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darlingofvalyria · 7 months

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❝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."

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museumofferedophelia · 8 months

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Think of all the little girls in African and middle eastern countries who are pinned down while their genitals are horrifically cut open and mutilated without any sort of pain killer. Were they mutilated because they liked painting their nails and wearing dresses?

Think of all the little girls in developing nations who are told that they are being sent to work as a maid, only to find out that their parents were tricked, and they are now being prostituted at a brothel. Were they sentenced to a life of sexual abuse because they liked wearing makeup and having long hair?

Think of all the girls and women in Nepal and India who are forced into menstrual huts when they have their periods. Think of the girls who are left exposed in these huts and are raped by strange men, or else die from exposure to extreme heat, cold and flooding. Did they die because “skirt go spinny,” or because they liked playing the female avatar in video games?

Think of all the little girls in Africa who have just started developing breast buds, and their panicked mothers, aunts, and grandmothers feeling as though they must flatten their breasts with an iron in order to prevent them from being raped or married off as child brides. Were their bodies stunted because they liked playing with dolls rather than trucks?

Think of all the girls and women who become pregnant through rape, or else are impoverished, homeless, disabled, or not physically or mentally healthy enough to have a child. Are they denied control over their bodies because they look or act a certain way? Or was it by virtue of having a female body and genitalia?

Think of all the girls and women in countries ruled by Sharia law and militant Islam, who are denied an education, and routinely killed for trying to go to school. Were they murdered for opting into womanhood as some indefinable, mysterious, unknowable essence?

This is why I vehemently disagree with the notion of "centring transwomen" in discussions of the systemic abuse that women suffer, both presently and historically. The majority of violence, abuse and oppression inflicted upon women on a global scale is SEX BASED, not gender based. It isn’t because they’ve chosen to present as a woman, it is because they ARE women. And if people would step outside of their privilege and view things on an international scale, they would clearly see that.

Being a woman isn’t a costume, it’s a life sentence. Trans rights should be discussed separate to women's rights.

#radfem friendly #radblr #lgb #gender critical #terfblr #dropthet #terf #radical feminism #radical feminists do interact #radical feminist safe #radical feminists do touch #terfsafe #radical feminist community #feminism #patriarchy #womens rights #misandry

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aelenavelaryon · 3 months

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𝓡𝓱𝓪𝓮𝓵𝓵𝓮 𝓣𝓪𝓻𝓰𝓪𝓻𝔂𝓮𝓷 𝔁 𝓱𝓸𝓽𝓭

𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓢𝓱𝓮 𝓓𝓻𝓪𝓰𝓸𝓷 𝓲𝓲

Trigger Warnings: death and childbirths. If there are more please let me know

Princess Rhaelle never let Alicent get in the way of seeing her brothers and sister. In return, the young princes and princess grew up knowing they were loved and cared for. Princess Helaena was set to marry her nephew, prince Monterys, the young boy loved his aunt as much as she loved him. The children were still young but soon enough they would marry. Lady Laena and prince Daemon left King's Landing after an argument between the young princess and her uncle. No one knew what the argument was about, not even Laena or Laenor.

The Keep was lively with all the children running around. Princess Rhaelle was expecting her seventh child, Laenor was always watching over her, he, despite having other taste loved his wife, it was odd to say the least but they did love each other yet they shared bed with others. Laenor knew this babe was to either be his child or the child of the Commander of the City watch. He didn't care though, he loved all his children, even the ones he did not sired.

"The queen has been quite as of late" Laenor said as he took a sip of his wine. Rhaelle nodded. "She has no other lies to spread. For now" she replied. "If this babe is mine she will say nothing. Your father as put her in her place and he has replace Otto with Lyonel Strong. The man keeps his son and grandsons protected no matter what" Rhaelle smile. Lyonel Strong was an honorable man and she knew it. When Harwin confessed to his father what had happened between him and the heir to the Iron Throne the man nearly collapsed where he stood.

But he knew that Jace and Luke were his blood and he had to protect them. Rhaelle made allies with other houses. House Stark was a match she had come to make. Her Visenya was to marry Cregan when she came of age as they were only two years apart. Monterys would marry Helaena. Jace would marry Nymeria Martell, Luke would marry Mariela Tyrell. Aegon would marry Baela and Aemond would marry Rhaena.

The matches were secured by Rhaelle and her hand, securing her reign with other houses. Aethan was to marry Morrigan Baratheon to strengthen the bond between the houses. Laenor had made allies with people in the Free Cities to farther support his wife.

Alicent Hightower plotted on how to end the princess. Her and Larys Strong always tried to find out ways to ruin the princess' reputation but they always failed as the princess was always one step ahead until once she wavered. When Laena was due to give birth the lady called her closest companion and friend, princess Rhaelle.

Princess Rhaelle, after hearing the news flew on dragon back to see her lover, Lady Laena. Although, pregnant and nearly her time to give birth as well, she discarded anyone's opinions and flew over to see her. "Laena!" she yelled as she tried to run. "Rhae, please!" Laenor begged as she left him behind. "She can't die on me, Laenor. Not her. Not Laena. Not my Laena" she nearly cried. Her steps echo in what seemed to be an empty hall. Rhaelle stopped and gathered herself before walking in.

Laena, smiled as she saw her lover. "Rhaelle" she began. "You came" she whispered. "You called" Rhaelle replied. She rushed to see her, she sat beside her. "I can't believe you're here" Laena said tiredly. The woman has been in the birthing bed for hours now. Daemon waited outside, he didn't want to see Rhaelle just yet. He couldn't.

Rhaelle held Laena's hand as the two talked about what they had been doing since Daemon moved his family away. "I know my time has come, Rhae" Rhaelle shook her head. "You cannot leave me, Laena. You hear me?! I cannot do this without you" she cried.�� Laena smiled at her dearest love. "I wish to ask for one last thing" Rhaelle nodded. "Anything" she told her.

Laena kissed Rhaelle's hand. "When my time comes I wish to have a dragon riders death. I don't want to be cut open. I just wish to go in peace" before Rhaelle could reply, Laena's labors pain came back but stronger. Rhaelle held her hand, she delivered Laena's son third daughter for her. "It's a girl, Laena. A beautiful baby girl" Rhaelle said with a smile as she held the baby girl in her arms. "I wish to name her" Daemon walked in. He laid eyes on his wife first before looking at Rhaelle. She simply nodded, acknowledging his presence.

She walked over to Laena first. She wanted her to get a chance at holding her child. "Here, take her" Laena seemed to be fighting to stay. "What will you name her?" Rhaelle asked. "Rhaella. In your name and honor" she replied and Rhaelle felt the sting her eyes. It wouldn't be long before the tears would come. "Oh, my sweet Laena" she said in a whisper before bending down to kiss her. "Promise me, Daemon..." Daemon walked over to her. "Promise me, that Rhaella will be loved, always. Promise that you and Rhaelle will watch over her and her sisters" Daemon nodded as did Rhaelle.

Lady Laena Velaryon passed away two hours after her daughter's birth. At Laena's funeral everyone had gathered to say their last goodbye. Rhaelle stood with her good mother, princess Rhaenys. Vaemond gave his speech and bid his goodbye to his niece. He had jabbed at Jacaerys and Lucerys blood but nothing got past Lord Corlys who glared at his brother. The funeral had ended and everyone had gathered near the beach to spend some time with the grieving family.

Princess Rhaelle sat with Ser Laenor both let the water feel them. "I miss her" he said in a hush tone. She held him by the arm. "I remember when we were little. We used to play the hiding game. We used to play that for hours" she smiled at the memory and he did too. "Do you remember when we accidentally found the secret passages because we had lost Laena?!" the two laughed at the memory of their sweet Laena.

Laenor kissed Rhaelle's hand. "Thank you" he said to her. "For what?" she asked. "For loving her as much as I did" he replied. "I love you as much as I love her" she replied before kissing him. Daemon watched her; jealousy brewing within him. Alicent watched them too, she hated the fact that Rhaelle was happy without her. It was never about the crown. It was always about her love. Rhaelle's love.

(Not Edited)

@beebeechaos

@baellabass

#aegon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen x reader #jacaerys velaryon x reader #aemond targaryen x reader #game of thrones x reader #house of the dragon x reader #rhaenyra targaryen #harwin strong x reader #house of the dragon #alicent hightower x reader #laenor valeryon #rhaenyra x laena #daemon x laena

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arabellasleopardcoat · 9 months

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Three-headed dragon (Rhaenyra Targaryen x reader)

Summary: Three times Rhaenyra marked you, and one time you did too. Or snippets of the love story I so wanted to tell but didn’t feel confident enough to write.

Warnings: Implied smut. Dance of the dragons. Canon character death (Not Rhaenyra)

Rquested: Yes!

A/N: I have not read the books, and I have only gotten one hickey in my life. I hope my ability to describe it's alright. Ignore the bra and the hegemonic body in the first picture, it's for the vibes.

“How many years have you spent by my side?” Rhaenyra asks, as you fix her hair in the mirror. It’s an important day, even if none of you know it at the time. It’s early. Her husband is off somewhere, no longer sleeping in the same bed as her. She is too pregnant, she jokes. You doubt it. You have long wondered what her relationship with Prince Daemon is. Are they star crossed lovers, who finally get their happy ending? Are they Uncle and Niece, married out of political convenience? You can’t tell.

You know which one you prefer, though. It must be kept secret, this deep-seated, long-lasting admiration for your Princess. You have been through it all, together. Youth, marriages, motherhood, widowhood. Ruining it now, with your feelings, would be foolish.

“Since we were sixteen.” You place different ribbons over her hair, testing, draping. It’s not your job, technically. You are a noblewoman in your own right, not supposed to be here on Dragonstone, but back in the North, where your long deceased husband’s bones rest.

Not meant for marriage, and ready to start your career as a Septa, you had found yourself as a companion to a much younger Rhaenyra. She had secured, in an admirable move, a marriage by proxy with some old lord. You had not even managed to reach the North when he had passed, leaving you as the sole heir to a small castle close to the Boltons.

With such undesirable neighbors, and the news that your Lord Husband was dead, you had decided to come back into Rhaenyra’s service. Her companion through childhood, now by her side during the trials of adulthood.

“Sixteen. Such a long time.” Rhaenyra squeezed your hand, eyes meeting yours in the mirror. “Served loyally and never asking for anything in return.”

“Only your friendship.” Your love, you wanted to scream. Your love, for you to see me, since I am still here and I want you. Don’t you see how much it has hurt me, when I am yours, yours, and you were Criston’s, then- -

But you say nothing of the sort. Not wanting to ever risk what you had. Love is selfless, you remind yourself. You can’t have her, nor can you own her. Rhaenyra is the Seven Kingdoms, Aegon’s Crown. You cannot hope to own her or rule her. The Iron Throne, as everyone knows, was not made for a woman.

“You are not my friend,” Rhaenyra says, and the shock must show on your face because she laughs. Silver bells filling the room, the laughter of a golden Princess. “You are family, by this point. Haven’t you cared for the boys as if they were yours?”

And it’s true. You have loved those children because they are half her. You have been the preferred aunt, the accomplice, and the one to teach them things as important as the proper way to hold a quill. As the saying goes, it takes a village. The children are your combined efforts, alongside hers, Daemon’s and Harwin’s.

“You are as much a mother to them as I am.” Yours. Rhaenyra is saying the boys are as much hers as they are yours. “I have been thinking.”

You are so grateful for it, you could cry. But that’s not why Rhaenyra likes you.

“Oh? You are capable of it? We must inform the Maesters.”

Rhaenyra laughs.

“More respect for your future Queen.” She tries putting on a scolding expression, but is unable to keep her face straight.

“Oh, your majesty! I never meant to offend?” You give her a mock curtsy, and she giggles a bit more. You love her like this, you have come to realize. Rhaenyra is a woman of many flaws, even as a mother. She has grown into something larger than life, a presence that commands rooms yet manages to remain full of love to give.

“Stop it, you,” Rhaenyra complains. “I’m trying to do something here. Have a gesture.”

You sober up, a smile still tugging at your lips.

“I was thinking perhaps you should start wearing my house colors. And before you say anything, I mean it as an order. I already had you made three new gowns.”

You open and close your mouth a few times.

“Dragon got your tongue?” She teases, cradling her belly.

“Rhaenyra… I… Too much?” Because you are not sure what she is saying, but definitely she is not calling you sister. She would say it plainly, your Rhaenyra. That she is telling you to wear her house colors… That’s what men do. To their wives.

“It’s what you deserve.”

She is informed of her father’s death that day. The only person she allows in the room with her, as she loses baby Visenya, is you. From woman to woman. No one else gets to glimpse the fragile human who lives inside the dragon, not even Daemon.

You declare war dressed in black and red.

The Black Council is filled with fools, despite the support they show to Rhaenyra. You know it. She knows it. That’s why it doesn’t come as a surprise to you when you go to step inside the war room, and a guard bars the entrance with his lance. You have been expecting this moment. Dreading it, even. It was bound to happen.

“I am sorry, my Lady, but you are not allowed inside. Orders of the Prince consort.” Of course. Of course it's Daemon. Despite expecting it, you can’t help but be surprised at his boldness.

You don’t wish to make a scene. You truly don’t. But it scares you more than you thought it would. First, you will be banned from rooms. Then, dismissed, if not outright executed. This day had to come, you knew. Everyone had family on the other side of the war, with all the noble houses having intermarried at least once.

In the years to come, the conflict will be known as one that teared brother from brother. You don’t know this, you will not live to see it. Yet, it rattles in your bones.

“What? Prince Daemon?” You ask a little too loud. It attracts the attention of some other people in the hallway, including Rhaenyra who is just arriving. She looks more regal than ever in a black gown that compliments her pale skin.

Whispers start to break out among the gathered, surely reminding your heritage. Everyone is waiting to enter the war room, and the lance the guard has extended across the doorway is certainly drawing attention.

“What’s going on here?” Rhaenyra asks, placing a hand on your lower back and eyeing the guard with suspicion. The man lowers his head.

“My Queen, Prince Daemon has said…” He starts to explain, but Rhaenyra silences him with a dismissive wave of the hand. Ashamed, you lower your eyes.

“I do not care what he has said.”

“He has prohibited the Lady from entering…” The guard argues. Next to you, Rhaenyra tenses. You know he has already angered her, daring to speak above her like that.

“Is Prince Daemon King? Does he wear the crown?” She asks him, fiercely. The guard, wisely, keeps quiet. “She is my right hand. I will not suffer to see her disrespected.”

And with that, Rhaenyra moves the lance aside with a brush of her hand, leading you inside by the small of your back.

At the table, Daemon stands, moving some pieces along the map of Westeros. His back is to you, but he turns as he hears the commotion that precedes your arrival. A smug little smirk is on his lips, as he sees your discomfort.

“What are you…?” Daemon says, when he processes that you are, in fact, inside the room he had banned you from. Then, he notices Rhaenyra. “Ah.”

He squares his shoulders, getting ready for a fight. You try to pull away from Rhaenyra, but the hand on your back turns into claws, grasping at your dress to keep you right where you are.

“Why did you order the guards to not let her inside?” Rhaenyra speaks in a tone that leaves no room for argument. Daemon has to answer her or else. It’s a tone you had heard frequently when she tries to reign her sons in.

“Because I thought she didn’t belong in the war room, my Queen.” Daemon saunters towards you, no doubt trying to intimidate you. You lift your chin defiantly. Usually, you two avoid each other’s path. He resents your position in Rhaenyra's life, as her most trusted council. You resent that he gets to share her bed.

“You gave a ridiculous order.” Rhaenyra argues, rubbing your lower back in soothing circles, as if you were a spooked horse.

“Not so ridiculous. We have known for a long time there is a spy. Why should it not be your pet?”

“I am not! You truly think I would do something as vile?” Desperate and feeling powerless, you turn towards Rhaenyra. For a second, you truly think she might believe him. It’s the scariest second of your life. Losing her in a trap set up by Daemon? You hope she can see how genuine the next words you speak are. “I would never endanger the children, never endanger you!”

“I know.” Rhaenyra says, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “I know.”

“Come on. Her family is as green as they come.” Daemon raises his hands in the air, as if asking for patience to the Seven Heavens.

“My family is here.” You say, firmly. “Jace, Luke, Joffrey, Viserys, Aegon…”

“So you say. But they are not your family, are they?” It feels as if Daemon has burned you. Nothing has hurt you more. Not even the accusations about you being a spy, or the time you thought you would have to leave Rhaenyra to marry some Lord in the North.

You have spent all your life next to her. All your best years. Now, you are an old spinster, despite being barely thirty. You have always wanted children, like any noble lady in Westeros. It was too late for it now. No lord would want a widow past her prime.

Yet, you have always thought that the void the lack of children of your own had left could be filled by Rhaenyra’s boys. Secretly, you thought yourself a mother already. What else could you be, when your name had been Jace’s first word? When you were the one holding Luke’s hands as he learned to walk?

Daemon wasn’t saying it openly, but it was clear that was what he meant. Rhaenyra’s children were not yours. As they had not been Harwin’s.

“They are!” Rhaenyra insists, but you are barely hearing it. The thought of it has left you too distraught to care about whatever you are discussing. It feels as if your heart is being carved out of your chest. Were Daemon about to suggest executing you for treason, you doubt you would worry. How could you, when it feels as if he has gutted you already? “We are. She is family. And I will hear no more of this matter.”

Her hand curves possessively around your waist. A claim, for everyone to see. You lean into her, shell shocked by it all.

But Daemon isn’t about to let this go. He pulls out a crumpled piece of parchment from his pocket, one you recognize too well. You slump in defeat, despite Rhaenyra’s hands urging you to stay upright.

Daemon clears his throat, dramatically.

“And I fear your time with the Princess.” He stresses the last word, making a long pause. You close your eyes, and keep them closed tight. “Has come to an end. I urge you to come back to the Stormlands, where no harm shall befall you. For King Aegon is the most merciful when the misguided sheep comes back to the herd.” Daemon crumples the paper, and throws it to the floor. You wince. “Nothing to say?”

You shake your head.

“Daemon…” Rhaenyra warns, arm around your waist turning into a vice-like grip. You do not understand it, then. It will be a long time before you do.

“Did or did not your father write that?” He whispers, dangerously.

“He did.” You answer, in a voice so small it’s nearly inaudible. Daemon slams his hand on the table, making you jump, and struts out of the room.

You start to sob, quietly. This is it. Rhaenyra is going to dismiss you from her service. It’s true that your father has been urging you to come back home, stating that you would be protected. Begging you, even. Promising all sorts of things, from freedom, to riches, to a husband, to becoming the wife of a Prince. That’s his level of desperation.

It’s unlike him, to worry so much. But you know part of it is not just fatherly affection and genuine concern for your well-being. No. Taking you from Rhaenyra’s side would be the greatest hit the Blacks could take. Lately, you are one of the few things keeping the Queen calm and tethered to reality. You love her, but ever since Luke passed, Rhaenyra has turned almost unrecognizable. She is paranoid and harsh in ways you had never seen before. Crueler. More Targaryen than usual.

And not only that. You hold an unusual amount of information inside your head. Battle plans, supply chains, locations. Everything that has been the key to the Black’s success so far, you know. The information is too valuable to pass on. If you were to turn to the Greens, you would have to share it, be it voluntarily or forcibly. You are not foolish enough to not know it.

“Breathe, darling.” Rhaenyra cradles your face between her hands. “It's alright. I know you would never betray me. Breathe.” She exaggerates her breathing, placing your hand on her chest. It’s only then you realize you have started to hyperventilate. She pulls you into her, hugging you. On the doorstep, Daemon watches.

You don’t know what has gotten into her. Never has she touched you like this. It’s not the first time you kissed. You had both been sixteen and curious, once. But it had not gone further than learning how to kiss another person without it being gross. Because that was what friends were for. Obviously.

She smells like soot and blood. It’s clear she has rushed to your side, not even taking time to change after the battle. You wonder who she killed, this time. What city has she burned, how many of the small folk she and Daemon have doomed?

“I thought… When they said there were revolts on the road….” And her mouth is yours, and you can’t think because you want her so bad you aren't concerned about the consequences. Half the Kingdom is against you, already. You are considered traitors on one side, she is the Queen on the other. What does it matter, really, that it’s called a sin? You will die anyway.

“You are mine. Please. Say it to me, love.” Rhaenyra pleads, kissing your jaw. She looks so gorgeous in armor, you feel like you might die any time you glance her way. And now, you get to have her. It’s intoxicating, having all that power at your fingertips. A goddess come to life, set on claiming you, you and only you.

“I am yours.” You say, kissing her brow. You won’t question it. Not when you are so close to getting your darkest fantasies come true. “I have always been.”

“Mine.” Rhaenyra kisses the hollow of your throat. “You are mine.”

She grabs your hand, pulling you towards a chair. The room you are in is not yours, nor hers. Neither of you care, too desperate for each other. Rhaenyra doesn’t care that her blood soaked armor is staining someone’s chair. You don’t care that your dress is getting thrown around someone's room. Just in your chemise, she pulls you into her lap.

It will have to be burned, after this. There is no way you will be able to salvage the white cotton shift after straddling her lap. The blood sticks the two of you together, but you are too joyous to care.

“I love you.” You say to her, as she bites down on the column of your throat, harshly. Still a little bloodthirsty.

A beat of silence. Have you ruined things before they truly began?

“I love you too.” Rhaenyra says, as she kisses your collarbones. “I love you, and you are mine.”

“All yours.” You answer, breathlessly. Purple flowers blooming across your collarbones, a red angry rose right by your ear. Her bloodstained hands leaving marks upon your arms.

“Yours, yours, yours.” You moan as someone clinging to a lifeline.

“All mine, all mine, all mine.” She answers back.

A bite where your shoulder meets your neck. It’s painful, stinging, your vision blurring into soft flashes of orange and red.

“Just take it for me, please. Please, sweet girl.” Rhaenyra sucks another bruise on your skin. Deep lilac that will bloom into soft green. “I need this. I need them to know you are mine, even if we can’t tell them.”

You pant. There is a certain pleasure to it, being kissed with the barest hint of teeth. But it’s more than just the kisses, what has you panting in arousal. It’s the way she treats your body as her own personal canvas. As if you were a precious artwork Rhaenyra is bringing to life with her kisses.

A maroon chrysanthemum, just over your collarbones. Front and center, the bruise blooms. Her hand, holding your jaw still for the softest torture.

You are uncertain if she is doing it out of fear, trying to make sure you are still there. If she is a bit sadistic, in the way Targaryens are. Or if this is simple, raw reassurance that you are willing to do anything she asks. You save the wondering for later, though. At the moment, you are too busy breaking down under the talented mouth of your Princess.

You don’t want to be separated from her. You know, you know, that something bad is about to happen. Some nights, you wake up, choked up in a bad feeling. You barely recognize her anymore.

Luke’s death had devastated everyone. You thought, after that, never again would you know such pain. You were mistaken. In the months to come, it was as if the children were falling as flies. Everywhere you looked. Jace, Joffrey, Viserys. And through it all, you had been by her side.

Rhaenyra has transformed into something that’s equally beautiful and terrifying. Far more determined and possessive, love harsher and unwilling to let go. Desperation does funny things to women.

As children, your love had been more pure. Untainted but also untested. Your innocence had been lost long ago. But a love that was not pure didn’t mean a love that meant less. it just meant it had grown and changed, as things often did.

Rhaenyra’s heart was not what it used to be when you two were younger. No longer filled with dreams of cake and laughter. But you weren’t the same girl, either.

Before, you had felt the urge to mark her and settled for being marked instead. You had told yourself you were not allowed to have her, that she was Laenor’s, Harwin’s, Daemon’s. And each and each time, you pulled back, curling into yourself. No more. It was not enough, to be hers. No. It was not enough to be owned. You had so little now, you wanted everyone to know she was yours as you were hers.

“Rhaenyra.” You ask her, as she pushes you down to your knees, tossing and turning in the sheets. “Rhaenyra.” As your teeth bruise her thighs, as you bring her over the edge over and over again.

“Darling. Love. Come here.” And you want to sob because it’s not enough. You want her to be yours. You want her to be yours, so you can drag her and the kids away from this madness, far away to a land where the war won’t touch you. Where there is no Iron Throne to destroy the family you have built little by little.

She will never go. Not even after all the boys die. Not even after Daemon is dead, in an incident that’s half an attempt to escape her, half a suicide mission. You have no other choice but to remain by her side, too far in to do otherwise.

Leaving is giving up. Leaving is losing. Leaving is renouncing the Iron Throne, her birthright. She will never go. Rhaenyra would rather tear the realm apart than save herself, and it terrifies you.

What terrifies you more is the fact that despite all the grief, all the pain, you do not regret loving her. You just regret not loving her in the way she deserves, in the way she has been asking for. The clothes, the hands, the bruises. Only now do you realize Rhaenyra has been trying to mark you, claim you. And it’s like you two are finally speaking the same language.

“Promise me.” You whisper against her hair, as you lay in bed together. “Promise you will never take this off.” And you are slipping her a silly thing, a medal of the Mother you always carry with you for protection. It’s not exactly your house’s jewelry, or your cloak, as a man would give to a wife.

Rhaenyra laughs. She finds your devotion to the Faith of the Seven silly. But she gets it, anyway. She puts the medal on, close to her heart.

You loved her differently now. No longer your silver Princess, your childhood companion. In your chest, curling around your heart, a dark possessive thread rests, tying you to her. Finally, you meet her in the middle.

Rhaenyra has always loved you like certain things are meant to be loved. In secrecy. In the dark. Not of her own will, but yours. Rhaenyra didn’t care what others thought. She had been so bold before, trying to get you to step in the light for once. You had not realized it at the time, you had not been ready. You had worried too much.

And now, with no time to worry left, with death threatening your doorstep, you realize exactly what you were missing out on. Every time she walks away, chain glistening between her breasts, you get a secret thrill. She is yours. You know it. It’s your mark Rhaenyra wears close to her heart.

#rhaenyra x reader #rhaenyra targaryen x reader #rhaenyra x you #rhaenyra x oc #rhaenyra targaryen #rhaenyra x fem!reader #rhaenyra targaryen fanfic #hotd fanfic #rhaenyra targaryen smut #rhaenyra smut #rhaenyra #rhaenyra targeryan #rhaenyra the cruel #queen rhaenyra

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graceofagodswrath · 2 years

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Humans Are Feral

Alright, this my first post, and possibly a part one in a series of humans are feral story arcs. As well as being something that I constantly think about and wonder why no one talks about it. Maybe I just haven’t found the specific post.

Have we ever talked about how vicious humans can be? Especially in scenarios where something we care about it threatened? And I mean “bared teeth and snarling” type vicious. Beast mode activated. I’m talking about how we basically turn into animals in certain situations and rely solely on primal instinct.

Take mothers/fathers for example. You ever see a parent react to a situation in which their child was dancing with death? They will risk life and limb for that kid. My dad dove into a pool full speed after my two year old sister fell in the deep end. Clothes and all. Have you ever seen a woman after just giving birth and her mind is just straight hormones? And something happens that she perceives a threat? Someone picks up the newborn without consent, she jumps out of bed after a fucking cesarian to snatch the kid and full on snarl at them? Friend’s aunt did that shit. And don’t get me started on the super strength thing humans can do when someone is in danger and adrenaline kicks in. Then there are the people who will protect some random ass kid. A toddler or small kid with no parent around and suddenly something dangerous is about to happen? People will jump in parent or not.

Imagine:

It was a quiet day in the streets of Kuratz. The market paths usually bustling with people of races only had a small stream of customers bouncing from stall to stall. Tourists or natives of all sorts. Ky’lio, a young Avalanghar, watched from his mia’s stall, long ears swiveling this way and that to pick up on what conversations he could understand.

Then they caught his eye. The strangers you’d never see in such a place. Humans. What looked like a family unit. Ky’lio couldn’t help but lean forward to stare. He recognized the tallest as a male and the slightly shorter one a female, as he had watched some interactions between his mia and her human customers. But those humans were always soldiers or neighboring colonists. These humans were different.

There was a third party. Ky’lio had never seen a human child except for the few pictures shared from other humans. It was notoriously well-known that humans were extremely protective of their younglings, so few were seen away from human colonies. So the small, bouncing creature Ky’lio watched tug on the adult humans’ paws didn’t register as a baby human until he really stared and saw the round features.

It kept trying to dart away from its parents, but the adults held vice-like grips onto the little one’s paws. Until the stopped at a stall, Hadi Midas’s stall selling sweet fruits from the Dolor Jungles. The male let the little human go and the female took hold of the little one’s free paw. But the wild thing tugged and cried out, like a prisoner chained to a wall. It wailed and cried out in its native tongue, no doubt begging for release from its mia’s iron laws. The scene reminded Ky’lio of when he saw Kaloway serpent at a traveling exotic zoo. It too thrashed and screeched in its chains the same way the little human was. Then the female leaned down and whispered something to the child, making it go limp in her paws, hanging like a dead thing. The female only snorted and turned back towards her mate, who was speaking with Hadi Midas.

What happened next would always remain burned into Ky’lio’s memory. The little human twisted strangely and suddenly they yanked themselves from their Mia’s grip. It screeched triumphantly and dashed away. The female yelled and ran after it, but it was no use. The little human was fast and determined. As it ran down the street it neared the alleyway next to the Damik stall. Ky’lio felt the fur along his spine stand up. The alleyway was a known ambush site for younglings separated from their parents. A human child would be a great prize.

As the human youngling ran past the alleyway, a giant Oyiadin stepped out and grabbed the skinny, hairless arm. The little human screamed, a sound that had every fear feeling surging through Ky’lio’s body. Others in the street turned and stared, but none dared do anything. Oyiadins had a reputation for smuggling and trafficking, their muscular stature, claws and jaws full of sharp fangs scared away any possible help. It wasn’t the first time Ky’lio witnessed a kidnapping and helplessly watched as the kidnapped youngling’s parents shrieked in despair and fear, never daring to fight such beasts. So they would lose their child.

But these were humans. And humans were known for strange, impossible feats. That fact still did not prepare the young Avalanghar to witness the female human slam into the giant Oyiadin, tackling the muscular biped to the ground. The male human swooped in and snatched the small human, now crying and clinging to its parent. The female stood atop the giant, snarling like a wild fangher. Her lips were pulled back to reveal small, white teeth that were nowhere near as intimidating as the Oyiadin’s, yet the expression was somehow more fearsome. She growled something in her native tongue, standing menacingly over the Oyiadin that hadn’t tried to stand up. It’s ugly face was strangely empty of menace, it’s six eyes wide and staring at the human it easily dwarfed. Yet the female held no fear, spitting and snarling, her body tensed for a fight. But the Oyiadin offered no challenge. She spat something in her language once more, then turned and walked to her mate and youngling.

“That is why you must not provoke humans.” Ky’lio jumped, turning to see his mia behind him and watching everything. She looked down at him. “They are dangerous and unpredictable. Especially when they’re protective.” She looked up to watch the trio of humans pass by. “Never underestimate their willingness to fight for their own.”

~~~~~~

Kids are one thing. Then there are pets. I have personally felt the willingness to kill if anyone threatened my dog or cat. That pack bonding stuff is no joke. No, I don’t care if you hear me call my cat a fat, no-rent-paying bastard, he’s my fat no-rent-paying bastard. And I won’t just die for him. I will kill you and cut you up in pieces and summon satan to dine with me on them for that fat bastard.

~~~~~~

Imagine:

Galar was a puvarra, and deserved xis comeuppance. But the crew never expected for their human crew mate to be the one to do it.

Oakley was a good crew mate and most of the team had high opinions of him. He did his work, turned in reports on time, socialized and was overall very kind. The crew was grateful that the human was one that presented the better side of his species. However some were not fond of humans. Galar, the Yunagi from the helix system 1-4b, was one of this opinion. Xe was unabashedly cruel to many on the crew, and only got away with it because xe often blackmailed xis victims to not report to the captain. It was irritating how xe knew certain things. But xe’d finally gone too far.

Oakley had a pet aboard the ship. The creature humans called a cat, a furry thing on four legs that was a master at contortion. While the crew had been hesitant about the creature at first, hearing stories about Terran animals, many grew to like it. Oakley’s cat was named Jambo, a black and white pattern on its fur and a long, skinny tail. It would rub against their legs or jump upon counters to watch them at work. Sometimes it would doze off near them. Only Oakley and Jabari, Oakley’s partner in work, had been selected as thrones for the creature to doze upon. Many on the crew came to feel honored when the creature would approach them and rub its cheek against an outstretched appendage, a sign Oakley had explained to be affection and a demand for “pets.” Jambo got many pets.

Then one day, as the crew drew together in the dining area for a meal, Galar chose his hill to die on. Jambo had approached the tables, padding towards Oakley, but stopping as some crew began making chirping and clicking sounds, trying to intice Jambo toward them for pets. Then Galar walked by, the blue finned Yunagi’s eyes landing on Jambo. And before any could do anything, xe pulled back a long leg and kicked the black and white cat. Jambo let out a loud screech.

Then Galar was flying back and Oakley was screaming in his native language. He wailed on Galar, his fist connecting every time. At one point he tried to choke xim. Several crew jumped upon them, pulling the human way from the Yunagi, but the damage was done. Purple bruises were already evident upon the Yunagi’s blue-green hide, scratches and crescent shaped marks on xis neck were leaking dark blue blood. Nothing serious, but enough to rattle everyone.

Oakley didn’t bother staying to explain to the captain. He immediately left to find his cat, as did some of the others. Many could care less if Galar was injured, because the stupid puvarra deserved it. They worried for Jambo. The cat was later found and inspected. Luckily for Jambo, he had some light bruising. Very lucky. Oakley even cried, the clear wetness on his face a strange sight for many.

When asked by the captain why he attacked Galar, Oakley point-blank said it was because he kicked Jambo. And anyone who dared hurt his cat was going to get hurt themselves. He said it so casually the captain blinked several times. While humans were known for their protectiveness of packmates, this aggression was unexpected. They went on to scold Oakley and told him that they would have to write this on his personal report for future jobs. Oakley only nodded, still unswayed. The captain sighed and dismissed him. They knew they probably should have done more for such heinous action. But unbeknownst to others, the captain was also fond of Jambo. They were the only other person Jambo chose to nap on.

~~~~~~

This was written really fast, so I apologize if the writing is a little scrunched and there are mistakes. It physically hurt to write about a cat getting kicked, I wanted to vomit. Ugh. I wanted to go off on a tangent about humans taking on giant beasts for their kids because wouldn’t we? I personally don’t like kids, but I admit that I’d fight a bear for that one-year old that smiled at me in a Walmart checkout line, then offered me her animal cracker. I mean, wtf. I’ll save that for the next post tho.

#humans are space orcs #humans are space australians #humans are deathworlders #humans are insane #humans are crazy #humans are weird #humans are terrifying #humans are fucking feral if you fuck with a cat #I’m serious I would kill for my cat and I have considered it several times #humans are feral series

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blackopals-world · 9 months

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What Nurseries would the fem!AU(Yuus) build

(Look I have baby fever and I'm tired of fighting it)

Vet!FemYuu

Stuffed animals everywhere

Doesn't care if it's a boy or girl they aren't changing it.

Every book will be animal fables

Is praying for the baby to be a beastman but just wants a healthy baby.

Got a bunch of teething toys just in case the kid has their milk teeth come early.

Rainforest noise machine

Once the baby is a few months they are going everywhere in a sling.

The baby will meet all of Yuu's patients and will be constantly covered in fur and feathers.

If the baby becomes interested in fish like their aunt Yuu will cry. She won't let her win!

Marine Biologist!FemYuu

A bit chaotic in decoration

Let's Azul decorate it the first time and cried because it was beige like those weird rich people who only care about aesthetic but have no real sense of style. Like, no color? Babies need color!

Yuu cries while explaining (it's the hormones)

She hates beige

Azul wouldn't argue with a pregnant woman

She wants sushi but doesn't know if she can have it if the baby is half mer.

They installed a tank in the room just encase the baby is a mer

The tweels are banned from holding the baby until the kid can sit up on their own.

Took the baby to swim classes to awaken their natural instincts to swim like all babies even especially fishy babies.

Chef!femYuu

Red and gold for good luck and prosperity.

Pandas for peace and protection.

She wanted everything to be traditional but knows how demanding it will be.

No hot foods, no crab, no lamb, mutton, no sushi, no soft cheese, no soft serve ice cream.

She's dying.

After the baby is born a feast of pig trotters, eggs, cakes, chicken and gelatinous rice is served. She will dye the eggs red.

The baby will get an anti-usog bracelet at birth

She is superstitious so no one will see the baby's clothes before birth.

Noble!FemYuu

Too much? Yeah.

Unfortunately, she insisted due to family tradition. Every child must use this crib first.

The baby has a different crib in every room so it doesn't matter.

Everyone needs to know how precious this baby is. The need to see this crib from space.

More silk! More pillows! More toys! More!More! More!

This baby will have like five names.

This baby will be lorded over the masses as the perfect example of a baby.

Portraits will be painted of this baby that will one day be hung in great halls and later art galleries.

Yuu is way too excited and honestly, even the baby is fed up.

She trying her best.

Special Forces!femYuu

We all know who the father is.

Yep, Rook designed this room

Doesn't matter if it's a boy or girl either.

Yuu was way too tired to stop him and she didn't even try to stop him.

Rook really wants a girl and will try again if it doesn't happen. (he was going to try again anyways)

You'd think he was giving birth with the effort he put in.

Yuu would make him do it if she could. But alas.

The couple was using their pet bunnies as pseudo babies while prepping for the pregnancy. They bunnies weren't happy except for one.

Pistolet the weirdo. Rook's favorite and the dumb one. He was also the future baby's best friend.

Yuu is an iron woman honestly, she shows no pregnancy symptoms while Rook has sympathy pregnancy symptoms.

They eat shaved ice and watch war movies together. Couple goals.

Gardener!FemYuu

A little English cottage nursery

Very whimsical

The baby isn't actually going to use a crib until they are whined because Yuu insisted on co-sleeping despite what the doctor said.(don't do this)

Yuu wanted to deliver the same way as her mother and her mother's mother. In field, by themselves, while harvesting the crops. Have that sucker out in an hour, swaddle it, and back to work.

That didn't happen. They went to a hospital and iron woman over here was put on extended bed rest after giving birth to a big ass baby. Beautiful too.

(???)!Fem?Yuu

They can have kids??

By who?

How?

I mean it's nice but I'm still confused?

Good for them?

You sure that baby isn't a cryptid? That thing has a lot of hair. Looks like that girl from "The Ring". That's alot of hair.

Well, good luck with your hairy baby.

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silent-stories · 4 months

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𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐎𝐍𝐋𝐘 𝐆𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 - 𝟐

Pairing: Eddie x F!Reader

Summary: After moving to Hawkins for a fresh start, you meet a boy with kind, brown eyes who will quickly become a friend and maybe something more. The only problem is: you took something that belongs to him by accident and now you don't know what to do.

Part 1

When your alarm went off the next morning, you nearly fell out of bed.

“Shit.” You muttered to yourself, raising a hand to cover your eyes hit by the sun's rays streaming through the window of your messy bedroom.

As you got out of bed, you suddenly remembered that the night before you had fallen asleep after reading the first sentence written in the notebook that you had found in your bag and that most likely belonged to Eddie.

You found it at the foot of the bed and picked it up, making sure the picture of the unknown woman was still inside it and put it inside the backpack you were going to take to school without really knowing what to do with it.

You grabbed the first pair of ripped jeans you found in the corner and put them on with a random shirt before leaving your room. To do that you stepped over an old art project and a mannequin foot left on the floor, and you mentally promised yourself that if you ever moved again in your life you wouldn't take all that stuff with you. You hoped that you would soon find the will to sort out your things.

“Aren't you having breakfast?” Your aunt asked when she saw you ready to leave the house.

“No, I'm already late. And I promised Eddie we'd meet in the parking lot in front of school.”

“Oh, alright.” She commented with her usual smirk when you talked about Eddie.

“I told you not to look at me with that face!” You yelled at her with a laugh as you left the house.

You crossed the garden and got into your car. “Hey, Casper.” You spoke to the skeleton sitting in the passenger seat as you started driving towards school.

“If you were in my place what would you do, hm?” You asked the inanimate object, “I know that keeping the notebook is not the right choice: it doesn't belong to me. But what can I tell him “hey, I found a notebook where you wrote a lot of personal facts about yourself but don't worry, I know it sounds incredible but I haven't even opened it. I just know it's most likely yours."

You sighed. "It's ridiculous. If I give it back he'll think I read it anyway, won't he? So I can read it anyway, right?"

The only response you got was the sound of bones rattling and hitting each other when you drove over one of the bumps in the road.

You knew they said that curiosity killed the cat but you couldn't help but think that you wanted to read everything written in that notebook.

You parked your car in the first free space you found in front of the school, some students looked at your car with a mixture of surprise and concern, and to your big surprise, you saw Eddie with his arms crossed and his back against what must have been his van talking to Dustin, the boy you had met the previous morning.

Did everyone in that town know each other or was it a coincidence?

Whatever they were chatting about didn't really matter because when you reached them they stopped talking, Eddie looked up and when his eyes met yours, he had a smile on his lips. "Hey stranger." He greeted you.

You wondered if he had that reaction with everyone or if it was something he reserved only for you but you doubted the first option was the right answer, and just thinking about that made you smile the same way.

"Hey."

“Wait, you guys already know each other?” Dustin asked, moving his gaze between you and Eddie.

“Well, I called her a stranger, of course not.” Eddie joked and you rolled your eyes. He was wearing an Iron Maiden t-shirt and the same denim vest as the previous day.

"Yeah, something like that." You said to the kid, "and he promised me a tour of the school. I hope he hasn't forgotten already."

“Oh, how could I?” He brought a hand to his chest pretending that your supposition hurt him, "I have an honor to respect. I made a promise to a fair lady and i need to respect it."

You chuckled. "Then lead the way."

You said a quick "bye" to Dustin before Eddie walked off towards school and you followed him until he suddenly stopped.

"But first I really have to ask you something."

For a moment you thought it was about the notebook, your mouth went dry in a few seconds.

“Where the hell did you find that thing?” He pointed to the skeleton sitting in your car a few feet away from you.

You burst out laughing both for the relief that his question didn't involve his lost item and for the funny way he asked you the question.

"Well, it was my last day of school and I was in my old biology class..."

During the tour, you realized that the jogs must not have liked Eddie very much and the feeling was definitely mutual. The first time a boy in a green and white jacket, identical to the one worn by the guy who tried to steal Dustin's hat, had shouldered Eddie while you were walking down the halls you thought it was an accident. The second time must have been a coincidence. The third time you understood that they were doing it on purpose.

"Don't worry about them, they try to act tough but they're all assholes who like to annoy people like me." You stopped in front of English class, the first one of your day, a sign that the tour was over. From the way he spoke, it almost seemed like he was trying to reassure you even if you didn't need it.

"Like you?"

"Yeah, the freaks."

You tilted your head to the side, studying his expression and trying to figure out if he was serious or joking. "You are not a freak."

"Well, you might be surprised by the rumors going around Hawkings about me." His brown eyes were kind, as always.

"What rumors?"

The bell rang and the students began to enter their respective classrooms.

"Oh, I think you'll find out soon. See you, okay?"

“O-Okay…” You mumbled before Eddie walked away and disappeared into the sea of students.

You sighed, then walked into the classroom and sat at an empty desk at the back.

If he didn't want to talk about his secrets then you would find out on your own.

You opened your backpack and grabbed the little brown notebook.

You started reading as the teacher started talking about an old poem you didn't really care about.

I realized that I almost don't remember her anymore and that's the thing that scares me the most. I don't want to forget her.

She's been gone for years now, and I thought I had a grip on the memories, but they're starting to slip away now and I'm so fucking scared one day I won't remember her at all.

I used to hear her voice in my head, clear as day. Now, it's like tuning into a distant radio station with too much static. I find myself straining to remember the way she'd say my name or the casual "How was your day?" It's fucking frustrating, and it scares me that one day, even those snippets will be probably gone.

I don't wanna forget her.

At night, I close my eyes, trying to summon the feeling of being wrapped up in her arms. It's elusive, and I can't shake the feeling that I'm losing something fundamental. I miss that safe place and it's fucking embarassing.

I'm an adult now and I still miss my mom. Embarassing.

I catch glimpses of her in old photographs, frozen moments that I clutch onto desperately. But even those are starting to feel like stories I've heard rather than moments I've lived.

And it scares me. It scares me because it feels like losing her all over again.

You looked away from the notebook. You closed your eyes for a moment and inhaled air through your nose, the teacher's voice only a backdrop to your thoughts much louder than her words.

What you had read were private things, things you shouldn't have read and yet you couldn't help but continue to do so.

They were things he had probably never talked about to anyone if he felt the need to write them there, it was a vulnerable part of himself that he had decided to hide in that notebook and you were invading it.

The single page you had read had made you want to give the biggest hug to that boy who you had only known for a little more than a day and who was probably way sweeter than he wanted to let others see.

"Shit." You muttered to yourself for the second time that day.

Tags: @jacklesbrainworms @morning-sky7 @pipsqueakkitten @navs-bhat @michaelfuckinglangdon @flawiette @needylilgal022 @bubsonnobx @yujyujj @findmeincorneliastreet @kennedy-brooke @witchwolflea

The only good thing: @corrodedseraphine @definitionwanderlust @paleidiot

Okay I'm already losing interest in this series sorry lol if you won't seen an update in years you know why

#eddie x reader #eddie munson x reader #eddie x y/n #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x alt!reader #eddie munson fanfic #eddie fanfiction #eddie munson fanfiction #stranger things fanfic #stranger things fanfiction #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson angst

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pockeymcmockey · 1 year

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ℑ𝔫 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔎𝔦𝔩𝔩 | 𝓐𝓮𝓰𝓸𝓷 𝓣𝓪𝓻𝓰𝓪𝓻𝔂𝓮𝓷

Summary: During Aegon and [Name]'s feud, something drastic takes place...

Warnings: Almost murder, violence, poison, sex, penetration, a woman's virtue being taken with consent, breast worship, talk of motherhood, dirty talk from Aegon, angst

Author's Note: Not the nastiest I could've written but good enough! Based on this request.

ℭ𝔦𝔯𝔠𝔞 𝟷𝟸𝟼...

When Aegon Targaryen the Second was born, his sister [Name] was born just moments afterwards; they were twins. They did things just as twins would. Wherever [Name] went, Aegon would follow and vice versa. The twins loved sharing their nameday, they had the biggest celebrations and would receive the most lavish of presents together. When Alicent would pick Aegon up, little [Name] demanded to be picked up as well. The two even shared the same bed. But things change.

[Name] assumed Aegon was jealous of her, afterall, their father did prefer the more feminine twin. As they grew older, Aegon noticed the small changes of his sister. Her hair grew longer, her face sharpening, her violet eyes filled with vibrancy and her figure vivacious. [Name] noticed changes in Aegon as well. He cut his hair, shorter than shoulder length and his curls almost non-existent except for the hairs on the back of his head. His face was no longer oval-shaped but square instead and all the more alluring.

Of course, things did get heated between the two when Viserys was told to choose Aegon as heir. Their aunt Rhaenyra was already his chosen heir, however if he were to give that title to someone else, Alicent wanted Aegon to be heir. [Name] could tell from the beginning that Aegon did not carry the same maturity as she, her wanting the title of heir so desperately while it was practically being handed to Aegon on a golden platter. The twin with the longer hair began to resent her brother, him being given everything without the labor for it just because he was male and she was not.

[Name] would avoid her brother now, ignore his advances of conversation and reject his every offer. Aegon was oblivious to his sister's resentment toward him, only focusing on how cold she began to act without asking her why. Then when their mother, Alicent, arranged their marriage, [Name] exploded with raging emotion. Alicent sent her to her chambers to calm herself, the Princess rambling to her handmaidens who sat with her on her chamber floor.

"He's a spoiled, dimwitted twat and I'd just about kill myself if I have to conceive a child for that idiot!" The Princess complained to her handmaiden, Lorraine, as she lay her head down in her lap. The other handmaidens rubbed at her skin, massaging her tense muscles. Peaking through the crack of her door was Aegon, clenching his fists against the iron handle before storming off to his own chamber and slamming the heavy door shut. After hearing the malicious words of his sister, Aegon vowed to make her life a living hell, whispering these exact words into her ear during the wedding.

During the day, the twins were at each other's throats, annoying the entire castle with their antics. Aegon would step on her robes whenever she decided to walk with her younger sister, Helaena, her gown ripping down the middle exposing her bare arse to him. [Name] would get him back with ten times the power by pouring milk of the poppy into his soup until he was drunk off his mind then smothering his face into the bowl. The both of them would sleep with a dagger under their pillow or in their hand, cautiously waiting for the other to sneak up on them during the night.

There was one night when [Name] successfully reached over her husband for a pillow and tried suffocating him until he grabbed the dagger from under his pillow and nicked her. Another night, Aegon brought in a rock from when he was sauntering in the courtyard and hit her over the head with it. The Princess screamed painfully before jumping from her bed and tackling Aegon to the floor, her dagger to his throat until he called a surrender.

Months passed and their teasing was yet to diminish, including the scar on the Princess' temple from Aegon's rock. Sometimes she would get migraines throughout the day, almost falling ill at one point, Aegon berated by their mother for taking his tricks too far. Things stayed this way for many more months to pass until one day when Aegon caught his sister lying limp on the floor of the council's chamber with a chalice in her hand, liquid spilling from the golden cup. He only thought she was drunk and napping when he kicked her side, expecting her to wake up and shout at him.

Aegon was relentless in his gentle kicks, noticing she had yet to open her usually glimmering eyes. The masculine twin began to worry, kneeling before her and placing a finger under her nose, noting the blood that dribbled from her nostril. His heart hammered against his chest when he realized she wasn't breathing. He picked up the chalice and took a quick whiff, Long Farewell, he noted. The poison was one that, just as said in the name, took a while to kill in a matter of days if nicked on the skin but digesting directly could only be an hour before death starts to creep up on a man.

Aegon carried his wife to the maesters, revealing the cause of her frail state and demanding them to feed her the antidote. Aegon—but most importantly [Name]—was lucky the maesters had the exact antidote incase a member of the royal family was to be poisoned. The Princess was force fed the antidote until she awoke with a deep, long inhale. When her vision repaired she turned to get a look at Aegon until her expression turned cold, her eyes avoiding his gaze as she hopped off of the pedestal.

Aegon chased after her, wrapping a thick hand around her arm and pulling her into his chest. He finally got a good look at her and could see the war going on inside of her. "Where's my 'thank you'? I saved your life, you know?" Aegon teased, smirking at her, however it fell when he saw the tears welling up in her eyes. A frown etched onto his face as his gaze flickered across hers, confusion evident in the way his eyebrows were furrowed. "What's wrong, sister?" Aegon asked softly, rubbing a thumb against her cheek.

"You almost had me killed and you want me to thank you?! You are so full of yourself!" She smacked at his chest, his expression even more confused then before. He went to open his mouth to speak when he decided against it, choosing to just stare at her. "The handmaiden that brought me the chalice said it was from you, a gift of truce..." She sniffled before continuing; "I thought our banter was only teasing, I did not realize you held such intent toward me that you would act on it." She wiped her tears that began to fall.

Aegon shook his head vigorously, explaining to her that he'd been in the training yard with their brother Aemond and had no contact with any handmaidens. When the twins informed their mother of the treason that has taken place, Alicent relayed the news to the King who had ordered his men to bring every single handmaiden and staff to the throne room. Aegon stood next to his brother with his sister-wife between him and Helaena as their father, King Viserys, interrogated the staff in the room.

Those who did not comply with the King's questions were executed on the spot, [Name] having to look away and hide in the chest of her husband who kept a protective arm around her. When one of the cooks admitted they were asked to brew a poison, they were asked by who. The cook turned to look at one of the handmaidens, one the Princess recognized immediately. She felt betrayed as the handmaiden came forward, staring at the Princess with regret.

"Lorraine, how could you do this to me? I thought we bonded, I thought a friendship was blooming?" [Name] cried to her handmaiden, the one who would listen to her all day and all night, the one who would sing to her and listen to all her stories. Lorraine sobbed loudly, the room going silent until she spoke up: "I'm so sorry, Princess. I had to, they would've taken my brother!" [Name]'s eyes widened but before she could ask who, Lorraine was executed.

Aegon and [Name] spent the rest of the day in each other's company, still bickering but getting along nonetheless. Well, sort of. Aegon threw an apple slice at his sister, her returning the motion with a full loaf of bread. The only difference was that they were actually enjoying this moment, cackling and smiling at each other. When the Princess leaned in to push away her husband, he grabbed her wrists, keeping them where they were placed on his chest. [Name] smirked and licked her lips enticingly before dragging her twin brother to the bed that lay in the middle of the room.

Aegon unlaced the ribbon attached to her robe, letting them slip from the knot easily. Aegon forcefully ripped her gown down the middle, grasping her now visible breasts in his hands. [Name] moaned as she helped Aegon out of his clothes, both of them falling back onto the bed. The Prince suckled on the bosom of his sister, groaning as she reached a hand down to his cock and squeezed it gently. Aegon roughly flipped her over onto her stomach, lifting her ass up to him before landing a smack against one of her cheeks.

The recoil of her ass enticed another groan to come from Aegon's lips, pushing her head into the sheets and arching her back more. The slick of her cunt was used as lubricant for Aegon's swollen cock, the tip of it pushing into her slowly. [Name] gasped with wide eyes, this new feeling of her cunt being breached earning a moan from her. Aegon knew his sister had never been mounted, so he tried to be gentle until she got used to him, and when she did he let his lust take control. His hips never reluctant with pounding into her cunt, grabbing a fistful of her platinum locks and wrapping them around his hand like a leash.

Everytime he would pull too hard and lift her head up involuntarily, he would push it right back down, smothering her face into the sheets as he leaned over her. His teeth nipped at her ear, licking at the space behind it before whispering the nastiest of words to her. "When these breasts are full of milk, our child will have to find an alternative 'for I shall be the only one drinking from them!" He jested, feeling her breasts as they were smushed against the mattress. "I'll fuck my sons and daughters into you and make you a mother." And with those final words, Aegon spurted into the womb of his sister, her following shortly after.

Aegon rolled onto his back, pulling his wife close then kissed her head. The Prince caressed her naked skin before jesting once more; "how do you think Mother would take news of being a grandmother?" [Name] laughed before softly punching her husband, snuggling up to him with a hum and closing her eyes. Aegon smiled down at her, rolling onto his side and resting his chin on her head as they both fell into dreamless sleep.

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shortstrawberry · 4 months

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So, we never got the proper slowburn transition we deserve of Bela going from heartless to her heart beating for the MC. So here's some headcannons and plot bunnies for how things would go after Bela finally got her heart back. Heck, how about we make it even more complicated and let Bela have her memories from previous time loops as well?

Okay, so here we go!!

(Also, quick note. MC is super dense here and can't get a hint)

You really didn't expect that just marching up to Headmistress Miranda and demanding Bela have her heart back would work. But it actually did. And it turns out, Bela did have her heart all along. It was just buried away under layers of whatever hoodoo magic Miranda used. You saw the change happen the minute those layers were taken away.

Bela even without her heart was a person who cared too much. That woman was willing to protect you from crazy cult leader Miranda even at the risk of her own life. Bela's care also showed in the love she has for her family. Let's just say Daniela is out of so much trouble only because Bela intervened all the times from background.

And now, Bela has her heart back. So, are there any noticeable changes? Oh, there are plenty! Although not as drastic as you thought. For starters, Bela still had her crazy work ethic to the T. She just doesn't force you to adopt it now. You are too sick to come to the council room? Bela will come to your dorm room with her soup and take care of you. But she'll also work besides your bedside while you sleep.

Another welcome change is Bela's trust issues piping down a bit. Older Bela refused to drink your coffee. Now, she'll actually pout if you forget to bring her coffee. And yes, you heard it right. Bela actually pouts these days. Especially at you, for some reason.

There is one thing though where Bela has gotten even more uptight ironically. And that's her interactions with her Playgirl sister Cassandra. Whenever Cassandra opens her mouth to ask you out on a date, Bela would make sure to threaten Cassandra with blocking funds for the theatre club. You're glad that Bela is being such a protective friend, but you do think blocking theatre funds is a bit overboard.

You also notice that Bela now shows animosity towards people she was completely fine with before. Exhibit A: Donna Beneviento, Angie's aunt had approached you with a job offer as her assistant at her flower shop. Before you could even reply, Bela popped up behind you, gripping your shoulders in a tight grip as she seethingly replied "No, my Vice President is too occupied in Student Council work with me." Hmm, strange. The interaction was almost like Donna has taken something away from Bela in some past life.

You also wish Bela would kind of stop paying for everything you buy. You get it, Bela feels indebted to you, but c'mon, buying you a rose gold necklace that has Dimiterescu family crest for your birthday is totally overboard! And can someone please ask Daniela and Angie to stop teasing you about how you got a sugar mommy for yourself?

Bela also is less uppity about being touched now. At least when it comes from you. You both have actually started to hug each other before going to your respective dorms. Bela now even initiates a lot of touches on her own! Like one time you fell asleep while working in Library with her, and you woke up with feeling Bela's long fingers lazily carding through your hair.

Lastly, you are also happy that you are getting to spend more time with Bela outside of student council work. Bela is a through and through Dimiterescu when it comes to setting up their hangout places. From museums to extraordinary cafes, Bela has taken you to all the places you can never dream to afford. You're no slacker either though, as you too are finally getting Bela to try fast food burgers and arcade games that Alcina will probably turn her nose up at. But Bela assures you that these hangouts mean the world to her. You're curious though why Bela always stumbles at the word "hangout"

Got anymore ideas you want me to write on? Let me know! Requests are open!

#resident lover #bela dimitrescu #she is my second favourite #bela is so tragic in the game #she deserves better #requests open #headcannons #resident evil village #re8 village

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toychest321 · 16 days

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With the end of Ramadan rapidly approaching, I'd like to give attention to another Muslim doll line. Though unlike the others, this one is far less obscure...

You know them, you love them, give it up for the Arabian Friends!!!

While Fulla is objectively more popular than Arabian Friends (having a longer span of releases and merchandise), I'd definitely say Arabian Friends are more talked about in western doll collecting circles. This is likely because while all the other Muslim doll lines I've found use Barbie proportions, these moreso resemble Winx or W.I.T.C.H.

Arabian Friends were released by Newboy, the company behind Fulla, in 2007. They were first teased in issues 08 and 10 of Fulla Magazine, before being officially revealed in issues 11 and 14 (the latter seen above).

Only 8 dolls in total have been released for the line: a Deluxe and a Budget doll for each of the four characters. The Deluxe sets came with two outfits, accessories, and an Abaya. The Budget sets came with one outfit and a matching Hijab. Each doll had 7 points of articulation, with bend-and-snap knees.

A third line was announced in 2008 in Fulla Magazine issue 19, advertising that whoever could answer which character had which profession would enter a raffle with the chance to receive a full Arabian Friends collection, but this ultimately never came to pass. (The answers were: Muna - Fashion Designer, Amal - Kids' Teacher, Dunya - Coach, and Ahlam - Air Hostess)

It's said on Dollect there might have been an accompanying animated series, but the most I was able to find were two videos. One seems to be a trailer for the animated series.

youtube

The other includes a Back To School merchandise advertisement, and what might be an animation where the girls reminisce on when they were younger and how their aspirations led to their respective careers (the trailer seems to re-use animation from both of these).

youtube

A comment beneath the Trailer claims these were actually meant to advertise for an upcoming movie rather than a series, but no further news came out after these videos were released. If this is true it's honestly a shame, and might have been cancelled around when the third series was intended to release. The animation provided reminds me of Sailor Moon, and I would've loved to see it in a full storyline!

First character up is Amal, whose name means "Hope"! Her description reads:

"Never forget that hope is the key that opens all closed doors. With hope in your heart you will never be alone and nothing in life will seem impossible.."

Amal reminds me the most of Usagi from Sailor Moon, as the animation seems to portray her personality as being kind yet clumsy. It's ironic that she eventually becomes a schoolteacher as well, considering she apparently had a habit of arriving to classes late. She's also seen tucking a child into bed, so perhaps she's a mother, older sister, or aunt as well?

While depicted in the animation as having honey blonde hair, her doll has dirty blonde hair in two low pigtails (possibly tied by pink ribbon or thread). And ironically, despite her Deluxe doll using more patterns than her friends, her Budget doll is the only one without a patterned shirt.

Next is Muna, whose name means "Wish". Her description reads:

"Wishes are like bright stars in a dark sky although they are only small they fill our lives with happiness and make the darkness beautiful."

Muna is a Fashion Designer with an eye for intricate design and detail. She spends a good amount of time in her studio, seen drawing on her friend's leg cast and her highschool classroom's chalkboard. At one point, Muna is also seen helping an elderly woman across the street, so clearly her devotion to her work doesn't stop her from being charitable when she can be!

Her fashion style in both doll and animated form definitely seems the most bold out of her friends, reminding me of when 2000s-era fashion would draw inspiration from the 70s! While in the animation she and Dunya were depicted with tanned olive skin, their dolls have the same skintone as Amal and Ahlam. She has brown hair with red highlights. In the animation her hair was often depicted with side part bangs and a headband. However, her Deluxe doll has a red beanie, and her Budget doll has a middle part with braids coming down on either side of her head.

Ahlam's name means "Dreams". Her description reads:

"Dreams are like beautiful butterflies that fly in the wide blue sky. It is good to have dreams because they take you to a place where anything is possible.."

Ahlam is apparently a pianist in addition to her Air Hostess job, having dreamt of flying since she was in school. She seems to be portrayed as considerate and low-key, which aligns with her cool blue color scheme!

Her doll's fashion style seems to be Boho Chic, with beads, frills, and florals. In the animation her hair is short, with a side part and a blue butterfly barrette. Her doll, meanwhile, wears her black and blue hair beneath a navy cap in her Deluxe look, and a middle part tied back in her Budget look. Visually, she reminds me of Ami Mizuno!

And last but not least, Dunya! Her name means "Life", and her description reads:

"Your friendship is like a beautiful flower to me. Your nice words, kind deeds and positive attitude are sure to be rewarded with happiness and love.."

Dunya seems to be a healthy eater, going to someone's house with a bowl of greens (salad or kale perhaps?), and making a smoothie while on the phone. She also does stretches and runs on her treadmill. All of this makes her the perfect fit for a coaching position!

Weirdly enough, her hairstyle in the animation is exactly like Amal's doll, with two low pigtails tied by pink ribbon. Her doll, meanwhile, has brown hair in a side part tied in a high pony with silver elastics (giving me Vidia vibes tbh). Her olive green fashion seems to be relatively modern (at least for the 2000s) and urban. Her clothes are the ones I can most easily see on a Bratz doll!

Overall, I simply adore this line!!! It feels more character-focused than other ones I've covered, and I'm a sucker for such strong color-blocking! It's hard for me to even pick a favorite, since their centralized aesthetics are all so compelling and unique! If anyone who knows Arabic would be able to translate what they say in the animations, I'll happily add an addendum to this post for clarification!

It's a shame the line and its movie was cancelled before it could receive the acclaim it deserved, I would've loved to see what more it had to offer! Regardless, I'm thoroughly impressed with what they managed to put out, and hope the designers have been able to apply their clear talents in other endeavors!

Ramadan Kareem!

#dolls #dollblr #muslim dolls #arabian friends dolls

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nexusnyx · 1 year

Text

Lost The Game

SUMMARY: The explanation your mind settled for was that whoever lived under that mask, also lived somewhere close by. It explained the first time you found him limping and bleeding on an alley, and it explains how you evolved into his personal caretaker for the wounds and afflictions of Spider-Man’s after battle consequences.

The only thing it doesn’t explain, however, is why through the thick and convoluted webs of your strange situationship, a certain tension has built between you two. Palpable. Physical. As electric as some of his tales, and as dangerous as he is.

The tension between you and Spidey grows, and it grows, and it grows. One day, it snaps.

⚠️ Minors DNI. Smut. Explicit depictions of sex. | 🏷️ 8.3K , fluff, established relationship, part three of three, reposting this ‘cause some people missed this one and asked for it.

• PART TWO •

In his world, there was no Avengers.

The bad thing about his inter-dimensional trip he had was this—Peter got an idea of what other worlds looked like and parts of him wished for a supernatural helping hand, sometimes, or maybe just someone who understood him. He had allies, but very few friends on this side of his life. This is why when Peter is almost killed by Kingpin, a decision that he's been dreading for months becomes easy in the snap of a finger.

Do I drop the last vail or do I not?

All of his excuses as to why not fly out of the window when Peter's bleeding to death and realizes that none of it matters. All of life is dangerous, on this or any other planet, and if he's always putting his own damn life — personal or not — at risk for the sake of saving a city, he might as well do that and let the woman he loves kiss him with the lights on while he's at it.

He swallows the metallic and thick taste of red in his mouth, reaches his trembling hand up, and knocks.

Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap.

"Peter?"

The fright in your voice is what startles his eyes open.

"Peter!"

God, he loves your voice so much.

A lot less when it drips in worry like this, but the love is there nonetheless.

"Peter, open your eyes. What—oh my god," you choke on your words, and he feels you pulling his body inside your room.

Guiding himself by memory, Peter helps the way he can, letting his body slide down your bed.

"Gonna get your sheets dirty," he mumbles.

"Oh, for the love of god." There's the feeling of his suit being unzipped at the back, and even through the fogginess, Peter notices how your hands are cold. Shaking. "Peter, what happened?" It's a breathless whisper, and it makes his chest ache more than the bruises did because it sounds so small, and nothing about you is diminutive.

"Kin—ow—Kingpin." The ruthless man's minions might still be stuck in webs hung meters above the ground, but Wilson, Kingpin, that man needs no henchmen to do any damage. It was the point he had to prove today—more to Matt than to Peter, but because Peter had decided to help, he got mingled in the mess.

After a heartbeat, he hears. "Who's Matt?" you ask.

Wait—was Peter talking out loud?

"Oh, god," this time, it's a choked-up sob. "Peter, I think you have a concussion."

Y/n is going to be a doctor, so the probabilities of her being right are very high. He probably does have something on his head—Kingpin grabbed Peter's head in his hand, that enormous, gigantic hand that engulfed all of Peter's skull and smashed it against the nearest thing, which happened to be iron polls.

He's still unsure of what the tension and underlying secret were between that man and Matt, but there was so much anger in there tonight.

"Peter..."

He feels weak, but he still has some strength left and Peter had made up his mind before he arrived at the staircases of your apartment.

If he went to the hospital, Aunt May would have a heart attack.

If he came to you, Peter would have to let you see him.

With the taste of blood polluting every inch of his mouth, it was a surprisingly easy decision to make.

He ignores the strain and the pull on the sides of his body as he reaches up for the mask, and he hears you gasp when he pulls it off in a clean sweep.

"Peter."

"Hey. That's me." He can't laugh right now — or open his right eye that much — but he can smile at you. A weak, bloody thing. At least it's an honest one. "Hi. I think I might blackout."

"Peter," are you crying? Good gods, Peter would clock himself on the face if someone else hadn't beaten him to the punch. "I don't—I don't know if I can take care of all of this."

"It's just—the one on the back. I think I'm losin' lots of blood 'cause of it..."

"What's on your back?"

"Open gunshot wound closed with webs?"

"Peter!"

"I didn't sh... shoot it, baby." He knew she'd be mad the second he threw the webs at himself. "The rest will... it'll fade. Soon."

There's a moment of silence where Peter hears rapid, short breaths. He opens his left eye as much as he can as sees you breathing in through your nose and out of your mouth quickly, then feels the bed dipping when you leave it with purpose. He knows you're going for the first-aid kit, so he already does the job of turning around.

When he hears your footsteps coming back, the last thing he hears is what makes him smile against your duvet.

"I'll take care of you. It's okay. It's gonna be fine, Peter."

While he's aware you're hyping yourself up to believe it more than talking to him, the words are like anesthetic all over his body.

Peter inhales the scent that is acutely yours, and blacks out.

If he were anyone else, Peter would remember close to nothing of his hours alternating between consciousness and not.

Lucky for him, he's part spider.

At first, all he feels, sees, and hears, are small tidbits of you moving things in and around him.

There's the distinct — and nasty — feeling of a needle threading with nylon through his lower upper back.

During that moment, nothing else passes through.

He's distantly aware of your mumbling and whispering, the soft and comforting words not reaching his ears, but the sense they bring drape over his skin almost like a blanket.

Then, when he has a silver of consciousness again, he recognizes through the stinging pain and the dull, throbbing aches all over his body, that the heat he registers is not of his own blood anymore, but of your warm hands along with a warm towel washing him.

That's when he allows sleep to come for the first time.

He wakes up somewhere in the middle of the day judging by the light streaming through your window, and he's happy to access that his body's doing most of the healing by now.

The feeling of a gaping hole is gone, and so is the smell of blood.

Peter wants to look around a bit, but while the throbbing has passed, it's left a dull, sore ache in its place.

You're not there, either.

He knows that because Peter's spidey senses have almost a direct link to you, and you're not in the room.

It takes him a couple of minutes with the taste of sand at the back of his throat and that pounding on the back of his head for him to realize he can open his eyes.

There's a glass of water right next to him, and he smiles.

Of course you'd do that.

Even after he's ruined your nice duvets — after promising he'd never spill blood on your blankets again, shit — Peter still gets the kindest side of you.

And then he remembers—you saw his face.

The lights were on, he was a mess, and fuck—you saw him.

You saw him and saved his life, one more time.

How many times would you have to do it?

Why was his life so dangerous?

Peter's stomach starts to resemble something alive, something with tentacles and it's reaching up, so he swallows it back down.

After gulping the glass of water, he hears it.

Distant sounds of conversation.

Felicity's voice is what registers first. It's not as familiar to him as yours is right now, but it is the reason it brought him to you in the first place, even if Peter hates thinking about that. He ignores your roommate and the things he keeps hidden from you like most people would ignore a spider in the upper corner of their bathroom.

It hurts to try to hear the conversation.

The gun blasted too close to his ear, and Peter's not the biggest at eavesdropping, so he just lets his upper body lay down again and allows the darkness on the corners of his mind to take over the rest.

Next, there are the hours in-between.

As the sun goes down, Peter drifts between the land of dreams and this one, enjoying both of them very much.

In here, there's you with a warm, wet cloth cleaning his wounds that need tending, and in his dreams, there's you sitting next to a blond girl, smiling at him.

At some point, Peter opens his eyes and sees you sitting on your chair in front of your computer desk.

Your eyes widen and you slide the chair closer, looking at every inch of his face with furrowed eyebrows.

"Peter," it's the softest you've ever said his name. "Is there anyone you'd like me to text? About your whereabouts?"

Aunt May.

"You can go back to sleep right after, but you came without your backpack, and it's been almost a day—do you want some pain medicine? I can get it for you."

He nods.

You nod back, then get up and exit the room. Peter takes the opportunity to grab the notepad you have on your nightstand, write down Aunt May's phone number and name and a message underneath it.

I'm at Y/n's. Be back soon, aunt May. Love you <3

It's an ugly scribble, but your handwriting is far worse than anything he could dream of producing, so he sits back against your headboard and waits for you and the pills.

When you come back with them, Peter almost swallows it down without the water, but he's still so damn thirsty that another glass goes in a gulp.

He feels your eyes on him the whole time, and while he wants to talk, he prefers to wait for his body to finish using all his strength in stitching his insides up before he tries any conversation.

You grab the glass from his hand, place it on the nightstand and sit on the bed right next to him.

"Are you cold?" You ask, pressing your palm and the back of your hand to his forehead, neck, cheeks.

He's shirtless. Well—it's not anything you haven't seen before.

He shakes his head and clears his throat. The desert has left the back of his mouth, but the aftertaste of rust is still there.

"I'm sorry." He can say that, at least. "I am really sorry, Y/n. For coming to you like th—"

A hand tapes his mouth shut—your hand, and looking at your face in the bedroom light knowing you're looking back at his is not as terrifying as he made it out to be in the countless scenarios where he thought about this before.

"What's the alternative?" You ask him with a shrug. "You bleed out on the street because some drug lord had some beef with a Matt dude and you tried to help your friend?" He misses the heat of your hand as soon as it's gone. "I prefer you bleed on my death start duvets than on the streets, buddy. These ones I can wash."

Buddy.

'Don't call me buddy—I'm not your buddy. Fuck, I swear you say these things just to get a rise out of me. Do your buddies do this, huh? Touch you like this? Make you this wet? You get so wet for me, baby—'

'Peter.'

'Yeah, exactly. I taught you my name for a reason. Don't forget that.'

After a heartbeat, Peter licks his dry lips and looks away from yours. Those memories make his blood rate rise, and he's sure that's not good in the state he's still in. "I'm still not your buddy," he says. His voice comes out raspy, and he watches your gaze dropping from his eyes to his lips.

Peter's in love.

The way you look at him.

The way you look at his tall and graceless body already drove him insane, but the way you look at his face?

Parted lips and that distance gaze of someone who's getting lost in memories and the present?

Peter loves it. He's been in love with you, but seeing the softness and adoration mixing with desire on your face has put the cherry on the cake.

"Good to know that," you whisper back.

I'm happy to know this doesn't change things, he hears.

He scoffs. "I would suck at being your buddy."

"Yeah? Why's that?" You're smiling now, and as a reflex, so is he.

Peter frowns. Isn't it obvious? "I've bled on your bed more times than I can count, you've put your fingers inside me in more ways than you can count, and I'm pretty sure that if I tried to stay away from you, your lips, or that pretty brain of yours for longer than two weeks, I'd have withdrawal symptoms." He's sure of it, actually. He tried staying away from you, and it sucked. "I can't be your buddy, baby." He chuckles. "We're not meant to be buddies. I already explained that to you."

Your lips quiver, moving upwards in a smile, slowly.

"Right." The way you bite on the bottom lower one tells Peter all you need to know about where your mind went.

His body leans forward as if there's a magnetic poll right on the center of you pulling you towards him.

Unfortunately for him, he's still healing from a very big pound.

He makes it only a few centimeters away from the headboard before the muscles inside him sting like a sharp hook and he stops—"Ah."

"Don't move." You're on in an instant. A comforting — and silently demanding — hand on his bicep, scooching closer to him in the bed. "You still need... I don't know how much longer you need, actually." A chuckle. "I still haven't got a clue how your healing works, Spidey. Just... lay down. Stand still until you're not moving won't rip apart the stitches I so beautifully made, 'kay?"

That brings Peter's hand and eyes to the work at hand.

He inspects the stitch-up work and—you're right. It's beautiful, neat, and professional work.

He can almost hear the praises of your teachers during class, as well as the envious looks of your colleagues who have three times less practice than you in the matter.

(Truth be told, Peter's aware you'd have gotten to this point with or without him as a guinea pig because while you may feel or say like everything around you is collapsing, studying is a ball you've yet to let it drop. You do it and do it well. 'If I'm gonna do this, I might as well do it well, huh? you had told him. Peter believed a lot of it was innate talent, but he might be biased to speak of you.)

"Grade A work, Y/l/n."

"Thanks, Spidey."

When he looks up, Peter takes a punch to the chest.

There you are, looking at him again.

Damn.

He's frozen.

Have you lied to him all this time? He's pretty sure this is the effect of actual superpowers and not just the way your eyes glint under the light of the day.

It must have something to do with the frizz in your hair that gives you almost an angelic aura—there's gold, orange, a touch of pink and lilac touching your cheeks and the soft, dopey smile you have on your face, and Peter stands there with his hand hanging halfway to his lap, as frozen in the air as he is looking at you looking at him.

You can see him, and Peter has never felt more comfortable feeling this exposed.

This vulnerable.

"Hi," he whispers.

Instead of answering, your blinks seem to slow down in time.

One of your hands reaches up to his cheek, and Peter finds himself leaning towards the hand.

Magnets.

When the soft, velvety touch of your palm meets his dry skin, Peter takes in a deep breath.

Closes his eyes.

Your hand cups his cheek, and caresses his face, as slowly as you are breathing.

Then, Peter's spidey senses feel the vibrations and electricity on your skin inching closer, and he thinks the slow-motion of your delicate, almost afraid, and calculated moves are making the energy and waves that travel between your body and his twice as real.

He might get shocked.

Peter feels when your lips are mere inches away from his. He wants to dive in, but he lets you dip your fingers in the water and go as you want.

He can feel how much you're feeling right now.

Seeing him is not only affecting him, and that's perhaps why his body is rendered at your mercy.

When your lips press against his, they're as plump and tender as always.

He exhales, at last, enjoying the sensation of warmth that spreads through his body when yours connects to his in any intimate way. Usually, it takes a little bit more for the tingle to travel from head to toe like this, but something about the kiss and the way you're keeping still and yet he knows you feel it, just as he does, it makes it even better that he's all buzzing.

Peter's underwater, and it's almost a reflex when he exhales and presses harder.

Closer.

With abandon, Peter lets his body relax on yours, not wanting to push it any further than it can go, but wanting to melt against the welcoming and familiar heat of your body.

His right hand goes up to your hair, and he gets a few more soft, tender presses of your lips on his, as well as the sensual and slow drags of your mouth against his in between them before you move your head back a few inches, still keeping your hand on his face.

Peter swallows the knot in his throat.

"I... should get you food," you whisper.

He's too busy staring at how pink your lips are for a few seconds.

Eventually, he hums. "That'd be nice."

"I got soup." You lick your lips. There's a color on your cheeks, and Peter is definitely in trouble. He hasn't gotten the instinct to draw in a long time, yet here he is, trying to figure out what's the correct shade of your cheeks. "From the deli shop you like."

"Oh." He loves that place. "I love that place!" He whispers excitedly.

Your smile widens. "I know." With a quick, delicious peck of goodbye, you get up from the bed in one quick motion. "I'll be back. I'm gonna text," you pick up the paper from the nightstand and read it. "Aunt May. Wait—you want me to text her this? Will she know who I am? Aunt May knows me?"

Peter laughs. "Of course Aunt May knows you."

In your few blinks Peter sees the surprise. "Right." You turn around sharply, cheeks pulled up from the smiling. "Text. Soup. Then sleep. I gotta go run a few errands, so I'll shut the windows for you." More seriously, you add. "You should really get some rest. You look a bit... pale."

"It's the caucasian in me."

You snort. "God, it's horrible when you try to be funny."

"Yet, you're smiling."

"At you." You get up and regardless of what you say, the nose scrunch proves that Peter amused you, to say the least. "I'm gonna get your food. Stay put, Spidey boy."

"Man, Spider-Man."

He's arguing now more for the sake of your smile than because your 'boy' has gotten a rise out of him.

It used to.

The first time you said it, Peter recalled the tingling on his body and that desire to correct—not a boy, I'm a man, you'll see, I'll show you.

Did he feel silly two seconds afterward correcting you when he saw in your face that you'd be pulling his metaphorical pigtails? Maybe. Luckily for him, the mask hid it back then.

Now, it's just a skit between you two.

The teasing back and forth is almost like the sea tide.

You come back with the soup and sit back down on your desktop chair, returning to your books and papers while he eats. Peter recalls the day when he asked why you never eat when he's there and, on the occasion when you gave him food, why didn't you stay close to him while he ate.

'You're distracting when you're eating.' You had said.

'What? I'm distracting? How?'

'You make all these little noises when you're enjoying it. And your lips get super pink 'cause you keep licking them. It's distracting.'

'From what? You're not even doing anything.'

'I don't need to be doing something. It just... is.'

Later, he realized it was distracting because it made you want to kiss him. To take away the plate in his hands and replace it with your body instead.

He's content to share looks with you over the bowl of warm food and watch your profile as you read and type. The concentrated crease in your brows and your lips set in a firm line are distracting too, he thinks, but he enjoys it.

Peter finishes the food and the result of some protein, carbs and nutrients making their way inside him is instant—his eyes get heavier, and blinking is a bit harder, and all he wanted was to cuddle you. Slide under the blanket, say goodbye to the world.

It's when he lowers the bottom half of his body that Peter feels he's still wearing his suit.

"How come you haven't kicked me out of your bed yet? I'm gross," he says.

Even though his voice is softer and lower than before, you turn to him.

Smiling, you shrug. "I've been gross before. You're forgiven because of circumstances." Then, something happens—you blush. You were looking at his body before but when you look up, Peter recognizes the flash of 'oh, it's him' that passes fast as lightning in your eyes. "Also, you're pretty," you add in a whisper. Your peachy cheeks darken, looking good enough to eat. "Pretty privileges."

Peter feels it—the heat on his face. He laughs, ducking his head down. He's not used to people complimenting him like that, but coming from you it makes it three times worse. "So it is a real thing."

"Oh, it definitely is."

"Good to know." He hates to know he's making your small piece of safe haven dirty, but he'll make up for it. "As much as I'd love to stay awake and watch you study and be gorgeous for the next couple of hours, I think my brain's about to shut down in the next few minutes."

"Sleep, Spidey." If there's such thing as magic through the voice or words, Peter believes you have it. The gentle softness with which you say those two words are better than any of your blankets. "I'll be there soon."

That's even better. God, I love sleeping with you.

He hears a giggle.

"It's mutual, Peter."

He loves the sound of that, too.

If Peter believed in something, he'd have beautiful religious metaphors to use about the way you look in the mornings.

He'd maybe talk about how waking up with you next to him is the only sanctuary he needs, and for a Jewish boy who's missed so much of what one looks or sounds like, he's sure it felt something like this.

If Peter believed, he'd have more words to say about the way your tenderness makes him feel like he's holy.

"How are you feeling?"

"Better."

"Good. I'm glad... d'you wanna take a shower? I can separate some clothes for you."

"Are you coming with me?"

Peter would have words for what it feels like to sit in your loft's bathroom in his bloodied, mended superhero suit, his feet touching the freezing cold floor and his body still running as hot as ever because he can hear you walking around the place in your fuzzy socks while you wait for the water to warm.

How can he be so at peace like this?

He's beaten himself up for much less, but the seriousness in your tone when you told him to stay put while you changed the sheets only made him warm.

It made him feel cared for and nothing more.

Peter removes the rest of his suit. It comes off with difficulty—the sweat's stuck the material to his skin, and it still hurts to move, but he manages.

He feels the fresh tissues inside of him.

His heightened senses tell him the main wound is still healing, but everything else is almost okay. Peter needs maybe a good meal and a couple more days to be brand new, which is more than he'd expected when he left the bay area with webs sticking his skin together.

When you come back and see him already naked, Peter's happy that his eyes' swelling has done down.

He'd hate to miss the lust in your gaze.

To miss the obvious way your eyes travel up and down his body.

"You could've gone inside already," you whisper.

It's barely nine in the morning, there are only you two in the place and Peter has no idea why you'd think he wants to go anywhere without you.

"Was waiting for you." He's more at ease sitting naked on your toilet than he's been in three, maybe four years. That means something, right?

You start taking off your pajamas, and Peter gets up to help.

Not that you need it. He just loves removing clothes from your body.

The steam takes over the bathroom and by the time you two are immersed underneath the water, wet as rain, Peter already feels new.

Not even the best prayers could do that.

He loves the showerhead here because the water pressure is great and it's big enough to almost give space to the two of you. Almost.

That's why he wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you closer to his body.

He wants your warmth much more than the water's.

That's when he feels it—the shaky, interrupted way you breathe. Your arms come up around his middle so fast that he almost has to take a step back to keep himself in place, but he's rooted there.

And you're crying.

"Y/n?" Peter looks down.

You shake your head in three quick motions. Not yet.

Peter's not an idiot, and while he may be a little slow to the mysteries of his own heart, the loud and physical thumping of your heart against his ribcage is right there and doesn't lie.

He can feel every beat of it, and maybe there was something in that container that Kingpin had dropped on his head and all that mysterious blue sand inside of it, but Peter's sure he can see the black clouds exiting your head.

He sees the darkness of worry and fear leaving you.

Peter clings on tighter, letting you cry silent tears into his chest. He hopes the kisses he presses on your temple and your face make any worries left to be gone easier. Quicker.

He kisses the parts he can reach of you, and refuses to let go.

Eventually, you pull back against the hold of his arms and when you look up with those swollen, red eyes, Peter realizes what it all means.

What being so comfortable around you, laughing so easily, coming to you many more times even though he knew he shouldn't, watching you sleep, and all those minors or big things that made him stop and go—it means something, right?

It means Aunt May was right.

She was right when she said the world goes on regardless of how much we want it to stop sometimes, and right now, Peter's world is you.

When your lips, trembling just like your chin is, open and say, "I was terrified," in a whispered confession, Peter knows.

He'd give up anything for you. He'd conquer anything for you, as well, which he imagines lives on the other side of that coin.

"I am so sorry, baby," he tells you, blinking through the sting in his own eyes.

You shake your head and his heart almost falls to the ground before you pick it up. "You have nothing to be sorry for, Pete. I know—" you swallow a visible knot, sniffle, and then try again. "You have a responsibility. With your power, and... with what you believe."

With great power, comes great responsibility.

He nods.

"And please don't take this wrongly—don't shut down, or stop coming. God—if you stop coming I swear I'll die of worry—"

"Y/n." He interrupts because he knows when you're about to spiral as much as you know when he's about to go on a ramble. "I'd never. I—you're allowed to be scared. I'm not gonna go into martyr mode and make that decision for you. If you want me gone, I'll be gone. I know I'm a lot. I know my life, and how scary it is to be around it, but I think I also know you and if I take away your choice of being around me and all my mess—" he shakes his head. "I don't fancy that ass-whooping."

You laugh.

It untangles all the messy knots and webs inside his chest that formed when he saw your eyes puffy, and Peter breathes in what feels like clean, fresh air.

"I'm happy you're smart," you say.

He shrugs his shoulders. "It's what my teachers say."

"Is it?"

With your head tilt, he notices—he's nearing territory he used to avoid before.

Peter breathes in again, reaches behind him in the shower, and grabs your shampoo.

"Can I do your hair?" he asks.

Your face remains the same as you nod, but he sees you breathing out. Accepting his silence. The change in subjects, as it usually is.

When he's got enough bubbles forming, he massages your scalp and starts. "I got a scholarship for Biophysics, so I guess I am pretty smart, but it wasn't 'till one of my teachers at ESU told me my paper was 'informative even through the minors detours it took, which funnily enough, were informative as well' that I knew I had a good head for more than just web-developing and stuff like that."

Should he tell you about the time when he traveled between Universes and met the other versions of him?

He'd love for you to know how clever Peter 1 is.

Peter knows if it weren't for that experience, exactly four years after what happened at the clock, he'd be in a much worse place now.

I wouldn't have met you, he thinks.

"What d'you wanna do with the degree?" you ask him.

"Mmm. I don't know yet. Working with genetic mutation is not too on the nose, is it?" he chuckles.

You turn around, smiling wider than ever before.

"Are you for real?" you laugh.

"I am!" He laughs too.

"Gimme that," you take the shampoo from his hand, pour some on your hand, and look up expectantly at him. Peter ducks his head in silent permission, and you start doing the same to him. "I think that while it's a bit on the nose, it also makes a lot of sense, and given your personal experience, you could make breakthroughs no one else would. Your circumstances give you a lot of room."

"My dad was a Biochemist." The information slips out, and Peter opens his eyes. When had I closed them? He gives you a sheepish smile, and closes his eyes again. "I lot of what I know came from his research."

"Did it have anything to do with spiders?" you ask with a giggle, thinking you're being funny.

Here's to hoping. "It did," he answers.

Your movements halt for a second, then start again. "Oh." You stay silent for a moment. "Big brain runs in the family, so I imagine you'll make breakthroughs he's only dreamt of. Just... make sure you pick an area 'cause it's what you want to make yourself happy, you know?"

Peter wonders how many people have the luxury of having someone care for them this way.

"I will." He smiles when you pull him under the water stream. When the shampoo is rinsed, he opens his eyes. "And you? D'you have an area you wanna work at?"

Hearing you talk about your hopes for the future while showering makes Peter notice it's the first he's been thinking about the future and what paths he could take for it.

You two laugh a lot in there, and the only moment when somberness takes over the steamy bathroom is when your fingertips graze over the black nylon that still peaks out of his lower stomach.

Peter ignores the tingle your touch brings, and kisses you instead.

He distracts you by asking you more about residency, school, tests, and anything that comes to mind.

Your voice is one of his favorite things.

In your bedroom, Peter gets dressed in the sweats that now are basically his—one of his designated clothes from when he's around.

Now though, he can wear the sweater and shake his wet hair all over you.

He can pull you to his lap on the bed and kiss you filthy with the sun shining on both of you.

Lights on, face out in the open, nothing to hide because there never was.

When he starts grinding his hips upwards, seeking the friction of your heat—and god, you're already burning on his lap, and he doesn't need to touch your panties to know that you barely put them on and he's already ruined them—but you stop him with a hand around his neck.

"You're gonna bust your stitches," you say, mouth still close to his.

He groans. "Baby, c'mon..."

You shake your head, laughing under your breath. "As much as I want to, you'll have to wait a day more, buddy. I'm not gonna hurt you."

"You're hurting me right now," he whines, grinding on you. He hisses, not because of how hard he is from just a few minutes of making out with you and having his mind spin with how good you smell, how dizzying it makes him have you like this, no barriers whatsoever, but because he feels his insides protesting with the sharper thrust.

You give him a look that says I know what you're hiding. "Peter." While you ask him to stop, Peter's yet to feel you stop enjoying the ministrations of his hips. "Hey," you lean in closer and whisper in his ear. "You can enjoy fucking me like you've never fucked me before now... and you're gonna waste that first time of ours by not being able to do all that you wanna do?"

You are evil.

Peter moans. Hides his face in the space between your boobs, and kisses them since he's there already.

"So what you're telling me is that I should take you for a coffee and some breakfast and a few days and then we can come back here?" he asks.

"Yeah," you smile.

"And then I can take my time with you?" he confirms, his kisses going up. He loves the column of your throat. Loves the way you bear your neck for him, breathless and surrendered every time.

"Yeah..." this one comes out breathier, and Peter smiles before sucking on the skin of the space that's really sensitive.

"I can make you cum in all the ways I like?" Peter knows it's just torture at this point, but he keeps doing it. Keeps moving his hips in small little circles, and groans when he feels you meeting his movements. "On my tongue first... then on my fingers..."

"Only if you let me suck you off 'till you cum in my mouth."

Sneaky. "No." Peter hears your brain gears halting at it.

"Peter!"

"No!" He laughs. "Listen, I don't know what my—"

"—if you call your cum something weird again I'm leaving your lap right now."

"...my semen."

"Ugh. That's somehow worse," you laugh.

"I don't know what's in it! It's mutated, okay? What if you get pregnant from it? I am very fast. My sperm can be too."

Holding yourself with your arms around his neck, you stare at him with the blankest look.

The smile obviously hidden in the corners of your lips is where the truth lies, though.

"You know I'm right," he shrugs his shoulders.

You sigh. Heavily. "Ugh. I hate that I'm paranoid enough to buy your bullshit," you push him backward hard, and he falls into the bed in surprise, laughing. Leaning forward, you cage your arms around his head. "I wanna do so much to you," you whisper.

Just like that, the temperature's closer to the Sun again.

You have powers.

The power to make him religious. To make a conversation shift between the Sun and the Moon, just by laughing or speaking in a different tone.

Peter feels the tip of his cock dripping in his boxer, and he closes his eyes, exhaling from his nose. He grabs you by the neck and pulls you to a kiss, which turns messy and needy the second you moan in that pretty way he loves. Like a kitty, or like someone's squeezing you hard, just the way you like it.

He's grabbing you by the neck, squeezing and letting go, trying to gather his damn thoughts into coherent sentences and not the mess of I want you so bad I love you so much, so all that he can do is rub his forehead on yours.

Bring your body as close to his as possible.

That's what happened.

All these months culminated in this—Peter being unable to stay away, to him smiling in the corridors of his college, to the unfathomable infatuation with your legs, or the way you snort when you laugh really hard.

Into him loving you.

He's suddenly overwhelmed by the truth of it:

Peter is in love with you. He loves you.

Loves you for your brain, your skilled hands, the way you hate the Giants and love music he's never heard of. Loves you for all the ways you're you and the ways you remind him of his very first love too, but more than anything, because he knows he'd love you even if nothing was similar.

He swallows the knot in his throat and pulls you to a kiss.

You feel the difference in it—he knows you do because you hold his face with gentle hands, but answer the kiss with the same devotion.

You let him take over the kiss, let him taste his tongue on yours until he's got no oxygen left in his lungs and has to pull back.

He sees it in your face that something's taken over you, too.

"You can do anything you want. Anytime," he says. He feels your legs clenching around his waist as a response, and thinks to the hell with it. "What if you did all the work, hm? I promise I'll stay still. I'll web my own wrists to the bed if you want, just—please?" he begs.

"Peter..."

"I wanna feel you, baby." It's not even about the sex, or about cumming. It's about being as close to you as possible. He needs to be as close to you as possible. "I just wanna feel you. Wanna be inside you." Peter grabs your face again, smashing his lips on yours. "D'you have any idea how fucked I'd be without you? It just—" he's barely breathing, and he knows you feel why. "I realized just how much I adore every goddamn inch of you and I wanna feel you." He kisses you again, and again. "I owe you my life, baby."

You shake your head at his words and Peter moves his hand down to your chin, holding it still.

"Yes, I do. And I love that," he smiles. "I fell in the best hands of this city... and your hands are just one of the reasons why I'm in love with you."

"Peter." This time, it's you who smashes your mouth on his.

The first time he heard his name coming out from your lips, he thought he'd cum on the spot. He remembers feeling his dick twitching inside of you just at the mention of it—his name, and you.

He loved it.

He lets you kiss him to your desire and when you pull back with those puffy lips, he smiles.

You're looking at him like one looks at something they barely believe it's true. He's seen looks like this a few weeks ago when he went to the museum with May and he saw people staring at what he assumes is their favorite art pieces—nothing but attention to detail and a shine in their eyes.

He feels naked, even though he's not.

"I've been in love with you since the day you told me you had glass shrapnel all over your body because Mrs. Levinson was gonna take the fall for Castle's collateral damage, Y/n, I couldn't have that." You shrug like it's easy, like you haven't just given him the present of a lifetime and stolen every last bit of anxiety and sadness he had hidden in the corners of his mind, then kisses him.

Softly press your lips on his, once, then twice.

When he feels your hands sliding down his body, Peter warms up.

Powerful. From Moon to Sun, there he goes again.

There his body goes.

Peter knows standing still will be a bit of torture, and everything will be heightened from how little he can move, but he's okay with that.

Whining under the ministrations of your hands might be one of his top three activities ever. Peter watches you get off from on top of him so you can take off your sweatpants, and he groans under his breath when you slide your leg over his waist again with the panties still on.

"Just slide it to the side—fuck. Yeah, like that, baby. I love it like this."

Your attention to detail is unmatched.

When you learn something he likes, you never let it go. As soon as Peter feels your hand slipping inside his boxer and getting his cock out there, he's already moaning.

"Stand still," you tell him.

He nods, eagerly. Peter watches you pull your panties to the side, guide the head of his dick to your entrance and when the tip slides in, he feels you coming back, caging him between your arms.

You slide down painfully slow, taking your time with it.

To have something to hold on to, he grabs your ass with one hand and your face with the other. Having his hands on you is a must if he's gonna be good for you.

He might've said he could web his hands to the bed, but if he did that, he'd have to web his hips as well.

"Ahhh." Peter feels the walls of your pussy clenching around him, and he closes his eyes at the feeling.

You move back up, then down again until you're fully seated on his lap and he's fully buried inside of you.

"Use me, baby," he tells you. He might be out of his mind already—has it always been this hot to be inside you? "Fuck—you're always so wet for me. How are you this wet—oh."

You slam your hips down, pulling a grunt from him.

"You make me this way and you know it," you whine to him.

Peter admires you for keeping up with a gym routine, but he admires more the benefits it reaps: the way your legs can hold the weight of bouncing up and down as slow or as fast as you like.

He pulls your head closer until he can kiss you.

"You're gonna use me, hm?" Peter asks between kisses, grunting at how tight you are. "Use those thunder thighs to drive me insane?"

"Peter you feel so fucking good," you breathe out.

The praise warms him up even further. Peter's eyes close in response, and he whines at how hard it is to keep his hips on the bed and not pistoning up to meet your delicious thrusts. "You feel better," he mutters, a bit drunk on the wetness pouring out of you. It's so damn hot in and all around him. "So tight for me, baby."

"Oh, god."

"Hhnh—fuck. Fuck, do that again," he whines.

You do it—you move all the way up until he almost slips out, then slams those hips down again. And again, and again, and again, until the room is nothing but the sound of your skins slapping on one another and your mouths breathing on each other, grunting and moaning.

Peter loves swallowing your moans almost as much as he loves swallowing the slick from your pussy.

"Fuck, if I had a little bit more strength in me I'd ask you to sit on my face after this," he says.

You moan even louder now.

Peter smiles.

He loves it when you two are alone. Loves when you let go, especially if it's to use him to your pleasure.

Peter holds your hip instead of your ass now and tries to help you. While you don't need it, the strength of even just one of his arms is appreciated, and he watches as you let go of all pretenses and just fuck yourself on his cock.

It's when you grab him by the chin and look him in the eye that Peter feels you're fucking him too.

You clench around him. Purposely.

Peter moans as loud as you, and plants his feet on the bed.

The change in angle makes you scream, and as a response, you smash your lips on his again.

He knows you're close by the way you start whining into the kiss.

Peter lets go, too. He kisses you back, all tongue, teeth, bites and moans of your name. Uncoherent sentences and babbles about your pussy and how fucking good you make him feel, and he feels the tension building up in his groins before he'd imagine.

He hates coming before you. Peter makes it a habit to make you cum before he does, but he's in heaven, he's in you, and you're staring at him.

It's that which does it.

"Baby I can't hold it—oh fuck, Y/n, don't do that," if you keep clenching around him just to get a rise of him you'll get more than just that, and he whines because of it. "I'm close. I'm so so close, you feel too good."

He moves his hand from your head in direction of your clit, but you grab him by the wrist and pin his arm above his head, holding tight onto his wrist. While he could break free easier than breathing, feeling how tightly you're gripping him makes his head spin.

He's at your mercy, and he wouldn't have it any other way.

"Y/n, please." Please stop bouncing so fast, please slow down, baby, please don't clench again.

Your hips slow down just a fraction, and you move until your lips are almost touching his.

Then you ask. "Who has your heart, baby?"

Peter blinks, opening his eyes. His mouth hangs open, jaw wide for a second before he answers. "You."

You move your hips in the way a dancer would, circling like you're trying to spell his damn name or something, and then slam all the way down. "You're mine, baby?"

Peter's head is somewhere too far for him to reach, but he still manages to nod. "All yours."

"I love you so fucking much," you cry on his lips, and then you start again—the merciless speed of your hips against his while your hand holds his arm up and your other is on his neck.

"I love you more," Peter cries back, reaching for a kiss that you give with all the desire in the world. He kind of wants his hand free to hold your face, and kind of wants to see how much you'd fight him to stand still, but neither one happens because you start to speed up and Peter's moans grow louder and louder.

Being as attracted as you are by his sounds, your legs start shaking and squeezing around him.

"Cum for me, Y/n, please, please, please," before I lose it and cum inside you, please.

"Cum inside me first."

"What?"

"Cum in me." You sound as out of it as he is, and Peter's only human at the end of the day. "Please. Do it. Do it, Peter. I wanna feel you. Please, Spidey, c'mon."

Peter cums with a yell, and his hips can't take it, bucking up to meet your thrusts in the last seconds, and it must be the strength with which he fucks into you, the angle, the way he's crying out your name or just everything together, but you cum right with him.

Both of your bodies shake and tremble together, in a peculiar and hard-to-achieve glorious moment.

He'll need many minutes to recover, and you'll need even more to gather the strength and will to let him come out from inside of you, but none of that matters for the time being.

Peter's content to stay inside you for now, just as you are to lay on his chest.

He lets the sound of your hearts beating like hummingbirds bring him back to Earth.

There's a smile on his face, and with minimum inspection, he feels there's a smile resting on his shoulder, too. Your lips press kisses on the exposed skin there, and he feels your grin when the kisses stop.

Peter's not a very religious man, but he might have just found his heaven on Earth.

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goldenromione · 2 months

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My favourite female character is Andromeda. The woman is indomitable. She runs away from the wealth and privilege she was born into (with seemingly no fear of Bellatrix). She raises the wonder that is Tonks. She then looses her daughter and husband yet still finds the strength to raise Teddy. A 👸🏻

It's so sad to think about how Andromeda really lost everything to the blood war. First, she lost her family when she married Ted Tonks, a muggleborn, because they couldn't see past their own prejudice.

Then, her husband was killed due to the Muggleborn Registration Commission and she didn't even have time to mourn because, not even a year later, her daughter was killed by her own aunt, Andromeda's sister.

Yet, she still had the strength to raise Teddy (with help from Harry and the Weasley's.) That takes an iron will. She really is a queen.

#wish we knew more about her #andromeda black #ask #harry potter #hp #jk rowling #girl love

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fangirlfrom-hell · 5 months

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One of Those Days || Jay Halstead x Halstead Sister

We deserved more interactions between Kim and Jay, that's all I'm saying.

I was thinking about this day where I was feeling super shitty at school, my self harm habits were horrible back then and I always wanted to cry. Since my mom was working, I texted my aunt and she took me to her house. She knew I was pretending to have a headache, but anyway followed my game. My little cousin lend me her bed to lay down and she decided it was a good idea to read The Little Prince for me to fall asleep 💕

“Do you want me to call your dad?” The receptionist at school asked the girl infront of her. Her head was slightly lowered and her hair covered a good part of her face.

“Can you call my brother instead?” Becca asked in a low crackly voice.

The receptionist sighed, “Sure. But you know I can’t let you go without your dad’s permission”

The girl nodded and sat in the hard plastic chairs of the office to wait while the woman spoke on the phone.

“…Yes, she has a headache…She’s alright, but seems like it’s getting worse. The nurse checked her, but can’t really do much. Sure, she’s at the office. Thank you, Mr. Halstead”

“Becca, your brother will be here as soon as he can. Go get your stuff, I’ll call your dad to let him know”

She didn't really have a headache, but it seemed like "fake it 'til you make it" was a real thing because she was now starting to feel discomfort in her head. Although it might have been because she was struggling not to cry in front of everyone. Her nose was now red, and her eyes were watery. Everybody thought it was due to allergies or the flu, but in reality, she was swallowing hard, trying to retain tears rolling down.

“Let’s go, Beccs”, Jay said while picking up his sister’s backpack from the floor.

The walk to the parking lot was silent; she knew that if she talked, she would burst into tears. A hole in her chest appeared the minute she saw her brother, and now it was growing fast inside of her.

Jay was eagerly typing on his phone, dealing with work issues he couldn't leave for later. He was worried; since he received the call from the school, his gut told him Becca's emergency wasn't about being sick, and now, even looking at her sideways, he could confirm it.

The detective opened the car a few steps before they reached it. Both siblings went to the same side of the truck, the girl ready to jump inside, while her brother was putting her belongings on the back seat. When Jay closed the door, Becca was still outside waiting for him. She was scratching her eye, and as soon as their gazes crossed, she started to silently cry. Instinctively, brother and sister took a step forward to hug each other; there was no time for Jay to bend to her height, so she squeezed his waist tightly.

"Did something happen, or is it only the feeling?" He tilted his ear to be able to hear the answer.

Becca moved her head, saying no, her face still sunken in his stomach, "Only the feeling."

"Alright," he softly said. They stayed like that for a moment before actually going inside the truck.

With a mixture of affection and concern, Jay stared at his sister before starting the car. "Do you want to talk?" He spoke gently. Her delicate attempt to wipe away the evidence of her tears with the sleeve of her sweater tugged at his heartstrings.

Becca despised being seen in such a fragile state; the vulnerability on display only heightened her emotions. It struck her as ironic that the very person who made her feel secure and shielded, her brother, was the one in front of whom she felt the most exposed. In the tumult of her emotions, Jay remained her safe person, the only one she could trust.

"It's the pain in the chest, the black hole. It's growing."

He frowned with a slight nod. Jay knew perfectly what she was talking about, and he hated to be so powerless about it.

"I don't want to go home," she begged. Becca's face made Jay's heart drop; you could see the pain in her puffy eyes and her cheeks a bit swollen along with her pink nose.

He swallowed hard, "I honestly wouldn't take you there even if you asked me to. You are coming with me, but I still have things to do at the bullpen."

“I can wait”

On the road back to the 21st District, Jay’s phone never stopped ringing, but anyway he passed by a drive-thru to get an ice-cream for Becca, a nice attempt to cheer her up a bit.

“Feeling a bit better?” He asked before getting inside of the building. At least, the crying was controlled for a moment. “Alright, let’s go”.

It was obvious she had been crying, but nobody said a thing about it. All the cops, detectives and seargets greeted the girl with a warm smile and acted normal around her.

Becca stayed in the coffee room and never got out of there. After all the weeping, exhaustion took its toll, and she found herself drifting into sleep on the arm of the sofa. Jay periodically entered to check on her, his stress evident as he felt the weight of time pressing against him. The clock relentlessly ticked away, yet the workload showed no sign of diminishing.

Kim noticed, and after preparing to leave by taking her coat and bag, she approached her friend. "Hey! I'm already done here and heading home. If you want, and if she wants to, I can take Becca with me. I just need to pick up Mak from school, and then we'll be home."

The detective hesitated, “Uhm—“

"Look, I don't know what's going on with her, but at least she can properly rest there..." Kim's voice carried a note of genuine concern, her eyes reflecting a mix of empathy and worry for both of them.

They turned their heads to see how the girl was all tangled in her spot.

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. That way you won’t have the pressure—I mean, you’ll still have the pressure, but it will be different knowing she’s comfortable in a safe place…I know the feeling, Jay”

After a few seconds of deliberating in his mind, he thankfully agreed only for his sister’s comfort.

“Don’t worry, don’t rush. You can pick her up whenever you can, doesn’t matter if it’s late”, Burgess said before departing and Jay knew she was honest, “I’ll take care of her”

Makayla was delighted with Becca's presence but was too shy to interact with her. Since they didn't have visitors often, this was kind of a new experience for her.

"Mak," her mom called, "Becca is not feeling very well, would you lend her your bed for a little while so she can rest?"

"Sure!" Despite her short life, Makayla's tender heart had already weathered enough storms, shaping her into a compassionate soul capable of understanding when someone else was beaten down or in pain. She sensed all that in Becca and was willing to make her feel good. "I can even lend her my stuffies," she added as an innocent gesture. Now addressing their guest directly, she continued, "They'll keep you company and won't be scary if you wake up in the dark."

Kim guided Becca to the room and arranged everything for her, picking up some clothes and toys that her daughter had left on the floor. Meanwhile, Makayla was opening drawers and climbing them to reach the highest shelf where the books were placed.

"There you go, make yourself comfortable," Burgess said while still fixing the unmade bed.

“And I’ll read you something to help you sleep”, Makayla approached holding a big book with her small hands.

“Mak, sweetie, no. We’re going out while she sleeps, okay? But you can read to me”, she took her hand to lead her out.

“No, mom. She doesn’t need to be alone right now”, Makayla’s big dark eyes were over Becca. “She needs a story, that’s what you do when I am sad”

Suddenly, the pain in Becca's chest intensified, and the gaping hole seemed to expand. It was as if her new little friend could read her mind. Becca yearned to be alone to release the pent-up tears, yet a lingering understanding told her that solitude might not be the best course of action.

“It’s alright, Kim. This her room, after all”

“Yas!” Mak jumped out of excitement. “Now, you lay down here and close your eyes. I’m going to read you a story that always make me feel better when I am not happy…”

With a smile and slowly going out of the room, Burgess leaved the two girls alone.

“The Little Prince is one of my favorite books too, Makayla”

“I knew it” her smile was bright.

As Becca listened to the reading, she feigned sleep. A few tears escaped her eyes, but she skillfully concealed them. Eventually, the reading ceased, and Becca sensed Mak's tiny face drawing near, checking if she was truly asleep. The youngest Halstead heard Makayla's footsteps departing from the room, but then she returned, placing a stuffed animal between Becca's arms. "Don't leave her alone, Buttons," she whispered before descending the stairs with her mommy.

Slowly, Becca opened her eyes and as soon as she made sure she was alone, she started an intense crying, trying not to make a lot of noise. She turned to give her back to the door, hidding in case someone came in. Clutching the stuffed animal tightly, she cried until exhaustion enveloped her, eventually lulling her into a fitful sleep.

She awoke in Jay's bed, disoriented about how she got there, a Mak's plush toy still nestled between her arms. Rising from the bed, a sudden wave of dizziness hit her, her head throbbing, and the discomfort in her chest persisting. When she emerged into the living room, her brother was seated on the sofa. Becca raised Buttons with one hand, a question mark etched on her face, silently seeking an explanation.

“Makayla insisted you should take it for tonight”, he answered simply.

“Oh. That's sweet”

"How are you feeling?" Jay asked, standing up to approach her, but she just shrugged. "Stupid question?"

"It's just—"

"One of those days," he completed. "I know."

"A terrible one, and it's not over yet" There was a long silence and Jay knew she was trying to say something, so he gave her time. "I was scared, Jay."

Those last words sent shivers down his spine, he understood what she was referring to and was also frightened but couldn't admit it in front of her. He masked his concern, assuring her, "You should never be scared, I'm here with you."

"I know", she gave him a hug.

"Do you want to talk now?" Becca hurriedly said no only with her head, and her brother understood.

"Okay", Jay sighed, "You haven't eaten a thing all day. Food should make you feel better. What about pizza, a movie, and the company of your favorite brother, hm?"

"What? Is Will coming?" Becca teased him, finally smiling.

"Ha! A joke, that's a sign that you are already feeling better."

The evening unfolded and laughter echoed through the room as they enjoyed the movie. Yet, even in her weariness, Becca managed to stay awake for a fleeting moment. As she drifted into sleep, the pain in her chest, a constant companion throughout the day, was miraculously eased by the gentle touch and care of her brother.

#Jay Halstead #Jay Halstead x sister #Jay Halstead x Halstead Sister #Halstead Sister #Chicago PD #One Chicago #Jay Halstead fic #Kim Burgess #jay halstead imagine

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raimagnolia · 1 year

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Nah, I actually liked the movie and y'all can kiss my ass

God dayum did M3gan make me more wary of technology But also, i think it's hella ironic that this woman, who has low empathy, created an ai robot for kids, and forgot to do what?

Make her have empathy.

She gave M3gan intelligence, CBT practice, mental health diagnostic capabilities, and a highly rational thought process... making her the smartest, most manipulative psychopath in the room without empathy or an intrinsic moral code; only orders.

She did, essentially, create a person. But because she never had that intention, she didn't get M3gan what she needed that she lacked which is only seen if you compare her to a human being and not a program.

And then THE TWIST??

"Jesus Christ, I thought we were friends." it's a funny line thrown into the trailers, but what's funny? in the actual scene it was never meant to be said sarcastically. it was genuine.

you realize M3gan was never a second child; she was a second woman.

"our child"

she wanted to raise Cady as a CO-parent. It was Cady's AUNT she was attached to and felt betrayed by, because the feelings weren't mutual. That's why every clipped command she was given, M3gan initially complied but not without an air of "bitch who you think you're talking to?" I loved it.

(edit: there's a weird take spreading around that is hitting outside of joking territory, and that's "Megan did nothing wrong"- girl, she literally tried to kill the aunt AND the child, get therapy)

Also,

Look at this cutie!!!

Amie Donald! You kicked ass in this movie!

#M3gan #I actually really liked the movie bc it's a critique on the reliance of technology in parenting.#but i just really really liked the twist ending #she's like 'bitch are you serious? i am not doing this bc of my programming-- I'm Doing This Because Of YOU!!'#M3gan spoilers #edit: feel like I should clarify that this is NOT a 'Megan did nothing wrong' post.#Some of you guys are weird

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glorious-spoon · 2 months

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For the Spotify ficlet: buddie aaaand number 2? :)

hello, and thank you! i return 3 months late, bearing fic. number 2 was the funeral by band of horses, so please enjoy this odd little meditation about eddie and grief and second chances

to know me as hardly golden 1631 words | buddie | emotional hurt/comfort, pre-relationship

Eddie is six years old when he attends his first funeral. A great-aunt, on his dad's side—he has a vague memory of a frail white-haired woman with hugs that smelled like baby powder. His abuela was the youngest of her siblings by far, and he remembers her standing in the sunlight by the gravesite, iron-gray hair neatly pinned back, eyes dry, mouth pressed to a thin flat line as she watched her sister's coffin sink slowly into the earth.

At six, he doesn't really understand it. But he understands enough to hug her, and he feels her press a kiss to the crown of his head and murmur, Eddito, Eddito, in a soft, shaking voice.

It's an old, hazy memory. He's surprised he's hung onto it this long, but it lingers even now that he's lost count of the number of funerals he's been to. Shannon's should have been the one that hurt the worst, but the truth is he barely remembers it; he moved through that entire day like a wind-up toy, dazed and distant, registering almost nothing other than Christopher.

He didn't attend the funerals of any of the people he saved in Afghanistan, because there weren't supposed to be funerals. That was supposed to be the one thing that made it all worth it—ruining his marriage and missing his son's first steps, the nightmares and the guilt and everything else he stomped down into a deep dark hole where he'd never have to look at it. At least, he always told himself, at least there were four people living in the world who wouldn't be here if it weren't for him.

It takes a while to get past that one, after he learns the truth. A smashed-up wall, a frightened son, and a lot of therapy. A week of Buck sleeping on his couch and wishing he had the courage to ask him to share the bed. Not in the way he sometimes half let himself imagine, but just to have another person there. The solidity of a living breathing body, a person he loves, a person he can still keep safe.

In the hospital after the lightning strike, he haunts the hallways like a ghost, watching his family come in and out of Buck's room, unable to make himself come any closer. He can't stop imagining the funeral: Maddie's white face, the woodenness of Margaret and Phillip Buckley. Bobby and Hen and Chimney. Christopher. He can't stop imagining what Buck might look like in a casket, how much like the way he looks now: silent and white and still in a way that Buck never is.

Buck wakes up, and Eddie hugs him and teases him and lets him sleep on his couch, and he doesn't shove all the rest of it into a deep dark hole because he knows better than that now.

But it lingers, like a wound. Like something he doesn't know how to touch, to handle, to even think about let alone talk about. He moves around it, mostly. He lets Buck cheat at cards and cook him steak and ramble about bioluminescent octopuses from the latest wildlife documentary he watched, and he doesn't say, I imagined going to your funeral.

Buck knows, is the thing. That fear, that lingering directionless grief, Buck knows it. He's careful with Eddie, as if Eddie's the one who was wounded, and it would irk him more if he didn't remember being careful with Buck after the shooting in exactly the same way.

It's a terrible thing to understand about a person, but the alternative would be worse.

It doesn't come to a head so much as unravel the night after a bad shift a few months later, Buck sleeping on his couch even though he's never stopped complaining about how uncomfortable it is, because it's better than being alone. If Eddie were a better person, maybe he'd protest.

(If Eddie were less of a coward, maybe he'd ask Buck to share his bed. He's not even sure what he's so afraid of: at this point, he thinks it'd be a relief if Buck could see through him to the love he's been bleeding out for months or maybe years now. But he remembers Buck so quiet and still in that hospital bed, and he remembers the feel of Buck's chest unmoving beneath his hands, and the words strangle themselves in his throat every time.)

It's a dream that brings him out into the living room in the dark of night, or half a dream, anyway. Half a memory. The night Buck started breathing on his own, Maddie called him, and he woke up immediately and almost let the call go to voicemail, because if she was calling to tell him that Buck was dead then at least there'd be a few minutes more when he didn't know.

He answered, anyway, and Maddie was crying, and it took Eddie several gut-lurching seconds to figure out that they were good tears.

He wakes up now with the echo of his phone's ringtone in his ears, and fumbles it to him, half-asleep and chilled, to stare at the empty screen for several minutes before he realizes that it must have been a dream.

He swears under his breath, puts the phone down, drops his head back against the pillow.

Probably, he should just close his eyes and try to go back to sleep. That's what he usually does, albeit with extremely mixed results. It's not like he's going to call Buck in the middle of the night and wake him up just to reassure Eddie's sleep-scrambled brain that he's still alive.

But Buck is here, and Eddie is a weak man, when it comes down to it. He shoves his feet into his chanclas and makes his quiet way through the house, pausing first at Christopher's door—his noise machine is quiet now, his breathing heavy and peaceful—before heading into the living room. Buck is sprawled across the couch, long limbs everywhere, the throw blanket he always sleeps under tangled between his legs. Eddie's got a painfully affectionate impulse to tug it loose and drape it over him properly, but instead he lingers in the doorway, watching Buck's chest rise and fall, his soft, steady snoring. If he turned the light on, he knows that Buck's skin would be pink and healthy, aside from the minor bruising where the hydraulic rescue tool slipped and whacked him across the arm at that multi-car pileup that kept them out an hour past the end of their shift.

Buck's already been checked over. He's fine; he wasn't even wincing on the ride back home. Eddie stays where he is anyway, watching Buck breathe for several quiet minutes, until Buck shifts on the couch, brings a hand up to rub clumsily at his face, and mumbles, "You gonna just loom in the doorway all night, or what?"

"Sorry," Eddie says, flushing. "I didn't mean to wake you up."

"It's okay." Buck levers himself upright, yawning, before Eddie can tell him not to. On the couch, he hunches over, rubbing at his eyes, then blinks up at Eddie with such sleepy affection that something twists sharply in Eddie's chest. "Come on. Come sit down."

Eddie takes a breath, then lets it out, then crosses the living room to sit on the other side of the couch. Buck turns toward him; his knee bumps Eddie's thigh, and he doesn't pull away.

"Hey," he says.

"Hey," Eddie says back, and he finally exhales quiet laughter. Buck's just looking at him with a crooked little smile on his face, sympathetic eyes, like he knows exactly what brought Eddie out to the living room.

"You wanna check my vitals?" he asks.

His tone is teasing, soft. And it's that, maybe, or it's the quiet and the dark and the way that Buck still hasn't moved away, that has Eddie reaching across the space between them to press his fingers to the side of Buck's throat. Warm skin, faint stubble, and Buck's pulse beneath that, strong and steady. He can feel it when Buck swallows.

"Better?" he whispers.

Eddie nods. It is better. Proof of life, in the most basic of senses. The way Buck is looking at him, intent and knowingly fond in the shadowed living room, is better still.

"You want to talk about it?" Buck asks, still quiet.

Eddie shakes his head. "Tomorrow?"

"Sure."

"I'm sorry." He's not really checking Buck's pulse anymore. His hand shifts, flattens, until what he's doing is a lot more like cupping Buck's jaw the way he would, maybe, before leaning in for a kiss.

Buck's hand comes up to cover his, warm and steady. Alive, alive. "It's okay."

"No, just—it's late."

"Yeah. Still."

Eddie almost leans in. Almost. He's pretty sure at this point that Buck would let him. But they only get one first kiss, and he doesn't want it to taste like fear, even if that is fading now. He rubs his thumb against the edge of Buck's jaw, and suddenly finds that he can say the words after all. "Would you come back to bed with me tonight?"

Buck's smile takes on a mischievous tilt, and Eddie sighs. "Just to sleep."

"Sure."

"I mean it."

"Okay," Buck says. He squeezes Eddie's hand. "Yeah. Just to sleep, for now. But later…?"

Eddie swallows hard. Cards are already on the table. He's still cupping Buck's face like a lover would. It's too late to backtrack, and he doesn't actually want to anyway. "Later, yeah."

"Cool," Buck says, like a dork. His smile turns bashful, and he hesitates, then turns Eddie's hand to brush a light but definite kiss to the back of his knuckles. "I'm good with later."

#911 #911 fic #buddie #buddie fic #eddie diaz #evan buckley #prompt fic #my fic #i'm sorry this is SO LATE lmao

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