More Crumbs Of My Favourite Helaena :(

people who leave detailed thoughtful comments on fics deserve to go to heaven u deserve sainthood truly

read here

I watched Jennifer’s body recently and thought about making my own character inspired by how Jennifer transforms, she has no name currently. Here she is!!

Reblog to save an artists life 🙏🙏🖤

Cherry Waves : one

Ghostface! Danny Johnson x f!reader

Danny just had to save you. He just had to save your poor sad life. Knocking your sad frail body against fake plastic tiles. Shoving his fingers down your throat like a kid fishing for pennies. What was it you wrote in your diary? Your shiny white masked knight in a black shroud? Well how cute. Maybe it was time he kept a pet around.Just to play or course.18+ : eventual smut, themes of suicide (reader attempts), selfharm, sexual content, murder, themes of violence

ao3 prolouge masterlist

Three months later,

VETERANS MURDERED IN HOME

Adam webbing

Senior journalist 

See page four for more details.

Another violent murder has shocked the small sunny town of Roseville after the body’s of Daren and his brother Edward Small were recovered outside their home in the early hours of the morning. The Brothers fought bravely in the army during the Vietnam war, Darren was a well loved member of the Roseville community and along with his brother they led the local boy scouts on numerous camping trips and charity events, last year raising nearly two thousand dollars for the local animal shelter. 

The witness (who chooses to stay anonymous) found Daren slumped over on a lawn chair with multiple stab wounds, while Edward was found lying outside the trailer door in an obvious attempt to escape with a shattered leg and seven stab wounds to the back. The stab wounds were so brutal it shattered his rib cage and punctured his lungs. The Witness said she saw a man covered in a black shroud and white mask running from the scene before calling first responders. Darren died shortly in the ambulance after attempts to stop bleeding. 

Is this the work of a new killer, or a robbery gone wrong?

If you have any information please contact Detective Moore at the RPD +(000) 000 000

A memorial will be held later today at the Roseville Community Hall at 4pm everybody is welcome to attend.

Your hand traces the words, they're so tiny you could have missed them. White mask. You bite your lip. A month ago you would have called him a knight in a shiny black robe and a white plastic mask. And now you're unsure if he really was a saviour, a guardian angel. When you had thought about it a bit more he had seemed like a vigilante, the violent ones from the comic books, like the punisher, or maybe even Batman. Cloaked in darkness protecting people from rapists by beating them to a pulp, he had reminded you a bit of the crow, your own Eric Draven. 

And maybe he was just a vigilante, maybe the Small brothers had committed multiple offences during their time in Vietnam, you heard the stories. Rape, Looting, collecting ears. You had even heard about soldiers paying for certain commodities with children. But these were just maybes, maybe he was a saviour, a blessing in disguise, but he had also threatened you with a painful death if you would ever try to attempt again. 

And although it was Florida, where crazy crack addicts try to train gators, or break into houses just to watch TV for hours. There was something shocking about the turn of events that had happened in such a short amount of time. You had a near death experience while unknowingly being saved by a masked killer, and then two 50 something year old men the community worshipped on veteran day had been killed, stabbed. 

Shot in the head would've been easier to digest, but the brothers owned guns, they hunted, they had been in the army for god sake, they had killed people. Stabbed? When either brother is able to grab a gun and shoot? This was a completely different story. Whomever had killed them was not someone to mess with. He was dangerous.

And what if you were next, what if you crashed into the guy out of costume and he saw the scars on your arms, or a pot of pills from the pharmacy. What if you cut in line or told him to ‘fuck off’, would you be next, if you even thought about suicide again would he make good on his promise?

The Police thought they were clever, that it was NCIS level shit, the only problem was, when you have a town this small. Every detective or officer was someone you had spoken to. You could spot them from a mile away as they stood ridgid against walls holding candles like batons. The police were so sure the killer was going to be in attendance that you could make out the indentation of handcuffs in the jean shorts that half of them wore.

You walked, arm linked in arm with Aaron. He was on your recently completed college course, and had just landed a gig as a touring concert photographer with some band from the 70s. Made up of fifty year old men. It was high paying, and he actually got to go to like three places in Europe. So it was something worth being jealous over. The only thing you had managed to do was get a job at the paper as a photographer and assistant to the editor, running coffees while snapping photos for the paper wasn't exactly the hardest gig, nor was it the most riveting. But hey, you had bills to pay, and your uncle hired you as a favour from your mum. 

In Fact the only reason you were here at the Memorial service at all was to snap quick photos of mourners, you had shot some photos of candles being lit by the boyscouts hall, along with flowers laid upon each other neatly, swapping from a digital camera to a film camera when you realised you were gonna have to edit either one on the difficult software you had begged your manager to buy. Aaron pointed out different ideas for the paper, but you knew your Uncle would go with the lit candles anyway, so there was no bother. After you had got your shots you head back to the gazette, zig zagging across the crowd of people heading to the memorial. You wave goodbye to Aaron as you sling your digital camera over your shoulder ready to enter the building and suddenly you're crashing into the wall. Or a person. You gaze up at your victim. He's a little shy of six feet, dirty blonde hair swooping every which way. Brown puppy eyes staring down at you, he brings his hand up apologetically, and you watch the way the curves of his lips twitch into a smile. “Im so sorry” 

You squint back at him. “It's fine,” you wave your hand at him. “Really I should watch where im going” you pause, and then force a smile, reaching your hand out to grab the door handle, his hand follows and knocks your own, you both pull back quickly. 

“Gosh! Look at us.” He smiles again, eyes crinkling into a big fake grin, you only stare back. “Well, ladies first.” he nods. You don't look back as you swing the door open, and then pull yourself into the building, not bothering if the door hits him on your way in. “Did you go to the memorial?” he asks, in an odd cheery tone, the kind you put on when you answer the phone. 

“Yep” you mutter back, you're unsure if he even heard you as you turn in a twist of corridors, yanking doors and climbing up the stairs, until you're at the office. 

The Gazette is an odd shaped building, its L shaped, the gap allowing for a parking lot that's scarcely used. The Gazette is on the second floor, underneath a marketing or lawyer firm. It's a three story building at the edge of town, a short walk from your home, and the local coffee shop you hide in. 

Jed waves bye at you as you slip into the dark room, you spend thirty minutes developing the film and bathing it into baths of chemicals. You snip the roll into sections, hang to dry over the sink with film clips weighing each of them down. Then rebottling and labelling the chemicals you've used. You've got about two to five hours to wait-out until they're dry, so you sort the film from the other day into a clear folder, checking Jeds to see if it was dry. Your eyes glaze over the shots of a new cafe that opened up recently. Then you hurl yourself out the door. 

You carefully scan your film into the kodak 35mm scanner, it takes ages to see it fully appear on screen, Then  you work on editing the contrast and changing the photos from sepia to full colour. You finally print the photos for a final go over and head over to your uncle's office. You pass Jeds desk, perfectly organised, he swings around on his chair, you pause. 

“Your films dry in there, by the way” you smile lightly and watch him lean back on his chair before standing, the chair rolls across the floor at a hurdling speed, and you pop your leg out to stop it before walking away.

Micheal Thomas Jones wasn't actually your uncle, before your dad passed he was his closest friend. He helped your mum out financially before she remarried, even offering her a job as assistant when she couldn't work due to health reasons. He's a sweet guy, you remember him swinging you around his garden at a family barbeque when you were seven. You weren't sure if they were actually hiring for a photographer/assistant when he offered you a job, in fact Jed had only been hired four months prior to your appearance and he was already taking photos for the paper. But freshly graduated you decided to take whatever you could. 

You had learnt the office admired Jed, the ladies fawned over his perfect hair and the guys laughed at his crude jokes. You weren't sure how you stood with Jed, he was a seasoned Photographer/journalist that had crashed into the tiny town right next to your little apartment. Part of you wondered why Roseville, why a tiny town? With his experience he could have aimed for somewhere bigger. It felt like charity work, barely minimum wage for beautifully written articles about the intricacies of the town. He made potholes being filled sound like someone had won the lottery. It bothered you slightly, he was put on this pedestal, even a snarky remark had sounded like a lighthearted joke. 

You push the door open to Mike’s office, planting the images on his desk as he smiles up at you. “Do you want a coffee from down the road?” you ask. Mike nods, bald head shining under the light. He stretches out his arm to check over the photos as you grab the company card from his wallet and walk out. You already had his coffee order memorised. You walk around and ask the few in if they want anything. Your feet land at Jeds desk. You purse your lips at the empty chair.

He takes it black, right?Maybe you should check. 

Your arms sway against your body as you pull yourself up to the dark room. The red light isnt on so you plant your hand on the door. Slowly turning the silver handle. “Don't come in,” Jed hisses. You shut the door. Blinking quickly. “Sorry, the lights are off and I don't want to ruin these photos” You furrow your eyebrows, eyes glazing to the now shining red light above the door.

“All good, do you want a coffee?” you ask. You wait a few seconds and lean against the door, He doesn't reply. “Jed?” you wonder if you should leave. You clasp your hands and stretch them out in front of you. 

A few moments pass and you feel the door open, you scramble to balance yourself on your feet as Jed peeks his head out the door. “Hey” He smiles. The scar on his cheek lifting. You step backwards to allow him out the room, head blocking the photographs he's hanging to dry.

“Hi”, you answer. 

You watch him adjust his button shirt, pushing his glasses up before he tilts his head at you. “I'll come grab coffee with you!” He seems almost sincere. You nod your head as he leads you out the building. 

The walk is silent. All you hear is Jeds converse scuff across the sidewalk in quick succession, he walks on the outside of the road and switches over when you cross. Hand pressed against your back as he moves round you. When you head into the Coffee shop they're nearly closing, you're glad you're only ordering four coffees. The whirring of the coffee machine fills your ears, and you sigh into the smell of freshly ground beans. After you order you wait for the coffees by the collection point. 

You pick at your nails, Jeds hands slide into his back pockets and he kicks his feet against each other. “Sorry, I hope I haven't gotten the wrong idea, but do you hate me?”

His question startles you, you feel the wind knocked out of your lungs. It's too confrontational but not out of the ordinary for Jed. “No, what? Why do you think that” 

He breathes a sigh of relief, fingers combing through his brows, “well, I guess it's because we don't really talk and I catch you giving me these horrid looks sometimes?” 

Your eyebrow raises, lips snarling, and then you relax your face. “Look, I don't hate you. I guess I'm just a little jealous, I feel like Mike likes you more than me and I've known him for like, ever~” you watch him digest your words. There's a hint of a smirk on his face. “Maybe I'm just being cynical but it's like, everyone is so captivated by you and I have no clue why you are even here. Not in a bad way, just it's a small town in Florida literally outside Jacksonville, like Miami is right there. Maybe i just think you should aim a little higher, actually get your name out there” 

He turns his head towards the barista, smiling and thanking her for the drinks. He nods at you and you follow him through the door. When you're outside you take out the carton of cigarettes from your back pocket, sliding one into your mouth and turning to Jed, he looks down at you. You feel squeamish on the inside, soft eyes hitting your own, his arm bumps your own in a sweet jokey way. You're starting to get why all those ladies like him at work. Something in his boyish nature takes you back to highschool. With those heart crushing crushes on indie nerds. You feel your cheeks blush. You smile back, it's genuine this time. You hold out the carton to him, he plucks one from the pack, slipping it in the corner of his mouth you bring the lighter towards the Cig, his lips purse as he huffs smoke from the corners of his mouth.  

When Jed Olson waves you goodbye at your door with a smile, he steps into his cramped apartment and his face falls, shoulders arching inwards as he stomps off his clothes. Stepping into the shower, washing away the achy muscles of the day. Fresh scars burning as the water steams over them.He lets his hand run over his hair slicking it back until only a strand falls over his brow. He fishes out a black shirt from a pile on the floor and shoves it over his head. Wet skin sticking to the fabric. He needs a day off. Jed Olson is making him so sick. Keeping up appearances is only so easy when everyone wants a piece of you, he wishes Jed was less likeable. That he didn't feel the need to trap flies into his web with ease and yet he felt you edge closer to the centre of his cage, ready to be coiled into a prison of silk, just like the others. Because if everyone liked him, then Danny would have a far easier job.

Danny pulled out a small folder, and flipped through the number of photos he had taken over the past few months, Darren smoking a cigarette outside, Edward teaching a young boy how to tie a knot. Sally Hughes drinking a glass of wine and watching a trashy tv show and you . 

You're sitting on the couch with your hand between your thighs. Kyle Maclachlan is on the TV drinking a cup of coffee. Another of you crying, mouth gaping open, hand over your throat. Face red from the vice grip. There’s one of you pinching the fat on your thigh. Another biting your finger in a tiny lil leopard print thong in front of the mirror. You're on the floor cutting your thigh with a small knife, blood smeared against your cheek. You licking the knife clean.

He wouldn't have run into you if he had climbed into his apartment that night. You would have been dead, rotting into the sofa. Body inflating. But he just had to save you. Knocking your sad frail body against fake plastic tiles. Shoving his fingers down your throat like a kid fishing for pennies. Pressing the leather into your tongue until you had thrown up. Patting your head as you cried. Threatening you. Saving you poor sad life. He could've ended it all right there, started the chain of events. Pulling you away from deaths edge and then pushing you straight in. He had seemed to convince himself that he would have been caught if you were dead. Apartment ransacked leading to his questioning, he’d never figure out the logistics of it. But he just knew you would be important. 

So he slides himself over to the wall above his tv, pushing pins into the photographs, anyone else would call this a shrine. But really, it was his final plan. 

Danny Johnson dresses himself in a pair of cargos, he pulls his leather combat boots on and ties them up quickly. He buckles up his brand new Shroud and slips on a white mask. He slips out the window smoothly and creeps on to the fire escape, walking slowly along the metal before purchasing himself outside your window. And then he watches.

reader and daemon are going through the same shit rn isn’t that crazy

Beautiful Boy Three.

chapter one chapter two

Dark!aemond x strong! reader

Warnings: violence, fingering?afab reader, only description is long dark hair, Starvation. Stockholm syndrome(eventual)cnc,dub con, ptsd flashbacks

“You look better like this," he says, his voice low and raspy.You flinch, swatting his hand away from your face. He runs his hand over your cheek and then suddenly your head is knocked back into another direction, your cheeks swells. Without warning, he grabs a fist full of your hair, your chin rises upwards

You're perched on a chaise lounge, new gown, hair clean and braided, ankle bandaged. Aemond's head is in your lap and a book perched on his chest as he reads to you. Something about a war. You haven't been listening, you're too busy staring at the fire, Aegon's face melting and melting into heavy armour.  

You're starting to view Aemond as two different people, he's teetering over the edge of a coin. The prince regent, angered. Nostrils flared. His hands grip your hair tugging you further down his cock, unbothered whether you breathe or not. He uses you like he uses a weapon, flung about without care but precious. You've learnt to relax your mouth, letting drool pool out the sides. Sometimes when you tear up you feel him pulse within you, pressing the salty tears into your face harshly. Staining your cheeks. He tells you to ‘take it’ , take what, exactly? He only pushes your face further into the sheets. You’re half wept by the heat of his cock and the strangle of breaths that arise from your chest as he pistons inside you. He likes it when you whine. Likes it when you moan. Likes the power he holds over your head in the evening. The way his anger tears through your body like a violent sob. Pulling more and more from you every time. He can take it, he can take what he pleases.

And then he's Aemond, soft Aemond, his hands trail against you tentatively, like an instrument, hands running down you to see you hum, watch you sing. Voice like heaven, throat like sex. Brushing loose hairs, kissing sides of mouths. Thumb swiping over tears. His head nestled in the nape of your neck, pressed against your chest. When he comes he only buries himself further into your body like he's trying to part your bones, like he wants to stay there, entombed in muscle and bone. 

And sometimes he's balanced over the edge, smiling softly at you while he drives into you with such force, your hiccuping between sobs, he traces your jaw with kisses “my filthy girl” his girl, His thing. He plays you for a fool, wrapped up in this gilded cage you can barely remember the war cry in your head. 

Get out

You push his hair back from his face, eyepatch off. The sapphire eye glints at you. He hums in delight. Soft Aemond. His free hand runs against your arm. You feel so malleable beneath him. What was it he had said? Like clay, free to mould you however he wanted too. Pliable. My malleable girl. My sweet girl. How long has it been since you paced seven steps back and forth? Since your fingers traced the cracked brickwork. Since you prayed. You don't remember. Why does your back hurt? You hand shifts reaching out to prod the nape of your neck. 

“Please it hurts” You whimper, you’re bare, pressed to the floor, cheek wet. Diritied on the mudded ground. Something slashes you from behind. Once then thrice. “Please stop!” you shout as you turn around. Hands pressed against your face. 

“Are you alright my sweet girl?”a whisper. You hum in return. You stand near the fire, hand on the mantelpiece. Aemond pulls your body into his, he can see it in your eyes now, this emptiness. A hopelessness he brought about. It reminds him of his sister. “How was your day? Did you read?”

Ah yes, reading. Aemond seems to have a library's supply of books. You haven't found yourself in the reading mood lately, you remember your old copy of ‘The loves of Queen Nymira’ hidden away under floorboards from your brother at Harrenhal, how he would ridiculous you over giddy words. Aemond tends to read history and philosophy, you feel you might go mad under the writings of men. It is all war and great kings' deaths, You dare’nt say it. You nod and smile. “Had a bath”  

“Did you eat?” he knows what you're like, you forget. He thinks you're used to hunger now, but he's noticed your face looking brighter recently, finding you grazing on fruits as you keep watch out the window. You nod, smiling up at him. He continues to hold you, his fingers tracing small circles on your arms. He feels his heart flutter. The room has darkened now, and the glow of the fire encumbers both of you. Painting shadows across the walls. He pours a chalice of wine, sweet and sickly. It makes you feel all giggly inside. You wonder if you’ll ever slip past the gates of the RedKeep again. 

Get out.

His hand slides around your waist keeping his grip on you close, you lean into his body, sipping at the wine. It's spiced, different from how you remember. “Is this new?”

“Imported from Dorne” his hand slides higher up your back until he brushes your hair off your shoulder, moments like this that make you never want to leave. Your head leans back and he sticks his nose in the nape of your neck, breathing in the smell of roses, it reminds him of those sugar coated sweets from sunspear, Lokum. He kisses you softly, placing his cup on the small table before throwing himself back into the comfort of your skin. Soft Aemond. Your sweet Aemond. 

You sigh into his touch, finger pads running down your neck, tracing the bones. Your own hand grips his shoulder and you feel yourself fall into his embrace, neck falling, back arching as he pulls your waist into his own. He watches you melt into his arms. Lips brushing against your sweet soft skin. “You taste so sweet” he hums against your skin. Fingers planted against your throat loosely. 

You smile, his lips making his way slowly down your throat, licking and sucking, they find themselves at the hem of your dress, he knees before you, running his hands down your sides planting his face in your stomach. Tucking you tighter into his grip. You stumble slightly, hands smoothing hair away from his face and you unbuckle his eyepatch. You let it fall to the floor. You don't know why he keeps it covered, not really, part of you thinks it beautiful. Your hand reaches out, tracing the line that runs through his brow. Sometimes he flinches away in panic, other times he holds your hand to it. It hurts sometimes, he says. Phantom pain. As if his eye was being slashed through all over again. 

You understand, sometimes your back aches like it's raw. The maester had said the scars were at least a month old when he found them. They bled when you stretched. Milk of the Poppy had only let you succumb to sleep easier. It did nothing for the panic in your head. 

His eye closes and he rises slowly, standing taller before you. His hands reach out and touch you as if you’re made of silk, and he pulls your face in closer, his lip brush against yours  Teasingly, you approach and he only smirks in return, pulling away. He does this until you're whining, smothering you in kisses as quick apologies. gorging himself on your lips. 

“You're always so needy for me” 

Your head nods in tandem with his words, Needy that's what he calls it. Deny it all you want the heat of your arousal pools anyway. You remember those nights you spent with your hands pressed into yourself, cheek still flushed from his touch, It had burnt into you like hot iron had seared your flesh, half expecting it to scar. He's touched you all over now, every inch claimed by touch, lips, eyes. 

You wonder if you have the same impression, if during those nights he had spent at the whore house while you were held in the depths of darkness. That he drank in the skin of another woman and thought of you. That if she had given him the right look he could see you lying underneath him. You wonder if this is what he wanted. The undeniable way you crave his touch even at your worst. A saviour and a captor. How easy is it to save someone from the very thing you had put them in? 

He drinks you in, hurried out of clothes you had pressed to your body in the mirror mere hours ago. Hands under your shift, and then you're both naked, a tangled set of limbs as he hums at the sight of your body. It’s as if he hasn't seen it before, you watch his eye flicker with adoration and then ownership. Emotions plummeting through him like a quick wave of danger. You await from them to be dashed on the ground. Wait for the hardship. Wasn't that what Grand-Uncle had said? Wait for the hardship and let it pass? Did he ever fight for anything? 

You're pulled to bed, lips pressed to yours, Dizzy with spit. Sweet ambrosia. Your body is pulled towards his groin. He's hard, hand stroking down the length of himself, your hand traces at his jaw, sitting up on an elbow. You watch his face as he pushes into you, eye blissed out. It's as if he's found god between your legs, or in your sweat when he's pressed against you, breathing in your scent, A heavenly sight to behold. You feel so full, the pad of his thumb runs along the expanse of your cheek as he finds rhythm. Lips parting, silent moans, strangled breaths. Hair brushed out of your face. Blown pupils. 

“Sweet, sweet thing.”

He’s faster, slapping fills the air and you close your eyes as he hits that sweet spot inside of you, your hands find his shoulders smoothing the skin over as you find yourself closer to relief. The sound of cracking slides through the air, you swallow. Your neck curls in protest, hands gripping at the air, tighter and tighter until you feel something wet. Hand clasping round your wrist. You're back there all over again. Eyes closed tighter, you cry out. The lashing continues. Head thumping against something hard. Someones too close to you, too close to your back. Too close to your skin, sweat, alcohol and damp stone encumbers your body. The scent is heavy in the air. Your eyebrows furrow. Teeth gritting.

“Look at me” 

You shake your head, your eyes only shut tighter. Body sweating, you feel beads of blood rolling down your back. You’re turned. Back pressed into the dirt, eyes shut. Someone closes around you, your legs kick upwards but they are flung to the side and with no warning something enters you. You wail at the intrusion. White hot heat enters you. Your hand swings out in a fist.

“Stop!” you breath out dryly, heavy wails following you. Eyes opening, white hair brushing over you. Mouth opened in a dry scream. Your hand hits his shoulder again. “Please, please stop.” You hyperventilate, heavy laboured breaths, hand against your chest as Aemond comes to a stop, you don't look at him as tears well in your eyes.

“Look at me, please look at me” he grabs at your face, but you dig your head into the nape of his neck and breathe him in as he closes in on you. Sandalwood, books and dragonfire. You're okay. You're fine. You're in Aemond’s bed, in his arms. You soften. “I just want to know who hurt you.” he whispers.

You sigh, jaw moving from side to side.“It's just all fuzzy”, you slump, you can feel the weight of your tongue in your mouth, your head dives into the pillow. He pulls out from you and rolls onto your side. Hand reaching for your face, you turn to look at him. 

“I’d kill for you, you know that?” 

You nod, chewing on your lips, eyes fluttering shut as they try to keep the tears at bay. He pulls you closer to him, your head rests on his chest. You play with his hair, looking up at him, he smirks under you, you know he wants more. His thumb plays with your lip. Smearing spit all over it, You're on the fence with this. Make him mad or make yourself crazy. You decide on the latter. What another push forward to the top?

‘You're involved with the wrong prince miss’

Your body turns facing the bookcase, you take his hand and push it against your chest as an invitation. You feel his lips on your shoulder immediately and then he pushes back into you from behind, your hand rests on his hip. You whimper. He’s softer this time, hips rocking slower and more calculated. You try not to cry, but your face wettens anyway. “Fuck, my sweet girl” he pulls at your chin to kiss you. Eyes running over the wetness of face. You fake a moan as his hand dips down to your wetness. He swallows it between his teeth and smiles at you. Lips curling up. Kissing at your cheeks. “Why are you crying?” he grunts. Hand stroking at your slick pearl.

“Too good aem”,you whine against his hand, cheeks flushed. Your hand digs into his hip as he hits all the tight spots inside of you, turning your brain to mush. “So good,” you repeat, your head turns, back arching, your hands take his own, running them down the valley of your breasts, you let him grope, fingers digging into your flesh. You stare at the bookcase and imagine it setting on fire. He tucks his head into your neck when he comes, he's gonna break his nose one day. You're so sure of it. 

“So good, so good fo’me”, he wipes you with a clothe and then tucks his face right into your chest, falling asleep, hes curled up like a child. You thank the seven he wasn't angry. You thank the seven you get to see the sun. You thank the seven for…

Get out now

The words whisper in your head, but you fall asleep , hair around you like a halo. What's one more day? The glass hasn't even cracked yet.

Aemonds back turns, he reaches out hand grabbing for your own to pull towards his body, Comfort that's what he was begging for, his hands thumbles around on the sheets, emptiness. His eye opens and he turns in the darkness of the room, rain beating down on the stained windows. The white sheets lay crumbled where you had slept, your shift gone from the floor. Where he had seen it land after your night together. 

His eye searching the darkness of the room, for a figure in the night. Thunder cracks and more rain sprays against the window.lightning striking outside, the room lights up quickly. Empty. You hadn't? Had you? He was so sure you wouldn't run from him, he pulls himself from the sheets, dressing quickly. He hesitates at the eyepatch,but  he shoves it over his empty eye socket. He looks at his sheath, dagger gone. His heart thumps. Have you done something stupid? Has he fucked you up that bad? He heads out of  his chambers, the knight is gone.

 The castle is big. But you barely know your way around anyway, he's not expecting you to have gone far, the sheets were still warm when you left. There's only two options, the gardens or the throne room, both of which you have frequented many times. He makes haste, walking quickly down corridors and the flight of stairs, nodding to guards who have stood by their posts. He looks down the corridor, the throne room door wide open. He steps in slowly, eyes locking onto your form. You hum to yourself. Head rolling slightly back and forth.

You're glowing under the moonlight, white shift billowing in the air, dark hair dancing across your back. You begin your ascent up the steps slowly, bare feet dancing across the iron steps. He sees the dagger in your hand behind your back but remains confused. You clench it in your grip, When you finally get to the throne. His eyebrows furrow. You don't sit, instead your hand reaches out, appearing to stroke something. He hears a soft whisper, head bobbing down for a second, you pull your arm away. Head tilting to the side. And suddenly the hand with the dagger flings out, Hilt level with your neck. You hand snaps, arm making a cutting motion.Aemond walks up to you slowly, Footsteps clicking on the castle floor. But you remain staring at the throne. Then he hears it, thick sobs as you sway, He feels himself crack under the noise. You stifle a scream, hair brushing against your shoulder.

Your eyes are empty as your head turns, looking past him, dropping the dagger onto the floor in your outstretched hand, you scrunch up into a ball on the steps, weeping into your hands, “Im so sorry, Im sorry Aemond” 

“Sorry for what” he hushes, he climbs the steps cautiously. Hands reaching out to grab at your arms, they are cut all over, as if someone had put up a struggle. What have you done? Your fingers flex. 

“I killed him, I killed him” you whimper against your palms, rocking back and forth. He tries to pull you away but you are relentless in your efforts, keeping your limbs closer to your body, like you've nailed them into yourself.

“Killed who?” he questions, his hands brush against your soft hair.

You sniff, head snapping back, you look him in the eye,“Aemond” you smile, eyes softening. Your hands run down your hair and you stand. Stepping down the forged steps, hands brushing your shift. You begin to walk back to his champers as if nothing had happened. He picks his dagger up avoiding the swords that shoot out of the ground. Watching you, as it was merely all a dream. He follows you back, moving in calculated steps. Eyes staring straight ahead even in his efforts to get your attention. 

Then you slip back into bed, eyes closing as they pull the covers back up to your neck. You hum. There's a beat as you shift under the covers, hand smoothing. Searching. He watches your eyes snap open and your hand digs round for something under the covers, you sit up and look at him.

 “Why are you dressed?” you clench your teeth. Looking down at yourself, you notice the shift, and then the marks all over your arms, you panic. Hands clutching at your body, Chest rising. You look at Aemond, his dagger in his hand. “What have you done?” you lip trembles. Aemond approaches, you flinch back. 

“Please Aemond, I'm sorry, I haven't done anything, I swear’ you hiss at him as he approaches. Head shaking, He drops the knife quickly and it clangs against the floor. Hand reaching out to your leg. He watches your hands come up to cover your face, blood running down your arms. You cry against them, “I don't wanna go back”, it almost breaks his heart. 

“Shh, it's okay” He smooths his hands over your legs, and then he stands heading for the door to call for something, he keeps his distance as he waits.

“what’s your aesthetic” it’s super niche actually it’s called clothes i like. hope this helps

woof woof woof woof

ᴇᴡᴀɴ ᴍɪᴛᴄʜᴇʟʟ as Martin

in: Fontaines DC - It's Amazing To Be Young

I think all content creators can relate to this.

In my opinion, I don’t think followers really understand how much your requests/likes/reblogs/etc. and random asks mean to me. It’s just so refreshing and nice to know that people enjoy what I’m doing and support me.

People that go the extra mile and send an ask or message letting me know they liked my stuff honestly makes my day. I love reading tags and stuff…it’s honestly so cute….

And people who ask about how I’m doing or send me random questions or cute asks….I just want you guys to know it honestly makes my day. I just love all the interaction and such. It makes running a blog so much more enjoyable.

And Fanart/Fanwork? Honestly that’s one of the greatest things to receive. To everyone that draws or writes, please don’t feel too insecure to send it end! No one is going to criticize you over quality. It’s so sweet that you even thought about making something…I will always appreciate it no matter what, and I’m sure all other content creators feel the same.

So, in conclusion, don’t be afraid to talk to your favorite blogs and show them some love, guys! We always appreciate it! ☺️

rhaenicent but it's The Phantom of the Opera