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sincerelybubbles · 11 days

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it's a date || spencer reid x reader

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warnings: cannon-typical violence/mentions of murder and kidnapping, slow burn, fluff!, early seasons spencer, not proof read

word count: 6.1k

You sigh and crack your knuckles, staring down at the pot simmering on the stove. You know that the sauce would be okay if you left it for a few minutes, did something else, but you remain standing, uselessly stirring it every few seconds. Truthfully, you’re bored. Your mind shifts from cooking to work tomorrow, itching to pull out your documents and scan through them one more time. But you know you shouldn’t, advise about work-life balance tugging at your attention.

You’re debating if you should pick up a book and try to read, something light to take your mind off of the day, when a knock sounds from the front door. Your dog, Penny, a lovely golden retriever you rescued a few years ago, lets out a weak woof before slowly standing and trotting to the door. She’s old, more grey than golden, but she never fails to answer the door with you.

You turn the stove off and move the pot off of the burner, wiping your hands as you walk, when another knock echoes through the hallway. It’s sharp, official, loud. The sound fills you with anxiety. You stand on your toes to look out of the peephole.

“Hello?” You ask through the door, not recognizing the men standing outside and seeing no package in sight.

“Hello, Jason Gideon, FBI, could we have a word?” The older man says, voice stern but not unkind.

You open the door without unlatching the chain, peering out through the crack. “FBI?”

Jason Gideon, the one who spoke, pulls out his badge first. The lankier man next to him follows in suit. Your eyes linger on him for a second longer than the other agent, taking in his toussled brown hair. You scan the badges for a second before shutting the door to undo the chain.

“Sorry, you can’t be too careful, you know?”

“Oh, we know that all too well,” Gideon says good-naturedly, “it’s good to be cautious.”

He asks your name, you give it, and nods sharply, looking to his partner. “Well, like I said, I’m Jason Gideon with the Behavioral Analysis Unit, FBI, and this is my partner Doctor Spencer Reid.”

“Well, come on in, Agent Gideon and Dr. Reid,” you say, waving them both in and shutting the door.

“Just Gideon is fine.”

Dr. Reid sends you a tight lipped smile as he walks in, adjusting his shirt and otherwise avoiding your gaze. He seems nervous.

“Would you two like something to drink while you tell me why you’re here? Coffee, tea, water?” You ask, twisting the dishcloth between your hands as you lead them inside.

“I wouldn’t say no to some coffee,” Gideon says. You nod and turn to Dr. Reid, who is staring at you with his mouth slightly agape.

“Oh, yeah, coffee for me too, please.”

“Of course, have a seat,” you say, waving them to the small table in your kitchen and moving to prepare their drinks. Neither of them sit.

“How well do you know your neighbors?” Gideon asks as you start the coffee.

You shrug. “As well as anyone does these days, I guess. I wave when I drive past them, smile when they’re out front at the same time. Why, has something happened? I saw the police cars earlier, on my way home from work, but I haven’t heard anything else.”

“Yes ma’am,” Dr. Reid says, even though he looks your age, maybe even a few years older. “Your neighbor across the street was murdered last night, Mrs. Furgison, and her eight-year-old son is missing. Did you hear anything?”

You fall still, facing away from the two officers. Numb, you shake your head, “No, I didn’t. I wasn’t home last night. I was watching my niece for my sister.” You turn around to face them, leaning back against the counter. “But there are cameras outside, I’m assuming that’s why you’re here?” “Yes,” Gideon confirms with a nod. “Would you be okay if we took a look at the last few weeks of footage if you have it?”

“You want to see if he’s been visiting before last night,” you mumble, nodding. “Yes, of course.”

“Do you work in law enforcement?” Dr. Reid asks, the question erupting from him like he couldn’t hold it back. “You’re shockingly calm and seem to know what we’re going to ask before we get to it.”

“Oh, yeah,” you chuckle, waving a hand in the air and turning to pull the pot of coffee out. “BAU, of course, you’d see right through me. I’m a victim liaison. I read through this process hundreds of times a week. Sugar?”

“No, thanks,” Gideon answers as Dr. Reid blurts out, “Yes, please.”

You set the mugs on the kitchen counter along with a container of sugar.

“Help yourself, I’ll grab my laptop to get those files for you.”

When you come back, laptop in tow, Gideon and Dr. Reid are having a hushed conversation, both holding their mugs of coffee. You round the corner slowly but loudly, aware that sometimes agents can be jumpy. Gideon smiles at you while Dr. Reid looks over sharply.

It fits, given their ages and presumably how long each have been in the field. You try to send him a reassuring smile. He reciprocates but still looks obviously awkward, fixing his hair and taking a sip of coffee.

“Would you like me to put the files on a USB? Email them somewhere? Or just,” you motion with the computer, offering it over.

“I can take it,” Dr. Reid offers, “send the files to Garcia.”

You let him, passing him the computer easily. With your job, the government is already elbows deep in that laptop, anyway; you have nothing to hide.

You watch as Dr. Reid begins typing away on your computer, leaning over the table and resting his forearms on the edge.

Both of the agents are dressed professionally: button-down shirts, slacks, dress shoes. Guns ready at the hip.

“You like to cook?” Gideon asks, nodding toward your forgotten pasta on the stove.

“Yes and no,” you admit, chuckling and turning your attention to him. “It always tastes better than takeout but it’s hard to get the motivation. Are you hungry? Can I offer you anything else?”

“Oh, that won’t be necessary, but thank you.”

“Of course. I know how overworked you lot can be.” You cross your arms and lean back against your counter. “What about you? Do you cook?”

“Not as often as I should,” he admits, smiling sadly. “Victim liaison, you said?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You seem a little young.” “Could say the same about him.” You nod at Dr. Reid who doesn’t hear you, too focused on his work. “But I guess drive and pretty much no social life can get you anywhere,” you admit with a laugh.

“Garcia should have the files in a minute,” Dr. Reid interrupts, looking up from your laptop.

“I’ll give her a call.”

He steps out with a nod to you, walking back into the front hallway of your small home and leaving you alone with the doctor.

He opens his mouth to say something before his eyes focus over your shoulder and his attention is stolen. “Sorry,” he says, moving past you and into your living room, toward your bookshelf. “Is that a Russian copy of Crime and Punishment?” He asks, brushing his finger over the spine of the book.

“Oh, yeah, it is.” You follow him, staring up at your own bookshelf like you’ve never seen it before. It’s crammed full of books. There are more filling your bedroom down the hall as well. “It’s a slow read, I have to use a lexicon a lot of the time, but I sort of like the work. Translating’s a hobby of mine, I guess. When I have time. Sorry, that might be weird.”

“No, it’s not weird at all! Not to me, at least. Are you using a Dictionary-based lexicon? Can I see it? I have one that I love. I haven’t read much Russian but I have one for Greek. They’re rarely used anymore, falling out of popularity with the creation of the internet where everything is readily available to just search up, but I find them fascinating and I’ve never seen one for Russian before.”

He talks enthusiastically with his hands. His eyes shine, the interest lighting up his face. You think, before you remember the reason why he’s there, that he’s actually quite handsome. You become slightly breathless at the realization. You don’t really notice people like this often. But, towering above you, buttoned shirt pushed up to show his forearms and a self-concious smile stretching across his face, you’re a little flustered.

You take a breath, remembering that your neighbor is dead and a little boy is missing, sending Dr. Reid a small smile and motioning behind you.

“It’s in my office if you want to go look at it. I prefer it to just typing out the stuff I don’t know — mostly because I don’t have a Russian keyboard — and it’s easier to learn when you have to research it.”

“I would actually love –”

“Reid,” Gideon interrupts, ending his call, “Garcia got the files, we have to go.”

“Oh, yes, of course.”

“Thank you so much for your help,” Gideon says, walking toward you and offering his hand. “And for the coffee. So sorry to have interrupted your cooking.”

“Anytime detective,” you say, shaking his hand and smiling up at him, “always happy to help. I can give you my card if you need anything else?”

“That would be great, thank you.”

You rush to your bag to pull out one of your cards and hand it to Gideon before turning to offer Dr. Reid your hand.

“It was nice to meet you, too, Dr. Reid.”

He takes your hand firmly. “Spencer’s fine,” he says, stumbling over his words slightly but still smiling. “Thank you for your help.”

“Anytime,” you repeat, letting them out and returning to your sad pasta.

Your mind wonders, not to the murder or kidnapping, but to Spencer Reid. Wide brown eyes, tousled hair pushed out of his face, a sweet smile. Smart, too. Way too smart.

You’re not exactly experienced when it comes to dating, you hadn’t lied to Gideon when you said you don’t make time for a social life, dating included, but you do know that an interest in a too-smart profiler might spell bad news.

Still, as you portion out your meal, you can’t help but think that you’re feeling awfully motivated to return to working on Crime and Punishment. You don’t lie to yourself about the origins of this sudden spark of motivation, but you do rationalize it. What’s the harm in a fleeting crush, then? Especially if it gives you the push to finally finish one of the many projects hanging on your ever-growing list?

You suppose you might see them arround the office if they’re working in this jurisdiction, but then he’ll be gone and it’ll fade away. In the meantime, you make yourself a plate of food and settle down in your living room with the book and lexicon.

||||

“Well, that certainly poses an interesting problem,” you hear Cheif Saunders say as you walk into the police department the next morning, arms full of files ready for sorting.

You round the corner to escape this attention but aren’t fast enough and he calls you over by name. Cringing, you turn on your heel and are faced, once again, with Gideon and Spencer. With them are two more men and two girls, all intimidating and confident.

All FBI, if you had to wager a bet.

“Morning,” you say, nodding to Gideon and Spencer respectively. “Nice to see you two again.”

“You’ve met?” The tall man next to Gideon asks, pointing the question to Spencer. He grins, white teeth overtaking his dark, handsome face. He reaches his hand out to shake yours, “Morgan, nice to meet you.”

You introduce yourself, explain your position, and receive introductions from JJ, Elle, and Hotchner as well.

“Where did you meet our friends?” Chief Saunders asks, folding his hands in front of him and setting an accusatory glare on you. “Still preening for a new job?”

“No sir,” you say, uncomfortable. The chief is often cold with you, refusing to acknowledge your knowledge or work. When he found that you were looking to transfer stations to the one a district over, he’d still thrown a fit, though. You guess he can’t ignore how well your numbers reflect on him as easily as he deflects your accomplishments to your face.

“We stopped by to get access to her cameras, she lives across the street from the Furgison’s,” Gideon explains, watchful eyes glancing between you and the chief.

“They proved to be surprisingly useful,” Spencer interrupts. “We now know the make, model, and color of the unsubs car as well as his general height. Garcia is still trying to make out plates, but we are able to confirm at least pieces of our profile with the information.”

“You live across the street?” The chief asks, still staring at you. You shift your weight, holding the files closer to your chest.

“Yes, sir. In a duplex.”

“Then, fellas, I’ve found the solution to our problem. You’ll set up with our little liaison, then.”

“Sorry?” You ask, startled.

“We have reason to believe that the unsub is returning to the crime scenes after the police have left the area and allowed the family to return. But, if we know our guy, and we think we do,” Elle says, begrudingly, “he’s smart. He’s going to notice if we’re camped out in a car. And, in a residential street, it’s much harder to hide in a building.”

“So, you’ll have the opportunity to make yourself useful,” Chief Saunders chuckles, laying a heavy hand on your shoulder and shaking you.

“Only if you’re comfortable,” Gideon adds, glancing at you with a patient expression.

“Yes, it would be a complete invasion of your privacy, agents would be there twenty-four-seven monitoring. We would only stay in the front areas of the house, of course, but you needn’t do anything you’re not comfortable with. There are always other ways.” Agent Hotchner fixes you with a level look, voice sincere.

“Oh, she’s comfortable, aren’t ya?” The chief says, shaking you again with a wide smile.

“Yes, of course,” you say, nodding at the others. You mean it, you’ll do whatever you can to help out, you just wish you could’ve made the choice yourself.

“This way, you don’t have to worry about confidentiality, either. Little Miss has full access to ongoing investigations, she’ll be there for all of the briefings and such.”

You nod, discretely moving a step back so his hand falls from your shoulder.

“Yes, I’m meant to be kept up to date with all ongoing, violent investigations where and if possible to act as a bridge between law enforcement and victims and families of victims. Especially those with children involved — I should have mentioned we would cross paths again last night, I just wasn’t thinking.”

“Yes, we’ve worked with our fair share of liaisons,” Gideon chuckles, looking over his shoulder at JJ who gives him a small smile.

“Then it’s all set. You boys let me know when you have your profile ready.” Elle watches him walk off with a hard stare, obviously just as rubbed wrong by him as you are.

“Lovely man, isn’t he?” You joke, trying to make the situation lighthearted.

“We’ve interacted before. Our headquarters isn’t actually far from here, just a twenty-minute drive, we’re up in Quantico. He doesn’t get any better with time, though.” Agent Hotchner shakes his head, turning to grab a file off of the desk behind him.

“Well, he always forgets to offer his office space to visitors so I usually keep mine available. It’s quieter and there’s a whiteboard, follow me.”

||||

Since you started renting the small duplex by yourself, you’ve never felt awkward in your own home. Now, though, you feel odd taking up your own space.

The majority of the Quantico team is set up in your front room with laptops, cameras, and microphones.

“We don’t know exactly how long he usually takes to come back to scenes, only that it typically happens within the week,” Elle explains to you apologetically.

“No problem — comes with the job, no?” You say, smiling and trying to brush it off. Elle laughs gently, nose wrinkling as she shakes her head.

“No, not really. I wouldn’t be thrilled if these boys set up shop in my house, you’re taking this with much more grace than I would.”

You shrug, crossing your arms and tilting your head from side to side. “I won’t act like it’s normal, it is pretty weird having you guys here, but if it helps you catch this guy, why would I say no? Better me than some random civilian.” You hesitate, scrunching up your nose, “Better now than waiting for him to kill someone else.”

“Much more compassionate than I am,” Elle jokes, shaking her head and walking away as Gideon calls her name.

The main problem, you think, is that the duplex isn’t very big. The part of the team that’ll be staying with you — Spencer, Gideon, Elle, and Morgan — have all settled in. They won’t come and go, their car is firmly parked in your garage, and they’ll keep a low profile to prevent the unsub from noticing their presence. You’re meant to come and go as normal to keep suspicion low in case he’s cased the entire neighborhood. But, with only two bedrooms, a baths, and a small office, you’re feeling slightly cramped. Whenever you turn, you feel like you’re coming toe-to-toe with someone. It’s awkward, considering you’re very used to living alone.

Still, you’re determined to be a good host, so you set to preparing lunch for everyone. They’d insisted that you didn’t need to, but you really don’t know what else to do. You’d been given the day to help them all settle in and provide assistance wherever possible, but there isn’t much to do other than wait.

You’re pulling out the things for sandwiches when Spencer walks in.

“Hey, do you have an extra ethernet cable? Garcia thinks that a direct line would be better,” he asks.

“Maybe, you’re free to check in the office if you want. If you need, you can always pull the one from my desktop,” you say, shutting the fridge and trying to balance everything in your arms in one trip.

“What’re you doing?” Spencer asks, reaching forward to grab the ham and mayo from the top of your stack.

“Making sandwiches!”

“You really don’t have to. We can have food ordered, it’s okay.”

“I wanna make myself useful, I feel weird just standing around watching you guys work,” you say, dumping the materials on the counter. “I hope you guys like ham or turkey, it’s all I have.”

“You are being useful, though. You’ve let us set up in your home, how much more useful can you be?”

“I could provide food as well,” you say, sending him a smile. “Ham or turkey?”

Spencer looks exasperated, setting the ham and mayo down and shaking his head. Nervously, he uses both of his hands to push his hair back. “Either. Either is fine, thank you.”

You start to prepare the sandwiches, Spencer watching and still looking like he wants to say something.

“Hey, Reid, I found one, we’re all set,” Morgan says, rounding the corner and waving the white chord in the air. “Oh, what’re you making?” He asks, stepping closer and leaning over your shoulder.

“Sandwiches. I was asking Spence if you guys like ham and turkey but he wasn’t being helpful.”

“Well, Spence can be like that,” Morgan says, throwing Spencer a smirk over his shoulder. “But we’d appreciate anything.” “I was trying to tell her,” Spencer interrupts, “that it’s entirely unnecessary for her to make us lunch. She’s already done enough for us letting us set up here. The effort is appreciated, of course, obviously, you just shouldn’t have to. Because we’re already intruding.” He trails off as Morgan sends him a look, raising his eyebrow.

“Well, I, for one, appreciate the offer,” Morgan says, leaning on the counter and smiling down at you. You laugh at him.

“It’s not that I don’t appreciate it! I do,” he says, turning to you and holding one of his hands up in a placating way, “I just don’t think, it’s very kind of course, I just –”

You cut him off, taking pity, “He’s fucking with you. Relax.”

||||

“I just can’t believe that you’re actually processing any of what you’re reading at that speed!” You say, throwing your arms up.

“I actually am. Speed reading, when done right, doesn’t take away from comprehension at all. Plus, with my eidetic memory, I can always think back and process later if I need to,” Spencer explains.

“Fine, you’re understanding what you’re reading in a general sense, but where’s the enjoyment in it? How can you possibly understand all the intricacies of the writing, what the author is doing, and appreciate the characters and their growth if you don’t take your time with it?” “I tend to focus my reading moreso on informational writing, so that’s not often a problem. And when I do read something fictional or with more nuance, I’m never lacking in any way when it comes to my understanding of the content, even when speed reading.”

“So you’re not actually taking the time to have fun reading is what I’m hearing.”

“Reading is inherently fun when you’re learning something, though,” he says, lips quirked in a slight smirk and a line forming between his eyebrows as he looks down at you. The look is so disarming that you find yourself deflating a little.

You’re in your living room, a few books scattered on the coffee table between you two, debating the merits of each one.

“I dunno,” you say, argument leaving you as you become distracted.

“Just say I’m right! You know I am,” Spencer says with a chuckle, shaking his head and leaning toward you slightly, hands spread.

You thought he was cute when he was shy, bumbling in your house yesterday, but after a few hours to warm up to each other, you can’t deny you really like him.

The only thing that completely blocks the disappointment that they’ll all soon be leaving is that their UnSub will be caught when they have to leave. Your community and neighborhood will be better off for it.

“No, I still think you’re wrong. Sure, you understand what you’re reading but I just don’t buy that you could possibly enjoy it in the same way that I am!” You’re trying your damndest to regain your confidence, shaking your head side-to-side with a wide smile to erase the vision of his own smirk, his hands, his rolled up sleeves from your mind. “I mean, nothing beats curling up with a book and taking your time with it.” “Well,” Spencer interrupts, lifting a finger, “how can you say if you’ve never tried my way?”

“Speed reading? I’ve done it, actually.” You shrug at his hesitating look, suddenly feeling vulnerable under the weight of his eyes.

“Really? What method? What was your fastest time? What —” Morgan cuts off his questioning by walking in and calling for him.

“Gideon wants you to take a look at something.” “Ah. Breaks over.” Spencer stands from where he was sitting on your armchair, brushing his hands off on his pants. He points at you while he walks away, “We’re not finished, though!”

“Oh?” Morgan asks when he’s gone, raising his eyebrows at you. “Unfinished business?” You scoff, moving to pick up the books you pulled out to talk to Spencer about.

You like Morgan. He’s an easy one to like and he feels like the bigger brother you don’t have with his easy smiles. The chaos in your house hasn’t been easy, you appreciate his consistent presence to lighten the atmosphere.

You’ve actually come to like all of them. Elle with her stories, Gideon with his dry smiles, and Spencer. Really, you just like Spencer. You’re an adult, you’re not ashamed to admit it. Just, only to yourself, lest you mess something up and make him uncomfortable.

“You know, I can’t really say I haven’t seen him this excited before because the kid gets excited about everything but,” Morgan shrugs, pushing himself off of the wall he’s been leaning on and coming to sit next to you, “you do seem to get along well.”

“Oh, yeah, Spencer’s nice,” you say, standing to put the books away.

“Nice,” Morgan muses, leaning back on the couch and crossing his arms.

“He is! You all are.” You laugh when Morgan raises his eyebrows again. “I’m being serious, I would kill to work on a team like yours. You all actually work together.”

“We have to.”

“It certainly works out better when you do.”

“Yeah, your boss is a real dick. He usually walk all over you like that?” You wrinkle your nose at him as you sit down, pulling your legs under you. “More or less I guess. My personal opinion is that he’d like more men on the team and … no women,” you joke, giving him a what can you do? look, smiling sadly.

“And you tried to transfer?”

“Stop profiling me,” you say, eyes narrowing. Morgan smiles, all teeth.

“Not profiling, just remembering him saying something like that when we talked at the station.”

“Oh,” you say, slouching back. “That’s considerably less impressive.” “Ouch.”

“Yeah, yeah, I wound you. But I did look into transferring a while back. I’ve been trying to move up for a while and keep getting blocked. But, no surprise, I got blocked again.” You raise an imaginary glass, cheers-ing with the air, “Go government!”

“That’s fucked,” Morgan says, letting out a low whistle. “So you don’t want to stay a victims liasion?”

“No, I do. But it’s not my only job right now. It’s a little complicated, but our office is too small to have a head liaison. So I really just run around filling gaps wherever I can until I’m needed to do my actual job. I’d love to do just liaison work, I really like working with the public. Feels like I’m actually helping people, you know?”

“Yeah, I know.” “Hey,” you say suddenly, not wanting to keep the mood somber (or ignore the FBI agent in your house with your silly woes while a murder investigation is underway), “you want some tea? Coffee?”

“Sure doll, I’ll take some coffee,” Morgan says, a confused smile taking over his face, “if you’re offering.”

||||

“It’s actually pretty interesting,” Spencer is saying, flipping through files and leaning over to show Elle something.

“Oh, I bet. Nothing better than vicious murder,” you say, dry, rolling a pen between your fingers.

“I mean the process behind deciphering their reasoning,” Spencer says, shrugging.

“I just don’t know how you look past it to see anything other than the violence,” you say, shuddering.

He and Elle have taken the night shift and are giving you a rundown on profiling. You’ve worked with profilers before, but they’re small-town cops, more interested in closing cases than being scientific, or, at times, even correct.

“How do you look past a crying mother after her daughter has been murdered to get the information you need?” Elle asks. “I’ve worked with hundreds of victims, I think I’m pretty good at it, but your records show that you’re one of the best.”

You heat at the praise, shrugging your shoulders. “I wouldn’t say I look past them. I actually try to get into their shoes to figure out what I can say to get through to them.”

“Often the victims families know more than they think. Every bit of information they can give us or the police about the victim only lead us closer to the unsub. We often rely on your job to get important information out of victims and families that we wouldn’t otherwise have. It requires tact, empathy, and extreme emotional control,” Spencer explains, setting the file down and brushing his hair back.

“Well, thank you?”

“I think he’s trying to say what we do is similar,” Elle explains, “it’s just the opposite side of it.”

“I’m still not following — but I’m definitely not built to be a profiler, that’s for sure.”

“But you could be. You profile in your own way. We look at the bad guys, the killing patterns, stuff like that,” Spencer leans forward, enthusiastic. “You just profile less intense people. Gather information from them, figure out what they need. Get in their shoes, to use your words. You use their actions, small phrases, and what you can gather from their homes to approach them the best way, no?”

“Looking at their clothes and body language and stuff, sure.”

“We do exactly that with crime scenes. Recognize patterns. Just like you can’t imagine seeing past the violence, some of us can’t imaigne having to see past the emotion of someone dealing with fresh loss.” Elle smiles. “You’d probably make a really good profiler. You’re just a better victims advocate.”

You consider that, weighing their words. “Sure, maybe,” you admit. “I still think it’s kinda like magic, though. Your knowledge, your intuition, your teamwork. It’s cool.”

“Thank you,” Elle says kindly.

Spencer jumps back into his explanation of the types of murder-kidnappers, musing with Elle again about their profile. Their ability to constantly return to the same evidence over and over without any hesitation is still amazing to you. Despite what Elle said, you’re sure you’d get bored.

You’re even more sure that it would stick to you in a way that working with the victims never did. You visit crime scenes, sure, but you never do everything in your power to commit every bit of them to memory.

As they talk, you move toward the window and move the curtains over slightly. It’s the middle of the night, the second the team has spent in your home, and you’re curious how much longer this unsub will take to be caught.

You’ve done your best to keep to your usual schedule and luckily it’s not unusual for you to be up late. The movement behind the curtains won’t be suspicious, so you stand and peek out curiously at the home across the street.

Penny sighs from her bed in the living room, snoring softly. She’s taken a liking to your guests who are always willing to give her attention and scraps of food.

The Furgison house bigger than yours, a family home with a large backyard. It’s a faded blue, lightened by the sun, with a white door. Theres a dim porch light that’s been left on, throwing yellow shaddows across the street.

You swear you see a curtain move in the window and your entire body freezes, breath stolen from your lungs.

“Hey guys?” You say, dead quiet, as you see the curtains flutter again. Small, nearly inperceptable movement. Greys and blacks angainst more greys and blacks.

“Yeah?” Elle asks, still reading over the file with Spencer.

“You’re sure that nobodys gone in tonight?”

“Certain,” Elle says, moving quickly to stand next to you. “Why?”

“Curtains moved,” you say, nodding toward the house.

“Maybe the AC was left on?” Elle suggests and you shake your head.

“No, we would’ve noticed it before now. They have no animals, the house should be empty.”

Your heart is racing as Spencer joins you at the window.

“You sure you saw it move?” He asks, moving to stand behind you, just out of sight at the window, a hand pressed to your back. Gentle pressure, just his fingertips, that makes you siffen even more. He moves his hand, whispering an apology.

You wish he hadn’t.

Your mind spins, distracted for a moment, shaking your head again.

“Yes, I’m certain.”

“Go get Morgan and Gideon,” Spencer tells you, sharing a look with Elle.

||||

You follow the team out, despite their insistence that you don’t have to, holding your own handgun out and following the light Morgan casts.

You live in a relatively sleepy neighborhood. Shared duplexes and little houses line the streets, most with little flowerbeds out front. The Furgison house is no exception: it’s a little blue house with rose bushes out front. It backs the small patch of wood that runs along the length of the highway.

Heart racing and head light from adrenaline, you stay out front to watch for any movement inside while Morgan and Hotch creep around one side of the house, Spencer and Elle take the other side.

“Back here,” you faintly hear Morgan say through your earpiece. “The cellar door is open. It was deadlocked last time.”

You sitffen, readjusting your grip on your gun.

“Wasn’t it cleared, though, when we were here last?” Elle asks.

“Yeah, but he could’ve snuck in through the woods — there’s no telling.”

“Didn’t we position police cars on the highway?” Elle again. You can imagine them all standing behind the house, guns drawn. It’s intersting to hear them communicate so efficiently, voices low.

“We’ll worry about it later. Morgan, you take the lead, I’ll take the rear, Elle stay out here.”

For a long few seconds, you hear Morgan, Spencer, and Hotch begin to clear the basement, until you’re jolted out of the repetitive “clear!”s by Hotch yelling, “FBI, put your hands up!”

The next few minutes turn into a whirlwind as police cars arrive and Morgan drags the UnSub out of the house by his handcuffed arms.

The Furgison boy comes out next, disheveled and passed to the paramedics in the back of an ambulance. Once you see Hotch, Spencer, and Elle are okay as well, you jump into action, going to sit with the boy and comfort him. Morgan is there, too, crouched down to talk to the kid.

“You’re all good now,” he’s saying, reaching forward to ruffle his hair. “And my friend here is going to make sure that you see your dad as soon as possible.” Morgan gestures to you and you nod at the little boy.

The sight of him makes your chest ache: he’s scrawny with wide brown eyes and a mop of curls on the top of his head.

“Agent Morgan is right, your dad is going to meet us at the hospital.”

The boy doesn’t say anything, shaking under his emergency blanket.

“I’ll ride with you in the ambulance, too, and that’ll be fun, right?” You ask, jumping up to sit next to him. Slowly and sluggish the boy rests his head on your shoulder, still shivering. You wrap an arm around him before mouthing ‘I’ve got him’ to Morgan. He gives you a small sile, waves at the boy, and goes to join his team.

After being checked over again by the paramedics, the boy falls asleep quickly in the hospital, holding his dads hand. You’re leaving the room, shutting the door with a soft click, when you see Spencer sitting in the hallway.

“How is he?” Spencer asks, standing up at the sight of you.

“He’s okay, some minor bruises and scrapes, dehydrated but on an IV. They’re just happy to be back together.”

“That’s good,” Spencer says, falling quiet and looking away.

“And, hey, you guys caught the bad guy — now you all get to go home!”

“Yeah,” Spencer says, turning to look at you again, chuckling slightly without any heart behind it.

“Are you not excited?” You ask, raising an eyebrow.

“It’s always nice coming back home after a trip, even one as close to home as this one is. But it’s a little bittersweet.”

“How so?”

You practically see Spencer gathering his courage, straightening his shoulders and sending you a small but genuine smile.

“Well, we have some unfinished business, remember? And you never showed me your lexicon.”

“Well,” you say, smiling, “you’ll just have to keep in touch, then. Maybe we can get dinner?”

“Yeah. Yes, of course. Dinner.” Spencer is fully grinning now, eyes squinting with the force of it. You can’t help but mirror him, laughing a little. “Well, I do have a car to catch. I just wanted to check on him and say goodbye.”

“Well, goodbye for now Dr. Reid.”

“Goodbye,” he says, smiling at you for a second longer before turning to walk to the exit. He makes it to the doors before he hesitates, one hand on the handle. He stands there, still, for a moment before turning around and asking, “Dinner, like a date, right?”

Giddy, your smile only widens as you nod. “I would really like that, if you’re asking, yeah.”

“I’m asking.”

“Okay, then it’s a date.”

i wanted more to happen here but then i got this far and still had so much more i could write about these two aahhh

lmk if u want a pt 2 bc i kind of have ideas :) tysm for reading!!

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rotten1angel · 9 days

Text

just imagining pampering toji. he’s just gotten back from a mission. you had washed him as you showered together and now were curled up on the large bed in your bedroom.

toji’s large body laid across your side as his head tucked into the juncture between your shoulder and neck.

“toji.. my love..?” you asked tentatively, worried to wake him if he was asleep. you heard him hum into your skin. your fingers found their way to his hair, gently massaging the man’s scalp.

“i jus’ love you s’much,” you murmur, leaning slightly to kiss the crown of his head. you feel the man shift over you to lean on his forearms. his tired eyes scan over your features before dropping a sleepy kiss on your lips, drawling afterward “love you too, doll.”

he settled back against your body, his nose tucked into your neck once again. you would’ve assumed the man was asleep now if it weren’t for his iron grip around your waist. however, soon enough his grip did loosen and you could feel his deep, lumbering breaths as he dozed off, safe in your arms under the cast of night.

#ʚɞ // elle writes !#ʚɞ // blurb #was js watching sad toji edits and needed to give him love #jjk toji #jujutsu kaisen toji #toji fushiguro #toji x reader #toji zenin #toji x you #jujutsu toji #toji x y/n #toji fluff

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darlingofvalyria · 8 months

Text

❝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 ❫ ･━━🌻

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stawbeemilk · 15 days

Text

⤷ their love language – hq

✩ characters: various

✩ warnings: none

✩ a/n: i finally managed to get the motivation to actually sit down and write something, thank you for being so patient with me!!

⭑ physical touch

he's definitely a little touch starved, regardless of how much he might try to deny it. it was definitely a bit of a shock when you first started dating and you saw a completely new side to him, discovering just how clingy he could be and how much he loves to be close to you. there's nothing that makes his heart flutter more than feeling the warmth of your body against his own, and he finds himself unable to stop from initiating physical contact at every chance he gets. he appreciates the little things such as linking pinkies or having his hand on your lower back when the two of you are in a crowd, but he especially loves cuddling with you after a long day while you play with his hair, and when you randomly hug him from behind he literally melts.

⤷ bokuto, hanamaki, nishinoya, konoha, goshiki, atsumu, yahaba

⭑ words of affirmation

he's always encouraging you, not only with actual words but also through smaller gestures, such as leaving you little notes on the fridge for you to read before you leave for work or by sending you sweet messages throughout the day. he loves to tell you how proud he is of you, congratulating you for all of your achievements, regardless of how small or unimportant you might think they are. if you're ever feeling insecure about yourself he will reassure you as if his life depends on it, complimenting you and reminding you that he thinks you're perfect— but at the same time he also likes to hear encouraging words from you, especially at times when he tends to doubt himself and needs nothing more than to hear that he's enough.

⤷ akaashi, yaku, oikawa, ennoshita, yamaguchi, tanaka

⭑ quality time

he's not always the best with words, and so he prefers to show you he cares by spending time with you. sometimes it's a case of not doing anything in particular, and instead just being in the same room as you and enjoying your company. he really appriciates the fact that the two of you feel comfortable enough to simply be in a room with each other, not feeling the need to try and fill the silence with small talk and finding the lack of conversation to be comforting rather than awkward. he also enjoys doing chores with you such as getting groceries together or cleaning the house, things which others might find mundane, but he likes doing them purely because it means he gets to spend time with you.

⤷ kenma, tsukishima, kyotani, ushijima, kunimi, sakusa, kageyama

⭑ gift giving

he shows his appreciation for you by giving you things, whether that's something he knows you've been wanting for a long time or just an item he's seen when he was out shopping that immediately made him think of you. he's very observant of the things you like and dislike, and when the two of you go out together and you subconsciously start eyeing a particular item in a store he'll definitely notice, making a mental note of it so that he can buy it for you later as a surprise. he's also quite sentimental and will keep absolutely everything you give to him, from birthday cards to polaroids to the matching bracelets you made when you first started dating— no matter how insignificant you think it might be, he keeps it.

⤷ kuroo, hinata, sugawara, matsukawa, semi, yamamoto, suna

⭑ acts of service

he loves doing favours for you, especially when he knows you've been feeling stressed or overwhelmed, and when you're sick and need someone to look after you he'll always be there for you no matter what. he's the type to make sure that you're taking care of yourself and will frequently ask you if you've eaten— if you say you haven't he will insist on making you food or ordering you takeout, telling you that you shouldn't go without a proper meal. while he loves taking care of you, he feels so warm inside when you do the same for him, and having you there to support him when you know he needs it the most will never fail to make him feel loved.

⤷ daichi, kai, fukunaga, iwaizumi, kita, osamu, hirugami

⤷ please do not repost my works on any other sites!

#★彡 elle’s writings .ᐟ #haikyuu #haikyuu x reader #various x reader #haikyuu various x reader #bokuto x reader #atsumu x reader #akaashi x reader #oikawa x reader #kenma x reader #tsukishima x reader #sakusa x reader #kageyama x reader #kuroo x reader #hinata x reader #sugawara x reader #suna x reader #iwaizumi x reader #osamu x reader

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thoughtkick · 3 months

Quote

It’s never too late to start over. If you weren’t happy with yesterday try something different today. Don’t stay stuck.

Alex Elle

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gravestrain · 3 months

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I don't know how to feel, but someday I might (qh43)

in which Quinn will do just about anything to help his sweet girl.

This is 2.6k words of Quinn angst/fluff. It involves his girlfriend dealing with hate comments online. There are some hurtful things said about weight and appearances. This is a fem reader, with mentions of wearing makeup and dresses. She/her pronouns are used. Felt a little down lately and wanted to cheer myself up with some sweet Quinn. I hope you all enjoy this <3

There was almost nothing in the world that was easier than loving Quinn Hughes.

With his heart of gold and smile to match it, you found yourself falling in love with him almost instantly. It would have been impossible not to. To know Quinn is to love him. You doubt that there is anyone in the world who has met Quinn and has not been mesmerized by his charm and his raw kindness. Even his toughest opponents and fiercest rivals have nothing but kind things to say about your boy.

You met Quinn three years ago while you were on a girls trip at a rented lake house in Michigan. When you first saw your neighbor for the weekend, you were so caught off guard you tripped over your own feet and spilled your drink all over your feet. Quinn was quick to throw the towel he was holding out of his hands and on to your body to help you clean up the sticky mess that was now covering your body. Never mind the fact that in a house full of lazy boys, there was no other clean towels. It was just what he wanted to do.

Over stumbled apologies and blushing words, you exchanged numbers with Quinn. Neither of you were foolish enough to hide your intentions. At this point, you had both known you were only going to be in town for the weekend, but Quinn did not care, and neither did you. Your intentions were always to continue to talk to Quinn, even after the close proximity was no longer.

And you did. It was months of Facetimes and silly texts, until finally Quinn played a game near your town. Quinn insisted you came, and when you saw him again in the tunnels after the game, you knew you would never be able to move on, and Quinn felt the same way.

The start of the new season found you moving to Vancouver with Quinn. You were able to find a job similar to yours that was only 20 minutes away from Quinn's house. The choice seemed like a no brainer. And if you thought dating Quinn was a gift, nothing could compare to living with him. He was silly and considerate, adventurous and attentive. You found yourself falling in love with him more and more each day.

You were no stranger to Quinn's spotlight. It became more and more apparent to you when you moved to Vancouver. Almost every block had a Canucks fan, Canucks memorabilia, often sporting your boyfriend's face, loud and proud.

You were no stranger to the comments that other girls would make in the stands of Canucks games, or even at the bar while you were tucked right in to Quinn's side. They found Quinn to be as beautiful and as breathtaking as you did, and they paid no mind to the fact that you were hooked on his arm, or wearing his last name across your back, or even sitting with his family. Their intentions were to be with Quinn. They did not find you as a threat. But many made it their intentions to let you know that they were a threat.

You were public on social media, but with hardly any mention of your faceless boyfriend being Quinn Hughes. However, being the captain's girlfriend had automatically put you in the public eye, despite the fact that both you and Quinn tried your hardest to keep it on the down low publicly. It was challenging for Quinn to be in the spotlight at times, even after so long of being in it, and he wanted to make sure he tried his hardest to ensure that that spotlight never graced your wings. There was so much trouble that came with it, trouble that Quinn never wanted to expose you to. Nevertheless, some fans persisted.

"This is what you wear to stand next to the captain of the Vancouver Canucks? Maybe try a little harder next time," a comment had graced your post of your outfit from a Canucks gala. Despite your insistence that Quinn didn't pay for much, it hardly ever worked. Quinn had bought you the most beautiful dress, with a price tag you could not fathom. His insistence was that he saw you eyeing it on social media from a post of a fashion show, and he wanted you to have it.

The dress instantly made you feel beautiful, and Quinn's gaze and charming words made you feel beautiful tenfold. It was almost devastating how that feeling had disappeared so fast, just by the words and actions of a few cruel individuals who had made it their life's mission to tear you down.

Just one comment wouldn't hurt so bad. Unfortunately, there was tens of comments that point out a few flyaways, the creasing of your concealer, the cellulite on your arms, the rolls of your hips. You had tried your hardest not to let them bother you. But it bubbled up inside like a bad stew. When you find the one that hurt the worst, it caused you to sink to a feeling worse than you had ever felt. The comment read: "I don't understand why Quinn would want to be with a fat girl who does not know how to present herself in public. She has no redeeming features."

You tried your hardest to hide the comments from Quinn. You knew he rarely checked social media, so you made a promise to never let him know what they said and how they bothered you. You tried to insist to yourself that it was minuscule, it shouldn't matter. But the state Quinn found you in when he returned from his road trip was nothing but minuscule. It was no position he had ever found you in.

When Quinn FaceTimed you two nights ago after their game in Anaheim, you were wearing one of his Canucks blue t shirts, curled up in bed with your dog. When he walked through your bedroom doors, he found you in the same place, wearing the same t shirt, sporting the same hairstyle. His heart sunk to his toes. Were you hurt? How could he help you? What caused you to get into this state?

When he found you, your eyes were closed, but he knew you weren't sleeping. You had your head intentionally turned towards the wall, so as to not face Quinn. But even without seeing your face, he knew something was seriously wrong. And at that point, all he wanted was to see your beautiful face, to give him a little reassurance as to how you were feeling.

Quinn rounded the corner of the bed, kneeling down on the floor next to your head. "Hi sweetness," he muttered, running his fingers down the slope of your face. "Can I see your eyes, please?" He asked, causing you to shake your head lightly. He hummed at your answer, not wanting to push, but also knowing he had to get to the bottom of this.

"I brought you some takeout, your favorite. I know you have that project due in a few days and I figured you would be hungry." He had left the food on the table downstairs when he walked in to a silent house. No singing to music, no clambering of kitchen cabinets, no playing with the dog, nothing. The silence was eerie to him.

"I'm not," you muttered out in your smallest voice, cracking from lack of use, and even lack of water in your throat. You had a few sips over the last two days, but once it ran out, you couldn't get yourself to fill it. One of the only things you could manage to do the past two days was let the dog out. No matter how bad you were suffering, your sweet dog did not deserve to be punished for that. You let him out in the backyard only, not wanting anyone to see you walking on the sidewalk and be alerted by your state. There were a few other WAGs who lived in yours and Quinn's neighborhood, and at any sight of your despair, you know Quinn would have been alerted immediately.

"I'd like it if you could eat a little bit, though. I'm sure you're hungry, and your voice sounds dry. Can I fill your cup for you?" He posed it as a question, but he intended to fill it regardless of your answer. You shrugged, and Quinn took that as a win. He woke up your dog, assuming he had to go out. He journeyed downstairs and filled your cup. He also just let the dog out in the back, but promised a long walk in the morning. He only hoped you would come. It was something the two of you loved to do, walking the dog together after he came back from road trips.

As Quinn stood outside, the cold air biting at his shoulders, he tried to rack his brain of what could have possibly happened while he was gone. Did he forget something important? Did you miss a deadline? Did something happen at home? Nothing seemed to make sense, even when he tried to make sense of them.

Your dog was nothing if not loyal, so as soon as Quinn opened the door to let him back in, he bolted up the stairs to the bedroom, nosing his way through the door and back on to the bed with you. You put your hands in his fur, hoping to find some comfort in him. Silent tears streamed down your face. You saw the look on Quinn's face when he walked in to you. In a way, you were letting the trolls win even more. Quinn didn't deserve to come home to someone who couldn't get out of bed. At least, that's what the voices in your head were telling you.

Quinn walked quickly back up the stairs, but with less energy than your dog. He set your cup down on the bedside table, sitting on the edge of the bed, his hand rubbing your calf over the blankets. He knew at some point you would tell him what's wrong. He didn't want to force it out of you, but at the same time, Quinn had been alerted to the fact that you had not left the bed in days. He was concerned.

Your sniffle gave you away, not pretending to hide. Quinn knew you were struggling, and there was no point in trying to hide your mood. "Why are you crying, lovely? I'd really like to help you, but I'm not sure how," he muttered, leaning in to softly wipe your tears away. "It's nothing, I should be able to handle it by now." you muttered, hinting him to what was wrong without giving away any details.

"Handle what, babe? The roadtrips? I know they're hard. They're hard for me, too. I promise you're not alone in that." Your heart softened at his kind voice, at his genuine concern. Of course the roadtrips were hard, and in a way it helped to know that they were hard for him too, but you knew that wasn't what was bothering you.

You shook your head lightly, curling in further on yourself. At this point, Quinn was even more confused, but he knew that you weren't going to budge. "I'm just gonna get ready for bed, okay sweetheart? We can talk more in a minute," he went to get ready, and also to collect himself and his thoughts.

When he walked into the en suite bathroom, he felt his phone buzz in his pocket. Brock's girlfriend had texted him. His eyebrows furrowed in confusion. He had her number for a reason, but they obviously didn't text much individually.

"Hi Quinn, sorry to bother you so late," it started. "I was a bit worried about Y/N these past few days because she went radio silent over the weekend. We were supposed to have plans over the weekend, but she bailed with pretty much no explanation. So I did some digging on social media, and I found some pretty nasty comments on her most recent posts. I know people sometimes make comments to her at games, but these comments are new. I just wanted to let you know in case that was what was bothering her."

Quinn couldn't believe his eyes. These were some of the most hateful things he had ever read. And he had no idea they were saying things at games. He noticed that you started caring more but also less simultaneously somehow. She did much more hair and makeup than usual, while also covering her body entirely, almost drowning herself in her clothes.

Quinn was horrified. How long have you been dealing with this? Why didn't you say anything? Quinn couldn't get back to the bedroom fast enough. He rushed over to the bed, pulling you into a hug immediately. He felt your tears soaking his shirt, and Quinn had tears streaming steadily down his cheeks. "Why didn't you say anything? I'm so sorry, I love you," he whispered into your neck.

"I didn't want to bother you. I thought I should be able to deal with it by now. The jealousy, the mean girls. But it has gotten worse. They've been truly evil. I tried not to let it bother me, but I couldn't help it." You didn't want to remove yourself from Quinn's embrace. It was the first time you felt comfort in days.

"My love, you are never a bother. I'm appalled of these things they're saying, I can't believe you've been dealing with this in silence. No one deserves this, especially not you, my sweet girl." He coaxed you slowly to look him in the eyes, but you were still touching at almost every nerve ending.

"You are the most beautiful girl I've ever seen," he murmured, running his finger across your cheek. "And above all that, you're kind, loving, caring, empathetic, selfless, giving, and so many other amazing things. You are none of those things they say about you, okay? I'm so sorry, my angel. I know I can't fix it, but I want to. Tomorrow, we're gonna spend the whole day together, okay? And I'm gonna pamper you like you've always deserved. I'm so sorry that you've been going through this. I'm gonna fix it. I'm gonna make a statement, we can limit comments to friends only, make a separate, more private account. Whatever you want, baby. I just want this to be fixed and I want you to be okay. You don't deserve to suffer like this because of some evil, hateful people."

You knew Quinn would be helpful and caring if he ever found out about this, but you never expected all of this. You were exhausted and thrilled just thinking about everything. You had let those hateful people bring you down for so long, now you just wanted to be with your sweet boy.

"Can we do all that tomorrow? I just want to be with you. And I lied, I'm starving, I can smell the food from downstairs and I'm practically salivating," Quinn laughed out loud, causing you to smile for the first time in days. "There's my angel, I love you so much. We can do whatever you want, okay? Anything, my treat. Whatever you want. You deserve that damn food, okay? And everything else in the world, I love you so much."

Tears had begun to stream down your face for a different reason. You couldn't believe how lucky you were to have such a sweet, caring, and thoughtful man to have and to hold.

"I love you, Quinn. Thank you so much," you mumbled with watery eyes. When he leaned in and connected your lips with his, you knew you would get through this. Yes, their words still hurt. It wasn't fixed for good, it wasn't perfect, but you knew as long as you had Quinn by your side, you could make it through anything.

#Quinn hughes #qh43 #Quinn hughes imagine #Quinn hughes x reader #Quinn hughes x fem!reader #hughes brothers #nhl imagine #Vancouver Canucks imagine #elle's writing

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spacedace · 2 months

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“Hey, I need to get married for bullshit Infinite Realms reasons, you two in?”

“Tt, of course.”

“Sure thing! Do we need to get going for that like, right now? Or later?”

“Eh, like in a couple of hours? The Observants are demanding some Royal Ball or something and they pulled out some stupid old laws out of their collective asses that if I’m not married by the time it starts they can assign me spouses of their choosing, can you fucking believe that shit?”

“Woah, what the hell? Can they even do that?”

“I was under the impression they were only permitted to observe.”

“Right? It’s total crap, but apparently there’s like this super old law on the books and they didn’t bring it up until now when there’s like no time left to try and force me to marry someone they pick.”

“They are training to gain influence over you?”

“Eh, more like they’re trying to get control of my Dad by way of me. But still fucked as hell.”

“So why do you need to marry both of us? Or do you just need to marry one of us and we should play rock paper scissor for it?”

“Technically I only need to marry one of you, but I don’t want them pulling out any loopholes or something. So, it’d be great if one of you could be my consort for my role as Queen of Mirrors, and one could be my consort for my role as Crown Princess. You two can figure who’s who on that all that, I’m good with whatever.”

“Oooh, can I be consort for the Mirror Court? I can annoy Kon more that way.”

“I am amenable to that. Grandfather will have a fit when he learns that I can cut his access to the Pits off at my discretion and there’s nothing he can do about it.”

“Awesome, okay are you two good for meeting up at like, three? We can pop over to my Lair and get everything sorted out there.”

“Works for me, my only class til this afternoon is at one and the professor already said we’re cutting out early because she has to go out of town this weekend.”

“Four would be more agreeable if possible, I have to take Titus to the vet for his checkup.”

“Okay let’s aim for four then. It’s just signing some paperwork, making some quick blood-slash-ectoplasm pacts and swearing a couple binding oaths… Should only take like five or ten minutes?”

“They’re not gonna make you have a huge royal wedding or anything?”

“Nah. Dad keeps things pretty chill so as long as the paperwork is all in order we’ll be good. Though once Auntie Dorathea finds out she’s absolutely gonna make us have one. She loves planning weddings. Swear its what she makes her hoard out of somehow.”

“So long as we have a say in some of the proceedings I have no issue with that eventuality.”

“Same, it sounds like it’d be a fun way to annoy the Observants even more.”

“Don’t for get all the weirdos trying to be my suitors and all that bullshit.”

“We have an accord then. We can reconvene at the usual place.”

“Awesome, you two are the best! I gotta jet and let everyone know and get the ball rolling on the paperwork stuff. See you guys at four!”

With that, Nomad - Stella Phantom, Crown Princess of the Infinite Realms, Queen of Mirrors, Core of the Speedforce and ghostly hero of the Titans and the Justice League - tore a rip in the fabric of space and time and darted out of the room the same way she came. Through the mind-bending tear in reality the eerie, eye-searing green of the Infinite Realms glowed in all its unsettling glory, Phantom Keep a glittering expanse of night sky made solid in the distance.

Jon waved at her cheerfully as Damian gave a nod of farewell before both silently turned their attention back to their respective tablets as the portal closed behind their friend and teammate and the glimpse of the Ghost Zone disappeared again. Completely unbothered by the conversation just held or the life changing implications that came with them.

Jon was humming as he tapped away at something on the screen before him, Damian propping his head up on his fist in vague boredom as he frowned down at the information he was reading.

The rest of the room Nomad had left behind was caught in a frozen, stunned silence in the wake of the baffling conversation they’d all just been witness to. All eyes in the room darted between Flamebird and Pheonix seated calmly at the end of the table, then to the space where Nomad had disappeared to, back to the young men, and then towards the head of the table where Superman and Batman sat looking bewildered and a bit on the verge of heart attacks.

The short status update meeting was about to become much, much longer it seemed.

Though a lot more entertaining.

#dpxdc #dani phantom #danielle phantom #elle phantom #jon kent #jon el kent #damian wayne #justice league #super serious chaos #possible platonic super serious chaos it's up to yall #clones are called mirrorborn in the infinite realms #elle is the ancient of the speedforce #Dani Phantom is the Ancient of the Speedforce #I will make this happen if it kills me please someone else write something for this I'm going feral #impulsively marrying your friends to fuck with some of the most powerful entities in existence is a fun pass time everyone should try #their friends and family are exactly as unhinged as these three - sometimes even *More* unhinged - and can't say shit about it #so many justice league members are torn between sobbing because 'This was going to be a short meeting for once!' 😭#and being SO EXCITED because the chaos that is about to break out in this meeting room is going to be SO GOOD #There is so much tea that is going to be spilled at the cafeteria after this

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suntails · 1 month

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hijo de la luna

#okay FIRST off. song by mecano my friend said is soooo silver and it is. like. the story steers off his course but its still his song #SECOND. this isnt Actual hollow moon fanart but it is in my heart. ive reread ell's fic 3 times now and every time it kills me. KILLS #go read it. hollow moon by serenescribe. its a 40k oneshot of silver slowly but surely being moon snatched. its delicious #the tumblr crowd already knows how swagalicious ell is tho i dont need to sell it to u. the munchiest crunchiest writing ever. mwah #but yes. i want silver to be made of moondust. i want him to shimmer and glow white as snow i want him a MOON CHILD #also i do Not make OCs bc im not creative but i think his roommate is a vil fan and eats oatmeal and likes sil's birds #by proximity. doesnt care for animals otherwise. he also has a crush on silver he told me himself #twst #twisted wonderland #twst silver #if catríona suntails doesn't draw a dramatically lit background then what's the point #suntails

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mattitvdes · 22 days

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matt sturniolo x actress!reader headcannons

a/n: y/m/n stands for your movie name 😁

.ೃ࿐

🎬. he’d be at each and every one of your premieres in LA, never missing a single one (with nick and chris)

🎬. if you ever were in a color themed movie (like barbie with shades of pink or the matrix and its green tones) he’d go to the premiere dressed up in that color, whether it be hot pink or just plain white

🎬. he’d sleep in your trailer during long filming days, but would also make sure you’re well rested, and that you’ve gotten something to eat and drink all day

🎬. he would rehearse your lines with you whenever you needed, no matter what he was doing before

🎬. following up on that, god forbid you ever show even a hint of being tired while doing so, because he’d immediately usher you to take a break, not letting you go back to rehearsing until he’s 100% sure you’re good to go again

🎬. no matter what your role is, he’d watch each and every single one of your movies, even ones where you only made a brief cameo in

🎬. he’s not the type to get jealous because he trusts you, but if you ever were to film a kissing scene with a costar, his jaw would be clenched as he eyes them like he’s daring them to try anything that’s not scripted

🎬. on movie nights where it’s just the two of you, he’d always try and convince you to put on one of your movies

“c’mon, y/n, we haven’t watched it in a while.”

“matt, we watched it two days ago.”

🎬. if you were filming in LA, he couldn’t be happier.

🎬. he’d insist on driving you to and from set to have an excuse to stay back and watch you work from behind the scenes (although he doesn’t really need an excuse)

🎬. but if you were filming outside of LA, he’d be face-timing you whenever you’re free, wanting to see you through a screen when he can’t see you in person

🎬. he would never stop praising your acting skills, and that would double and be more constant if you ever put yourself down around him

🎬. if you starred in a lot of action movies, he’d ask you a lot of questions regarding how things work, because let’s face it, he’d be extremely curious

“so… have you met liam neeson?”

you give him a blank stare.

“no matthew, i have not.”

🎬. circling back to him watching you work, he’d be completely astonished at the range of your acting, and his jaw would fall to the ground as he watches you go from yelling, and having an almost murderous stare to your usual sunshine-y self when the director yells cut

🎬. he’d be so shocked to the point where he starts getting a little concerned at how good your acting is

“…are you okay?” he’d ask you as you down half your bottle of water.

“yeah, why do you ask?” you’d laugh in his face, making his eyes widen even more than they already are.

🎬. he’d always have your back when you get frustrated with yourself, giving you words of motivation to help keep you going on days where things are just not going your way

🎬. as with singer!reader, he’d watch your award shows from home, but he’d constantly be texting you

🎬. and if you were to win an award? oh god… he’d be taking pictures of you as you’re on stage and then he’d post them on his instagram story along with a cheesy paragraph about how proud he is of you

🎬. but if you don’t win, he’d try everything in his power to lift your spirits and convince you that the votes are rigged (which they probably are)

🎬. nick and chris would (jokingly) make fun of how much time he spends watching/rewatching any movie or tv show you’re in

“are you watching (y/m/n) again?”

“shh. this is the best part.”

#.ೃ࿐ elle writes #matt sturniolo fanfic #matt sturniolo headcanon #matt sturniolo x y/n #matt sturniolo x you #matt sturniolo fluff #matt sturniolo x reader #matthew sturniolo #matt sturniolo #sturniolo triplets #nick sturniolo #nicolas sturniolo #chris sturniolo #christopher sturniolo

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frociaggine · 2 months

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@moscca you're right and you should say it! Here's a really great compilation of Taz quotes I've been keeping in mind

From an interview where she says that Lovecraft was one of her main inspirations, talks about her relationship with horror vs. sff as a genre author, and wanting to find relatable heroines in horror lit.

I didn’t write Gideon the Ninth for the characters—I wrote it entirely for the structure. I wanted to tell a very specific story, and I needed everything to serve that story.

I want people to realise there are no boundaries. I also want to release people from having to take their universe entirely seriously, if they don’t want to. Science fiction and fantasy reflects ourselves, our anxieties, our joys. I’m just writing to amuse myself, as per usual.

I am writing for my younger self and it would be disgusting of me to try to teach her anything.

(& other quotes from that same interview)

Although love and forgiveness aren’t necessarily the same thing either, Gideon’s frankly divine ability to forgive is a huge core of the novel. [...] Forgiveness is almost the electrical current being able to transmit through love.

The way I personally stay true to the story I started down on is to give myself permission to not teach anyone anything. [...] I know that a lot of people do take enormous pleasure and relief in lines or phrases or ideas from stories that ring true to their own lives, but it’s important for me that I tell a story and that I’m not writing Chicken Soup for the Necromantic Soul.

...the God of the Locked Tomb IS a man; he IS the Father and the Teacher; it’s an inherently masc role played by someone who has an uneasy relationship himself to playing a Biblical patriarch. John falls back on hierarchies and roles because they’re familiar even when he’s struggling not to. But the divine in the Locked Tomb is essentially feminine on multiple axes.

It seems to me that most books by anyone female-adjacent have an expectation that they will comfort the uncomfortable and discomfit the comfortable etc., whereas a guy can just tell an adventure story and be done with it. This ties in with an idea that I think nowadays that good art is moral and bad art is immoral: i.e. if a story is good it must somehow be beautiful on the moral scale. We go looking for why the art we love is moral even if the art we love is a donut.

#gathering quotes for the ask in my inbox lol #tamsyn muir #tlt thoughts #on writing #i want to get drunk with her so bad. what a mind #elle tlt posting

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psychologeek · 10 months

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12.08.2023 prompt - Love Among the Shelves

Barbara was at the children's section's front desk when he approached.

It was her day shift, but every instinct she developed during her over-a-decade time as a vigilant, screamed inside of her that this man was DANGEROUS.

"Excuse me, sir!" She called him, as she took a quick look at the population.

(fifteen children, ten mothers, and a teen- probably a babysitter, or an older sister).

"How can I help you?" She asked as he stood in front of her, almost 2 ft over her. She quietly unlocked her wheels, and reach for the emergency taser.

"I want to get a library card." He says.

"This is the children section, mr...?"

"Dan. Just Dan. And that not for me, that's for the hellion". He gesture to his left, only seem to notice no one's there.

"ELLIE!"

"Sheesh, Old Mold." A kid show up. "No leed to yell. MY ears are still new and working."

"You can't just disappear without telling anyone!"

"What, am I in prison now? Oh, wait, I'm not the one who's been locked up!"

"You little hazard. What did we say about telling OUTSIDERS private information?"

"Do it for fun and profit?-"

And the man just grab by the back of her hoodie, and pick her up in one hand.

"That's the Hellion. She needs a library card."

The kid move a little, trying to escape, before giving up and just looking at Barbara.

"Hi! I'm Ellie - WOW ARE YOU JAZZ'S CLONE?".

-OR-

After learning that Danielle just travel around the world on her own, Dan's core re-develope his old obsession.

(protect her)

They travel across the world as Dan& Ellie - father and daughter.

Ellie wants to go to Gotham, (They have WEIRD THINGS) and they try getting a life there.

On an attempt to get something like normal (halfa?) life, Dan take Ellie to get her first library card.

Enter Barbara Gordon, a librarian extraordinary by day, and a vigilant named "Oracle" by night.

Somehow, she keep meeting that single dad (ex-prisoner) and his daughter.

(she CAN'T be introduced to Damian. The world may not survive it).

Or: I started thinking Dan/Barbara and now I can't unsee it.

Tag some I think would like this:

@stealingyourbones @im-only-here-for-the-fandom @hdgnj

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home-of-renn · 1 year

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Danny's in his last year of high school, only a month away from graduating. No more overdue assignments or late-night cram sessions. No more crowded hallways and after-school detentions. No more stress.

He's so close he can almost taste it.

But then Dani shows up, injured and whimpering and collapsing into his lap.

He may or may not have scared the daylights out of a few lower years and almost body-slammed Dale trying to get Dani out the door and to the nearest location with first aid supplies.

So what if he spent almost an hour holed up with Dani in the nurse's office patching her up while Mr Lancer and the paramedics he called tried to coax him into unlocking the door. So what if his Obsession slipped up after not seeing Dani for more than six months, only to have her show up looking ready to destabilise and melt into a puddle of goo.

The worst part of it all is that suddenly everyone's got the wrong idea.

Over the course of his high school career, Danny's endured a lot. He's gone from being a promising student to a school-skipping degenerate with barely passable grades and a weak bladder. It's bad enough he'll always be the Fenton kid, but now he's the Fenton kid who's secretly a teen father with a kid he's been hiding since freshman year. Now he's the talk of the town and he can't escape the pointed whispers and invasive questions.

He was so, so close.

#dp #danny phantom #home of renn #danny fentom #dani phantom #elle phantom #danielle phantom #crack #dribble drabble #musings #dp prompt #writing prompts #casper high #amity park #the fentons #ghostly obsessions #dp crack

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darlingofvalyria · 9 months

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❝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.

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