, mother," you whisper. Stark, violet eyes meeting the worried round, brown of hers. "The Strong bastard is whoring himself to another, a Northern bastard."

A cackle falls your lips as alarmed gazes are exchanged above your head.

"Y-You cannot say such things aloud, sweet girl," your mother hushes your madness, pulling you close to her chest as she shoots a glance at the door.

Criston checks outside, but only your maids linger. Dyanna presses a finger against her lips, catching the knight's eye, and the rest scatter, surely to make sure that no one that need not know of their mistress' words is within reach. A shiver still runs his spine. He will never get used to the quiet, almost non-verbal way your connection worked and reached. Your Spiders weave webs all around, even as their mistress sunders with rage.

"Mayhaps you are mistaken, for sure the prince is loyal, and he adores you—"

You pull back against her, teeth bared. She flinches and Ser Cole steps forward, wary. "It is the third missive now that I have received. Did you think I would not have confirmed twice— thrice? I didn't believe it the first time! But three people have now confirmed that all this time, in the guise of rallying his mother's cause in the North, he is spending ample time with the Lord Stark's bastard sister. His bastard fucking sister!"

Your mother's horror catches that of Ser Criston's, but your fury is your own, you are a dragon trapped in the ruin of your own making, of the webs you had spun so cleverly to get to this point, and you cannot stop.

"I am the Heir's Wife. I bore the Heir his lineage, my blood spilled the birthing bed for it." A cry leaves your lips as your grief and rage pools like ichor from your chest to the floor. Alicent is torn away from you— your nails had gone through her robe and she had cried in pain, a mimick of your own, a mother to a daughter to a mother to a daughter, a cycle, an Ouroboros — and you fall to the floor, grasping at your chest.

"I will not be swept aside. I will not be ignored."

A gasp falls from your lips as your mind moves to a quiet, still place. The tremble fades, your rage and grief whirls, collects, as you push it all back inside your chest.

Your madness must be sharpened for it be used as a sword.

And you cannot let him be happy in another's arms.

If you cannot drag them to the Hells, sweet dragon, the idle voice hums, hisses? Screeches. Your ancestors— all of those who have succumbed to dreamy madness — appears in the corners of your vision like soldiers. Awaiting for you to join them. Awaiting the blood that you will spill.

Then you must raise the Hells unto Winterfell.

"...my daughter?" Alicent calls, hesitant. Cole hovers but does not approach, standing guard in protection of the Dowager. It breaks her heart to see you this way, a young woman still, much older than she was when she married but only because you had always sought your future. You had always had a hardened scale, far stronger than she.

Even when you made your entrance to the world— the unmeasurable pain of bringing not one, but two heirs into the world, her firstborns, all at once — you had never cried. The maestres, maids, they worried for you, as your twin brother had not stopped crying, so alive and red, raw from the wound of being fresh.

But you... you had not made a sound.

The entire weight of your being— your mind, your emotions — even then, you wrangled them close to your very centre, never letting them stray too far from the edges of your fingertips. As if any release must be made with a perused thought. An incentive of reason.

Even then, you plotted every step you took.

Now, Alicent watches as her firstborn daughter suctions all her emotions— that Targaryen madness that plagued the blood of her husband, his ancestors — and made her ploy.

Against the husband that dared make a fool of her.

The silence beckons nightmare. Old fear flickers inside the Queen Dowager.

"Where are my daughters?"

"What?"

"My daughters," you repeat, a hair's breadth louder than the first time you spoke. Your eyes flutter upward. The deadened gaze curled Alicent's heart in fear. "Where are they?"

"In the nursery, with the twins and Maelor. Helaena and Aegon are watching them."

You offer your hand up mutely, and Cole exchanges one last, lingering look with the Dowager, before offering his own. You stand up, thank him softly, and brush and clean up your face to the best of your ability. An utter calmness over your visage.

"Tell no one of what I had told you," you say, fixing your hair and rubbing the red from your cheeks. One minute there is madness, the next there is nothing. There is only a girl. A woman. A princess. "No one knows apart the three of us, and if you ever decide, Ser Criston, that nigh is the glorious time for you to betray my mother or I, know that the last thing thing oyu will fear is the Stranger's hand when I am through with you."

Your mother shouts your name, horrified. "What are you thinking? What are you plotting?"

You cup Alicent's face, smiling ever sweet. "Your innocence will keep you safe, mother. All I ask, for the heart you keep for your children, that you keep this between sealed lips and tilted chin. You know nothing, yes?"

"... Yes. Nothing."

You place a tender kiss on your mother's head. "Keep Daenera and Aemma safe for me. Aegon and I are flying to Dragonstone promptly. Sweet Helaena does ever so get overwhelmed by watching all of the children by herself."

"D-Dragonstone?"

Your sweet smile touched with poison, stretches. "It is high time I take a dragon for myself, don't you think so?"

While an insecure obsession had fraught your younger brother about claiming a dragon, you had met it with indifference.

For how can you not mourn the loss of Aemond's sight, staring in quiet horror the entire time as the maestre did his best to salvage the muck mess of blood and nerve endings, before the old man had shaken his head, and you turned to the small bowl that contained your brother's eye, unable to look at anything else.

Not even when your mother's rage was met with apathy and anger, her demands for justice nothing more than a woman's insanity, a mother's grief that must be swept away, tucked under a chin and a sadness she will never get rid of.

"Do not mourn me, mother. It was a fair exchange. I may have lost an eye, but I gained a dragon."

Your soft-hearted, darling, baby brother. None of his words had thawed the freezing of your heart, the grief under the swell of your breastbone.

Your own mourning was kept between teeth and tongue, as you had slept with your siblings that night. The four of you, tucked under the wing of the other, Aemond close to your chest as possible, as quiet, hot tears ran down your face. Every moan of pain or whimper he made in his sleep tore at each new vein inside of you.

"Dragons are the symbol of our House's power," Aegon had once said, windswept hair you tried to tame with your fingers, smelling fresh of Sunfyre and winds.

"And yet, there were no eggs in our child beds." He stiffened while you smiled sadly, curling your twin's hair away form his face, making him presentable and dusting the bout of sand that managed to find his leathers. You had been scolded long before by your grandsire of how you coddle Aegon, how you defend him, mother him more than your mother ever could, but you cannot stop. You were meant to care for him, tethered you once were inside your mother's womb together, you hold him steady now.

Whenever he was lost, whenever his sadness overtook him, wrung your brother dry of life, you bat the Stranger's hand and bring him back.

"But we have proved them wrong," he insisted. "All of us, even Aemond with Vhagar— the war queen, Visenya's dragon — we have claimed ours. Daeron all the way Oldtown has Tessarion, even Helaena has Dreamfyre. And yet you insist..."

You wound your arms over his torso, keeping him close in a silly hug where you sway and dance him around. A laugh escaped him while you inhaled the scent of smoke, soot, and that grime stench of beast.

Aegon on his good days lacked the bottle-edge of wine, of cheap salts from the waft of the soiled, Silk Streets.

This was your brother. No one else.

"I fare better without one," you whispered in his ear. "I appear innocent, sweet almost, without a beast in my command. They look at me with nothing but pity and the urge to protect me. Our father likes me like this, his poor, lovely daughter without a dragon of her own, listening so intently to his histories of Old Valyria. Our sister is eased, as one daughter is plagued by dreams and struggles with the real world, while the other cannot even claim a dragon of her own. Poor princess, Hightower blood must have thickened in her veins. She too, is no threat."

You pulled back, smiling at him. "They like me better like this. Pitiful, compliant, nothing but a sweet and pretty flower that sways in the Spring breeze. A beautiful decoration but no more."

He rubbed a thumb on your arm, a worry knot on his forehead. Aegon adored you but he struggled to piece together where your plot lies. You are a web-spinner, forever dancing out of reach, catching prey and lengthening your intricacies. "Is that why you hide your training with Aemond alone? Ser Criston is mother's sworn shield, he would not mind—"

"I will not place my secrecies to a knight with a soiled cloaked," you snorted. "No matter how tall he stands beside our mother. I trust no one but my kin. And I know that no matter how heavy you drink, sweet Aeg of mine, my secrets are your own."

He took your hand, kissing the back of it, stare impregnable. "As your blood is my own, our fire is one flame. I go where you tell me to."

You kissed his cheek, a reward, laughing. He smiles proudly at the sound. At this time, you dangled yourself to your brother as bait as the pressure from your grandsire to make him King started rising. You had been given notice that he had been talking to House Lannister, Wylde, even some Riverland lords.

You did not mind becoming Aegon's second wife. Just as his namesake, he will have his Rhaenys and Visenya. Unlike the Conqueror however, he would adore his Visenya more than a true flower. Helaena would enjoy that far better.

"And if I tell you to jump?" you half-purred.

"I will ask you how high."

Memories and choices break and tide as you scramble for hold on the rocky cliff face. Dragonmont in the dark is a behemoth beast, a screech or two breaking like lightning crackles, or the familiar drum beat of wings before the silence consumes once more. The stench of fire, of beasts and carcasses helps cloak the darkened night.

"Udligon ñuha brōzagon, Answer my call," you hiss into fraudulent emptiness, hands gripping rocky edges until your blood beads, "you fucking lizards."

"Have you gone mad!?"Aegon shouted, trying to pace with your run to the dragonpit.

A rocky laugh broke out from your being, not deigning that with a reply. Aegon huffed angrily.

"Alright, tell me this then. How are you so sure I'm not just about to put you on a bleeding volcano to die? We claim your dragon in the morn, sister. First thing before we break our fast. I'm sure by then, Vermithor or—"

You whipped your head around, pulling halt. "I leave tonight to claim my dragon. Whether it is you and Sunfyre who gets me there, or Aemond and Vhagar, is no matter to me. I will claim one tonight. It is up to you to decide now if we tell Aemond or not."

Aemond, whose anger is wounded tight, the barest excuse for war always at the edge of his hum. The misstep at Storm's End had cost him everything. Had cost your mother everything. Queen still, Alicent Hightower had bent the knee and offered her life in exchange for mercy. Before Rhaenyra passed judgement, Viserys I had passed.

It didn't matter that you had ensured a higher dosage from the Harrenhal witch in his usual milk of the poppy. Your spiders moving with ease through the silent channels you had established long before your own flowering.

The Red Keep had scrambled, the Heir with it. It was enough time for Lucerys to have come out of the red, confirmed to live through the worst of it without as much as a broken bone. Arrax however, had been badly maimed, and would no longer take flight. But he and his rider would live. Aemond would live. Alicent would have her son. Rhaenyea will have hers, and the crown.

Kevan had done his duty unto you while you settled the storms in Dragonstone. You rewarded him handsomely.

Aegon sighed. He too, would like your honour avenged, but not for the sake of war. "As you wish, sister. I hope you know what you're doing and I am not about to send you to your death."

Just like what you did to your mother, you reached forward and cupped his face. If before, your touch stills his heart and floods his cavities with warmth, a flash of fear strikes the twin son at the eerie smile on your face.

"Skoros morghot vestri? What do we say to the god of death?"

Aegon blinked. "Tubī daor. Not today."

You smiled. "Trust me, sweet Aeg. It is not my death the Stranger will take. Not until the fjords of the North are at my mercy."

"Iksan kesīr sir naejot māzigon ñuha sikagon pakto! I am here now to claim my birth right!" Your scream echoes and falls, repeating back to you. There is a hum, like an electric current that sizzles and pops inside your blood and marrow, and you scramble higher and higher on the rock. Your blood does not sing for the dragon lairs, but above. Up and up, jagged edges cut your skin and dress, the wind whipping with sea mist, but nothing, no one, can clamour you as you reach the peak.

At first you see nothing but darkness and hollow sounds. But you let your eyes adjust, a hiss breaking out of your dry lips as you stumble. You look down. What you first thought were rocks and wayward bones of cattle is bigger.

Whale? No.

Dragon. Dragon bone.

You look and will every sense that your eyes do not. The smell that is drowned— iron. Bones bigger than a person. Than cows and whales. Bones of fearsome beasts. Darkness moves, taking form, more than shadow. Scales hewn rough and jagged, as if stone themselves. Midnight black moving with the gentlest of sighs.

As soon as you realise what— or who — is in front of you, the eyes open with an intelligent gleam. Your heart jolts at the emerald irises that gaze back at you, slitting at the appearance of a human.

'The stench of death follows him', the voice of an old keeper hums into your ear. You no longer remember who told this to you, but the words ring true in your memory. 'Scales of midnight, as if hewn from darkness and death. A harbinger, your grace, an omen of the darkest nightmares.'

"Rytsas. Hello." You smile, ever sweet, ever charming.

This is a thread you had never felt before. Not one of your own making, but something older. A golden thread that led the eyes of Daenys the Dreamer. That spun the ties of Aegon the Conqueror. The voices that herded your madness had gone quiet in the mad rush to get here, but now their presence thickens. Words you cannot hear, nor understand, flood the silence as dragon met rider for the first time.

Keepers and historians have called him he, but every bone in your body tells you that the being before you is a she.

And wouldn't that make sense? A cannibalistic being is a woman?

She opens her maw, only ever slightly, smoke and fire crackling out of it. Molten lava in the belly of her insides tease the cool, night air and warms you.

Her version of a smile. Hello, she seem to say.

"Māzīs. Come," you say, giggling. "Dohaerās. Serve."

That night, you took your first flight.

That night, the Cannibal took her first flight with her first— and only — rider as well.

❝ . . . It is said that the formerly named "The Cannibal" had been entranced by the hunger of his new— first and evermore — rider. Prince Aegon the Elder who had escorted his twin sister that very night with Sunfyre, had looked up in alarm and fright to a maddened screech. Excitement and laughter pouring out from the newly bonded Dragon and Rider had soon turned fear into awe.

Gaelithox, she had been named as they had ridden until dawn broke by the rider who loved her 'till the end of their days, was said to have seen a mirror in Her Grace. The fathomless hunger for blood and organ from the same bodies of their kin. For Gaelithox ever hungers and satisfies for the same meat as her, at the height of her grief and ire that fuelled the Queen Consort to climb Dragonmont by hand, she too hungered for the throats of her traitorous blood.

Gaelithox will only have one rider in her whole life, as she found no same twin soul as akin in the Bastard Eater Queen. Their bond moved as if two bodies beheld one soul.

She shied from humans, and oft found too rough with other dragons. Vhagar was an exception, oft seen acting as an elder sister to the Queen's dragon when neither royal rode them and played in the skies. Smaller dragons were forbidden to approach her however, nor was she allowed in the dragonpit after almost devouring the flightless Arrax.

She died two moons after the Queen's death, delivering her final flames for her rider and would never more breathe her infamous green flames akin to Wildfire, ordered by the Crowned Heir, Princess Daenera Velaryon. It is said that the princess attempted to bond with the cannibalistic dragon but it refused.

The dragon spent her last moons in heartbreak, oft seen in Dragonstone and the Red Keep, circling her rider's most favourite places. Her final resting place is at the very top of Dragonmont from whence the Queen claimed her. It is said that the Queen's crown, the one the King Jacaerys had gifted her after the birth of their first sons, the Princes Laenor and Gaemon, is said to be placed there, as well as a portion of her ashes.

It is said that the King and the Queen's twin brother, the Prince Aegon, personally made the trek in remembrance.

It is widely suspected that Aelyx, Princess Daella's dragon, the youngest child of the King and Queen, may have been Gaelithox's only existing hatchling for he too is made of rough, midnight scales. The dragon that bred with her remains to be unknown. ❞

—Maestre Kevan Noratz, Volume X of The Life and Lies of the Emerald Flame, passage chapter under 'The Time of Hunger: Gaelithox'.

You leave Gaelithox to a mournful goodbye on Dragonstone, pressing your forehead against her hard, scaly head, promising to come back, of exchanging her diet for fat, juicy whales, for more wind-whipped rides, before riding back on Sunfyre with Aegon. The younger dragon would not rise from the beaches in fear of the cannibalistic elder, but you made ensuring promises to teach Gaelithox not to chew your dearest brother's dragon.

You had gone most of your life without the feeling of a bond beneath you, warm and alive and wild, and the roar and stench that though new, felt so familiar in your ribcage— you will fly again. And with your brothers beside you. With Helaena and her lovely Dreamfyre.

To think they had taken this from you too, to placate them. To play into their hands like a mewling kitten.

No more.

It is paces before fast is about to break when you both touch back down to Kings Landing. The Keep busying with its occupants, servants and maids bolstering with quickened feet to ensure the lords and royals are awakened with full, poached meals, dresses and coats readied for their lords and ladies, a new, glorious day under the Reign of the Black Queen.

"What now?" Aegon asks, trying to keep with your pace but he is fatigued, failing to stop his yawns. The excitement of last night had come upon him like a fog, and he is missing his bed. Hells, he is missing the bed he stays with his wife if it meant he would get a full night's sleep in the hours of the day.

"Now, we speak nothing of what happened."

He turns to you, frowning. "Just like that?"

"Just like that." You beam, nodding in favour of soldiers and maids who bow in reverence to the Crown Princess. You know you smell of dragon and night, and you need a bath. And to talk to Dyanna before you seek your daughters. "I will need time and people. The board must still be set for me to perfectly execute what I have in store."

"Alright." He yawns again. "I'll be in my quarters, passed out, if you need me. Please do not need me until sup."

You laugh breathlessly, grabbing his hand and giving it a wet kiss. "I will give you your rest, be assured. Kirimvose, dōna lēkia, Thank you, sweet brother."

The words are simple, said in a quiet murmur heavy with love and meaning. Aegon presses a loving kiss to your head, unable to stop himself winding an arm around you.

"Syt ao, va moriot, ñuha prūmia. For you, always, my heart."

As you break to each other's chambers— his, to sleep, you, already meeting Yna and requesting for a bath — you don't notice the lurker that watched the intimate moment between twins, humming in amusement before it moves to follow you.

Back in your quarters— your marriage quarters as Jacaerys had requested that you forgo having your own, not wishing to part with you — the maids are already busying themselves airing the room, moving to follow your usual routine. The only thing breaking it is the tub now in the centre.

"Thank you," you say to Yna as she picks out the pins from your hair, shrugging off your dress in the process as soon as the maids had untangled the lace behind you.

"Call for Dyanna," you tell them as they bow and leave, the door clicking softly behind them. Plans must be made. Bath for now.

With the world stifled for a second, left with only you and your thoughts, you plunge your body under too-hot water, sighing  against the aches and pains in your body. Dragon-riding is a new endeavour to your muscles, and though enjoyable, was still too new.

You sigh as tears fall from your eyes, blinking exhaustedly against soft, humming daylight. You had always known that love, as it is, is a maiden's folly. A foolish, hapless play meant to fool young girls into thinking the world is kind; a pretty place.

It was an even farther thought from you, a princess of the realm. At a young age, it has been drilled to you that your womb is a rare commodity. Your body has never been your own, a piece meant to be moved in a bigger game that you are used for, not play.

You weren't stupid.

If there's a few things Otto Hightower had ever granted you, apart from gifting you his keen prowess in moving power beneath your fingertips, in hungering for more, for better— it is understanding what each person is, who they can be, how you can move them. A flatter, a flair, a push. As a man, there is much to be desired about your grandsire; he used people, used family to pursue power, but you can't truly fault him for that as you were the same.

You just took better care of the people under your wing.

And for Jace, you had banished him.

The worst part, you knew there was a good, fat chance you would care for the princeling. He was a kind man, a sweet man, and with a guiding hand, you could forge yourself the best husband for yourself as much as you can mould a great king and a wonderful father. Women's hands are ever carved to mould and prod men. We stand behind, a presence or a hand, an echo of power.

But your Jace had surpassed it all, and in the moons leading up to your present day, to giving him his heirs, two beautiful daughters, the promised full Valyrian colouring in the silver hair in Daenera, your eldest, the wide, violet gaze in Aemma— the name of his mother's mother, a request of him that you had kindly, graciously fucking agreed to — of course there is a part of you, the girlish, tender heart that you long thought you had buried to get here, would fall for the brown-eyed, wondrous man.

You sink deeper into the tub, sighing as you let yourself unravel—

When you feel it. A presence in your room. It's soft. Silent. Not a lot would feel as such, but as paranoid as you are, as you keep your spiders clean and pretty with your dewy-eyed webs— you know better.

Your mind runs with ideas on who it might be, and come to a few people. No true name rises. The Red Keep is flooded with spies and traitors. You test your luck, sitting up on the tub, raising an arm over the lip of it and flicking water with your fingertips.

"If you are here to kill me, I'm afraid it will be a lost cause."

He laughs, sardonic and edged and familiar, jetting a tingle down your spine.

Well. There's getting a calm bath.

"Perceptive as always, niece," he says, heavy footfalls approaching now that he has been caught. "I'm just here to say hello."

You raise your eyes, mouth curled but unsmiling at the man who acts as the biggest thorn to your plots. Daemon Targaryen has never fallen through your webs, on guard against your flatter, your push, or your flair. Of course, taking the position of his daughter might have forever burnt that road, but you would think he'd ease up just a little bit when his wife, the Queen, had warmed to you considerably.

Unlike your mother, you had never been hostile to your bitch of an elder sister. Just like your plots for Aegon and Jacaerys, and nodding along to thread your father had started but abandoned, foolishly thinking the realm would follow without him fully ensuring your sister's claim to the throne— you carefully maintained a polite farce with Rhaenyra.

Ultimately, this became a boon to you, as she had responded positively to your abrupt marriage to her son, even reminding her deranged guard dog of their own marriage. The cream to your lemon cake had been when you birthed Aemma, the Queen's most favourite grandchild thus far. When she was a babe, Rhaenyra was never far; almost, always holding your daughter, cooing at her cheeks, remarking her likeness to her namesake with pure fondness.

But Daemon Targaryen knew, in the deepness of his marrow, that there is something wrong with you.

"Hello," you answer primly. He laughs, leaning against the passage to your open balcony. "We could have had this elating greeting at fast, if you wish to break it with me and my own."

He scoffs, unable to hide his disdain at the thought. It breaks his stare of your naked visage. Men. "I would rather jump to the fighting pits, good daughter."

"How rude. Is that all?" You meet his gaze steadily, tilting your head. "If it is not obvious yet, good father, I am bathing."

An amused smirk. "I can see that." Lecherous fucking geezer. "No matter. I just have a... curious thought, a wonder I suspect you may be able to answer. See. Truly odd it is, for the keepers to alert me this morning that Sunfyre had taken a ride past the Hour of Owl." Your heart thuds in your ribcage and you do your best to keep your expression mildly irritated. "Not with one, drunken rider, but with another. It had taken them hours, only coming back when morning had already presented in the air."

He steps forward, slow, menacing, until he reaches the edge of your tub and crouches. Your gazes are still unmatched in height, defiant as yours might be.

"The distinct smell wafts them, a Keeper said, and one suspects that though one dragon left last night, two might have come back this morning for he had seen another fly away." His fingers dips into the water, swirling the steam without breaking eye contact. "I wonder if you know anything about it, darling niece of mine."

The mocking emphasis is not lost on you. If the Queen is the Realm's Delight, you were Darling of the Realm. A sweet, merry girl, the secondborn daughter of Viserys I who frequently fought for the plight of the small folk, who gathered friends of all kinds of lords and ladies no matter the standing of their houses to her own, visiting far lands and charming every person in any room. Who made any feast brighter, always sparkling, always the darling.

Less of a dragon, more of a fairytale.

You sit up, leaning, baring your breasts completely to him as you pull yourself up on the ledge he is crouched from. He leans back, only slightly, as you smile demurely. Sweet. Tart. On the edge of pulling his head and hitting it against the copper tub.

"I am unsure of what you suspect, or is accusing me of, kepus, uncle," you purr and there's a twitch in his mouth, a widen in his irises— men are so fucking simple — "I had been feeling down last night, as my husband, as you know, is beyond my reach at the moment as he rallies alliances for the good of the realm. My brother had simply offered to take me out riding, trying to quell my loneliness with an excitable flight I had never been afforded."

You tilt your head. "Even if there had been a dragon binded to my own, why why would I not regale the realm with news of my success? I have longed for a dragon of my own, but alas, I have not quite succeeded where most of the family have." You pout. His eyes flicker. "Mayhaps I am more Hightower than I am Targaryen."

A huff leaves his lips, the amusement in his smile arching to his dark, dark gaze. Before you can react, his hand had comes forward to hold your chin in a tight grip, your jaw aching soon enough at the fingers that dig against your skin, wanting to bruise, to break.

Though a tremble passes your body, you keep his stare, gritting your teeth as the pad of his thumb brushes your lips. Moments and desires thrum between a charged hatred.

The lust is twisted from wanting to fuck you to wanting to kill you. The line is not simple. Maybe that is your fate together.

But he can't. You are well too ingrained in his family now, loved by the people he cared about. You are untouchable. For now. This is a warning, waiting for you to stutter, to show your hand. Any show of your true intentions... he is more than happy to swing Dark Sister across your throat.

He releases you without another word, standing up and leaving through the front door, the door clicking shut.

You sink back into the bath, letting the water engulf you.

Your daughters are moons apart in birth, and there are only a few differences between them that people oft remarked they could be twins. Daenera is taller, spindly. Built like Aemond when he was younger. Her hair is spun moon and eyes of mullish blue. It reminds you of Daeron's eyes. You had named Daenera yourself, a gruelling birth that took the entire night. You promised Jacaerys he could name the second. He had chosen Aemma for a girl, Laenor for a boy.

Not a few moons later, you were with child again. Your husband pinked at the cheeks at the chiding from his family. When she cried into the afternoon sun—Aemma was born mid day, during a council meeting — he pain did not stop the laugh that came out of your mouth from the horrified expression from the Master of Coin as your water broke.

Aemma had a sweetheart face, cheeks much fatter than her older sister's, with a yellowish tinge to her hair, curlier too, reminding you of Aegon. And Aemma laughed more, her deep, violet eyes always half closed as she exploded in giggles and bright, sunshine happiness.

Sons they might not be, but you had given heirs for the throne. And for them, you would do anything to keep their futures intact. Bond with a dragon, face the Rogue Prince, upheave Winterfell. Anything.

You flounce to the nursery where you know the two would be, smiling sweetly at every person you pass as they bow in reverence. Most wore sights of confusion, their greedy eyes and wagging tongues drinking in the deep, emerald glisten of your gown.

It's an old dress, one you keep in the corner of your collection. It isn't as if you had forgo the colours of your mother's house, but playing court meant every movement, even the clothes you wear, can be meaningful. And since your marriage, your Jace liked you in Velaryon colours.

"A goddess come to bless," he gasped against your collarbone, keeping your legs high on his waist as he rutted into you before his teeth sunk on your skin. As newlyweds go, there is not a lot of teasing to be had for your husband to curl against you in a darkened alcove. Merely wearing his favourite colour on your skin has him panting like a dog. His favourite dress is a seafoam blue that dragged longer against the ground in a soft, almost-gossamer material with a silver belt.

Enticing him never took long, but you enjoyed the dance presented. You enjoyed the dark hunger that filled him until he grabbed you to take you because he just had to take you.

The fresh wound slices deeper as you imagine all the things Jacaerys is doing to the so called Sara Snow. The emerald green of your gown shimmers with your anger.

"Fucking bastards," you can't help but say aloud, nodding at the guards posted on the nursery as you hear the squeals of your daughter and the calm, even voice of your brother.

"Muña! Mother!" Aemma squeals, untangling herself from being pressed against Aegon's side as the children— Daenera and Jaehaera — cuddle around him, before running to you. Helaena is on the floor, entertaining baby Maelor. Your mother, hands twisting against her own, stands vigil by the window, staring far ahead.

You catch your secondborn, giggling as you pressed kiss after kiss on her face.

"I see everyone has started without me. Where is Jaehaerys?"

"You were late, sodjisto, aunt," Jaehaera grins gummily. Jahaera is only a year older than Daenera. Your daughters, five and a half and five respectively. "Jaehaerys is with kepus, uncle. They are training."

"Smart girl." You meet your brother's gaze, whose eyes had notably been staring at your dress, mouth turned down. "Why don't you three play with Helaena? I shall speak about Name Day gifts for your Uncle Joffrey for a bit, hm?"

As Aemma shrieks something about cakes, and Daenera dutifully kissing your cheek in greeting before she takes Jaehaera's hand, you turn to your brother and mother.

"Aemond?" you ask softly, keeping your voice out of earshot. Alicent shakes her head. You nod. "Good. We don't want him inciting a war before I have mine properly planned."

As the Dowager draws in a sharp inhale, Aegon grabs your hands, the worry pulled taunt in his eyebrows. "Are you seriously contemplating war, sister? Isn't there a better way to punish them?"

"What punishment does a man regale in?" you hiss, stepping close to him. "Or the Queen's heir for the bloody matter? When Aemond nearly killed Lucerys, and he confronted me as if I had ordered Vhagar to tear through his brother, I thought I had put to bed any doubts in our marriage. It seems that men stray, regardless. My daughters may be his heir now, but what is to say that bastard wildling he's found himself cock deep in produces a son? Will he shame me with a mistress? Or will he shame me with a second wife?"

Your mother's lips tightens, her fingers paling at how tight she is gripping her nerves.

"Bastard or not, if he takes her to wife, I will be nothing. Make that babe a son, and the realm will rally for it. Daenera is his heir. My daughters will not be forgone. I will not be pushed aside. This is mercy, brother," you say softly, tucking a stray curl behind his ear. "My last one. It requires time, moons, to unfurl. It requires seeding doubt and unfathomable inadequacy. Better if Aemond is none the wiser, Helaena the same. But I will need both of you for this to work. It is the only time I will ever ask. For me. For my daughters."

"And you will punish Winterfell with a war?" your mother asks, frown pulled deep. "That is the plan?"

"I will not. I won't do such a thing so blatant, mother, you know me better than that. But this is my last mercy, and it will be the last. For the next time he offends me so, I do not care if Rhaenyra feeds me to Syrax. I will put a dagger through his heart, heir or not."

The Prince Jacaerys comes back not a week later. Though he comes back to the same castle with the same occupants— your shiny new threads gleam. The stage has been set, a play ready to act. You had sent more spiders in the North, keeping a close eye to every blasphemy your husband has been enjoying in the absence of his duties, and as the rage in you quietly grew with each new whisper, your determination hardens.

You mark each indescretion. You keep a tally.

You count for each fall your blow will land on him.

Vermax lands with a screech and a heavy thump, your husband leaping off him with a grin on his face, matching the one you own, waving your arm joyously with Aemma in your arm and Daenera beside you, holding to your skirt as she grinned at her father.

Aemma wiggles under your hold, and you let Jace get close enough before you set her down, laughing, "Okay, okay!" Her laughter carries through as she scrambles like a bull to her father. A squeal peals out of her as Jace picks her up just in time and tosses her in the air.

"Want to meet kepa, father, sweet girl?" you whisper to Daenera, running a hand down her hair before she nods, breaking out into her own sprint, hugging her father as he greets them with laughter and kisses.

You let them have their time, and this, at least, eases your heart truthfully. A kind reminder that Jace adores his daughters.

You stay at the edge of the entrance, your too-wide grin softens into a smile. You were dramatic, nothing new about that, but even in the pale, pearl blue of your dress in silky, Myrish lace, the emeralds in your heavy, golden belt winks. Green ribbons twisted in your hair alongside fresh flowers. When the trio of your family treks toward you, silver-haired babes clinging to your dark haired prince, you serve a wink at the girls and they untangle themselves from their father while you stepped forward.

A choreographed dance, not giving him time to think. To pause.

Every step is calculated, every item on your body— the silk, the small seahorse that locks your dress behind you, the tint on your lips to the oil in your hair and body — is made to perform. You engulf him in you as if you want to suffocate his senses, your arms wrapping around him with sweet kisses pressing on his face, his neck.

Most in the dragonpit looked away, others, scandalously amazed and enchanted, watch as the princess is undeniably enthralled with her lord husband.

His laughter rumbles across his body, infecting your own, smelling of dragonback and crisp winds. You wonder if your nose is more heightened, you would be able to smell his whore in him, but you don't. It's just him. Your Jace.

Your body moulds against his as his arms tightens around you. When you lean back, you sweetly press a chaste kiss on his lips, grinning.

"What is this?" he huffs a laugh, meeting your doeful gaze. Your fingers curl around his chin, his cheek, idly tapping and touching as if you are committing so much newness to memory.

"Kostagon iā ābrazȳrys daor jaelagon zirȳla valzȳrys? Can a wife not want her husband?" you ask softly, pressing a few more kisses before sucking the last one just under his ear. His body shudders. You hide your smirk. "Skori ēza issare qrīdrughagon tolī bōsa? When he has been away too long?"

A yearning look tints your gaze from under your lashes, and you have to stifle the winning smirk as guilt pinches his face.

"My apologies, my wife. I did not mean to be away from you for long. From the girls." As his eyes flick to his daughters, your mask momentarily sharpens into clear distaste. The urge to dig your fingers into his eyes until he is bleeding and screaming under you is one you tamper with great distress.

Did not mean...

Did not mean to have a dalliance with another woman?

Did not mean to fall into bed with a fucking bastard, you insidious cunt, while I await here with your heirs?

Your anger thrums, nestled deep in your heart, it breathes. You school your face the moment he turns back to you, bringing your hands to his lips, kissing each finger with reverent tenderness. His brown eyes smoulder, rubbing your bare— irises widening — back.

"If you wish it, I can be on my knees for my apologies, my princess."

Your mouth curls. "I'm afraid that might have to be quite later, my prince."

"Huh?"

"The Dowager Queen hoped to congratulate you on your successful campaigning. Reaching as far as the North so frequently, we planned a feast for your return." Eyes shinning, you cup his face. You hope the guilt eats him raw from the inside out. Like worms. Like termites. Hungry, hungry, hungry. "We have never been more proud of you, I have never been more proud of you."

You laugh brightly, ignoring the way he squeezed you just a bit harder that mere second the same time his eyes tightened. "The moment I told the girls of it, they had begged to dance with you." Then you bit your lip, frowning slightly. "I... I understand if you are tired, 'tis a long journey after all, I did try to tell them you might want to rest, we can sneak you—"

"No, no, my heart, of course I would be happy to, I— I want nothing more." He brings you close, face disappearing into your neck. "Thank you. I love you."

You hum, carding your fingers through his hair. "As I love you."

For the rest of the feast, you dance just at the edges of his fingertips, ensuring that you permeated his sights and senses despite it. A game. A dance. When he thanks revelries who congratulate him, who ask him of his adventures, you proudly stand beside him, dutiful as the wife that you are, spearing him with compliments as much as you can. Hands squeezing his arm, your oils swallowing him with your smell.

When dinner came, you take chances massaging his thigh, sliding a salacious grin that had him blushing, ever so sweet, green— making you wonder what kind of fucking bastards do that he finds your attention so swallowing.

You don't let up.

Whenever he, in turn made a move, you sidestep, flutter a smirk, a wink; always escaping, letting him grow frustrated as the night went on.

Your one respite from taunting him had been when he danced with his daughters, making a gallant show of asking them, even Jaehaera. Giggles and spins, the ladies of the court fawn and coo.

Even now, you're making him to be the perfect man. The endearing husband, the wondrous father, the brilliant prince, the perfect lord.

To execute your plan, it must be made with a surgical precision. A slice that guts him to his knees, that breaks his spirit and quenches the whispering, wicked madness nestling with your ire. On another cheek, he must remain upright and upstanding, as to keep your daughters' future in perfect order.

You catch the domineering gaze of Daemon Targaryen, idle as he is, on the side of his distracted Queen, talking to a highborn lady. You don't look away as you toast him your cup of Arbour Red before you pucker your lips for a taste. Your eyes move to where your husband is already looking, flushed red and sweaty from all the dancing, your girls, preening and giggling around him.

You tilt your chin at him, a challenge in your gaze, before you slowly pull your lips away from your wine, stained red.

His throat bobs.

It will be a long, arduous game. Full of pitfalls and tightened webbing. One trip can kill you. But once the machinations are in order, once everything and everyone is in their proper places... oh, you cannot wait for the dance the dragons will make.

A flutter, a simpered footstep. Then a rustle of a dress as one bows.

"My lady," Dyanna greets behind you.

"Hm?"

"The spiders in the ice have met the pup in the snow."

"And?"

"The pup is not suspicious, in fact, they might go as far as to say that the pup is lonely. Though others largely understand her existence... no one likes a bastard."

You snort. "No, they don't, do they?"

"The wolf cares for the pup though, and is largely protective of his only sister."

"Hm. Complicated, but not impossible. Have Meera change the tone of my missive. A softer edge. Sweet but not overtly. Ensure the prerogative of politeness. Then have it sent to the Rookery. The proper channels."

You sigh, taking the edge of your braid and twisting through the ribbons your maid tangled between them. Tonight, you had elected Targaryen colours. A black dress akin to scales and a low, exposed back and dipping front, held together in red ribbons and silver chains. One that might be too on the nose, but the constant, feverish stares from your husband made it worth it.

"We have to ensure a good relationship with the Warden of the North, don't you think so?" You have not looked away from your husband since your maid came, and as he whispered something in Daenera's ear, nodding off to her grandmother with Aemma towed, he turned towards you, one stride after another.

"Precisely what I thought, milady."

"Go," you order her for the last time, giving her your cup, just before Jacaerys reaches you.

Game, set.

Worshipping you has always been something Jace excelled at. At the least, his cock was much larger than most, and without the preparation of his tongue and mouth, it burned. At most, he oft found himself holding your shaking thighs, your head and shoulders left on the bed as he feasted on you like a man starved, hungered for your nectar, the sounds you make, and the shaking of your body as you reached your peak on his tongue.

"J-Jace, please, I—" Your breath stutters, a hiccup escaping your mouth, but he is not letting up. On his knees as only a lordling can with his back straight, he is holding your thighs, your lower back, eating your cunny for the third time of the night.

As soon as he had reached you, he grasped your waist, whispering against your hair in a rumbled groan, "You are torturing me so, my wife. We leave. Now."

"Now?" you echoed, amused. "This is a feast in your honour."

"My honour is already hanging by a thread. The revelry will go on without us. I want to have my fill of you."

And fill he had. He didn't even wait to get you out of your dress before he had pushed your skirt upward, gone on his knees, and got his tongue inside of you.

Now, you are overwhelmed, overstimulated as you are hazy, gripping the wrecked sheets as your peak reached you once more. A strangled, breathy cry of his name falls between your lips as your back arched impossibly so, and instead of letting up, this seemed to fuel him harder, the muscle of his mouth working harder inside of your cunt, hands digging into your flesh to keep you steady.

It builds with a stimulation unending, and just as you're on the throes of your last high, it builds again, quick and fast this time, shuddering gasps of, "o-oh gods, g-gods, Jace!" is the last thing you are able to shout before your fourth peak breaks against the shudders of your last one, your wetness exploding, and you start crying before he lets up.

Your blubber becomes laughter, and he is soft as he lies you down, massaging your thighs as you twitched. He hovers above you, running gentle hands across your arms, kneading through skin, before he reaches your face. He's still in most of his clothes, his long white shirt and breeches, but his mouth is covered in your wetness before he wipes it, obscene in the prettiness of his face and messy locks from where you had tugged and grabbed.

He presses a gentle kiss to your cheek, so close to your body, all too tangled in your soul, and can feel his hard cock upright and wanting against your belly, but he pays it no mind. Concern mars his features as he brushes down your hair.

"Are you alright, my love? Too much?"

You shake your head, brushing your hand down his chest. "N-no, I am well. I just never did that before."

He smiles, kissing your closed eyelids before he brings you close to his chest, cuddling you deep. "You deserve all the pleasure I can give you," he says against your hair. "I have been gone far too long. Consider it my apology."

You hum, eyes open. "Apology for what? You were doing your duty, nothing more, ñuha zaldrīzes, my dragon." You feel him stiffen as you keep your voice soft, caring. "I understand duty far better than you. It is what I love most about you."

You look up, taking his chin between your fingertips as you stared at those warm, brown eyes. "You, who carries your honour like a shield and your duty like a sword. I feel as if the gods had blessed me a husband far better than I should have had for I know I do not deserve you."

"H-how can you say that? You are—" He swallows. "— You are the most excellent woman. The mother of my children. You... You are the one I do not deserve."

Your head falls back against his chest, gripping his shirt. Only by your teeth had you stop yourself from screaming.

You curdle, you keep, you poise.

"My love?"

But you pay him no mind, pushing him on his back as you straddle him, your hands working quick to unlace his breeches until his cock slaps against his stomach, end red and swollen. A sharp hiss falls from his lips as your hand tugs on it once. Twice.

He calls your name, spits it really, eyes blown with lust as he holds your waist, unsure if he should lift you off him or grind you against his aching cock.

"I want you inside me," you whimper, plead, feeling his cock twitch at your words, your false, yearning gaze. He mistakes the burned tears of anger in your eyes as unbridled want. "I have gone so long without your warmth, your cock, swelling inside me, your seed nestling deep, taking root—"

"Yes," he gasps, fingers digging into your doughy sides, pulling you up, moving you around whilst you grabbed his length and directed inside your wet, hot cunt inch by inch, filling you so thickly you can feel him in your throat. It takes time, patience and grit, but you're wet enough and you're determined. Once he's fully inside of you through a choked moan of your own, his neck arches, head thrown back. "Fuck! Yes, y-yes, there you are, my g-good fucking girl."

You move slow at first, taking him, bracing one hand on his knee, almost testing the feel him of back in the familiar contours of your cunt. Veins pop between each groan and choke that shudders through him whilst praise, your name, the possessive titles— my love, my wife, my princess — is spit in between.

When the heat tightens in your belly, you shift positions, placing both palms on his chest, and riding him without abandon, bouncing up and down as you watch with a sharp eye as his release builds. His hips move on their own, fucking up in you as you meet his thrusts with equal vigour, and it's delicious. It's heated. You grind your swollen folds against his mon and your cries make him thrust up harder into you, calling your name, denting your doughy hips.

You don't stop, your pleasure at the back of your mind, wanting him to unravel, to break— a final cry of your name dissolving into a choked moan, spilling his seed deep inside, the continuous snap of his hips digging it deeper into your womb.

But your last peak is still tightening, so you press a quick kiss on his chest, a bite really, before you continue to chase your own high, a hiss slipping his lips but moving your hips with his iron-grip, stutters of, "d-do it, reach your high, f-fuck! fuck!"— Your head throws back, nails digging his skin as your cunt clenches his cock in a vice grip, forcing his hips to snap up once more, twice, until you fall, slumping against him.

When he kisses the top of your head, murmuring words you ignore, you close your eyes.

Your plan is in motion. The missive will be sent to the Lord Stark, in pursuit of an innocent friendship. The spiders you have placed on the Northern bastard are set, and a dragon flies in Dragonstone with your bond in its blood.

Your Jace is home. He will fall in love with you all over again. His wonderful daughters and darling princess, he will regret the events that have transpired in the cold. In his head, he will make promises to do better, to be better, that whatever happened is a blip. A mistake that will not happen again. but you know, he will trip. He will wander once more.

But you will make sure that the next time he does so, he will regret it for the rest of his days.

Because it is not you who will burn Winterfell to the ground.

It will be him.

Your plan moves, your web is perfect.

Now, the spider waits for the idiot fucking flies to feed on.

TAGGED: @inkareds @marihoneywk @caterina-caterina @ahristata @xxvelvetxxxx @but-i-write-so-i-must-count @bunbunbl0gs @yazzzmints @bellstwd @hiraethrhapsody

#jacaerys velaryon #jacaerys velaryon fanfiction #jacaerys velaryon x reader #jacaerys velaryon x you #jacaerys velaryon x y/n #prince jacaerys #hotd jacaerys #dark!reader #jacaerys smut #jacaerys velaryon smut #jacaerys fanfic #jacaerys fanfiction #elle writes !! ꒱ ↷˗ˏˋ🍒 #₊˚ପ⊹ hightower green 🕷

[kay-elle-cee]

i'll be fine, i'll be good || Read on Ao3 A Slytherin!Lily AU || 1.8K words || Rated M || Playlist

From the moment the Sorting Hat is lifted from her head, Lily Evans knows nothing but the need for survival. Her Slytherin housemates despise her for her blood, and the rest of the war-worn world is suspicious of her for what qualities a centuries-old hat saw in her at age eleven. Lily Evans is never enough. Until she’s given the chance to be. Until she is.

Chapter 1: There's Nothing Really Wrong With Me

It’s not everyday a Muggleborn gets sorted into Slytherin. Not every year, or every decade even. But such is the fate of Lily Evans.

From the Playlist: Twinkle Lights — The Sonder Bombs, Taking Up Space — Jetty Bones, Teeth — Mallrat

—

Author Note: I have been working on this fic for an insanely long time, and I'm so excited to finally share. Enjoy the (rather short, sorry!) chapter one, and look for updates for the next five Fridays!

#i'll be fine i'll be good #slytherin lily #lily evans #james potter #jily #jple #jily fic #kelsey writes #kay elle cee #marauders fanfiction #marauders fanfic

[spacedace]

Must one write a fanfic in order with all the relevant details for the story to make sense?

Can't it just be vibes and a collection of scenes and moments from the vague idea of a plot in whatever order they get written in with some of those scenes being the same scene but Different This Time or actively contradicting other scenes?

Next you're going to tell me I have to actually WRITE the fic for it to be written

#fanfic #ever have an idea for a fic #and it just keeps growing #and you realize #oh no #if i wrote all this it would be 100 chapters and several hundred thousand words long #but you still want to write the thing? #anyway that dp x dc fanfic that Jason & Steph sibling bonding snippet i posted is from is shaping up to be a THING #why must Danny Elle Jazz and Dan all be having their own separate stories going on in the same AU #shh i know i'm the reason that's not the POINT #my brain is a thousand worlds clawing their way out in the most feral chaotic way possible send help

[2manyfandoms2count]

Message in a Bottle

Happy Valentine's Day! I'm a little late to the @theerasfestlovesquareversion party, but here's my submission ❤ Special thanks to @miabrown007 for beta-ing!

Happy reading!

Read on AO3

---

Marinette sat at her desk, one foot tucked under her, thoughtfully clicking her pen as she tried to organise a message. 

Her thoughts, which went a thousand miles an hour on a slow day, had come to a freeze about twenty four hours prior, when she’d seen – and heard – Adrien’s lips pronounce three little words she’d only ever dreamed of hearing from him. It was just her luck that they were tuned out by warning beep s, and followed by the Startrain doors clicking shut, as in slow motion, without her being able to do anything to stop them.

A part of her had screamed, urging her to chase after the moving vehicle, but her body had remained standing still on the platform, completely and utterly stunned. 

She still wasn’t entirely sure how she’d gotten back to her parents’ bakery. How she’d gotten to bed, fallen asleep.

All she knew, as she’d awoken in the morning, was that she knew something she didn’t before, and felt a sense of clarity regarding what she needed to do – but that was when her mind had woken up, too. 

And thus the calm before the storm had ended, her mind suddenly swept by a force faster than the wind, dispersing any coherence in her head, scattering words like autumn leaves, before they even got a chance to associate with each other. 

She slammed her head on the table, hoping it would help reset her brain; unfortunately it only brought on a throbbing pain. She winced as she rubbed the budding bump on her forehead.

“Screw it,” she mumbled, finally putting her pen to paper. 

Dear Adrien, 

My feelings since you’ve left have been all over the place, but it’s kind of frightening how happy the three little words you said as the doors of the Startrain closed, made me. They’ve been all I’ve been able to think about (which you know better than anyone might not be the best thing right now – but in a good way! I wouldn’t want you to take them back for the world. Unless you want to. Which would definitely not be a problem, of course. Although maybe just a little. But I’d get over it, I promise).  

Marinette’s hand hovered over the page. She was rambling – which could be fine when she talked, but felt pretty stupid to her in written form. This wasn’t her diary. She couldn’t afford to have a stream of consciousness run on her page; maybe Adrien would read it, and think she was crazy, rip up the letter, throw it in the fire, and she’d never, ever, hear from him again. And then what?

If anything, the reason he’d gone to London in the first place, to get away from the press following Hawkmoth’s (his father’s!) defeat, so he could focus on the latter’s upcoming trial, was enough to justify a clear and concise message. She didn’t want to burden him with her feelings when he surely had infinitely more serious things to think about. 

“Marinette, it can be just a first draft, you know.” Tikki’s soothing words snapped her out of her spiral. 

She looked up at the small divinity, who smiled encouragingly. She nodded, then turned her attention back to her words, biting the end of her pen as she reread them.

Little did she know that Adrien, a small body of water away, was doing exactly the same thing…

—

Dear Marinette,

I’m so sorry I panicked. I didn’t mean to say I like you . Partly, because it’s a little embarrassing that I blurted it out like that – but mostly, because I like you doesn’t even begin to cover how I feel about you. I just saw you, your freckles (the ones I thought I knew like the back of my hand – but that couldn’t be true now, could it? Else I would’ve realised who you were sooner), your smile, and the way you looked at me, and suddenly I got cold feet, and that was the extent of what my tangled brain could produce. 

Adrien spun in Félix’s desk chair, assessing what he’d written thus far. It was a good start, he supposed. His life had been turned upside down by the cataclysmic revelation that Hawkmoth was, in fact, his father, and arguably even more so by the fact that Ladybug was Marinette – he was allowed a certain amount of disorganisation. 

Although he’d obviously been surprised by the former fact, he had to admit that, retrospectively, it did make sense. He even felt stupid for not figuring it out sooner – or, rather, for figuring it out back when Hawkmoth’s powers were still fairly limited, and the damage done (both physical and psychological) was only a fraction of what would happen next, but being too much in denial of the kind of person his father was, and therefore falling for his tricks. 

But his father had grown cockier with his powers, sloppier. His desperation sent him in a slow, downward spiral, hijacking his every thought, eating away at him until one day, he’d stumbled out of what Adrien would later discover was his lair, straight into his atelier, holding his head in his hands – still clad in the purple suit that made most of Paris tremble.

Adrien had stood frozen in the doorway, at first not comprehending what he was seeing. Then, as his father – Paris’ most wanted villain – finally noticed him, the cogs in his brain had whirred again, and he’d made a dash for his room, knowing fully well what he needed to do.

Plagg had to go. Whatever happened next, he couldn’t end up in his father’s hands. 

He’d sent his best friend and his ring away just before the iron curtains had come down on his room’s windows. Just before the tears came streaming down his cheeks, as he cowered in a wardrobe, completely and utterly alone.

Until Marinette’s rescue mission, that is. 

Her being Ladybug, had come as both a complete surprise and an obvious conclusion to a mystery he’d done his best not to uncover since the day he’d first met his Lady. Adrien had obviously dreamed of figuring out who hid under his partner’s spotted mask, daring to ask every so often on the off chance that maybe she’d reconsidered her stance on the matter. But never, in his wildest dreams, had he ever made the conscious link between the two girls who brightened up his life. 

(Not that he remembered, anyway.)

Her plan had been so ingenious that he hadn’t clocked what was going on at first. He’d heard his father go on a rampage around the mansion in his search for him, half begging Adrien to listen to his explanations, half threatening him; and then there was silence as the doorbell cut through his words, and echoed through the house, once. Twice, insistent.

The silence was loud for a second, followed by footsteps running down the hallway. Gabriel opening the door. Voices, cordial at first, although Adrien couldn’t quite make the words out. He wasn’t entirely sure how it had happened, what Marinette had said, but somehow, she’d been invited in.

“Adrien?” His father’s tone was completely normal as he’d knocked on his door. “Adrien, your friend Marinette is here to see you. She saw the security system go off and came to check if everything was alright.” 

“I know how you feel about closed spaces,” Marinette had chimed in. Adrien had slowly crawled out of his hiding spot and made his way towards his room’s door, frowning, trying to remember when he’d told her about his fear. “It’s almost as bad as one of our friend’s fear of running out of cheese,” she’d added as he’d opened the door, turned towards Gabriel.

Adrien had stared at her blankly.

“Another one of our friends is worse about sweets, though,” Marinette had continued seemingly breezily, but Adrien had noticed the insistant glance she’d thrown him. “You should see her in January, she can’t get enough galette.”

Gabriel had chuckled politely, his shoulders tenser than usual, tearing Adrien’s focus off of Marinette’s words. “Well, as you can see, Adrien is very well, no need to worry. Now, if you don’t mind, I have an important matter to discuss with my son.”

Adrien had felt his blood run cold as his father’s fingers dug into his shoulder, which, from Marinette’s perspective, he assumed probably looked like a recreation of the painting looming over the grand staircase.

“Oh, of course, I’ll probably leave you to it, then,” Marinette had looked down, and fidgeted with her ring. 

Adrien had been torn between screaming out for her to make a run for it, to get as far as she could from the mansion and his father, somewhere safe, and begging her to take him with her. But something about her gesture had caught his attention.

Marinette didn’t wear a ring. And this wasn’t an Alliance ring, which he’d seen spread among his peers like wildfire. They didn’t have a common friend who loved galette. Or camembert.

The only person he knew who loved camembert was… 

He’d caught Marinette’s eyes, hoping she could read the question in his eyes. The way she’d nodded back, very slowly, led him to think she had. 

Swiftly, he’d turned around before his father could move, and grabbed the brooch he’d suspected lay beneath his scarf, tossing it to Marinette (Ladybug!), who’d caught it just as she called for her transformation. She’d grabbed his hand before jumping over the balustrade, almost dislocating his shoulder in the process (a small price to pay to get away, really). 

Adrien had heard his father swear after them, his footsteps rushing down, but he didn’t get very far. Ladybug opened the mansion’s door, and what seemed to be the entire Parisian police force rushed in, tackling him to the ground.

Just thinking about it again gave Adrien palpitations. He took a deep breath and got out of the chair, deciding to take a small break from writing. He owed Marinette so much.

—

Anyway, I know it’s only been a couple of days, but I haven’t had any news from you, and I feel like I’m going crazy. Realistically, I know that I like you, combined with our double… friendship, I guess?, must mean that I’m not just any friend to you, but I can’t help but wonder why you’re so silent. I guess I haven’t really been in touch either, even before your departure, but there’s just been so much going on with the trial… I don’t want to bother you, but you should know I’m here if you ever need to talk. Kwami, I wish we could talk right now. Even if I like the idea of sending you a letter, since there’s less chance of things getting lost in nerves.

Because I love you, Adrien. I’ve been trying to tell you for so long, but it never felt like it was the right time nor place to say it. I think I know why, now.

Marinette put her pen down and rubbed her face with her hands. The more she thought about it, the more everything made sense. All this time, she’d felt as if she’d been missing a piece of a puzzle, which threw all her confessions slightly off kilter – as it turned out, her feeling had been justified. 

What a shame the moment everything fell down like pieces into place had to be when Adrien had to leave. 

She shook her head. It was only temporary. She sat back in her chair with a sigh, looking out of her window. It was getting late; Notre Dame’s façade was illuminated, casting a comforting glow in the night. She wondered if Adrien’s view was as pretty as hers, and what he was up to. She didn’t dare bet he was thinking about her, but she hoped he did.

Do what you will with this information, she scribbled under her confession, sighing. I’m here if you need to talk, about anything you want. The weather, the upcoming trial, how you’re doing in London, how annoying I can imagine Félix being, what everyone in the class is up to, physics… You name it! I just really want to hear your voice again, especially your laugh.

You deserve to laugh, Adrien. So, so much. And I hope this letter brings at least a smile to your lips.

—

“Kid, you should be careful where you put your letters, I almost used it as a napkin for my extra mature pont l’évêque ,” Plagg yawned. 

“It wouldn’t matter much if you did,” Adrien sighed.

“Yes, I read it, you’re not sure you’ll send it, blablabla,” Plagg mimicked, holding up the piece of paper. 

“Hey! That was supposed to be private!” Adrien snatched it from his flippers with a huff. 

“It would be a shame, you know. It’s just the kind of thing Pigtails would love to receive.” Plagg shrugged. 

“You think?” Adrien asked, his voice suddenly hopeful.

“Trust me, Adrien, I know. ” 

Adrien couldn’t help the wide smile that spread on his lips at the thought. He went through his latest addition to the letter. 

You know, I feel like my neurons are a little less scrambled now, but Aunt Amélie is keeping me busy on this side of the Channel (I’m really discovering London, though, which is nice – I’d never been to Brixton, Camden or Hampstead Heath, but they’re great places to explore! I’d like to take you there someday, if you’ll allow me), and on the rare occasions I can sit down, which is generally late at night, I have to try and focus to go through the mess we’re going to be faced with. To tell you the truth, I much prefer sitting here writing to you, even though I don’t even know if I’ll ever even send you this letter. 

I keep thinking about the next time I’ll see you. I really want to run back to Paris, to you; I almost did, back on the train. I’m sure there would’ve been a way to stop it in its tracks, but in a way, I’m glad I didn’t. Even if there’s nothing I would’ve liked more than staying with you, putting a little distance between me and my father was quite welcome. If only there’d been a way for you to be with me… 

Sometimes, I think about calling you, but I’m always afraid that it’ll be a bad time, what with the UK being an hour behind you and all.  

He picked up his pen and added:

I hope you’re okay and that you know that I miss you and our hangouts, both in school and on the rooftops. I can’t wait to see you again, my Lady, whatever the circumstances. A small part of me hopes that it’ll be before the trial, or that we’ll get to be alone together for a bit afterwards. You and me against the world, and everything. 

(And maybe some of your dad’s chouquettes.) 

Lots of love, and hope to hear from you soon, 

Your Adrien

“There,” Adrien announced to no one in particular as he sealed his envelope. “I really hope you’re right, Plagg.” 

—

Anyway. I won’t hold you up any longer, but I just thought you should know how I feel. I’ll see you at the trial, at the latest – please don’t love London so much that you won’t come back… 

Forever yours, 

Marinette

Marinette dotted the i in her signature with a heart, and decided against re-reading the whole letter. Instead, she took out an envelope, neatly folded the page in three, and slid it inside. She wrote out Adrien’s name on the front of it, along with the Fathoms’ address, stuck a stamp at the top, and indicated her return address at the back. 

Then, she picked up her bag, and prepared to go to Alya’s. She’d post the letter on her way there; it would distract her from the wait that inevitably came with snail mail. 

She hoped her letter wouldn’t get drowned in the mass of mail Adrien surely received. 

Now, all she had to do was wait.

—

A week later, coming back from school, Marinette found a letter on her desk, and recognised the address’ calligraphy instantly. She all but tore the envelope open, her heart rate accelerating and a smile spreading wider and wider on her lips as her eyes progressed through the message. 

The date at the top told her that Adrien had written to her before reading her letter, but one thing was for sure: they were on the same page.

She placed the sheet back on her desk when she was done, feeling giddier than ever, and reached for her phone – it started ringing in her hands, Adrien’s face lighting up the screen. She almost dropped it in surprise.

“Hi,” Adrien’s voice breathed on the other end of the line.

“Hi,” she repeated, feeling herself blush. “How are–”

“I got your letter,” he blurted quickly, cutting her off. 

“I got yours, too.” She gently ran her fingers down the paper on her desk.

“Good, good.” He chuckled awkwardly. “Hey, I know this is a strange request, but would you mind going up to your balcony for a second?” he blurted quickly, cutting her off.

“Um, okay.” Marinette frowned a little, but still made her way up. Maybe it was a question of connection.

She swiftly pulled herself out of her skylight, and froze. 

Her balcony was covered in red roses: they were entangled in the wrought-iron, stood in vases on the floor, in a petal path leading straight to… Astrochat, sheepishly holding a single red rose. He hung up the phone.

“I love you too, Marinette,” he said. 

Tears welled up in Marinette’s eyes as she threw herself into his arms, hugging him as tightly as she could. 

“Don’t worry about me not coming back, I’ll always stay,” he whispered in her hair. 

Marinette looked up at him, feeling like her heart might burst out of her chest. 

“Glad to hear that, silly cat,” she said with a smile, standing on her tiptoes to brush her lips against his.

One of his arms wrapped around her waist while his other hand softly cupped her face as he deepened the kiss. Fireworks erupted in Marinette’s stomach. She wished time would stand still to let her savour this moment forever. 

Although her wish wasn’t granted, knowing that Adrien returned her feelings and would come back to her did make their parting a little easier. 

“You know, I don’t know what the future holds for us, my Lady,” Astrochat said as he was about to leave, gently taking her hands in his, “but one thing I do know is, if you’ll allow it, I’m never letting go of you, of us. Not if I can help it.” He brought her hands to his lips, his eyes boring into hers.

“I’ll hold you to that.” Marinette answered, pink dusting her cheeks. 

“I bet you will.” He winked. “See you soon, my love.” 

He kissed her again, gently, longingly, and then slid his visor shut and took off. 

Marinette wistfully watched him fly away, her chin propped up on her arms, leaning on her bannister. 

She truly was the lucky one.

#honestly this event was so fun #and now i have a bunch of fics that fit both of my hyperfixations waiting for me #post exams is going to be litttt #miraculous ladybug #taylor swift #miraculous fanfiction #miraculous fanfic #ml fic #prpr #adrienette #canon divergence #adrinette #adrien agreste #marinette dupain-cheng #they're in love your honour #and they have one (1) braincell #elle writes

[whiskey-bumblebee]

good luck, babe!

Pairing: Elle Greenaway/Fem!Reader

Word Count: ~1600

Warnings: Internalized homophobia, sad ending

A/N: I could not tell you where this came from but here it is

In the dark, alone, in the middle of nowhere, always looking over her shoulder; these were the moments you had with Elle, but you'd rather have a little bit of her than none at all. Her lips were warm and soft against your own, and you laughed quietly when you reached up to touch your lips and found her lipstick there. You wanted to leave it, you wanted it to stay there forever, until the investigators you worked with finally put two and two together. Her shade, your mouth. Proof.

Proof that you weren't imagining it all, that you had her, even if nobody knew that you did. You felt like everyone knew she had you, thought that it would be obvious by the way you looked at her when she was talking, like she was a comet and you were the astronomer who had spent your life looking for it.

Your lips must have stilled, mind too busy to remember what you were doing, and Elle pulled away.

"What?" You said, as if you didn't know what the problem was.

Now that her eyes were open, she looked down at your lips and passed you a tissue from her center console.

"We should go."

You looked at your watch. "You still have a few hours left of the stakeout. What if he turns up right after we leave?"

"I have a bad feeling."

"About him or about us?"

She frowned at you. It always made you feel like a child, the patience and grace of the cool older kid having run out. Silent, rejected. There was nothing you could do to convince her.

Her phone rang.

"Still awake?"

It was Hotch.

"I think I might call it a night. There's no movement."

"Morgan and Reid are on their way there so you two can get some sleep. I'll see you back at the station at eight."

You groaned. That was barely three hours from now.

Elle's eyes shot over to you, and she muted the phone quickly.

"Elle? Is someone with you?"

"Shut up," She hissed at you, before unmuting the call.

"Just the windshield wipers, I think they're out of fluid."

You heard Hotch hum affirmatively over the line.

"Morgan should be there soon. Bye."

Elle snapped her phone shut, then looked back at you.

"What the fuck? Are you trying to get us caught?"

"I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking."

"Get out."

"What? We're miles from the hotel, Elle-"

"Walk a couple of blocks that way. I'll pick you up when Morgan gets here."

"It's freezing out there."

Elle rested her head in her hands.

"Do you want to explain to Morgan why you're here, with me, when you're supposed to be sleeping?"

"No, but-"

"Get out. I'll pick you up soon."

You felt your face falling and got out of the car before Elle could see your lip wobbling and your brow furrowing. Hot, frustrated tears spilled over your cheeks and you wiped them away roughly with the corner of your sleeve. You walked fast. You couldn't remember which way the hotel was, but it didn't matter.

___

"C'mon Elle, there has to be somebody," Penelope smiles.

She's looking everywhere except you, and it stings like a slap to the face.

She opens her phone and pulls out a picture of her kissing some guy's cheek. The background is blurry, but it looks like a bar somewhere. The next photo is her smiling widely, her arm wrapped around his neck as he laughs. You feel like you're going to be sick.

"It never lasts," She grins, with a shrug. "Just the way I am, I guess."

"Or the job," JJ interjects. "It's hard, with these hours."

"That too." Elle raises her drink. "Well, here's to my girls."

Nobody notices that your smile doesn't reach your eyes when you clink your glass against theirs.

___

In a bout of desperation, you have a dozen red roses delivered to the BAU, with nothing but a heart written on the tiny card. All you want is for Elle to look at you, to blush, to thank you, to acknowledge that you exist. While you were sitting at your desk, waiting for the delivery, you made the mistake of imagining an even better outcome: Elle running across the bullpen, arms wide open, and planting a kiss on your mouth in front of everyone. She gives some speech, saying that she doesn't care who sees, she doesn't care what they think anymore. The two of you laugh and rest your heads against each other, smelling the roses.

It's a mistake.

"It's a mistake," Elle shakes her head, looking the card over. "Wrong address."

She drops the roses easily into the bin beside her desk, and turns back to her computer.

JJ stares at her. "I could take them. If you're just going to throw them away."

"They're not mine," Elle says harshly.

"Well, someone should enjoy them." JJ stoops down and picks up the stems tenderly, and Elle wrests them from her grasp, tearing the card from the cellophane.

That attracts everybody else's attention again.

Elle crumples the card into a ball and puts it on the far corner of her desk.

"Elle? Everything okay?" Gideon asks, halfway through a file.

"It's fine. I just don't think we should be reading a card that was meant for someone else."

JJ tenderly presses the roses back into their original position, and the way that she's being so careful with them is somehow the thing that breaks you.

A couple of sobs tear their way from you before you can make it out of the bullpen, and it's Reid who finds you in one of the interrogation suites, fighting for air. You're crying like your heart is broken, and you just hope to god he can't tell.

"I'm just," You take a deep breath. "I'm just on my period. And I think it's so sad that the person they're meant for won't get them."

Reid is so taken aback that he just clears his throat and nods. When you make your way back to your desk, you can tell that everyone is watching, like you're an animal who's been hit by a car but is still trying to cross the road. The roses are in a vase on JJ's desk, and there's Midol and chocolate on yours.

"Reid told us you were-" Elle says, and you can tell from her tone that she'll never forgive you. She nods at the painkillers. "Hotch got them for you."

Hot embarrassment burns in your veins, and you don't know how you'll ever be able to show your face here again.

Later, Elle corners you in the bathroom, her back against the door so no-one else can come in.

"This," She gestures between you and her. "-is over. That was insane."

"Elle-"

She turns to leave.

"There was never anything here anyway!" You yell, not caring who hears. "A million times, I asked what I meant to you, and you never told me. You never said 'I love you'. We hide in parked cars in dark alleyways and you're so goddamn embarrassed of me that you never even look at me. Half the time I feel like you wish I was dead. Like I'm this inconvenience that you tolerate. One day you're going to wake up in a loveless marriage with some guy who thinks you're the love of his life, and he's going to buy you roses and you're going to swallow it all down and smile and pretend you're happy and you won't be! You'll be fucking miserable because you can't accept that you and I are the same," You're breathless as you finish, and your shoulders are heaving. "You can't accept that you love women like you think you should love men. And God, if you lose me, that's fine, because I know you don't give a damn, but fuck, I don't want to watch my best friend lose the rest of her life because she can't look in the mirror and call things what they are."

She's silent, the door slightly ajar. You'd been watching her face so intently that you hadn't noticed that she'd opened it.

You close your eyes, take a breath, and push past her, slipping through the door. You know she won't chase you. You've run a million times and she never has. A thousand ultimatums never changed anything.

Hotch is right outside, staring, his mouth agape.

You throw your gun and badge at his feet, and leave without a second glance. He's calling your name, but you don't hear Elle's under his baritone, so you don't care.

There's a sick feeling of relief, of freedom, as you unlock your car door and drive home, knowing all of the things that had been certain this morning are in the past now, knowing that all of a sudden, none of your tomorrows will look like today or the day before. The BAU is in your rearview mirror, and you know it'll stay there. You know that as soon as you make it home, it'll all come crashing down, all of the grief, all of the ending-feelings landing at once, all of the last two years imploding. You'll never wake up next to her again. All of the almosts, all of the 'maybe she'll change', the uncertainty finally answered. And it's not the answer you wanted, but at least it's an answer. But for now, you're driving with the windows down, and with every breath you take, you remember what you deserve. You remember that it looks nothing like Elle.

#elle greenaway #criminal minds #elle greenaway/reader #elle/reader #elle greenaway x reader #reader insert #fanfic #my writing

[powdermelonkeg]

Look just hear me out

The very very first elves lived in the Feywild, and supposedly came around from Corellon's spilled blood in his battle with Gruumsh, the god of orcs. Back then, they could shapeshift and were extremely powerful. His favorites went on to become his pantheon, not-yet-Lolth included.

Stands to reason that since they literally came from the blood of a god, they should be something analogous to aasimar. Further proof of this: the Avariels were winged elves from way back in history.

Along came a band of Aen Elle. Notoriously world-hoppy and power-hungry, they intermingled with Corellon's blood kids in an effort to get some of their power. Corellon's bloodline loses its ability to shapeshift and become the Eladrin, not quite fey anymore (save for the ones that didn't migrate to Toril because they got steeped in the Feywild for 30k more years after that, but they're not important here).

Also notoriously xenophobic and seeing other non-elf races as beneath them, the Aen Elle back home get appalled by this and cut the elves that intermingled off. The Eladrin are disowned and disinherited by the Aen Elle.

-30k DR. The first elves come to Toril. More elves eventually settle. Etc etc, all of elven history, we now have Moon, Sun, Wood, Wild, and Drow.

Back in Witcher-world (forever mad that the planet/continent doesn't have a name) 2k years pre-Conjunction, some Aen Elle split off from the whole and eventually become the Aen Sidhe. Also post-Conjunction, Lara Dorren happens. All of Continental history here, etc etc.

ANYWAYS. The reason elves look like elves between worlds is because it's the Aen Elle's fault.

#also you wanna know why halsin is so huge? recessive aen elle gene. you're welcome #this is all ridiculously self-indulgent and tailored specifically towards a fanfic i'm writing #tmytia #wg&wh #witcher #tw3 specifically—that one has my attention the most #bg3 #tangentially bc i'm using this for stuff for halsin later #dnd #long post #fictional genetics #worldbuilding #i feel like that one conspiracy board meme with this but that feeling is always hilarious to me