#; war has learned to fear her ❪ about. ❫

[dutyworn]

important wren lore!

when she's sleeping alone, she sleeps like this:

as opposed to, when she's sharing a bed with someone she's close to (a lover, a friend, a sibling), someone she trusts, and they get up for a minute middle of the night, they will come back to this:

[iniziare]

Tag drop: Solas

[bethanydelleman]

To expand on my girl sad about her arranged marriage trope post, I think the trope can be subverted (woman is happy about arranged marriage) but it can also be done well and without modern sentiments (ew, sex with someone I don't love is yucky/I want to marry for true love/I want to be a GirlbossTM)

For example, princess is sad about her arranged marriage because:

-Her nation and the prospective husband prince's nation were at war five minutes ago and many members of her own family died in the war. The marriage is designed to cap off a peace treaty but what happens if peace doesn't last and she finds herself the queen of a nation at war with her own homeland? If you want real angsty enemies to lovers, the prince himself killed her own brother in the war.

-The nation the princess is marrying into is very culturally different from her own, very far away/a dangerous journey, and she hasn't been able to learn the language. She will be bringing some of her ladies-in-waiting but fears being very homesick in a place so different from her homeland.

-The princess already married for political reasons and her husband has now died. This time she wants to make her own choice because she's paid her dues (there is historical precedent for this)

-Princess has known her future spouse since childhood and was happy to marry him, he died suddenly and now she's being asked to marry his weird younger brother whom she knows well and dislikes.

-Princess is heavily prejudiced against the nation she is marrying into because of racism/xenophobia or whatever but they have a resource her kingdom needs and a baller army, so marriage it is! She overcomes her pride and prejudice as she falls in love with her husband.

[xiaowhore]

genshin men as shoujo tropes.

characters. neuvillette, wriothesley, & alhaitham.

note. in celebration of the shoujo renaissance (and also bc im having a hard time finishing the drafts i left half a year ago) i present to you the ideas i had while half-asleep this morning. i dunno if this will ever be a consistent series but here are the first 3! (heads up: female pronouns will be used in this fic!)

neuvilette ; the duke

it has to be said. he's the duke of the north.

you belong to an aristocratic family, but you're basically neglected due to being your father's illegitimate child with a maid and your younger sister is much better than you at every way there is. appearance, etiquette, and intellect—she is far more superior than you at these aspects. countless men ask for her hand in marriage, while none asks for yours.

but honestly, you didn't want to be wed to a noble. you dream of being a commoner, free from the clutches of your family who looks down on you and solely dotes on your sister. you could be a baker perhaps, since you've always had a hobby of making sweets.

yet your parents suddenly announce you're now engaged. and to the duke of the north, of all people! he has made a great contribution for the war against the monsters within the continent, but he is more known for his ruthlessness and harsh temperament. if you were to be his wife, what would happen to you? the duke holds a lot of power, but no one wants to marry him because they're all afraid of him, you included.

as you're being sent to his castle by carriage, you're already trying to comfort yourself. at least you're away from your family now. he couldn't possibly be worse than them. and as ruthless the rumors all say he is, duke neuvillette is not the type of man to beat a woman who has done no wrong.

your first dinner with him is completely silent. the clacking of cutlery pierces through the air, the only sound you can hear other than your heart rapidly pounding in your chest. your head is bowed, too fearful to meet him in the eye, but you can't help sneaking glances at him.

the duke doesn't appear in most events hosted by nobles, too busy defending his territory from monstrous creatures to attend. but you see now that those rumors about him being unsightly could not be any more false. his long hair drapes over his shoulders, not a strand out of place. his gaze is calculating, a fascinating blue you can't look away from, and his nose cuts a high angle—he'd look fetching if he wore glasses as he does paperwork. really... how could this man be your husband-to-be?

as you're busy worrying over how you shouldn't offend him and appreciating his appearance, neuvillette is trying his best to appear calm. the woman of his dreams is right in front of him, whose hand was promised to him if he won against the dragon slumbering in the northern mountains. the woman he had yearned for years on end, the woman who gave him strength as he was on the verge of death during the war, the woman who doesn't remember him anymore—

but he promised you long ago he'll make you the happiest woman in the world, and he's intent on keeping his vows.

neuvilette may appear stoic, but he's nothing but sweet to you. he accompanies you at every opportunity he isn't busy with work, spoils you rotten, and makes you want for nothing. word spread throughout the land that duke neuvillette couldn't be any more smitten with his wife, erasing all rumors that claimed he was heartless. you were intimidated by him at the start, but as you spent more time with him, you learned that there was no reason to be.

...however, that only applies to you. although you never said it outright, neuvillette can tell your family didn't care for you properly. he already had reservations with them, and now he has other reasons to be angry.

when your sister comes to his residence and claims there was a “mix-up” in the marriage, that she should be the one wed to him and not you, he is furious.

but there's really only one ending for this story—after all, his heart only belongs to you.

wriothesley ; the bodyguard

you're the only granddaughter of a yakuza leader and wriothesley is your bodyguard who will protect you no matter what. (not claiming ‘a girl and her guard dog’ energy; there are plenty of other mangas who have this trope too.)

you're just an ordinary girl with a very extraordinary family but you want to live a normal life free of violence and keep your family background a secret. you beg your grandfather to let you attend classes at a normal school, and he allows you in one condition: wriothesley must be with you at all times.

so yeah. this tall and absolutely ripped guy is behind you every time you walk to school, in the corridors, on the way to the cafeteria, and the only time he isn't following you is when you go to the restroom.

very protective. never lets his guard down when you're talking to boys. doesn't understand what you see in the handsome guy that everyone likes when his looks aren't all that great (he's just jealous).

“let's go home. it's about time for the car to arrive... what do you mean you still have something to do? ...there's someone waiting for you at the rooftop? you found a love letter in your locker? ...i'll wait for you at the door.”

he does wait for you at the door, but he also tries to hear the conversation you're having. and maybe he scoffs a little when he sees the guy who's trying to vye for your attention, because clearly wriothesley worried for nothing.

there will be a lot of dangerous events involved (i.e. kidnapping for ransom, attempts to kill you as revenge, wriothesley's enemies trying to harm you because you're the person he loves etc.) but wriothesley will save you each time.

“i'm right here,” he says as he cradles you in his arms, hugging your trembling body. “you don't have to fear anything now.”

it's nothing serious. just a pathetic attempt at kidnapping by a bunch of idiots who want ransom money. you're safe and sound in the car, waiting for him to finish his business with the delinquents, but that fact doesn't make his anger fade at all. “if i see a single scratch on her, i'll kill you.”

his head is bleeding, dripping crimson over his right eye, but all he sees is your bound wrists, the bruise on your cheek, the blood on your lip. he's out of bullets. you're both surrounded by henchmen. he has a single blade in his pocket. still, he roars with uncontrollable rage, “no one touches her!”

(very important detail: he calls you “my lady.”)

alhaitham ; the nonchalant male lead

he's definitely the cold guy who's (at first) rude and blunt to the female lead.

you've liked him since you were kids. your moms are best friends and you live next door to each other. both of your parents seem convinced you're going to end up together, but he rejects every single one of your advances—not that it discourages you from trying again next time.

you try to walk to school with him even though he always goes to the library too early and you're the furthest thing from a morning person. you offer him the best parts of the lunchbox you cook for yourself. you give him a cold drink after gym class. you invite him out to the mall during the weekends to hang out. you doll yourself up everyday with cosmetics and accessories in hopes that he'll think you're pretty.

but alhaitham always just looks... disinterested. especially during dinners where both of your families are present and his mother teases him about dating you for what seems like the nth time that night.

and you know he's not obligated to like you back or anything. but you still want to get his attention. you want to improve yourself to get him to like you.

alhaitham may come across as cold-hearted, but he buys you bread from the convenience store on the way to school because he knows you missed breakfast just to go with him. he keeps an eye out for any stray balls hitting you during gym class because for some reason you attract them like a magnet. he often declines your offer to go outside during weekends, but he's willing to tutor you for the test scheduled next week.

so you like to think of yourself as someone special. because surely, he doesn't do these things for anyone else, right? you must be one of the closest people to his heart, right?

but then the pretty girl from the class next door confesses to him, and you think you've lost your chance. she's tall and gorgeous, her clothes are always the latest fashion, and you're pretty sure she's around the same student rankings as alhaitham. they're talking by the cherry blossom tree, and no one can hear what they're saying behind the wall you're hiding from in your quest to eavesdrop on them.

but then alhaitham leaves first, not giving her a single glance after what you assume to be a swift rejection. the girl isn't crying, but she looks a bit shocked as she returns to school, not expecting the turn of events.

your classmates don't even pretend to be decent; all of them are asking her what happened. “he says he's not interested in dating, that's all.”

and at that, you sigh in relief. even if you're not special to him now, no one else is either.

you don't notice her looking at you, envy burning in her gaze. she didn't say any lies—but she did omit something important.

“i think... i like someone now. the most important person to me.”

[tropes-and-tales]

Fall from Grace

(Captain John Price x F!Reader)

CW:  Slight angst. Inexperienced (but not virgin) reader. Smut (oral, f!receiving; PiV, unprotected). 18+ only.

Word Count:  7324

AN:  This was requested by an anonymous person!

It’s part of Captain Price’s job to know his soldiers.  He has their dossiers memorized, of course, but he also learns them intimately through their work together.  How could he not?  War reveals the true core of a person, their real character, but the mundane moments add color.  The long helicopter rides, the long plane rides.  The long stretches of time sitting, waiting for intel, waiting for orders.

It's boring.  His soldiers talk to fill the quiet and pass the time.  They joke and tease each other, discuss football matches and rugby scores.  Sometimes, when it’s dark outside, in the quiet hours before dawn, they talk in low voices and share secrets, fears, worries. 

Captain Price overhears much of it.

He overhears Gaz talk about his girl back in London, how terrified he is to lose her.  How he worries that he’ll never be good enough for her.

He overhears Ghost’s low rumble as he talks about his family and the loss of them.  How losing his brother Tommy and his nephew Joseph broke some part of him that will never heal.

He overhears Soap—convivial Soap—talk about his passel of siblings and how they’ve all married and found careers and started to have children.  How he feels left behind, out of sync with his own family.  How he doesn’t want to go home on leave, sometimes, because he feels so out of step with where he came from.

What Captain Price overhears from you is less deep for a long while.  You’re a cipher.  He has the bare facts of your dossier, but when it’s the small hours of the night and everyone is restless, you don’t open up the way the men do.  You rarely let your guard down.

It shouldn’t affect Price, but it does.  Is it a benign sort of misogyny that makes him want to protect you more than he does Gaz or Ghost or Soap?  Or is it the fact that he sees how hard you try, how you keep your walls up even when everyone else is sharing their darkest secrets?  Is it because he worries that you think he’s judging you, that when you catch him watching you, you see judgement there?

So for a long while, Price overhears little from you.  He hears inconsequential things.  Music you like, your favorite brand of beer.  A memory from your childhood that makes the guys laugh.

But there is a night where it changes.

The 141 is on a plane back to base.  The latest mission was a success, a new terrorist group quashed before it could get off the ground.  Price sits in the back of the plane and gets a head start on his paperwork while you and the guys sit around a four-seat table and play a no-stakes game of poker for little chits of torn notebook paper.

Everyone has leave coming up, so the evening’s talk is brighter.  There’s more laughter, more gentle shoving and ribbing as Gaz throws down winning cards and sweeps the pile of chits in front of him.

And when the chatter turns to sex, Captain Price bites the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling.  He’s reminded that these soldiers, his men, are little more than boys sometimes.

It starts with Gaz waxing poetic about his girl, and Soap makes it bawdy by saying Gaz will spend his leave horizontal and return to base dehydrated and exhausted.  Gaz chucks him on the shoulder but Price can see the pleased grin on the man’s face:  of course he’s going to spend a lot of his leave in bed with his girl.

Then it shifts to Soap and his handful of reliable hook-ups.  He says he has a bevy of women, all Scottish and feisty, and that earns him a chuck from you, a hard little punch to his bicep and you tell him to behave himself.

“Ach, don’t be jealous, hen,” Soap whines, rubbing his arm.  “I could clear some room in the schedule for ye if ye want to join me in Inverness.”

“That’s a lot of travel for, what?  Two minutes of disappointment?”

Soap lays his palm over his heart, mimes being wounded, and he says something in reply but Price misses it because Gaz and Ghost are laughing too loudly.

And that’s how Price learns about you.  The flight turns into rapid-fire questions, talk, and rejoinders about sex.  You mostly stay silent, but you take little zings—mostly at Soap—but each time Price glances over at you, your face has a taut quality that he’s only seen on the battlefield.

Interesting.

If he thought it’d be something for him to mull over later, he’s wrong.  Halfway through the flight, Gaz brings up the topic of favorite positions, and when Soap asks you what your favorite position is, you snort and say, “on my right side, curled up with my pillow, alone.  Asleep.  White noise machine set on ‘rainstorm.’”

That makes Price laugh, but he covers it smoothly with a cough, keeps his head bent over his paperwork.

But the guys are like sharks, and your sarcastic non-answer is like chum in the water.  And you’re good—smart, resilient—but you’re also their captive audience, and they wear you down.

An hour into their three-on-one interrogation, the truth comes out:  you are fairly inexperienced at sex.

“Virgin?” asks Gaz.

“No.”

“How many times—” starts Soap, but you cut him with a glare that even he won’t challenge.

“Were you assaulted?” Ghost asks in his soft rumble, and that makes you go soft too, your glare shifting from Soap to gazing at the hulking man in his skull mask.

“No, Si.”  Your voice is low, and Price watches as  you lay a gentle hand on Ghost’s forearm.  “I’m lucky.  Never that.”

Ghost pats your hand with his own.  “Just saying, love.  If you were, and you knew the guy’s name, I’d make him a grease stain before the week is out.”

(And this is part of why being a captain is such a burden:  the quiet little exchange between you and Ghost makes a hot flare of love burn in his chest, how the two of you are like a brother and sister to each other.  The purest form of found family.)

But then Soap breaks the moment.  “Just not into it then?”

You shrug.  “Guess not.”

“Why?”  Gaz asks it, and he sounds genuinely curious.

Another shrug.  “It’s hard to have a relationship in our line of work.”

“Ah,” Soap says.  He leans back in his seat, crosses his arms over his chest.  “Makes sense now.  You need to be in love with someone before you’ll sleep with ‘em.”

“Not necessarily.”  You reach out and gather the playing cards, the poker game long abandoned.  Price watches from under the brim of his hat as you fiddle with the cards, stacking them up, squaring the edges, shuffling them idly.

“Then what?” Soap prods, and you sigh.

“I dunno.  It’s just…a lot of work, you know?  You gotta vet a guy even if he’s a one-night stand, and you have to play it cool but not too cool, and you have to be friendly but not too friendly. You have to shower and shave and smell nice but not put on too much perfume, and you have to dress just right and wear uncomfortable lingerie and pinching shoes.  I did all that shit when I was in my twenties, and the handful of times I finally got a guy on the line and reeled him in?  It wasn’t worth the effort.  All that work and stress for what?  A few minutes of nothing.  A few minutes of bad kissing where the guy slobbers on me worse than a Saint Bernard, awful beer breath too.  And while he’s jamming his tongue down my throat, he’s groping me like someone drowning and grabbing at a life preserver.  Then what?  Then the main event, and all that effort is a waste because he doesn’t notice the nice lingerie at all, he doesn’t notice that I smell nice and shaved and moisturized because he’s lying on top of me like some paradoxical corpse slash jackhammer because he’s weirdly positioned and barely touching me, not looking at me, just dead eyes fixed off into space, but he’s also, what, thrusting for half a minute before he’s done?  And then it’s ‘thanks, love, great shag,’ and he’s rolling off of me, getting dressed again and out the door, and the entire affair took less time than it takes to bake a frozen pizza.  I mean, what’s the point?”

A deadly silence falls over the group.  The only sound is the thrum of the plane’s engines, and you look up from where you’re fiddling with the cards to find everyone staring at you.  Your eyes dart over to where Price is staring at you too, and you make a face and duck your head.

“Jesus, hen,” Soap breathes out.

“I’m sorry,” Gaz adds. 

You chuckle weakly.  “For what?”

“On behalf of men, I guess?”

Ghost, at least…sweet Ghost and his brotherly love for you…he pats your hand and says quietly, “well, you always smell nice, love, and I always notice.”

-----

Price doesn’t do anything. 

Leave starts and you disappear, off to someplace on your list of places to visit.  Who knows with you?  You love the world, all parts of it, so it’s just as likely that you’re in a jungle in Costa Rica as you would be in Tokyo.

Leave ends and the team reassembles.  There’s a mission in the mountains of a country teetering into civil war.  There’s a mission for intel.  There’s an extraction mission.  There’s a mission to take down a warlord in a lithium-rich country, and there’s a close call there.  A bullet grazes you, cuts a burning line along your hip, and seeing you bloodstained and limping pulls Price up short.

He shouldn’t care the way he does.  He cares about all of his soldiers, loves everyone, but he’d be lying if you weren’t different.  The love he holds for the men is paternal:  Soap and Ghost and Gaz are the sons he never had.

You?  His love for you is more complicated.  There’s a whiff of paternalism, a protectiveness that he knows you’d chafe at if you knew.  There’s admiration, of course.  But there’s also a deep vein of romantic love that threads between you and Price, and if you don’t know it, it’s only because Price has a good poker face and hides his feelings so well.

By the time you’re shot, everyone has earned another leave.  Ghost, Gaz, and Soap all disappear for a month.  Price could go to his empty house in the countryside, but he usually just stays on base anyway.

You?

The night before leave starts, there’s a knock on his office door, and when he calls out, you poke your head in.

“Have a moment, sir?”

He nods, gestures at the chair in front of his desk, and he winces internally at how you limp a bit, your stitches obviously pulling.  You settle in your seat and he nods at you to start.

“I thought I might stay here for leave,” you say.  “I’m not really in any shape to travel, and I’d be close to medical if anything goes bad with my wound.”

He says nothing, so you add, with less certainty, “would that be alright, sir?”

Price clears his throat.  “Of course.”

Of course it’s okay that you stay on base for leave.  With him.  With few other people around.

-----

But he does nothing during your month together.  How could he?  He’s your superior.  It would be wildly inappropriate to knock on your door some evening and confess his feelings for you.

One small concession:  he orders you to call him ‘John’ while you’re on leave.  No Captain, no ‘sir.’  He wants you at ease, relaxed, healing.  You still wake up early, he notices.  You train on a modified program as you heal.  You keep your room painfully neat, hospital corners on your bed, boots polished and tucked in your foot locker.

But you do relax.  You go off base and have a pint alone in a pub, come back slightly looser with your smiles.  His name rolls easier off your tongue when you have some alcohol in you.

You lie on the couch in the rec room and read giant novels.  You doze off to tennis on the television, and Price aches as he watches you sleep.  You look so young this way; the years and stress slough off of you in slumber.

There is one night he cajoles you into joining him out for dinner off base.  There’s a steakhouse nearby, and Price is craving a steak and a whiskey and a good cigar, and he’s craving your company.  You agree, and the weeks on leave have softened you towards him.  Maybe you see him as John now and not just Captain Price, and the conversation over steak flows so evenly that any casual observer might think it a date between an established couple.

But he does nothing more.  Not this time.

-----

Leave ends.  Another mission.  Another.  Intel-gathering, coup-ending.  They intercept a dirty bomb for sale in a Morocco marketplace.  They break up a human trafficking ring.  They support Kor-tac in a mission.

Another leave.  You’re healed now, but when Gaz asks where you’re going, you shrug and say nowhere.

“I didn’t plan anything,” you admit, and Price watches you on the sly.  You explain that New York City was next on your list of places, but you are tired of cities, tired of the crush of people and always wondering where the next threat was.  You tell Gaz, as Price eavesdrops, that you really just wanted a quiet month in the country but hadn’t the time to research anywhere or book anything—

He has to wait for Gaz to leave, which gives him a moment to despair that it’s a bad idea.  It’s a terrible idea, the worst idea, but even with a moment to stop himself, Price can’t stop himself.  He pulls you aside once you’re alone and the words tumble out of his mouth before he can stop them.

“I have a place in the Lake District,” he says.  “Quiet, in Rosgill.  I’m going myself, but it’s a big place for just me.  Too big, really.  You could join, if you want.”

It’s a terrible idea, the worst idea, but it must mean something that you only think on it for a beat before you smile at him and accept his offer with your genuine thanks.

-----

On the trip to his home, he explains it to you, and he hates how he sounds like an estate agent selling you on the charms of the place.

“It’s an old seventeenth century blacksmith forge that’s been converted into a home.  Quiet.  One side overlooks the eastern fells.” 

He explains how he bought it when he was young with the windfall of his father’s modest estate when the old man died from a heart attack. 

He doesn’t explain that it had been his dream as a young man to share it with someone, and as that dream had steadily died off, so too has the planned renovations.  The place is half-restored—mostly the house proper—but his plans for the outbuildings and grounds have been abandoned.  He had planned a copse of trees, a raised garden bed for vegetables and herbs, a small greenhouse.  What was the point of sinking money into a place that never saw any use?

You laugh quietly, then say that you don’t even have a home, that you have a small storage unit in Reading for the handful of things you can’t bear to give up.

“I appreciate your hospitality, Captain,” you say.

He tuts, reminds you to call him by his first name.  “There’s no Captain Price in Rosgill.  Just John.”

-----

It takes less than a week to fall into a comfortable domestic rhythm with you.  John wonders at it:  he had a girlfriend in his late twenties who had moved in for a year, and the two of them never reached even a fraction of the ease you and he reach within days.

It doesn’t mean it’s not torture.  The house has two bathrooms and a WC, but you end up sharing a bathroom because it’s the only one on the second floor, situated between both of your bedrooms.  It’s torture to shower after you, when everything is damp and faintly scented with your soap.  It’s torture to see your toiletry bag sitting on the edge of the sink, and of course he snoops.  Takes in the tube of lip balm, your brand of toothpaste, a bottle of paracetamol.  He sees a little ornate glass bottle of perfume, and he uncaps it, smells it.  It makes him remember the conversation on the plane, your rant about your disappointing experiences with sex, all the effort you put in to look nice and smell nice.

Which makes the rest torture too.  You calling him John.  You stretched out on a chaise in the conservatory that overlooks the fells.  You making him a simple, hearty dinner—who knew you could cook?—then calling him to table, your name in his mouth, your hands passing him a plate with chicken and roasted vegetables, your smile as he pours you another glass of wine.  You passing him in the hallway at night in your sleepwear, the soft-looking pajama pants and oversized t-shirt that strains around your breasts.  You meeting his eye, smiling at him, saying “g’night, John.”

Then the torture of your bedroom door clicking shut behind you, with John on the other side of it.

-----

It’s the meteor shower that changes it.  The Perseids, and John’s home has a big conservatory with a wall of windows that overlooks the night sky.  He mentions them to you that morning, suggests it might be nice to stay up and watch them together, maybe open a bottle of Lagavulin to mark the occasion.

It’s also Soap that changes it.  You and John make dinner together—just a spag bol—and your phone chimes as you’re sitting to eat.  You swipe at the lock screen, read the message, and snort.

“Soap,” you say, and you hold up the screen to John even though he can’t read the tiny print.  “Says he had a cancellation with one of his standby ladies and can work me into his rotation if I can get to Inverness in an hour.”

John chuckles, shakes his head.  “Want me to put him on KP duty when we get back?”

“A few extra laps on his runs wouldn’t hurt.  Wearing full kit, for the weight.”

The thread of conversation could die off, but it’s an opening, and John takes it.  He clears his throat, spins a forkful of spaghetti on his plate, then offers, “I’m sorry you’ve had such a rough go of it.  Romantically, I mean.”

You shrug.  “It’s fine.”

“For what it’s worth, I’ve not had the easiest time of it lately.”

It earns him another snort, and you cock an eyebrow at him, pull an incredulous face.  “I don’t buy it.”

He’s not lying.  His twenties, he was a wolf on the prowl.  Broke plenty of hearts, had his own broken in turn.  He had a few girlfriends, one who moved in for a bit, then moved out after a terrific row, never to return.  He always had the fixed idea that he’d meet someone by his mid-thirties, take an early retirement by his mid-forties, and have a family waiting for him by then. 

But as his mid-thirties receded, he found the prospect of dating a bleak affair.  Some women were too young, too immature.  The generational differences in sex and love were too steep to overcome.  Some wanted a sugar daddy.  Some wanted to be taken care of with no care extending back in his direction.  Other women were older, closer to his age, but saddled with ex-husbands, children bitter from divorce, a cynicism that John couldn’t overcome.

He doesn’t tell you any of that.  Instead, he volleys it back at you, retorts with a gentle smile that he doesn’t buy that you hadn’t had a single satisfying experience in your life. 

You sigh, shrug again.  “Ah, well.  I guess I can’t blame the men entirely.  Who’s to say I wasn’t the problem?  Maybe I’m a terrible kisser.”

“Doubtful.”

“Just outrageous amounts of tongue.”

John laughs, and you grin at him, add, “garlic breath, too.  Got too bitey halfway through a make-out session.  Made the guy bleed.  Now he has a scar on his lip and he tells all the blokes down at the pub about the crazy girl he took out once who bit him.”

John puts down his fork and takes a drink of wine.  He smiles around the rim of his glass.  “None of that can be true.”

“Didn’t know how to move during sex, so I elbowed him hard and broke his nose.  Touched him in a weird spot in an attempt to be sexy and creeped him out.”

He laughs again.  “What’s considered a weird spot?”

“Maybe I, I dunno…rubbed his elbows in a seductive way.  Touched him between his toes in the hopes of turning him on.  Maybe no one ever told me that that there’s no erogenous zone in the space between toes.”

His laughter grows at the mental image you’re painting; tears creep out of the corners of his eyes.  “That’s how I know you’re lying,” he manages to reply.  “Because most men would find any type of touch from a woman sexy.”

You cock an eyebrow at that and take a sip of your own wine.  “Duly noted, John.  If I ever make a move on you, I’m coming for your toes.”

“Prepare to be awestruck then, sweetness:  I have feet like a fucking hobbit.”

Your first response is to laugh at him, but he notes the way you take in the pet name, the little shine you get in your eyes.  The conversation dies off, shifts to other topics, but the rest of dinner holds a charge in the air, and both of you can feel it.

-----

After you share clean-up duties in the kitchen, you make your way to the conservatory.  It’s just a fancy word for ‘living room,’ but it holds no television:  just a bookcase, a fireplace, and a few chaise lounges and couches for taking in the view.  John used to envision lazy weekends in here with a family:  a wife and kids, maybe, settled around a board game.  A dog curled up by the fire. 

He also used to envision something like this:  sharing an intimate moment with a woman here.  His ex hated the house, hated how remote it was.  She liked London and the bustle of cities, but you are a better fit.  You settle on the chaise, curl up on your side like a cat, and you sip at the cut-glass tumbler of whiskey when he hands it to you.  John settles on the floor right near you, and the two of you chat while you wait for the meteor shower to start.

You don’t talk about much of consequence.  It’s a rambling conversation, tinged by the alcohol but not impaired by it.  The evening holds a dreamy quality, like it’s not quite real, like if John raises his voice above a low rumble he might pop the ambiance like a soap bubble.

When the first streak of white shoots across the sky, you both fall silent.  John turns away from you and faces the windows, and you both watch quietly.  Once in a while you sigh, a pleased little exhale, and the spell deepens.  Weaves of magic seem to tighten around the two of you with each brilliant falling star.

John leans his head back and rests it against the chaise, but he bumps into some part of you.  He mutters a sorry, and you whisper back no worries, but a beat later he feels your hand on the top of his head.  Tentative.  Shy.  A question in the touch, and he answers it by leaning into you more.  You push your fingers into his hair, and he honest-to-god has to bite his fucking tongue at the moan that threatens to tear out of his throat at the feeling of you touching him.

He turns his head and finds you watching him, not the meteor shower.  He knows he cannot go a single step further without putting it all out in the open, addressing it immediately.

“You know I’m your commanding officer,” he says softly.  “Not here, but when we get back. And I’m not stupid.  I know some part of you still thinks of me as your captain even here, just like some part of me still thinks of you as my charge.”

You nod.  Say nothing.  Look at him expectantly.

“What I mean is, this leave will end and we’ll have to go back.  We have to be able to compartmentalize it.  And I need to know that you want this completely free and clear.  That there’s no part of you that feels you have to do this, because I know there’s a power imbalance, but…”  He trails off, doesn’t want to admit it out loud.

“But what, John?” you prod, and he takes a breath, finally says it.

“I know there’s a power imbalance here, and I know I should be strong enough—should be your captain, I mean—and stop this before it starts.  But I can’t.  I don’t want to.”

You don’t laugh at him, and you don’t pout at his words.  You nod seriously.  You say you understand, that it’s complicated.  You promise that you will try to compartmentalize it.

“It’s just me and you right now,” you say, softly.  “Just two people.  Not boss and employee or captain and soldier.  I don’t feel pressured or feel any power imbalance.  And John?  I don’t want you to stop it before it starts.  Truly.”

This must be what falling from grace feels like.  Some small part of John despairs at this breach of trust, even if you assure him it isn’t so:  he’s your captain, he’s worked so hard to always keep clear lines between him and his soldiers.  He needs to be able to send people he cares about, people he loves, into situations where death is more likely than staying alive.  He needs to be able to leaf through your dossier and not blink at the section where you’ve listed out your final wishes in the event of death.  He needs to be able to leave you behind if it threatens the mission or the 141, and he’s always been able to do that before but the moment you lean forward and kiss him—your hand cupping the curve of his face, drawing him to you eagerly—he knows he’ll never be able to do any of that again.

He's failed as a commander, and a small part of him despairs, but the larger part rejoices at the feeling of your lips on his, your hands on him.  His eyes shut, and you both completely forget the meteor shower as you fall from grace together.

-----

You make out in stages:  the eagerness cedes to a near-shyness, then melts into a level of comfort as you get used to each other.  John knows now that you oversold your inability to kiss—you’re eager, then you’re shy, but you’re pretty damned good at it after all, and if those other assholes you’ve slept with didn’t think so, then that’s on them. 

He eventually makes his way up to the chaise to sit beside you, and then he guides you into his lap.  He has you straddle him, and when his palm gently grasps your cheek to lead you back to kiss him, he feels how flushed you are under his hand. 

“You okay?”

You nod against his hold.  “Yes,” you reply, but you perch yourself back in his lap, closer to his knees, and he can feel how you’re holding your weight off of him.

“We can take this slow.  There’s no rush.  We can stop here.”

“I know.”  A beat, and you add, “I’m good, John, really.”

“Then c’mere, love.  Settle in.”

When you don’t move, he puts his hands on your hips and draws you down and in, pulls the delicious weight of you right where he wants you most.  Right on top of him.  His growing erection presses against your clothed core, and your breasts brush against his chest.  He slides one hand around to your ass and grips the swell of you, kneads at your flesh, but the other hand slides up to cup the nape of your neck.  To hold you steady as he kisses you more forcefully.

John tries to strike the perfect balance between gentle and still leading you.  He presses his tongue against the seam of your mouth, urges you to open yourself to him, and you obey.  He licks against your mouth, tastes the smoky peat of the whiskey on you, and the sensation of his tongue against yours makes you rock in his lap.  He feels the pressure of you brushing against his cock, and it draws dual moans from each of you.

He breaks the kiss, catches his breath.  “Sweetness, what do you want?  What do you like?”  He wants to make you moan like that again and again, wants you to breathe out his name  or scream it or both.  He wants your eyes to shine up at him like they did at dinner when he used that sweet nickname on you the first time. 

You shake your head.  “I don’t know.”

He knows what it must take for you to admit that.  He remembers your rant on the plane, the disappointment in your past dealings with lovers.  It makes his chest ache at how lonely you must have been, how separate you must have felt from others.

He loosens his hold on your neck.  He slides his palm around to cup your face, and he brushes his thumb over the curve of your cheek. 

“Then how about we find out together?”

You answer him by turning your head into his palm and kissing him there, a sweet gesture, and that ache in his chest blooms stronger.

-----

It’s awkward at first, and John can’t figure out why.

He manages to get you out of your shirt and shorts, manages to unhook your bra and strip himself until you’re both nearly naked and stretched out together over the chaise.  You let him lead, but you aren’t exactly eager.  You are passive to an almost uncomfortable degree, and there’s something off—

“Is this okay?” he murmurs against your skin.  You’re so warm under his lips, soft, and he is going so slowly, but you’re hardly moving and you’re saying even less.  Your earlier touches—your hand in his hair, cupping his face—have disappeared entirely. 

Yet when he asks his question, you whisper back that it’s wonderful.

It takes another moment before he realizes part of what’s wrong:  you’re holding your breath.  You’re barely breathing, and once he locks in on that, everything else falls into place.  You’re not precisely rigid underneath him, but you’re tense, your muscles taut to the point of trembling.  And your hands lie by your side.  Not touching him at all.

He pauses, then makes his way back up to where your face is.  In the faint light from the windows, he can make out a tension in your expression too.  Something else too.  Not dread, maybe, but maybe a lighter version of that.  Trepidation. 

John kisses you lightly on your mouth.  “How are you doing, sweetness?” 

���Good.”  You smile at him, but it doesn’t reach your eyes.  “Great, really.”

“You sure?”

You nod.

He brushes his lips over your cheekbone, to the edge of your jaw near your ear.  “Not nervous at all?”

“Maybe a little.”

You’re hedging.  Lightly lying to him.  Your nervousness fills the room like the incoming tide, and John susses it out gently, teases it from you bit by bit.  It’s not difficult to guess the source of your nerves.

“Thinking about past encounters, maybe?”

You huff softly near his ear.  “Hard not to.”  You hesitate, then add, “it was always so bad.”

“And you think you were the reason it was so bad?”

Another huff, and your voice is tinged with embarrassment.  “I’m the constant factor each time, John.”

It occurs to him that you’ve likely missed all of the experimenting that many people get when they are younger.  All the goofy, awkward moments in sex, when a person figures out what they like or don’t like, what they love and what they hate.  You’ve probably been left with a handful of one night stands where you got no feedback, never had a chance to understand what felt good to you, and now are paralyzed to the point of doing nothing. 

John resets the moment.  He strokes the side of your face, then leans down and kisses you.  Slow, gentle.  No rushing.  The barest brush of his tongue against yours, just enough until he feels you relax a bit underneath him.

As much as he wants to compartmentalize it, John knows from working with you that you’re eager for feedback.  You’re eager to learn, and you never take constructive criticism badly. 

“Let me help you,” he says now.  “Okay?”

You gaze up at him, and if your body is tense as a strung wire, your eyes are full of trust.  “Okay.”

“First thing, sweetness.  You have to breathe for me.  You’re holding your breath, and it’s making you tense.”

Sure enough, your tight, shallow breathing evens out and deepens.  And sure enough, he feels your body relax a bit more.  He kisses you as a reward, then gives you more advice that you take readily.

“You can move your body.  Make yourself comfortable.”

“I want to feel your hands on me.  I want you to touch me too.  I’m yours.”

“You need to talk to me.  Tell me what feels good.  Tell me if anything doesn’t feel good.”

As he instructs you, he eases back into it.  Kisses your mouth, kisses his way over your face and neck, spends long moments at your bared breasts.  It’s the first test, but you breathe as he mouths at your tender skin, as he suckles against your hardened peaks.  And you move underneath him, arching your chest to give him better access.

A beat later, he feels your hands—still tentative, but warm, soft—touching him.  Stroking his shoulders, his arms.  Running your fingertips through his hair.

He’ll find out later, days later, that you had only been working off of previous feedback from those terrible one night stands.  The guy who told you that you were breathing too loudly, the guy who told you to lie still.  One baffling guy who told you not to touch him, to keep your hands to yourself as he fucked you.

But now?  This is a good start to finally getting to what you like.  To finding out together.

What you don’t like:  anything remotely like tickling.  He skates his fingertips too lightly over your sides, down the curve of your waist, and you jerk away from him like you’ve been burned.  You apologize a second later, but John laughs, which makes you laugh too.  It dispels some more of your nervousness, and when he tries the move against with more pressure—down your sides, over your waist—you like that far better.

You also don’t like it when he pauses at the scar on your hip.  It’s still a lurid red, and it pulls him up short for a moment.  Dampens his own mood.  It reminds him at how close you were to really being hurt, even killed.  You don’t like it when he bends his head to kiss the ridge of scar tissue, and he doesn’t push it.  Instead, he shifts his head and kisses your stomach where the edge of your panties is, and you like that a whole lot more.

What you like:  everything else.  Every other thing he gives you, everything he does to you.  You like it when he eases your panties off you.  You groan when he buries his face between your thighs, and you gasp when he kisses you there, when he drags his tongue over the slick seam of your cunt.  You like it very much when he laps at your arousal, when he lays plush kisses to your swollen clit, when he slides a finger inside you and a second finger and when he slides them along your inner wall until he finds the spot that makes you jerk underneath him, whine out his name, reach down and tug at his hair.

You like it when he makes you come with his mouth, and you like it when he makes his way back up your trembling body, when he spreads your legs wider to fit him.  When he pushes into you in a slow, steady thrust, so soon after your orgasm that he feels the tiny aftershocks as he seats himself inside you for the first time.  You gasp at the sensation, you breathe out a “god, John,” but when he opens his mouth to ask if you’re okay, you grab his head and kiss him so hard you steal his breath from him.

And you especially like it when he coaxes another orgasm from you, his thrusts strong and steady, deep.  When you bend one leg alongside him, he reaches down and hikes it higher over his hip.  It allows him to push deeper inside you, that extra fraction making you cock-dumb, because you’re so far gone you forget to be nervous.  You forget to lie still, to keep your hands to yourself, to hold your breath. 

You arch up and meet him thrust for thrust.  You wrap one arm around his broad shoulders but the other hand reaches down and grips the meat of his ass, urges him on.  You breathe; you pant in his ear, and sometimes it’s just your hot breath, but just as often it’s you talking, babbling, begging him to fuck you, to please don’t stop, to keep going, to never stop fucking you.

And you like it when he does as you say.  He doesn’t stop, and you come again, but then you whine out that it’s too much.  It probably is:  you’ve gone from disappointing interludes with absolute bell-ends, and now you’re an overstimulated mess underneath him.  You’re not openly crying but tears leak out of the corners of your eyes and streak down your face.  Your lips are slightly chapped and swollen, and you look stunned. 

“Want me to stop?” he asks.  He kisses one damp cheek, then the other, and he can taste the salt from your tears.  “Too much?”

“Uh-huh.”  It comes out slurred.

“Need you to use your words, sweetness.”

“I don’t think…”  You blink, and you lose a bit of your stunned quality.  “I don’t think I can again.”

“Oh, I think you could.”  Another kiss, this one open-mouthed on your pulse point.  He presses his teeth there, sucks lightly against your skin.  “I think you have one more.”

“John—”

“Gotta make up for lost time.”

“I can’t.”  You whine, but it ends in a moan as he bites you harder at where your shoulder meets your neck.  “Too much.  It’s too much.”

“You’re doing so well, though.  You don’t have one more?  Not even for me?”  He laves the flat of his tongue over where his teeth have left dimpled marks, then he blows over the wet line, makes you shudder underneath him. 

“John,” you reply, but it holds less of a warning than before.  There’s surrender in your tone.

“Love feeling this sweet pussy coming around me,” he growls in your ear.  “Fucking soaking my cock, sweetness.”

The dirty talk makes you clench down on him, and he smiles to himself.  He draws back, sinks back into you.  He goes slow, and you whine that it’s too much, but you like this too because you hold him tighter.  You press back against him each time he seats himself in you, his hips settled against yours.  He goes slow, so slow, sinks into you as deep as he can, barely pulls out before he’s pushing back inside.  You’re swollen, fevered where he’s joined to you.  You’re so fucking wet that he feels your arousal soaking the coarse hair at the base of him, dripping down your thighs, likely soaking the chaise. 

He's proud that he’s been able to forestall his own pleasure, but his restraint has frayed.  How could it not?  The whole moment had been sold as for you, to make you feel good, to make sex not the scary specter it has been for most of your adult life, but John can’t remember the last time he had sex where he felt so connected to his partner. 

Maybe he never has.  He can’t conjure up a moment from his past when he felt so flayed alive, his heart visible and beating as he joined with another person.  He can’t remember ever reveling so deeply in his partner’s pleasure.  He can’t remember anyone else’s touch or voice in his ear or breath panting underneath him making him feel so whole.

But you like it when he finally comes too.  He pulls another orgasm from you, less intense but longer—you tremble for longer, and your cunt twitches against him—and it sets him over the edge.  He groans in your ear that he’s close too, asks where he should…but your hand on his ass pulls him deeper into you, and if the gesture wasn’t clear, you whisper that you want him to come inside you, you want to feel him, and he does.  His pleasure breaks around him, shatters him, and he growls your name as he fills you, and you answer by whispering his name back, over and over.

-----

If you never had a satisfying sexual experience before, John can guess that you never had the post-sex moments either.  The come-down, the cuddling, the falling asleep together.

He gives that to you now too, but it’s not altruistic at all:  he wants it too.  He selfishly wants it.  He leaves you on the chaise to get a washcloth, a glass of water, and he helps you clean up.  He helps you recover, but then he leads you to the deep couch on the other side of the room and has you lie down.  He lies down beside you—it’s a tight fit, but he holds you safe between the broad planes of his body and the back of the couch, and he covers you both with a light blanket.

“Thank you,” you tell him, and it’s plaintive.  It makes that ache in his chest flare back, so he kisses you gently, replies, “don’t ever thank for me this.”

It doesn’t take long for you both to fall asleep:  you go first, the slack weight of you pleasant against his body, the deep and even breathing, the little grumble as you shift.  He’s not far behind you, but he has a moment or two where the earlier thread of despair pushes to the forefront of his mind. 

He might just be John right now, and you’re just you, but soon enough you’ll be soldier and captain again.  How will it ever work, now that you’ve fallen from grace together?

[evilminji]

Okay but? We of the DPxDC? Are COMPLETELY Sleeping on DPXBNHA?

And not even for the Main Plot Shenanigans!

Just?? It has ALL of DC's super powers? But MORE OF THEM. And like 80% of the population has um! Danny can?? Finally achieve his DREAM of being???

JUST SOME DUDE™!

Yeah, he's in Japan. That's a bit of a learning curve. And YEAH, there was a cataclysmic war like a few centuries back that sorta... fucked everybody up. No one wants to talk about it. There may be mass graves and Never Forget memorials. But?

On the SURFACE!

This place seems utopian!

No ghost hunters! Advanced technology! Robust social services*!

Wait... what was that asterisk? What do you mean "corrupt shadowy government organizations"? What do you MEAN "Immortal Supervillians"? NO SPACE PROGRAM!?!? AaaaaAAAAAAAAAAH?!?!? I'M IN HELL!!! This is ACTUALLY THE BAD PLACE, THIS IS HELL, OH GOD NOOOOOOO-!!!!!!

Cause see?

There are SO MANY REASONS he'd end up there?

Think about it! Wish that he lived somewhere his weird biology wouldn't exclude him from becoming an astronaut? In Quirks having Bnha Japan EVERYBODY has weird biology! Y'ain't special! You could TOTALLY be an astronaut!..... if we HAD those! We do not. Shut down that program during the Quirk Wars and never really started it again. (And somewhere, Desiree LAUGHS)

Or MAYBE? Things are getting a little hot on the ground? Bit TOO spicy. The Family Fenton and Friends have fallen back, behind the barely holding shields. Not even the Mansons considerable political maneuvering could stop the inevitably of human fear and blind unthinking hatred. Money can't buy everything, in the end. There is only ONE(1) way out.

Through the Zone.

Plan: Strangers In A Strange World is a go.

They're all Limnal enough to fake it. Sam with her plants. Tucker with his technology and persuasion. Jazz with her limited empathy. Their parents with their... well, weirdness. And with a touch of ghostly assisted meddling? Well, they've always BEEN there! Haven't they?

And that's not to MENTION the random 4 year olds with no control! JUST coming into their powers! With all those big emotions in tiny bodies? Startling events and tantrums? Villian attacks? What could THEY possibly hope to do to control or guide that fresh new power? It does what it does and the rest of us are just along for the ride!

If Danny happens to be minding his business and gets accidentally kidnapped by a VERY distraught 4 year old? Well, that's hardly the KIDS fault, now is it? They're FOUR! That is basically a toddler! Tiny child! They are upset, confused, and didn't mean to do ANYTHING. He's a hero. And Heros don't blame little kids from accidents, no matter HOW stressed it makes them.

No, the curse like a sailor INSIDE their head. Like an ADULT.

Just? Imagine~☆

The slow transition from *starry eyed shoujo sparkles* "This is SO COOL~!" to "huh, that's... kinda weird. And Sus. Weird Sus. Maybe nothing... oh! A distraction!" To "okay, this KEEPS happening, that was shady. You all saw that right? You realize that's not NORMAL, right? That that's fucked up? Not cool?" To "oh god, oh God, OH GOD! I'm in HELL! This is actually HELL! I'm trapped in HELL!!! WHAT THE FUC-"

Like? This kid LOVES space. LOVES the stars. And this is one of the few Superhero Cannon that SPECIFICALLY MENTIONS that IN CANNON? Thanks to Quirks? As in Superpowers? That VERY THING got fuckin SCRAPPED. Gutted. Consigned to be a relic of the past so they could all focus on punching each other Real Good.

He would weep BLOOD. Chew the WALLS. The LEVEL of unhinged this child would unleash? Not as Danny Phantom... but as DANNY J. FENTON? Beautiful. Vaguely psychotic. Definitely doing the Fenton Name proud. God, the NOISE HE WOULD MAKE would be inhuman and yet somehow? Come entirely from his human half.

They👏 Would👏 Hear👏 BOSS👏 MUSIC👏

I don't even know if he'd CARE about the main characters. They'd be tangential at best. The man would be in a one man war with I-Island over their lack of space program and hoarding of scientific progress. Probably living out of an abandoned building or forgotten subway station. Just? The MOST bedraggled, feral genius to ever haunt Japan.

As opposed to the REFINED feral genius. Who is Nedzu.

I bet Danny stands outside his school at one AM waving his scientific papers at a camera and YELLS. Like a deranged lunatic. Mismatched slippers and a "haven't slept in a week" crazed glint in his eyes.

He's Nedzu's new best friend. They GET each other.

And, yes, Nedzu COULD let him in... but it's faster to just let him yell and read the papers through the camera. Who CARES if they both seem insane! Let's shout about advanced physics and engineering at 1 am! Over the speakers!!! Oh? You need to physically SHOW me the notes? Well I COULD unlock the gates... OR just wait for you to finish scrambling up the walls like a feral Racoon, to then throw yourself OVER them.

Either, Or.

I'm just SAYING! We are SLEEPING on this! There is so, SO much fun to be had! Danny breaks rules and minds! His outrage over injustice and the complete lack of SPACE! His protection instincts going BUCK FUCKIN WILD. The INDESCRIBABLE hate boner he would have for Mr. "Lemme just rip parts of your soul out so I can collect your powers like pokemon cards" AfO.

There? Is SO MUCH, guys. SO MUCH!

@hdgnj @the-witchhunter @babbling-babull @hypewinter @nerdpoe @lolottes @dcxdpdabbles @mutable-manifestation

[softspiderling]

est-ce que je t’aime? | j.v

summary:

“What does dear Jace have to say?”

“I do not like your tone,” you huffed, snatching the letter out of his hands. Daeron chuckled, his eyes gleaming.

“You could become my niece, if this continues.”

“Oh please,” you answered, not even entertaining the idea. “I am too low of a rank for him to even consider marrying me.”

OR; After having spent almost eight namedays in Oldtown, you longed for your return to King’s Landing, to see Jace again. When the day finally comes, you didn’t expect to be thrust in the middle of a war for the crown.

pairing: jacaerys velaryon x reader, platonic!daeron targaryen x reader

warnings: mention of death (Viserys), canonical violence (follows plot of the show up to Storm’s End), otherwise this part is pretty tame!

word count: 8,2k

author’s note: i do not know a single thing about daeron except for the tidbits we have learned in the show. the rest is made up (but imo my Daeron character analysis is pretty great finally my bachelor's in english has proven useful). this is gonna be a two parter! the first part is heavily reader x daeron/team green focused, while the second part will focus on reader’s and jace’s relationship. title is from GIMS' song est-ce que tu m'aimes which also inspired this fic... also @eldrith bc i fear i will be threatened with a gun if i dont... happy reading 🫶🏼

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

“I have a letter from the Queen Alicent and and another one from the Prince Jacaerys Velaryon,” the messenger said, bowing as he stood at the door.

“Thank you Ser.”

Taking the letters, the messenger bowed to take his leave, and you handed Daeron the letter from his mother before settling into your chaise with Jace’s letter.

This was how you and Daeron received news from King’s Landing and Dragonstone. You hated how you had to wait so long to hear news, longing for the time all of you were at King’s Landing together, but you knew that things hadn’t been working out with Rhaenyra and her family nor with Alicent and her children.

You thought that was the main reason Daeron had been sent to Oldtown, to shield him from the tumultuous life at court and you along with him, despite that you had been Helaena’s lady in waiting.

Smiling at the contents of the letter, you tried to imagine Jace’s voice as he told you of Luke taking flight with Arrax for the first time, failing miserably. It had only been two years since you saw him last, but you knew how boys matured quickly in a short span of time, Daeron being the perfect example.

He had only come up to your shoulders when you first arrived in Oldtown, now, he was almost as tall as you.

“Helaena and Aegon were married,” Daeron suddenly said and your hands stilled, lowering Jace’s letter.

You glanced at him, noticing how small his voice sounded. Putting the letter away, you clasped Daeron’s arm, offering some comfort. You knew how hard it was for him to be away from his family and hearing about important news like that through letter just made the distance seem even greater.

“To whom?”

“To each other.”

“What?”

“Look,” Daeron said, handing you the letter his mother had sent him with the official sigil of the Targaryen house. You read through the letter, before sitting back with a surprised sigh.

“Helaena must be devastated,” you muttered, rubbing the side of your temples. You couldn’t imagine how alone Helaena must feel, to be married off to Aegon. He had always been a little crude; you doubted he had changed much.

“I cannot believe mother did not even deem it necessary to bring me home for their wedding,” Daeron said with a frown. “Am I even still her son?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” you chastised him. “Your mother sent you away for your own good.”

Even as you said those words, you didn’t quite believe them yourself. It had been so long since Daeron has seen his family, you understood sending him away in the first place, but going for so long without a single visit?

With a sigh, Daeron brushed his silver hair back, angling towards Jace’s letter you had left on the table.

“What does dear Jace have to say?”

“I do not like your tone,” you huffed, snatching the letter out of his hands. Daeron chuckled, his eyes gleaming.

“You could become my niece, if this continues.”

“Oh please,” you answered, not even entertaining the idea. “I am too low of a rank for him to even consider marrying me.”

“So you have thought about marrying my nephew?”

You groaned and Daeron only cackled when you shoved him.

“Go sit and write to your mother,” you told him with a sniff of your nose and even though he grimaced at you, he sat down at the wooden desk, grabbing a roll of parchment. Even though Daeron was of much higher rank than you, he had adopted you as some sort of older sister ever since you two got to Oldtown, with you being the only familiar person from home that was still present in his life, apart from his uncles, of course.

It pained you, to see Daeron long for his family, who seemed to have discarded him so easily. You wondered when he would get to his family again as you reached for Jace’s letter to keep on reading;You wondered when you would get to see Jace again.

It was six more years before either of that would happen. However under much different circumstances than either of you had imagined.

“Urgent news from King’s Landing!” the messenger said, his breath short as he handed Lord Ormund a roll of parchment. You and Daeron glanced at each other; you were in the middle of breaking fast, the most important meal of the day in Oldtown; it must be incredible important news for the messenger to disrupt the meal like that. His face was stony as he read the contents of the letter, before his eyebrows raised in surprise. He lowered the letter, his eyes finding Daeron.

“Your father has passed. They are to crown your brother Aegon to be King. You are expected back in King’s Landing.” Lord Ormund’s eyes found you. “Both of you.”

It didn’t take long for Daeron and you get everything ready for your departure, you barely noticed most of your belongings being packed up, still reeling from the news. You couldn’t believe King Viserys had died. Of course you had known from the letters that Daeron had received from his mother that the king had taken quite ill, but still. And he named Aegon as his new heir? You couldn’t imagine Aegon, the boy who teased his brother endlessly to become King of the Seven Realms, but who were you to judge?

Your hand was itching to write to Jace, despite your last letter still being unanswered. You weren’t sure what had changed, but lately you felt like Jace’s letters had become scarce, every answer taking longer than the last. You weren’t quite bold enough to ask why in a letter, fearing a rejection, but maybe when you saw him, you could gauge his mood. You knew you were to see him at King Viserys’ funeral or the latest at Aegon’s coronation, you would see him sooner than your letter would take to get to him. Despite knowing that, your eyes caught on parchment and quill, so you took leave to Daeron’s chamber to distract yourself.

The door to his chambers stood open as you stepped in, the maids moving in a flurry as they packed his belongings, while Daeron was sitting on his bed, unmoving. Gingerly, you moved to sit behind him, but he barely acknowledged your presence, gazing out of the window.

“I’m sorry about your father’s passing,” you told him, nudging him with your shoulder.

“I have been living without a father for quite some time,” he replied wryly, glancing at you. “I suppose it will not feel any different.”

You reached for his hand, squeezing it, hoping to lend him comfort. “I know. But still, I wish he had been a better father to you.”

Daeron only snorted, shaking his head.

“Are you nervous to see your kin again?”

The young Prince let out a laugh, unwinding his hand from your grip to stand.

“Kin? I haven’t seen them in nearly ten years,” he scoffed, starting to pace. “Mother writes to me once in a moon, Helaena’s letters are more confusing than not, and Aegon and Aemond barely write to me on my name day. I have not seen them since my eighth name day.”

“They are still your kin, Daeron.”

“By blood, yes.”

“Is there any other way to be kin?”

You were humoring him, knowing he was frustrated and nervous to see his family but Daeron stopped in his tracks, looking at you.

“Yes. You.”

You raised your eyebrows in surprise and he took his seat next to you again, cradling your hand in his.

“You came with me to Oldtown when you did not have to, gave me a sense of familiarity in this… Farce of a home, lent me comfort in a way my own blood failed to do,” he said quietly, squeezing your hand. “You are my sister in everything but blood.”

“Oh Daeron,” you sighed, pulling him into a hug and letting the younger boy - despite him arguing that he was long a man - find comfort in your arms. Ten and six, and the burden of feeling like you were abandoned by your family. You wished he did not have to feel this way, but you were powerless to change it.

“Swear to me you will not abandon me once we get back to King’s Landing,” Daeron said, pulling away to hold you at an arm’s length, his eyes searching yours.

“I swear it,” you told him, a smile on your face. “Swear to me you will not say any of this to your mother.”

Daeron let out a laugh at that, but you only shook your head, only half-jesting. You know Otto Hightower would fall right to his grave if he had heard Daeron call you his sister. You were high-born, yes, but in no way comparable to a Princess.

A knock sounded on the door, before a squire entered. “Everything has been prepared for your departure my Prince.”

“Very well, we will be right out,” Daeron answered with a nod.

The squire bowed, before leaving again and you squeezed Daeron’s hand, standing.

“I will go fetch my belongings, you go bid farewell to your uncles.”

Daeron nodded, taking a deep breath and squaring his shoulders. “I will meet you outside the city walls.”

You touched his cheek gently before you departed. A knight and two maids followed you with bags of sustenance and personal belongings to the city walls, where a handful of dragonkeepers were eyeing the sky. Lifting your gaze, you saw Tessarion fly over the city in circles, a smile growing on your face, excited to be making the trip back to King’s Landing on dragonback.

You had always loved whenever Daeron took you out flying on Tessarion; deep within you wished to feel a bond as special as a dragonrider had with their dragon. You wondered if Jace would take you flying on Vermax, now that all of you were reconvening for the King’s funeral rite and Aegon’s coronation.

Tessarion let out a screech before coming to land on the small green meadow, and you knew Daeron must be close. Surely enough, you heard footsteps coming closer before Daeron stopped just next to you, knights accompanying him.

“Will you miss Oldtown?” You asked him, but Daeron only shook his head.

“Nothing keeping me here,” he answered, stepping forward to greet Tessarion as she landed, calming her as the knights and maids attached the satchels and bags to the saddle. You let out a deep breath, turning to look at Oldtown for one last time. While Daeron had been right, a part of you was sad to leave, as it had been the place you had called home for the last years.

“Are you sure this is King’s Landing?”

The journey to King’s Landing had been uneventful and quick, a half day’s journey only. When you had arrived, flying over the city, Daeron directed Tessarion into the dragon pit, where the dragonkeepers had been waiting. Maids had then taken you into the Red Keep, and you barely had any time to react as you looked at the adornments that decorated castle; countless dedications to the Seven. The busy Keep you had remembered had now been replaced with empty halls and dark walls.

Daeron glanced at you before looking around. “Surely mother’s doing.”

The maid led you into empty chambers, bowing to Daeron.

“The Queen Dowager will be with you shortly, my Prince.”

Daeron thanked her and she inclined her head at him before turning to you.

“My Lady, if you follow me.”

“Where are you taking her?” Daeron, his hand on your arm to stop you from leaving. The maid paused, glancing between the two of you.

“To her chambers, my Prince.”

“She will stay with me.”

“Daeron, you should see your mother by yourself, I can come see you after,” you assured him but Daeron merely shook his head, his grip on your arm tightening.

“I shall not meet my mother alone.”

“Daeron-“

“Please,” Daeron begged, his voice panicked and you sighed, giving in. Only then did Daeron release the grip on your arm.

The maid still paused but she then decided to retreat, but not without bowing to Daeron again. He started pacing in the room, picking up the small trinkets that littered the desk.

“They just put me in my old chambers thinking it will be like I never left.”

You raised your eyebrows, glancing around before you realized that Daeron was right - you were standing in his old chambers. They had replaced the furniture and added a bigger bed, but it was the same chambers he had stayed in when he was a little boy.

“They have always kept a place for you to return, is that not a good thing?”

Daeron looked at you with a frown when the doors suddenly opened and Alicent stepped in, in tow with Daeron’s siblings and his grandsire, Otto. Alicent beamed at the sight of her youngest son, though her smile wavered when she saw you, before turning her eyes back to Daeron, opening her arms.

“My boy.”

“Mother,” Daeron replied, his voice hesitant before he fell into her arms, hugging him tightly.

Your heart warmed at the sight and Daeron seemed to lose all of the fears he had been carrying - if only for a split second - as he laid in his mother’s arms. You were content to stay back, let Daeron get reacq with his family again, but you weren’t ignored for long, when someone threw their arms around you with so much momentum, it nearly knocked you off your feet.

“Oh Gods,” you laughed, a head of silver hair in your face. “Helaena.”

“I missed you,” the Princess whispered and you hugged her back just as tightly, sighing. She gave you one last squeeze, before Helaena pulled away to muster you, running her hands through the ends of your hair.

“You look well,” she said. “Very beautiful.”

You flushed at her kind words, lacing her hands with yours. “So are you, my Princess.”

Helaena smiled brightly at you. “You must meet Jahaera and Jahaerys.”

“There is time for that later,” Alicent decided, cutting in. Helaena’s smile dropped slightly and she fled to your side as her mother stepped to you. You bowed your head to greet her, but Alicent grabbed you by the shoulders before pulling you into a hug, surprising you.

“Thank you,” she said quietly in the privacy of the embrace. “Thank you for watching over Daeron when I was unable to.”

You wrapped your arms around Alicent. “Of course my Queen.”

She pulled away, straightening her dress and you caught a glimpse of Otto talking to Daeron before Aegon and Aemond stepped into your view.

“My Princes,” you said, bowing. “My condolences for your father.”

“Thank you,” Aemond said. “He was in great pain, The Stranger freed him.”

His voice was monotone, almost void of emotion and you wondered if any of them mourned their father. Aegon nodded, though he seemed more subdued.

“Are you excited to be King, my Prince?” you asked, hoping to change the topic.

He gave you a wry smile, opening his mouth but Aemond gave him a subtle jab in the side with his elbow.

“Uh, yes, of course, my Lady,” Aegon said, clearing his throat. “Now that we have all reconvened, the coronation cannot come soon enough. You are a much better guest than our nephews.”

That made you pause.

“Jace and Luke were here?” You asked, your forehead creasing.

“Yes. Lord Vaemond challenged Luke as heir for Driftmark and the trial was held at court. They left just shortly before father passed,” Aemond told you, his voice even. You hadn’t known that.

“When are they expected to return?”

Alicent exchanged looks with Otto, silent conversation passing between them and you glanced at Daeron, who seemed just as confused. Something was going on, something you weren’t aware of.

“They are not,” Alicent then said and your lips parted in surprise. “Rhaenyra is upset, rightfully so, that her father had chosen Aegon as his heir, so she decided to remain on Dragonstone.”

Your eyebrows furrowed but you decided not to press the matter, only nodding. The topic was quickly brushed off as Alicent wrapped her arm around Daeron, trying to draw him into conversation, asking about his interests. You only listened half-heartedly, your mind still spinning from the news.

“Do you not think all of this odd?” you asked, your voice low. “I know Rhaenyra is proud, but refusing to show up to the coronation or even pay respects to her late father?”

It was the day after your arrival in King’s Landing, the day of the coronation. The day was hectic, the Keep suddenly bustling with servants and maids getting everything ready; you had taken the advantage to sneak into Daeron’s room, something that had gotten much more difficult ever since you got back to King’s Landing.

“Maybe thing’s have changed,” Daeron replied, rubbing his temple. “We have been away for a while, we do not know of the things that have transpired.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but a knock on the door interrupted you, a maid coming to fetch you for the coronation was about to begin. As you walked to the carriage, you were arguing with yourself on the inside, knowing that you were privy of most details, thanks to Jace’s letters. You couldn’t believe Rhaenyra wouldn’t rush to King’s Landing to bid farewell to her father. There must be something else holding her back.

As you got to the Dragonpit where the coronation was held, you were surprised that it was over faster than you had imagined, almost like it was rushed. Then again, this was your first coronation so who were you to say this wasn’t how every coronation went? As Aegon raised his hand to the small folk, eliciting applause, you joined in. The applause ceded when a loud growl shook the entire building. Silence followed, before the floor gave away when a dragon emerged through the stone, countless people falling to their death, trampled by the the huge beast with Princess Rhaenys on top.

Meleys, you thought, stood before the family, and Alicent rushed towards Aegon to shield him, cries and pleads from the smallfolk surrounding you. Criston shielded Helaena, and you grasped Daron’s hand as he only stared at his cousin in shock.

With bated breath, everyone waited - to be burnt, eaten, you weren’t sure. But Meleys only let out a deafening roar, before flapping her wings, breaking through the doors to escape to freedom.

“What in the Seven Hells was that?” you muttered to Daeron. He gave you a shrug, squeezing your hand as he looked you over, making sure you were unharmed.

The small folk on the other hand were fighting to get out of the building, which seemed to be crumbling in on itself, and Criston began to usher everyone out.

You were the last to come down from the stairs, taking Daeron’s hand he was offering to you when a crunching sound from above made you lift your head, seeing a large part of the roof cave in, falling right down heading straight for you.

“Sister!”

Daeron gave a harsh tug of your arm, pulling you behind him, as the large slab of stone fell right in the place you were standing mere moments ago.

“Are you well?” He asked, his voice full of concern as he padded you down.

“I’m fine, Daeron.”

“Daeron.”

You both looked up when Alicent called for him, just to see that they were all staring at you, Otto seeming incredibly displeased as you realized what Daeron had just called you. Seven Hells, you thought, this was precisely what you had been trying to avoid.

“Do you even realize what sort of rumors would be spread if anyone had heard you refer to her as “sister”?!”

You were pacing in front of the study, voices muffled through the wooden door. After you had gotten back to the Keep, Helaena and Aegon had returned to their children, while Otto and Alicent had dragged Daeron into the study. Neither of them sounded particularly happy, their raised voices spilling out of the room. You were wringing your hands, something that you had been doing a lot since you got to King’s Landing. Not even three nights ago, you were in Oldtown wondering if you were ever to return to King’s Landing, now you were back and everything was happening so fast and you felt like you were missing a big part of the story. When did the King change his mind about his heir? Why wouldn’t Rhaenyra and Daemon return to King’s Landing following the King’s death? And why in the Seven Hells did Rhaenys break through the floor with Meleys like she was being held captive? You had so many questions, none of which you had answer to; deep in thoughts, you didn’t even notice someone approaching you.

“Eavesdropping, are we?”

Letting out a small gasp, you jumped to face Aemond, a hand on your chest as he eyed you, unimpressed.

“Gods, you scared me,” you said, shaking your head. “No, I am waiting on Daeron. Your mother and grandsire didn’t want me to come in.”

Clearly.

Aemond didn’t say anything else as he leaned against the wall, his arms crossing over his chest. You eyed him as he stood there, on guard. It was hard to gauge him; you felt like Aemond was waiting for you to make a mistake so he had a reason to get rid of you. You remembered the soft, warm boy he used to be when you first got to King’s Landing. You wondered when he had changed, if it was when Luke took his eye or before.

“I should have known Daeron would cling to you after you had gone to Oldtown with him,” he said, his voice slow. “What is it, that you are planning to do with him? Make him infatuated with you so you can insinuate yourself into our family?”

Your ears grew hot at his implication. How dare he abandon his brother for nearly all his life and accuse you of having improper thoughts?

“Daeron is like a brother to me,” you said, voice indignant. “I care about him and I mislike being accused of such a horrible things.”

“So you vow your loyalty to our family, to Aegon as King?”

The way Aemond phrased the question made it seem like you had a choice and you hesitated, the fight leaving you.

“Of course, he’s the rightful heir, is he not?”

Aemond only gave a nod, taking a step back. You narrowed your eyebrows at him, but the door opened and Daeron stepped out, his face in a scowl.

“What happened?” you asked, but he only gave a brief shake of his head. He inclined his head, and you followed him, a knight on your trail, while Aemond stayed behind. The two of you walked for a while, until you reached the gardens, the knight staying by the edge as you and Daeron took a seat on a bench. He still seemed agitated, so you placed your hand on his shoulder to calm him down.

“They accused me of impropriety,” Daeron muttered. “Said that I was opening our family up for vulnerabilities and rumors.”

“We’re not in Oldtown anymore, Daeron, everything you do here is looked upon,” you sighed.

“What is improper about calling you my sister? You have been by my side since my eighth name day,” he argued. “How can I call a woman my mother when I haven’t seen her since I was a boy? The strangers brothers and sister, when I barely recognize them?” Daeron hissed, his voice rising.

“I know you’re upset,” you said quietly, eyes darting around, not wanting him to get in even more trouble. “It’s hard for them to understand. They are not trying to hurt you.”

“Did they not try to hurt me when they cast me out of the family?”

You sighed, leaning your head on his shoulder, and Daeron let out a shaky breath, staring out in the distance.

“How is my brother faring?”

You shut the door to Daron’s chambers quietly to find Aemond waiting just in front. After you had spent the rest of the afternoon in the gardens, you had thought it best if Daeron laid down for a while before supper, hoping it would calm him.

“It’s hard for him to find his footing here. His life in Oldtown hasn’t been this… Restrictive. It will take him time to adjust.”

Aemond nodded, letting out a sigh.

“I was hoping he would accompany me,” he said. “But I do not think he sounds well enough to go.”

“Where are you going?”

“Storm’s End. To get Lord Borros to vow for my brother.”

What?

“Forgive me but who else would he be loyal to?”

Aemond turned around, looking at you in disdain.

“Rhaenyra. She might think she still has some claim on the throne.”

He paused, eyeing you carefully.

“You should come.”

“Me?”

Aemond’s eye swept over you once more and he nodded.

“Yes, it will look good to Lord Borros if someone outside of our family is there showing support to Aegon,” he insisted. “It will be a short flight on Vhagar.”

“Very well,” you said, a glance on Daron’s closed door, wondering if you should tell him that you would be gone, but it sounded like the trip to Storm’s End wouldn’t be long, so you decided against waking him. You could tell him after.

You followed Aemond to the dragonpit, where a maid laid a cloak around your shoulders as you watched Aemond mount Vhagar, the breath stocking in your throat at the size of his dragon. Vhagar was large and old, barely able to turn in the dragon pit without brushing the cave.

“Come,” Aemond said, offering his hand to you before pulling you into the saddle, instructing you to hold on tightly.

“Soves, Vhagar!”

With a loud growl, Vhagar stepped out of the dragon pit before taking to the skies, her enormous wings stretching out several feet. The ride on Vhagar was much smoother than every ride you had ever taken on Tessarion, and it wasn’t long before you reached Storm’s End, dark clouds following you. Vhagar landed in the courtyard, you and Aemond climbing off.

“Just in time,” the Baratheon knight said, watching the rain pour from the skies just as you stepped under the roof.

“I am Prince Aemond Targaryen, brother of King Aegon II,” Aemond said, fixing his doublet. “I am here to talk to Lord Borros.”

The knight lead him into the Round Hall, where Lord Borros sat on his seat, seemingly having expected Aemond, his four daughters standing idly next to him.

“Prince Aemond, what can I do for you?”

“Lord Borros, I am here to ask you to pledge loyalty to my brother, King Aegon II.”

“King Aegon, you say,” Lord Borros said, arrogance dripping from his voice. “And what do you offer me for my loyalty?”

You were taken aback by his words, but Aemond only smiled, his hands locked behind his back.

“Your four daughters… They are still unwed?”

A smile spread on Lord Borros’ face and he gestured to his four daughters with his arm.

“Indeed. Are you proposing a betrothal?”

Aemond inclined his head. “Not only am I free to marry, but my younger brother, Prince Daeron as well. His lady companion can attest to his formidable character.”

Your eyes widened at Aemond’s words and you glanced at him, anger welling up inside you. So this was why he had wanted you to come. Aemond paid you no mind and you exhaled deeply, turning to face Lord Borros again, putting up a faux smile.

“Excellent, excellent,” Lord Borros said, clapping his hands. “Let us discuss-“

“My Lord!” A knight called, striding into the hall with quick steps. “Another dragon has been sighted, headed straight to Storm’s End.”

“Ah, that must be my nephew,” Aemond replied easily, your heart skipping a beat. Were you finally going to see Jace again? Lord Borros gestured to the side, and Aemond placed his hand to your lower back to push you along; you fought your urge to slap his hand away from you, eyes darting over to the door.

The heavy rain was still pelting outside, nearly drowning out the sound of the steps as a young boy entered.

“Prince Lucerys Velaryon,” the knight announced. “Son of Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen.”

Luke, you thought, looking at the young Prince, now old enough to be delivering messages. The last time you saw him, he was round faced, his dark locks curling around his angelic face. Seeing him lessened the fire in your chest, though you were still angry at this whole situation, and you threw Aemond a look. He didn’t seem like he was paying any attention anyhow, his focus on his nephew who came further into the hall.

Luke’s step faltered when he saw Aemond, before his eyes laid on you. You tried to give him a comforting smile, show him you were a friendly face in a crowd of hostiles, knowing Luke was about to be met with a rejection, but he quickly glanced away, facing Lord Borros.

“Lord Borros...” Luke started. “I brought you a message from my mother... the Queen.”

“Yet earlier this day, I received an envoy from the King,” Lord Borros drawled, his tone less warm. “Which is it? King, or Queen? The House of the Dragon does not seem to know who rules it.”

Lord Borros chuckled in amusement and you could tell Luke was nervous by the way he was shifting on his feet. Aemond seemed to enjoy all of it.

“What’s your mother’s message?”

Luke held out the parchment roll and the a knight fetched it, bringing it to Lord Borros, which he readily accepted, asking for the maester. As the maester quietly recounted the content of the message to Lord Borros, Luke glanced to you and Aemond numerous times, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword. Your eyebrows creased, but the corners of Aemond’s mouth tugged up.

“Remind me of my father’s oath?” Lord Borros spoke, the message seemingly upsetting him greatly. “King Aegon at least came with an offer: My swords and banners for a marriage pact. If I do as your mother bids… Which one of my daughters will you wed, boy?”

Luke hesitated. You pressed your lips together; he had probably expected less of a hostile welcoming. Lord Borros only scoffed at Luke’s silence.

“Go home, pup,” he sneered. “Tell your mother that the Lord of Storm’s End is not some dog that she can whistle up at need to set against her foes.”

Luke inclined his head, disappointed at the rejection.

“I shall take your answer to the Queen; my Lord.”

Luke turned to leave, but Aemond stepped forward, calling out to him.

“Wait, my Lord Strong.”

You glanced at Aemond, letting out a soft breath, nerves pooling in your stomach. Luke turned, despite the blatant insult.

“Did you really think that you could just fly about the realm trying to steal my brother’s throne at no cost?”

Your hand reached out to grasp Aemond, but he slipped out of your grips as he stepped closer to his nephew.

“I will not fight you. I came as messenger, not a warrior.”

“A fight would be little challenge,” Aemond said. “No. I want you to put out your eye.”

He took off his eyepatch and you pressed your lips together, eyes darting between uncle and nephew, knowing this was about to escalate terribly.

“As payment for mine. One will serve,” Aemond added, throwing a dagger in Luke’s direction. “I would not blind you.”

Luke stared at Aemond in shock, his lips parted.

“Plan to make it a gift of it to my mother.”

Luke’s eyes dropped to the dagger on the floor, before he lifted his head. “No.”

“Then you are craven as well as a traitor.”

“Not here,” Lord Borros said, but no one paid him any attention.

“Give me your eye!” Aemond yelled, descending upon Luke, grabbing the dagger from the floor, while Luke stepped back, reaching for his sword. “Or I will take it, bastard.”

“Aemond!” you shouted, panic evident in your voice.

“Not in my hall!” Lord Borros cut in, his voice raised and Aemond stopped, turning back to look at him. “The boy came as an envoy. I’ll not have blood shed beneath my roof. Take Prince Lucerys back to his dragon. Now.”

Luke resheathed his sword, throwing one last look at you before he turned, hurrying out of the hall. Aemond let out a huff of frustration, throwing a dirty look at Lord Borros, exiting the hall without waiting for you.

“Aemond, wait,” you called after him, hurrying to keep up with his long strides. “You’re not thinking about following him on Vhagar in this horrible storm, are you?”

“He cannot get away with it, not again.”

Aemond’s voice was angry and you let out a breath, trying to keep a clear head.

“This is a thing from the past!” you reminded him. “Did you not gain a dragon from it?”

“You were not present when he took my eye!” Aemond hissed, taking a turn before you had reached the courtyard, just in time to see Luke on Arrax, flying out of Storm’s End. It was raining so heavily, you could barely see him, dark rain clouds swallowing Arrax and his rider easily.

Aemond was already walking towards Vhagar, the rain soaking, as you stayed put under the roof, hesitant.

“Are you coming, or staying?” Aemond shouted, climbing on top of Vhagar. You could feel the anger rolling off of him, something that Vhagar no doubtedly was feeling as well with the way she was growling and you wanted him to stay, calm down, but you knew it was no use, so you exhaled deeply, lowering your head.

“I am coming.”

You took his outstretched hand and he pulled you into the saddle behind him; you had barely settled in before Vhagar already leapt up in the sky.

The rain felt like small icy daggers in your face as you ascended higher and higher to the sky, easily catching up to the smaller dragon carrying Luke. Vhagar let out a roar, snapping her jaws at Arrax, as the smaller dragon breathed fire in your direction. It was clear that Arrax was no match for Vhagar.

“Aemond stop!”

Your voice barely carried over the rain, but Aemond disregarded you, his Vhagar as she darted to the left. You tightened your hold on Aemond, nerves coursing through you.

“What is it you’re trying to achieve, Aemond? You yelled, shaking him. “Are you trying to kill him?”

“That boy needs to learn how to fear me,” he only replied, tightening his reins on Vhagar, the distance between you and Arrax growing.

Aemond let out a frustrated growl, urging Vhagar to fly faster and you could feel the adrenaline rising as you almost caught up to Arrax again. You knew you were at a cross roads, and what would happen next would change everything, with Aemond consumed by his anger, and Vhagar following his emotions, someone was bound to get hurt. You had to do something. So as Vhagar descended upon Arrax, her jaws opening, you let go of Aemond, leaping off of Vhagar, almost immediately regretting it as Aemond yelled out your name, before you landed on Arrax, the wind being knocked out of your chest.

The young dragon let out a screech, dropping several feet down with the sudden added weight, just barely escaping Vhagar’s jaws.

“What are you doing?!” Luke screamed, the rain pelting against his face as he held onto his saddle tightly, Arrax roaring.

“Saving your life!”

You scrambled to find anything to hold onto, trying not to fall a gruesome death, your hands gripping onto Luke’s shoulders.

Vhagar’s shadow disappeared, but you knew her and Aemond were lurking inbetween the stormy clouds, you had to act fast. Your eyes were straining against the heavy rain, hand gripping into Luke’s shoulders.

“Do you trust me?”

“Not particularly, no!”

You grumbled, knowing his feelings were warranted, but this was not the time.

“We’re vulnerable. We need to find a spot to lay low, where Vhagar cannot come in.”

“Arrax is faster, I just need to get back home. It’s not that far!” Luke yelled back and you shook your head, even though he couldn’t even see you.

“That’s what Aemond is counting on! Please Luke, I know you don’t trust me, but I am trying to keep both of us alive.”

Luke groaned in frustration before tightening his reins on Arrax.

“Ilagon, Arrax!” Luke instructed. “Īlon jorrāelagon naejot jurnegon syt ruaragon.” Down, Arrax. We need to search for cover.

Arrax roared before you dropped several feet, flying by a range of mountains. You squinted your eyes trying to see anything in the rain, when you saw a cave several feet down.

The opening was small, too small for Vhagar to get in, but large enough for Arrax.

“Luke,” you said, squeezing his shoulder and pointing to the cave. “Down there.”

Luke nodded, leaning down to guide Arrax into the cave, and soon enough, the both of you were back on solid ground.

Arrax whined and Luke whispered to him gently, stroking his snout. “Lykiri, Arrax,” he said, leaning his head against his dragon’s. “Īlon jāhor jikagon lenton aderī, syt sir, ziry iksos daor ȳgha. Lykiri, issa valonqar.” Calm down, Arrax. We will go home soon, for now, it’s not safe. Calm down, my boy.

Arrax let out a soft whine, before curling in on himself, letting out a puff of smoke. With slumped shoulders, Luke sat down against the cave wall. You took off your cloak, laying it down so it could dry off before you sat down next to Luke, even as the boy avoided eye contact with you.

For a while, the two of you sat in silence with the occasional huff of Arrax, listening to the storm raging on outside. You hoped Aemond would cease his need for revenge soon. As a particularly loud thunder sounded, Luke jumped and you glanced at him, your heart aching.

“Are you well?”

Luke glanced over to you, trying to hide his tense shoulder by tightening his wet cloak around himself.

“No. But I’m unharmed,” he replied, his lips unmistakably shivering.

“It is better when you take off wet clothes, otherwise it might make you sick,” you said, leaning over to him to help unfasten his cloak, but Luke flinched away at your touch and your hands froze midair.

“I am sorry,” you said, breath bated. He must still be shaken, after seeing The Stranger right in the eyes. Luke let out a small breath, his fingers tightening in the fabric of his cloak.

“Did you know my uncle came to Storm’s End to kill me?” Luke asked, his voice small. “Did you come to make me lower my guards?”

“Forgive me?”

You knew their family affairs were difficult, strained from what had happened in the past, but you were stunned that he would expect this from Aemond, or you.

“I cannot speak of Aemond’s intentions,” you said truthfully. “Only of mine. I never wanted to harm you, and I did my best to keep you safe as soon as I realized that Aemond was too blinded by his need for revenge…”

Luke sniffed, wiping his cheeks and you moved to sit down in front of him.

“I’m only here to help you,” you assured him, holding your hands up in defense. “Arrax would turn me to ashes if I even touch you the wrong way, right?”

Arrax let out a soft growl at that and Luke gave you a small smile, nodding.

“Yes he would.”

“See, you’re in no danger,” you told him, your hand slowly reaching for his cloak, careful, as to not spook him. “Now take off your cloak and lay it down, it will dry off faster this way.”

Luke nodded, unfastening his cloak and laying it down next to yours before he took a seat beside you. Even though he had grown considerably in the years you had not seen him, he still was the little cheeky boy you remembered from before you had left King’s Landing.

“You have grown into a fine young Prince,” you told him. “I almost did not recognize you when you walked into Lord Borros’ hall.”

Luke quirked a smile at you, ducking his head. “I’m almost as tall as Jace now. He despises it.”

You grinned, pulling your legs close. You could imagine Jace just all too well, squinting at the mirror standing next to Luke.

“How is Jace?” you asked, your chest tight. You couldn’t believe how it was mere moon’s turns ago where you were exchanging letters, wondering why his replies seemed to become rarer.

Luke let out a small sigh, like it was a question that plagued him.

“Jace is… Angry. Ever since my uncle usurped the throne he has been trying to take action, fight for my mother’s claim.”

Your forehead creased.

Usurp?

“Pardon… Are you saying Aegon is not the rightful heir to King Viserys?”

Luke stared at you, mouth agape. “… Yes. He stole my mother’s inheritance.”

You only blinked at him, letting the news sink in as you leaned back against the wall, stumped.

“Now everything is falling into place… Why Aemond was questioning my loyalties, Rhaenys! Gods!” You covered your face with your hands, a gasp escaping your lips. “Daeron. I’ve left Daeron at King’s Landing without telling him that I’ve gone.”

You didn’t want to imagine what story Aemond has spun to make you a villain, to draw Daeron on his side.

“I’m sure all will be well,” Luke assured you, patting your hand consolingly. You only nodded, even though you were making up the worst scenarios in your head. Luke gave you a small smile, turning his hand when a yawn overtook him; Arrax had long curled up, his snores filling the cave.

“You should get some rest,” you told him, glancing over to the entrance of the cave where it was still pouring rain. “It might be a while before the rain ceases. I will wake you, when it is safe to leave.”

Luke semed hesitant, but then gave in, settling back against the wall, closing his eyes. As he slept, you noticed how he looked even younger, too young to be thrust into a war like this. Was this the fate that would meet Daeron, Helaena or even Joffrey? The thought unsettled you.

Time passed for a while, and it seemed like the clouds would never pass, but surely enough, the rain lessened, before stopping completely.

Gently, you shook Luke awake, feeling bad for waking him, but you knew he’d want to go home as soon as possible.

“Luke, the rain has stopped,” you told him, waiting for him to blink at you sleepily before you got to your feet, collecting your cloaks off of the ground. You handed Luke his cloak, fastening your own around your shoulders.

“It should be safe now. Aemond must be long gone.”

Luke nodded, glancing at Arrax and then back at you, hesitating, and you knew what he was thinking. You had been thinking it ever since you got to the cave.

“It is alright, Luke. Arrax is too small to carry us both all the way to Dragonstone. Go.”

You tried to be brave, giving Luke a smile but your voice was shaking, whether it was from fear or cold, you weren’t sure. You were a high born lady, you were in no way capable of fending for yourself. Luke leaving you here would mean a certain death, but he didn’t need to know that. Luke looked at you with big eyes, saying nothing before he walked over to Arrax, whispering to him as he stroked his dragon’s neck gently.

You let out a small breath, taking another look around the cave, resigning yourself to your fate when Luke called your name.

“Come, we need to leave before the weather turns again.”

“Luke, no,” you argued but Luke shook his head.

“You saved me. I am not leaving you behind. I would never forgive myself, and neither would Jace,” Luke said, and you let out a soft chuckle, shaking your head. “Arrax can carry us both, it is not much longer until Dragonstone.”

You ducked your head, a smile on your lips. Rhaenyra really raised amazing children.

“Very well.”

The two of you squeezed into the saddle on top of Arrax, who let out a small huff as he walked to the entrance of the cave.

“Mēre mōrī kipagon gō īlon issi lenton, issa valonquar,” Luke said to Arrax, gently caressing his neck. “Soves.” One more flight until we’re home, my boy.

Arrax leapt into the air, letting out a screech before stretching his wings, making his way home. As you flew through the skies, your eyes darted around constantly, looking for any sign of Vhagar, but it seemed like the coast was clear. Soon enough, you could see the outline of Dragonstone, and just in time; as you had noticed Arrax growing tired the more you lost on altitude.

“Īlon issi bē konīr, Arrax. Sepār mirrī tolī.” We are almost there, Arrax. Just a bit more.

Luke’s voice was gentle as he spoke to Arrax, despite his nerves. You nearly sighed in relief when Arrax flew towards the small opening to the dragon mount, and you thanked all the Gods when both you and Luke climbed off of Arrax onto solid ground again.

“Prince Lucerys!”

A knight came hurrying into the dragon pit, his eyes flickering to you before turning his attention back to Luke.

“Her Grace has been awaiting your arrival.”

Luke nodded, watching Arrax climb into the depths of the cave to get some much needed rest before he turned to the knight. “Take us to my mother.”

The knight bowed, leading you and Luke into the Keep, stopping in the doorway. Rhaenyra was pacing in front of the fire, her face worried. You hadn’t seen her for so long, but she looked almost exactly the same.

“Prince Lucerys, your Grace.”

Rhaenyra ceased her pacing, looking up and the relief was obvious on her face as she ran toward her son.

“Luke!”

“Mother!”

Rhaenyra threw her arms around her son, embracing him tightly and your breath stocked in your throat as you stayed back. You couldn’t believe how everything could have played out so differently if you had not intervened.

Rhaenyra pulled away, cupping Lucerys’ face with her hands.

“What happened?”

“Aemond and Vhagar were already at Storm’s End when I arrived. Lord Borros refused to stand by his oath… When I left Aemond followed me on Vhagar; if she hadn’t intervened…”

Lucerys paused and Rhaenyra glanced over to you; you, who had stayed behind to give them privacy.

You bowed your head, mostly out of respect but also because you had no idea what to do.

“You’re Helaena’s lady in waiting,” Rhaenyra said.

“I was. I have spent my last eight name days in Oldtown with Daeron.”

Rhaenyra gave you a small, grateful smile, but before either of you could continue your talks, shouts interrupted you.

“Mother! Luke!”

You turned around just to see Jace storming into the hall, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword. Your heart stopped in your chest as you saw him again for the first time in so many years, relief washing over his face as he saw his brother stand with his mother unharmed. Then his eyes laid on you, and you gave him a shy smile. Jace only blinked at you, eyeing you from head to toe before his eyes widened; and for a second, you thought he’d be happy to see you. Instead, his forehead creased and his mouth curled downwards.

“What are you doing here?”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

author’s note: omg the drama...what are we thinking??

[randomdragonfires]

Parallel Lines, Act I

Text Divider by @saradika-graphics

SUMMARY | He fears her proximity, and she fears his distance. As war looms, they’ll have to learn to make their marriage work to find comfort in each other.

Or at least, try.

PAIRING | Aemond Targaryen x Wife!Reader

WARNINGS | 18+; SMUT; Angst; Complicated Relationship Themes; Emotional Negligence; Infidelity; Major Character Death; Aemond and his issues are a warning on their own ok?

AUTHOR’S NOTE | All Valyrian lines were translated from english using a free online translator. They are likely to be grammatically wrong - but I don’t even know man. Yeah.

WORD COUNT | 9.5k - and not a single word is beta read. We die like warriors, I guess?

The moonlight spilled through the series of windows of her husband’s - not theirs, his - apartments in the Red Keep, casting a silvery glow over the austere elegance of the chambers. His wife stood by the window, her silhouette framed against the backdrop of the night sky, the soft rustle of her gown the only sound in the otherwise silent room.

She turned slowly, her gaze sweeping across the dimly lit interior, taking in the cool, stone walls that seemed to absorb the flickering torchlight. She glided through the hall where intricate tapestries depicted dragons in flight, their scales shimmering with threads of gold and silver. The grand fireplace dominated one wall, the warmth emanating throughout the space from the burning logs within. She folded her arms into her chest, as if to preserve the heat as she shivered from the cold night - her thin nightdress didn’t help. Above the mantelpiece, Vhagar's fierce eyes followed her every movement, a fierce presence in paint.

Moving through the chambers, she passed through his personal library, every page a stern reflection of his interests. Shelves of dark, polished wood lined the walls, filled with ancient tomes and scrolls, their faint scent of aged parchment and leather permeating the air.

He mostly smelled of smoke, fire and leather. Of books and dragons - both of which he is passionate about.

It makes sense then, that no one will ever catch a whiff of her perfume on him.

They were far from passionate, after all.

In the center, his heavy, ornately carved desk was strewn with maps and documents, a well-used quill and inkwell ready for his expert hand to wield. She leaned on the table to look at it all, and spun one of the wooden markers between her nimble fingers for a moment - as she had seen him do countless times - before leaving it back where she found it.

She stepped into the bedchamber, its stark stone walls softened by the rich, crimson fabrics of the large, canopied bed. Dragons were subtly woven into the bedspread and curtains, a constant reminder of the Targaryen lineage that she had married and given birth to.

How long has it been since she laid with him on this bed? More than a year, she surmised. They did their duty on their wedding night, and the Mother was graceful enough to make his seed quicken in her immediately. She laid with him for a few weeks after - and when the maesters made it known that she was with child, that had stopped.

A good wife knows how to keep her husband satisfied, they said. Her husband never sought her out. If the whispers of the few around her were to be believed, he frequents a whore in a Silk Street brothel.

Was she not a good wife then?

She gave him a son. He may be sickly, but he is a son nonetheless. Surely it must count?

With a weary sigh, her eyes shifted to the adjoining armory, where Aemond’s armor and weapons were meticulously displayed. This part of his room exuded an air of readiness, a silent promise of the warrior who would soon return to his space.

From the whorehouse, no doubt.

She turned back to the window, her thoughts as fluid as the shimmering waves below. The apartments were a microcosm of her husband's existence: regal yet austere, scholarly yet martial.

And no sign of marriage, leave alone happy or healthy. How could there be, when he doesn’t feel half the happiness with her that he does when left alone with his beast or books?

There was no hate between them, surely not. Her husband was agreeable, but that was that. There was never any doubt in her mind that he did not want her - or the idea of her - but had to marry her anyway. There was no passion, and she could count with two hands the number of times they have lain with each other in the past year that they have been married - even that was before she had become with child.

There was nothing, truly.

She tried with him, initially. But any illusion of interest that she thought he may grow towards her was shattered the moment she heard that the very night that she’d met him, he was seen moving out of the castle grounds and into the Street of Silk.

He didn’t even bother with making it discreet.

Their wedding was a morose affair. They were the very picture of a royal couple, but neither felt the part - more like a pair of chastised children made to listen after a screaming bout. Even when he took her, he took her from behind - and she was fully clothed. It was nowhere close to the slow exploration that some of her ladies promised. He’s a scholar, he’d be willing to learn for your pleasure, they had said. He’d not even kissed her after their wedding ceremony, not once - he simply demanded that she get on the bed, and took her like an animal while the Small Council and their families watched her eyes pool with painful tears.

What had she done to warrant such embarrassment? She didn’t know what she’d done to make him shirk her so, but it was the way it was. It just was.

When he kept calling her back, he’d taken to offering her wine when they were finished. She didn’t linger when her goblet was emptied. She simply walked out, and wished him a good night.

He never once asked her to stay.

When the news of the babe in her belly had arrived, she’d been relieved - she’d never have to lay with a man who did not want her, ever again. He didn’t seem overjoyed either, and simply hummed with a hand on her belly.

“There is blood of the dragon in you now,” he said. And then he let his thumb run over her cheek. It was the softest he’d ever been with her, and she relished those few seconds. For a moment, he looked so peaceful and content… a stranger. That’s when it occurred to her that perhaps there’s more to Aemond than what he lets anyone see.

She could have fallen in love with him, if he’d cared enough to show her. But it seemed that he’d only viewed her as a duty and a burden.

The ghost of his touch lingered, and she brought her own hand to her cheek as though the warmth still remained. What did the whores have that she did not? Or was it the same whore each time?

Jealousy is unbecoming of a princess, she reminded herself. But so is unhappiness and a constant sense of dread, surely?

Her thoughts were interrupted as the door swung open. Her husband strode into the room, immediately aware of her presence. She felt the shift in the air and watched as the shadows of his boots slow, absorbing the sight of her. He removed his cloak with a fluid motion, letting it fall onto his chair before approaching her with the deliberate grace of a predator.

“Wife.” His voice was clipped and devoid of warmth, as though addressing a servant rather than the mother of his son.

She turned to face him, the pale moonlight highlighting the tension etched across her features. "Husband," she responded, mirroring his tone, though a flicker of hurt glimmers in her eyes.

Do you think of me as I think of you? Do you think of me at all?

A heavy silence settled between them, thick with unspoken words. Her gaze scanned his face, searching for any trace of the man whom she foolishly once thought would love her. Instead, she found only the cold mask he wore, a fortress against the world and his own buried emotions.

Against her.

“Has the council kept you long?” she asked, her voice steady despite the turmoil within. They both looked outside the windows, with her leaning into the railing while he stood with his hands held back, ramrod straight.

Always on guard.

“Long enough,” he replied, his eyes drifting to the dark expanse of the bay. “There are matters that require my attention.”

“And our son?” she asked, a touch of warmth infusing her words at the mention of their child. “Will you see Aerys tonight?”

For a brief moment, something softened in Aemond’s gaze, a fleeting shadow of tenderness. She must have imagined it - it was too fleeting and quick to hold any kind of weight.

She was jealous of her own son, for he elicits more from Aemond than she ever has, as little as it is.

“Perhaps. If time allows.”

She nodded, turning back to look at him; to see him.

The weight of his indifference settled over her like a shroud. The Blackwater Bay stretches out before them, vast and unchanging, mirroring the growing distance between them.

“I worry for you,” she murmured, her voice almost swallowed by the night. “War will come to us soon, will it not?” If it hadn’t come so far, she knew it would now. Vaemond Velaryon’s rolling head and King Viserys’ worsening condition only made sure of it.

He stood rigid beside her, his posture unyielding. “It is my duty,” he said, as if that alone suffices.

“I know,” she replied, sadness threading through her voice. “But you are more than your duty, Aemond. You are Aerys’ father and my…”

The emotions were high tonight, higher than they’d ever been. She didn’t know why she sought him out. There has been ample evidence to support that he would not care, and yet here she was.

She wanted safety, and the only person she could approach is the one who has never made her feel welcome or safe in any capacity.

Who else do I have here?

The tears mangle her vision and she swallowed what threatened to follow.

“I have given you a son.” She trembled, her voice threatening to give way to s stream of tears. “The shadow of war looms upon us, and you’ve set me aside and I worry…”

He lifted his head just slightly as the words sank in, but she was too dejected to care about his acknowledgement. He may be cold, and his reactions to her come far and few in between - but she could not bring herself to mull over it too at the moment.

“War is coming. I am as certain of it as I am of the sun rising on the morrow and I know you are too -” He opened his mouth to interfere, but she was quick to not give him the gap to take over her speech. “Do not insult my intelligence by suggesting otherwise.”

“I was not.”

She turned to face him, a whirlwind of emotions swirling in her eyes as she wondered why the Gods had not seen fit to give her a husband who loved her. He was beautiful, a cruel irony that made her anger flare even more. Despite all the hurt he had caused, she could not help but feel drawn to him. To hide her tears, she looked to the floor, trembling as she forced out her next words.

“I know you do not love me. I know you do not want me. But I… I have given you a son. An heir to continue your legacy, and that… I like to think that it would be reason enough to ask you to not forsake me. We have not supported each other all this time, but the least you can do is assure me that you will keep us safe.”

A flicker of something unrecognizable flashed in his eye, and he turned to face her fully, leaning against the window arch. “Did you… truly think that I would leave you to die if it came down to it?”

“You haven’t given me reason to believe that you’ll want me around.” Her voice was bitter, dripping with contempt.

He was ethereal as he reached out, holding her jaw between his thumb and finger, bringing her closer to his porcelain skin and alabaster hair. Her gaze flitted about chaotically, struggling to meet his eye. Her body shivered from the cold, torn between wanting him to let her go and needing him to hold her tight.

“You are my wife. I swore to the Gods that I would honor and protect you. You and Aerys are my family, and I would be slain a hundred times over before I see either of you hurt. I may not be… I may not be the man you want, but I can assure you that I am an honorable husband who will safeguard you and our boy.”

She did not know what she expected. A declaration of hidden love? Certainly not. But somehow, his assurances fell short. “Honorable.” She tested the word on her tongue, finding it the most bitter sound she had ever uttered. Her cheek alarmed him, and she spat venom. “Honorable?” His grip on her chin tightened, and she took it as a sign to continue.

“I know you frequent the Silk Street brothels. I know you’ve been going there since the very first day we met. Unless the professions of whores have changed, it is safe to assume that you are not honorable or loyal. And if you are, it is certainly not to me.”

A whore out there enjoyed her husband’s undying devotion, while she sat in the castle hoping and praying he would recognize her, let alone love her.

His expression shifted, a storm brewing behind his eyes, but he did not release her. The weight of her words hung heavy in the air, a chasm of pain pulling them apart. She met his intense gaze finally, tears brimming in her eyes, the anguish of their fractured bond laid bare for him to see.

He tasted of smoke and fire, and yet her mouth craved him anyway. He was an eternity away from her—always, always—and yet her fingers yearned to touch him.

“I do not go there for…” He took a long breath before completing his sentence, almost as if he needed his composure to simply survive.

Not there for what? Was he not fucking the whores? What else could he possibly do?

“Do you think I do not know the sacrifices you have made?” His voice was a harsh whisper, a mixture of anger and something deeper, almost pleading. “Do you think I do not feel the weight of our shared duty, the responsibility to our son? My responsibility to you?”

“But you have never shown me,” she whispered back, her voice breaking. “You have never given me a reason to believe that you care, that you see me as more than just a broodmare for an heir!"

For a moment, they stood frozen, the distance between them both physical and emotional. The moonlight casted a cold glow over their figures, highlighting the stark contrast between their proximity and their separation.

“It is not easy for me.”

“It should not be hard to love your wife. Or at the very least respect her.”

“I—”

She brought her hand up to stop him before any more of his lies spewed out and stepped away from him. She walked to the door at an amazing speed, her skirts swishing past as she tried to get out before her tears spilled out. In a late change of heart though, as her hand rested on the door latch, she turned.

“No lady should beg her husband to love her. No matter if he is a prince. It is beneath her, and I am no different. I will not beg…” If she had looked at him properly, she’d have noticed him flinch at her damning words.

“I will not beg you to love me after dismissing me all this time; I do have my pride. But I will beg you to save my life if it needs saving. That is all I ask.”

“You never had to ask.”

She took a breath and drank some leftover wine in the goblet next to her, not caring for whose it originally was. The thought would make her retch usually, but she was beyond caring.

“Your mother… she loves me surely, but I think she doesn’t like me very much. Your sister and I never managed to understand each other. Your brother… well he is a mindless lecher. I can’t quite figure out your grandfather at all. And you… you know what we’re like. I just… I worry that in this impending war within kin, I will be forgotten and left to die simply because my job is done with the birth of my son and I am too close to the storm and you don’t care and I don’t want to die. I don’t want anyone to die-”

“You are my kin.” he said. It made her smile, albeit a woeful one. “You may need to remind me every once in a while.”

He didn’t respond. She simply left.

And even now, he didn’t ask her to stay.

She wished he did.

Aemond stood by the hearth, cradling their feverish son in his arms. 

Dressed in his somber blacks, he looked every bit the stern warrior, yet the gentle way he held Aerys belied that image. The babe was flushed and fretful, his tiny hands gripping Aemond’s hair and tugging insistently. Aemond hissed softly at the sharp pull, but did not dislodge the child's grip.

“Byka zaldrīzes,” he grumbles. It is strict, but not unaffectionate - she was familiar with that tone. She’d watched him use it with their son often when he thought no one was looking. [Little dragon.]

From the doorway, she watched them. They looked like a loving family - the devoted mother standing watch, her eyes filled with affection as she observed her husband and son. But appearances were deceiving, and both of them knew the truth beneath the surface.

Aerys, in his restless state, grabbed at Aemond’s eyepatch, tugging it down and exposing the scarred, empty socket. Aemond’s expression tightened as he shifted the boy from one arm to the other, quickly adjusting the patch back into place. In that brief moment, their eyes met, and she glimpsed the vulnerability he so meticulously hid. He seemed to close himself off even more, as if shielding his heart from her gaze.

It was a deep, almost dark blue. She noticed, she always noticed.

“I came to check on him before luncheon,” she said softly, breaking the silence that had settled like a heavy shroud. She always ensured that she made a solitary routine of her visits, ensuring that he’d have time alone with her son like he seemed to want. To be together - as a family - stumped her beyond belief, no matter how second nature it should be.

What was he doing here?

Aemond nodded, his voice measured as he recounted the maester's instructions. “The maester believes he will grow healthy with time. We must be diligent with the poultices and draughts.” His tone was clinical, as if discussing a strategy for battle rather than the wellbeing of their son.

She watched as he laid Aerys gently in the cot, the child’s feverish grip slackening as he drifted into a fitful sleep. She approached, brushing a strand of hair from Aerys’s forehead, her touch tender and light.

Aemond stepped back, retreating to the armchair close to the cot where a goblet of wine awaited him. He took a long sip, his gaze fixed on her as she sat at his foot, and peered in to take a look at their son. Facing away from him, she began to sing softly. Her voice, though tinged with sorrow, was soothing, and Aemond’s stern expression softened as he watched the scene unfold. For a moment, the room was filled with a fragile peace.

The Seven Gods who made us all,

are listening if we should call.

So close your eyes, you shall not fall,

they see you, little children.

Just close your eyes, you shall not fall,

they see you, little children.

She didn’t say anything and let the silence engulf them both when she finished her song. She then turned around and sat on the floor near his feet, her back leaned against her son’s cot as she looked up to face her stoic husband. After what seemed like an eternity, he spoke - his words measured but with the intent of concern. He spoke them like he was testing them out on his tongue.

“The maesters… they say you’re being given herbs as well.”

She nodded, feeling the weight of her exhaustion in every fiber of her being. The birth had been horribly hard on her body, leaving her depleted and fragile. Only now was she beginning to regain her strength. The whispers of the servants echoed in her mind—comments about how all this suffering was for a sickly child. But those whispers meant nothing to her. She would move the ends of the earth for her son, no matter what anyone thought. 

He was the blood of the dragon. Dragons do not concern themselves with the opinions of sheep, and she would not allow her son to be any different.

“Ever since the birth, I have grown… weak,” she began, her voice barely above a whisper. “Aerys took a toll on me when he came.”

Aemond’s eyes were detached, but she heard the slight concern and contemplation in his voice. “Were you in pain? In the days after?”

She hesitated for a moment, surprised by his sudden show of concern. “Yes,” she admitted, her voice trembling. “I was. I still am.”

His questions were gentle, as if he truly cared, as if he genuinely wanted to understand what she had gone through. This unexpected tenderness from him was jarring, and it took all her strength not to withdraw. She had longed for this moment for so long, the chance to finally, truly connect with the man she had married.

And now that it was here, it felt as foreign to her as the other continents of the realm.

“I should have been there,” he said, his voice laced with regret. He didn’t look at her, head turned away as he spoke.  “I should have been by you-”

She’d heard the rumors that her good mother worked hard to ensure she’d never hear. While she labored and went through all the Seven Hells giving birth to their son, Aemond was at a whorehouse, doing Gods know what.

She shook her head, her eyes filling with unshed tears. “I don’t want to know,” she interrupted, her tone gentle but firm. “I’d rather choose blissful ignorance than a painful truth. Especially when it comes to you.”

Aemond nodded slowly, regality exuding from him even in his slightest movements. “I have failed you,” he confessed, his voice almost a whisper. He did not apologize, and she knew that he never would. This was the most she would get from him, and for now, it had to be enough.

It didn’t mean that it shocked her any less.

Summoning her remaining strength, she stood and moved toward him. She leaned forward, resting her hands on the armrests of his chair, bringing herself closer to him. The curve of her breasts nearly brushed his chin, and she could feel his breath, warm and shallow, on her skin. His goblet of wine lay forgotten on a nearby desk, the contents slowly going tepid.

He looked up at her, surprise and something deeper flickering in his eye. His expression was a mixture of pain and longing, as if he too yearned for what she did. Slowly, almost hesitantly, he moved his hand and covered hers with his. His touch was tentative, as if he feared she might pull away. But she held firm, her fingers entwining with his. 

He was warm to the touch. She remembered that much from the first days of their marriage, but it felt better to be reminded of it this way. Almost as though he was tender towards her, like they never spent any time being purposefully apart from each other.

She felt like they were getting somewhere, a tentative bridge forming between their fractured hearts. Carried away by the newfound closeness, she hesitated only for a moment before reaching out, her hand trembling as it neared his face. Her fingers were delicate, soft against the rough texture of his skin as she traced the scar that marred his otherwise perfect visage.

Aemond’s breath hitched, his entire body tensing at the intimate touch. She moved slowly, her fingers gliding over the jagged lines. Her touch was feather-light, almost reverent, as if she could heal his old wounds with her tenderness.

Her eyes locked onto his, searching for any sign of discomfort or rejection. Instead, she saw vulnerability, a crack in his formidable armor that allowed her a glimpse of the man beneath the warrior’s facade. His eye, the one not covered by the patch, was wide and filled with an emotion she couldn't quite name - something between longing and fear.

With a gentle caress, her finger traced the path of the scar down to his cheekbone, lingering there for a moment before moving toward the eyepatch. She felt his breath warm against her hand, the rise and fall of his chest quickening as her fingers danced over the leather. The eyepatch was cool and rough under her touch, a stark contrast to the smoothness of his skin.

She paused, her heart pounding in her chest as she felt the tension coiling in him. Would he push her away? Would he retreat back into the cold distance that had defined their relationship for so long? But he remained still, his gaze fixed on hers, a silent permission in his eyes.

Encouraged by his silence, she allowed her fingers to explore the edges of the eyepatch, feeling the worn leather against her skin. Her thumb brushed over the strap that held it in place, her touch gentle and soothing. He shivered, a barely perceptible tremor that ran through him, and she felt a surge of something warm and hopeful rise within her.

His reaction was slow, almost imperceptible. He closed his eye briefly, as if savoring the sensation, then opened it to meet her gaze again. She could see the conflict within him, the struggle between the desire to protect himself and the yearning for this rare moment of intimacy.

She moved closer, her body almost pressing against his as she continued her exploration. The curve of her breasts brushed against his chin, and she felt the heat radiating from him, the tension in his muscles. Her fingers lingered on the eyepatch, tracing the lines where it met his skin, feeling the pulse of his heartbeat beneath her touch. His hand reached up, covering hers. For a moment, the world shrank to just the two of them, suspended in a fragile, tender silence.

“Will you let me see?” she whispered, her voice trembling.

His hesitance and silence said more than his words ever could. 

The moment stretched, taut and fragile, until it seemed to snap under the weight of unspoken fears. She saw the flicker of rejection in his eye, a retreat behind the barriers he had so carefully constructed. Her face fell, the light of hope dimming as she realized she had pushed too far. But she understood; perhaps he needed more time. Withdrawing her hand, she felt the ghost of his touch linger on her skin, a burning reminder of the closeness they had almost shared.

He grasped her wrist gently, as if he wanted to ask her to stay, but the words remained unspoken. She did not want to stay unless he wholeheartedly asked her to. His grip was firm, yet she felt the reluctance in it, the silent struggle to decide whether to hold on and let go.

“I should go,” she said softly, gathering her skirts. “Your mother and sister await me at luncheon, and it would be unseemly to be late.”

He watched her walk away, her steps slow and measured, each one pulling her further from the fragile connection they had started to form. Left alone with his son, Aemond felt the weight of his failure press down on him, a cold, heavy burden that settled in his chest.

Aerys slept in the cot nearby, his tiny body trembling with each breath as if the sickness that plagued him might take him at any moment. Aemond moved his chair closer to the cot, peering down at the infant with a mixture of fear and determination. The soft tufts of silver hair marked him as undoubtedly his, a tiny mirror of his own lineage.

How many nights had she spent alone, watching over him like this? Scared that if she stepped away, Aerys may be gone?

In a quiet tone that would otherwise go unheard, he whispered to his son, his voice thick with emotion. “Ao kostagon’t tepagon bē va īlva, riñnykeā.” [You can’t give up on us, child.] After a moment of composure, he continued. “Ziry braved vīlībāzma naejot tepagon ao naejot issa. Gaomagon daor henujagon zȳhon.” [She braved battle to give you to me. Do not leave her.]

Aemond's voice trembled, the words almost breaking under the weight of his desperation. He held his son closer, cradling the tiny, fragile body against his chest. He thought of his wife's strength, the pain she had endured, and winced at the realization of how badly he had treated her. His neglect, his coldness - they had all but shattered her. 

He had done enough to her. The last thing he wanted was to see her lose Aerys too.

The dim light of the chamber cast soft shadows on Aemond's face, highlighting the sharp lines of his jaw and the furrowed brow etched deep with worry. His eye, normally a piercing blue, now seemed almost muted, dulled by the depth of his concern. He reached out, placing a gentle hand on his son’s chest, feeling the weak but steady rise and fall of his breaths. Aerys stirred slightly, his tiny fingers curling around a strand of Aemond’s hair. The grip was weak, but determined.

“You are the blood of the dragon,” he continued, his voice a fierce whisper. “You will grow strong.”

The Dragonpit was packed, the air heavy with the murmurs of the gathered smallfolk and the flickering light of countless torches. She stood beside Aemond, her posture as straight and regal as she could manage, her heart pounding in her chest. The spectacle of Aegon's coronation was unfolding before her eyes, a momentous event that would shape the future of the Targaryen family.

Hers.

The ceremony began with the Grand Maester stepping forward, the crown of Aegon the Conqueror held reverently in his hands. The weight of history seemed to press down on the room, making every breath feel heavy, every movement deliberate. Aegon - looking more like a squabbling, crying child than a King - ascended the steps to the dais, his face a mask of acceptance.

And when her husband nodded to his new King, she bowed deep.

She watched as Aegon’s expression shifted from indifference to a flicker of recognition of the power now bestowed upon him. The crowd erupted in cheers, their loyalty and fervor palpable, yet she felt a pang of unease amidst the celebration.

Beside her, Aemond stood tall and vigilant, his eye never leaving the proceedings. She glanced at him, seeking comfort in his composed demeanor, his presence a steady anchor in the sea of chaos. The noise of the crowd swelled, and she could feel the anticipation hanging thick in the air, a tangible force that seemed to wrap around them all. 

Aegon, now crowned, raised Blackfyre high above his head, the ancient sword gleaming in the firelight. The sight was awe-inspiring, a symbol of power and legitimacy. Yet, beneath the grandeur, she sensed the underlying tensions and overheard the words that Helaena kept mumbling. 

There is a beast beneath the boards.

Her feet shifted, and she heard the hollow sound that the ground made when her shoe met the surface. A hollow sound that comes when feet meets -

The boards.

Suddenly, the ground beneath them trembled, a low rumble that grew into a deafening roar. Gasps of shock and fear rippled through the crowd, and she instinctively reached for Aemond’s hand. Before she could react further, the floor of the Dragonpit exploded upward, sending debris and chaos flying in all directions.

Rhaenys, astride her dragon Meleys, emerged from the smoke and dust, her presence formidable and terrifying. The dragon’s scales shimmered with an otherworldly glow, its eyes blazing with fury. The people scattered, screams of panic filling the air as the beast roared, the sound reverberating through the hall and shaking her to her core.

Her heart raced, terror gripping her as she stared at the massive dragon, its wings spreading wide, casting a shadow over the entire chamber. Aemond’s hand tightened around hers, pulling her behind him protectively. She could feel his body tense, ready to shield her from any danger. Despite the fear that threatened to overwhelm her, a faint surge of gratitude washed through.

You never had to ask.

Meleys roared again, the sound like thunder, and the heat of its breath washed over them. She could see the flames flickering in the dragon's throat, the promise of destruction just a heartbeat away. Rhaenys, regal and unyielding, locked eyes with Alicent, a silent challenge passing between them.

Aemond stepped forward, his presence a wall of defiance and strength. “Get behind me,” he commanded, his voice steady despite the chaos. She obeyed without hesitation, her body pressed close to his, drawing comfort from his unwavering resolve.

The dragon’s eyes fixed on them, and for a moment, time seemed to stand still. She could hear her own heartbeat, a frantic drumbeat in her ears, and the cold sweat on her palms. Every muscle in her body was taut with fear, and she kept her eyes firmly set to the ground.

This is how I die. Do you call it a dragonrider’s death when you don’t ride a dragon?

My son. AerysAerysAerys-

Aemond.

Rhaenys stared at them all, the weight of her decision hanging in the air. Meleys shifted, the ground trembling beneath its weight, and for a moment, it seemed as though the dragon would unleash its fury. But then, as if making a choice that defied all expectations, Rhaenys turned Meleys away, the dragon's wings beating powerfully as they ascended through the shattered roof of the Dragonpit.

The relief was overwhelming, a rush of emotions that left her weak at the knees. She clung to Aemond, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps as she tried to process what had just happened. The hall was filled with the sounds of weeping and the murmurs of disbelief, the aftermath of the encounter leaving everyone shaken.

Aemond’s arm wrapped around her, pulling her close, his breath warm against her ear. “Are you all right?” he asked, his voice low and filled with concern. She nodded, still trembling, her heart beginning to slow as the adrenaline ebbed away.

She did not notice how closely he held her when it came down to it - for the very first time. 

Aemond's fingers dug into Sylvi's hips as he thrust into her from behind, each movement fierce and relentless. Her back arched under the pressure of his hand, pushing her down onto the bed. The room was filled with the raw sounds of their coupling, echoing off the walls.

His breath came in ragged gasps, mingling with her moans. His grip tightened, nails biting into her flesh as he drove into her harder, seeking release in the violent act. The scent of sweat and sex hung heavy in the air, an intoxicating mix that fueled his aggression. "Gods,” He growled, his voice a low, primal rumble. He watched as her body responded to each thrust, the way her muscles tensed and relaxed, the sheen of sweat on her skin glistening in the candlelight. She was a willing vessel for his frustrations, and he took her with a ferocity that bordered on madness.

Her moans turned into cries of pleasure, her fingers clutching the sheets beneath her as she braced herself against his onslaught. He felt a dark satisfaction at the way he could bend her to his will, the power he wielded in these moments of raw, unbridled lust.

The climax came in a wave of intense pleasure, his body shuddering as he spilled into her. He collapsed over her, panting, his chest pressed against her back as he tried to catch his breath. The aftermath was a stark contrast to the ferocity of their coupling – a quiet, intimate moment where their bodies remained entwined, slick with sweat and the remnants of their shared passion.

Her arms wrapped around Aemond's naked body, her touch tender and soothing after their rough encounter. The room was dimly lit, the soft glow of candlelight casting shadows on the walls. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and sex, mingling with the faint aroma of lavender from the sheets.

Aemond's breathing gradually slowed, his chest rising and falling against hers as he allowed himself to relax in her embrace. His mind, however, was anything but at ease. He thought back to the scene that had haunted him since he left his chambers earlier: his wife, cradling their son, her eyes red from crying, her body and mind still fragile from the ordeal of facing a dragon at Aegon’s coronation.

"She was crying before I left to come here," he began, his voice a low murmur against her neck. "Holding our son, so shocked by near-death.. It didn’t seem as terrifying to me, but... she was so scared. She's worried, you know. About the impending war."

The Madame’s fingers traced gentle circles on his back, encouraging him to continue. "She doesn't have dragonrider's blood," he went on, almost to himself. "I didn’t know how to comfort her. I want to help, but I don’t know how."

Her hands moved up to his shoulders, her touch grounding him. Her presence was a stark contrast to the chaos in his mind. He lowered his head to her chest, his lips finding her breast. He suckled softly, kneading the soft flesh, seeking solace in the familiar act.

Holding their son brought comfort to his wife, and for him, coming here to the Madame, was his escape. The warmth and intimacy they shared, however fleeting, was his way of coping with the weight of his responsibilities and the emotional distance between him and his wife. As he continued to be held, he couldn’t help but wonder if he and his wife would ever find this kind of comfort in each other; if he’d ever find the courage or the trust to truly tell her what he needs without worrying about losing her respect.

If he'd walked in and held her while she cried instead of leaving her to it and coming here, could he have made her feel safer?

Too many questions, not enough courage for answers. Too much pride and so little sense between them both.

Aemond's heart pounded in his chest as Vhagar soared through the stormy skies back to King's Landing. The cold wind bit at his face, but it was nothing compared to the icy dread gripping his heart. 

He had killed Luke. His nephew, his blood. 

The act had been unintended, a consequence of their reckless chase, but it was done. There would be no undoing it. If there hadn't been a war before, there certainly was now. The weight of his actions settled heavily upon him, more suffocating than the fiercest storm. As the familiar silhouette of the Red Keep came into view, a storm of emotions churned within him. Guilt, fear, and a desperate need for comfort twisted together, making his insides writhe. 

He dismounted Vhagar with a heavy heart, his drenched form slipping through the darkened halls of the castle like a shadow. His mind raced, an entire host of thoughts battering against the walls of his consciousness. He needed solace, a place to hide from the storm he had created. The whorehouse crossed his mind briefly, a familiar escape, but he knew it wouldn’t be enough this time. He needed... he needed...

Before he knew it, his feet had taken him to her apartments.

Her. His wife.

He stood before the door, hesitating for a moment before pushing it open. His wife was readying for bed, her state of undress evident. She wore a robe over her shift, her hair loose around her shoulders. The soft light from the hearth bathed her in a gentle glow, as he took her in. She turned to him in shock, her eyes widening at the sight of him. It was clear how rare this occurrence was, how unexpected his presence was in her chambers. But she was quick to pull him in, taking in his drenched form with a worried expression.

"Husband, what has happened?" she asked, her voice filled with concern.

He did not answer, his eyes trained on her as she moved. Her exposed skin drew his attention, and he found himself wondering. 

Was she softer? Kinder? Would she hold him in her soft arms if he so wished? Did he deserve it from her? Would she shame him?

She kept asking, but he remained silent, his mind too chaotic to form coherent words. She moved to find him something to dry off with, but he reached out, his hand wrapping around her wrist in a death grip.

"Don't go," he whispered, his voice raw and choked, barely more than a breath.

She looked up at him, her confusion gradually giving way to a quiet curiosity. He gently guided her arms around his cold and damp waist, his touch unexpectedly tender. This was not a whore; this was his wife. She deserved to be treated differently. 

At first, she froze, her body tense and uncertain, but slowly, she let herself relax – at least as much as she could manage with a husband who had sought her out for the first time in a year.

He felt her hesitation and understood the significance of her yielding. The weight of his guilt pressed harder against his heart, but he clung to this moment of closeness, desperate for the comfort he so craved.

"What has happened, husband? Why are you here?" she asked softly, parts of her words muffled into his chest.

He remained silent, waiting to see what she would do. Her repeated questions slowly stopped, a resigned understanding settling in her gaze. In the silence, he became acutely aware of her form – soft, untouched by anyone but him, made for him. The thin layers of her robe and shift did little to keep his hands from exploring her.

His fingers trembled as they traced the curve of her spine, brushing against the delicate fabric of her robe. Every slight movement, every breath, every shiver she made became magnified in his mind. Her body responded to his touch with a delicate gasp, and he felt a surge of something he couldn't quite name – a need, a longing, a desperate desire for solace in her embrace.

He watched the rise and fall of her chest, every intake of breath, every flinch and gasp. He noticed a stray hair that had fallen across her face, the way the delicate hairs on her skin raised at his touch, the way her eyes widened and then softened. Each detail etched itself into his mind, a stark contrast to the murder that had driven him here.

She tightened her arms around him, her touch gentle yet firm. He buried his face in her hair, breathing in her scent – lilacs and something uniquely her that anchored him to this moment, to her. It was a comfort stronger than any he had ever received, yet calm and grounding at the same time.

His hands roamed her back, feeling the delicate curve of her waist, the slight tremor in her muscles as she responded to his touch. He pressed his lips to her neck, feeling the pulse of her heartbeat, steady and reassuring. Her breath hitched, and he felt the vibration of her voice as she whispered his name, a question and a plea all at once.

"Aemond," she murmured, her voice breaking the silence. His body reacts in shivers and heat at the sound of his name upon her lips. "Please, tell me what's wrong."

Had she ever said his name out loud before? He did not know. But he wanted to hear it again and again until the world as he knew it ended. Perhaps it was the guilt - over Luke, or over his neglect of his wife - he did not know. But it was all bubbling at the surface now, and he was much more open and vulnerable than he’d ever been.

He bent his head down, his eye locking onto hers. The intensity of his gaze seemed to drown out the room, focusing solely on her. He could see the concern, the worry etched in her features, and it tore at him. He couldn't tell her, not yet. Not about the blood on his hands, the life he had taken, not why he was here and what he’d wanted.

But he could let her consume him, to forget. He could lose himself in her.

He felt the warmth of her skin, the softness of her curves against him, and for a moment, he allowed himself to forget the horrors of the night. He traced the line of her jaw with his fingers, memorizing every curve, every angle. Her skin was smooth and warm, a stark contrast to the cold, damp leathers clinging to him.

He pressed his forehead to hers, their breaths mingling in the scant space between them. Her eyes searched his, looking for answers he couldn't give. Despite her confusion, the turmoil in his mind quieted, replaced by the steady, reassuring rhythm of her heartbeat. She was his anchor, his solace, and he clung to her like a lifeline in the storm.

Wordlessly, he moved back enough to get a good look at her, his eyes tracing her form with a reverence that made her pulse quicken. He then slowly untied the front of her robe, the silk falling away with a whisper. His hands fell to her shoulders, pausing there for a moment as he sighed. As he pushed the sleeves down, his hands traced the newly revealed skin - his fingers glided from her collarbone to her shoulders, down her arms, and finally to her fingers, which he intertwined with his own. The robe slipped to the floor, leaving her in a thin shift that clung to her curves, leaving little to the imagination.

His eyes remained locked on hers, the intensity of his gaze a silent plea for forgiveness, a desperate need to be anchored by her presence. He took her trembling hands and placed them on his damp leathers, his touch firm but gentle, giving her silent permission—no, a quiet command—to undress him. His breath hitched slightly as he waited for her to take the lead.

She moved slowly, her fingers deftly working the buckles and straps, peeling away the layers of his clothing until he stood before her in only his trousers. Her hands hover over his chest, her touch hesitant, almost afraid, as if she's not sure she's allowed to touch him. His skin was warm under her fingertips, his heart pounding just beneath the surface.

His hands covered hers, guiding them lower, to the waistband of his trousers. His touch was both a plea and a command, silently asking, demanding, begging her to take this final barrier away. She did, her movements slow and deliberate, until he stood bare before her, exposed in every sense of the word.

She did not dare try to take off his eyepatch, not this time.

He watched her intently, noting every flinch, every gasp, every shiver that runs through her. His fingers traced delicate patterns on her skin, exploring every inch with a tenderness that speaks of his desperation for her. He needed this moment, her touch, to forget what he'd done to Luke, to drown the guilt that threatened to consume him. Every breath he took was a reminder of his failures, every brush of her skin against his a lifeline that pulled him back from the proverbial edge.

He leaned in, his lips brushing against her neck, her collarbone, her shoulder - not her lips, he had not kissed her on the lips since their wedding ceremony. His hands roamed her body, mapped out the places that made her gasp, the spots that made her arch into him. He was attuned to her every reaction, his focus entirely on her.

All he asked for in return - with no words - is that she make him feel safe for this one night.

With his body bare and hers still clad in her shift, he silently gestured to her bed with a tilt of his head. She moved toward it, her movements graceful yet hesitant, and then crawled to the back, letting her spine rest against the headboard. He stood there for a moment, watching her, his breath uneven and his mind a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions.

He did not miss the way she looked at him. Desire flickered in her eyes, growing with each second her gaze roved over his body. Her eyes widened when they settled on his manhood, and he could see the anticipation building within her. She expected him to take her tonight, he knew. He hadn't given any indication otherwise in the last few moments, and she had no clue what he actually wanted; or why.

Would she welcome him to her bed if she knew he was a kinslayer?

The thought gnawed at him, but he chose not to tell her. She might not offer her true acceptance, but he would take her false comfort tonight – even if she thought it true.

He moved to the side of the bed with all his characteristic grace. She looked up at him, her eyes filled with a mix of confusion and longing. When he lifted his knee to place it on the plush mattress, she shifted to make space for him. He laid down beside her, his movements deliberate and slow, as if fearing she might vanish if he was too hasty. She mirrored his actions, and soon they were facing each other, their warm breaths mingling in the stillness of the room.

Their eyes locked, and he saw her questioning gaze. Her next words, soft and tentative, knocked the breath out of his lungs.

"Are you alright?"

For a moment, he couldn't answer, the weight of the day's events pressing down on him. He looked at her, truly looked at her, and saw the worry etched in the lines of her face, the softness of her eyes, the way her lips parted slightly as she waited for his response.

"I will be," he finally said, his voice rough with emotion.

Tentatively, he placed his hand on her thigh, feeling the warmth of her skin through the thin fabric of her shift. He slid the material up, his fingers tracing the smooth expanse of her leg. 

"Gevie.” [Beautiful.]

His fingers continued their journey, moving to her inner thigh. Her legs shivered at his touch, and he smirked for a moment before he withdrew his hand and moved closer. Their bodies were now a hairsbreadth apart, the heat between them palpable. 

His hands moved to her breasts, feeling their fullness beneath her shift. He was acutely aware of every breath she took, every flinch and gasp that escaped her lips. Each reaction to his touch drew him further into the present moment, away from the dark thoughts that threatened to consume him. Her body was a haven, a sanctuary where he could lose himself, if only for a while.

Encouraged by her soft gasps, he continued to knead the mounds of flesh and pinch her pert nipples, his touch gentle yet insistent through the shift. Lowering his head, he nestled himself at her bosom, inhaling deeply. The scent of lilacs and milk overtook him, and he let out a contented sigh.

"You are a mother... the mother of my heir," he murmured into her chest, his voice a mix of reverence and disbelief.

She said nothing, but when her initial shock faded, she began to comb her fingers through his soft hair, humming the same song she sang to their son to sleep. The melody was soothing, a balm to his frayed nerves. He didn't know if her singing was to calm him or herself, but he found solace in the gentle rise and fall of her breasts with each breath she took.

He took in the way her body trembled slightly beneath him, the softness of her skin, the rhythmic beating of her heart against his cheek. This was not the harsh, immediate and uncertain release he sought at the whorehouse. 

This was more, more, more.

Sleep came to him easily in her arms, draped in her comfort; devoid of any nightmares, dreams, or heavy thoughts. 

If she wondered why he'd simply laid with her rather than fuck her, she did not ask.

Would she welcome him again when she finds out what he did?

The council branded him a kinslayer when he told them what he'd done. He embraced it, staring into their eyes, defiant and unyielding. He told them he did it on purpose, each word a dagger thrown with precision. Kinslayer, kinslayer, kinslayer-

Aegon patted his back, a twisted smile playing on his lips. "A job well done, drawing first blood in the King's name," he said, his voice a blend of admiration and malice. His grandfather's face remained a mask, revealing nothing. Criston was disappointed, his disapproval a heavy weight in the room. And his mother... 

His mother was disgusted, her eyes filled with a sorrow he had never seen before. When he stepped out and walked through the corridors, the word had spread like wildfire. 

Kinslayer. 

The whispers followed him like a relentless shadow. Servants and maids stepped out of his way, their gazes avoiding his. The tension was palpable, a living thing that tightened the air around him. He wanted to escape them all, to flee to the skies where their judgment could not reach him. But before then, he wanted to see them.

He stood near the doorway as she had a few days prior, watching her rock their fitful, sick son to sleep. Her movements were gentle, contrasting all the shock, anger and brashness he’d seen since he stepped out of her room before she awoke. He wanted her to look at him, to see beyond the blood and the sin. He was asking too much of her, he knew that. They were strangers bound by duty, their recent shared moments brief and fraught with his own selfish needs for comfort.

His heart pounded as she finally met his gaze. He was not prepared for the slight fear in her eyes. It cut through him deeper than any sword ever could. She looked at him as if he were a creature she could not recognize. 

Kinslayer, kinslayer, kinslayer-

The word echoed in his mind, a relentless chant that drowned out everything else. He took a step forward, his hands trembling. "I—" he began, but the words died in his throat. What could he say? How could he explain the unexplainable, justify the unforgivable? She held their son closer, her grip tightening protectively. The room was thick with unspoken words, with the weight of what he had done and what it meant for them. His mind raced, filled with a cacophony of anger, regret, and despair.

The need to escape surged within him again. He wanted to flee to the skies, to find solace in the cold, indifferent clouds. But he couldn't move, couldn't tear his gaze away from the image of her fear-stricken eyes.

Kinslayer, kinslayer, kinslayer-

With a heavy heart and a mind in turmoil, he turned and walked back into the shadowed corridors, each step echoing the relentless chant of his new title.

Kinslayer, kinslayer, kinslayer-

The word echoed through the empty halls, a reminder of the path he had chosen and the price he would pay.

If he’d told her last night as he laid in her arms, would she have understood?

He’d never know.

NEXT

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[leeloooonfire]

based on this post about Steve's internalized bi-phobia:

Steve has known for years.

And how could he not when Tommy's freckles come back tenfold each spring like a flower peaking it's head through the last layer of snow? Or when Matthew Carver's hair have a reddish brown tone that turns blond after they spent the last days before summer break practising outside and remind Steve of liquid gold? Or when he watches Star Wars and Harrison Ford, rugged and witty, comes into view and twists his stomach in knots? How could he not know?!

Steve knows he finds guys as attractive as girls, known for many, many years. But.

But he can't. Not when Tommy sneers at that boy in their literature class who likes flamboyant clothes and wants to be an actor on Broadway. Not when the people they meet in Indi who are like Robin and Eddie 'fully queer' and talk about people like Steve as if they're traitors and scams. Not when he reads the newspaper and is assaulted by Reagan and his folk preaching about the 'fag pandemic' or how his father nods in approval and mutters 'another sinner gone for good' when the news play on TV and they occasionally mention the crisis that kills people like Robin and Eddie and him.

Like him....

It doesn't matter how much he loves sleeping with his nose pressed against Eddie's collarbone or that he thinks he'd like to kiss Eddie and hold his hands and wake up beside him until they're old and wrinkly and complain about bad knees.

He is, but he cannot be a queer, half a fairy '50% like me, 50% like Eddie' as Robin jokes.

He will not be a bisexual, he can keep it inside, keep it hidden, buried deep inside him no matter how much it pains him. He can be the straight friend who goes to pride and bakes rainbow cakes and marries a woman even though his heart screams in an ear ringing cacophony, 'Eddie, Eddie Eddie Eddie!'

This is how his 20s go: loud and hurting and yearning and hiding and more noticeably being disgusted and ashamed of himself for simply being able to love men the way he can love women.

He's 29 when his wife, Becky, leaves him. It's not just Eddie and this shameful secret that weights heavy on their relationship, but the scars and all the other secrets he is unable to explain to her that drive Becky finally away - back to Boston. She leaves him alone in that tiny house they bought three years ago with their Saint Bernard puppy they lovingly named Bernadette.

He's 30 when he goes to a coffee meeting of the bisexual group meeting in Chicago, nearly turning the car multiple times, hands and knees sweaty with fear that they won't want him there. They do want him there, welcome him with open arms, and talk about things Steve knows all too well: 'When I fell in love with the first girl, I ran. I like men just fine, so I hid my crush. It's just easier, when your parents hate gays, when the world is shaming our community, when we're dying.' He finds a second home there, and learns - learns about queerness and bisexuality, about trans and gender non conforming people and physical attraction versus emotional attraction. He learns about his past and present and about his future, about their history and where they want to go, how they want to mold their world to fit people like them into it without the pain and the hiding.

Steve is 33 when he finally comes out to everyone dear to him. To the kids who aren't kids anymore and to Joyce and Hopper, and then his parents. this does not go well, but Steve doesn't want, doesn't need their validation anymore. He has his family, his friends, his support system who love him not regardless of his sexuality but because of it, love him because it's part of him. He comes out to Becky, too and that goes much better. they want to be friends, in the future. She's also met Gary who works the the NY Times and wants her to follow him into the big city. So Steve is looking forward how that goes, their tentative friendship.

He is 34 when Eddie comes back from his latest world tour and wants to take a break to rekindle with his uncle, to write new songs, to take a breather. It's only natural that Eddie moves into Steve's guest room and takes over his space on the couch where he cuddles Bernadette while Steve is in the kitchen and makes them grilled cheese and tomato soup for dinner.

Its even more natural when their feet meet while watching a movie and they lean into each other in the kitchen, dawn barely there, while they wait for the coffee maker to finish.

Steve's 35 when Eddie finally kisses him and he kisses back. No hurt, no shame, no guilt gnawing on him, Steve finally allows himself to be with the person he truly wants - regardless of their gender.

[dutyworn]

I’ve talked about this before, but the trilogy takes longer on my blog than it does in canon. The first game takes at least a year (including the few weeks in the second game prologue), there are two years as per canon in between where Wren is dead, the second game takes at least a year, there’s six months in between as per canon where Wren is in Alliance jail, and the third game, most notably, takes at the very least six months (I think, canon tries to claim it’s a few weeks), but I’m very much up for all of the above being longer timelines as well, just not shorter. It makes more sense with forging the found family bonds with everyone, so these are my bare minimum times. If the Reaper War took literal centuries with the Protheans, I’m not going to be taking criticism in making the third game Reaper era last at minimum six months. They never wiped out the galactic civilisation in that short a timeframe anyway so imho it does not sound unrealistic at all.

So, if canon timeline is 2183 for first game (post April since Shepard is 29 and her birthday is April 11), 2085 for second and 2086 for third, for me, it’s 2183 for first game start and sometime after April 2184 when she dies, thus 2186 when she’s brought back, making Arrival and the aftermath in military custody 2187, making the Reaper attack on Earth the earliest at late 2187, but more realistically 2188, if I’m doing my math well enough.

On default I keep both her time being dead/rebuilt and Alliance jail canonical, but the actual game contents longer.

This is non-negotiable, unless you want to make the timeline even longer. Longer is fine. Shorter is not. Playing in verses where Wren is not in the Shepard role, I don’t mind either way - if you are playing "the Shepard", you get the final say in timelines. But in any verse where Wren is in the player character role, my timeline applies. If you’re someone hung up on canon dates enough this would spoil your fun in writing... sorry, we’re probably not going to write together? Because this isn’t flexible for me. It’s not fun to me to try to cram all the canon events into a timeline where I can’t see the canon friendships forging as deeply as they do.

[inbarfink]

So one of the cool and interesting ways ‘Steven Universe’ used to try and balance being both a series of 11-minutes episodes that each have their own satisfying emotional resolution and being an overarching story with complicated character arcs that take multiple seasons to resolve is the… I’m going to call it the ‘Not Quite Right Lesson’ episodes. Episodes where a character kinda learns a Very Important Lesson… but a more careful and retrospective look at the situation shows that what they learned is not Quite the Right Thing for them. They internalized something in that adventure which just ended up causing more Emotional Troubles for themselves farther down the line.

‘The Test’ is the most classic example. 

As a standalone thing, it’s just a sweet episode about Steven learning to accept that his caretakers are also flawed and confused and figuring this shit up as they’re going along just like he is, and then doing a nice thing for their sake.

But looking back at this episode, it is quite obviously the nadir of Steven appointing himself as the Family Therapist and repressing all of his problems so he could better help the Gems’ with theirs. Like, there have been some early warning signs for this Complex, but this episode is the one that really cemented that idea in his mind and probably the reason it took him like the Entire Rest of the Show Including a Post-Finale Season to really untangle it.

But… also, I’ve been thinking a lot about the episode right after that, ‘Future Vision’. I think it’s also a very important ‘Not Quite Right Lesson Episode’ for the character of Garnet, and to some extent, the Crystal Gems as a whole. In many ways, it is to the CGs' character arcs' what 'the Test' is to Steven's.

So in this episode, Garnet reveals to Steven the fact that she has Future Vision. She hoped that telling Steven a little bit more about herself and being honest with him will lead to a greater understanding and a greater bond between them… but it backfired. It just led Steven to become a total paranoid, terrified wreck stuck in a total existential crisis.

And it seems like the lesson Garnet learned is that… she should’ve never taken that risk at all. That it would’ve been better for everyone if she just kept Steven ignorant of the truth forever.

Extremely reinforced with the ending of the episode, where Garnet chooses to once again hide an uncomfortable truth (that he just came very close to dying again) from Steven, for the sake of his own ‘peace of mind’.

So, like, the Gems were already hiding uncomfortable truths from Steven since day one. “If you could only know what we really are” and all of that. But I think… With the actual truth of Homeworld encroaching on them more and more at this point of the story arc, this would’ve been a great time for the Gems to reconsider their attitude and actually Explain to Steven What the Hell is Going On. 

But instead, I think Garnet saw the events of ‘Future Vision’ as a reinforcement of the idea that there’s just some things Steven is Better Off Not Knowing. Actually being frank with him about Homeworld and the Diamonds and the War right there and then, that would have just overwhelmed Steven with fears and worries and would’ve ended up doing nothing but hurting him. And Garnet can’t accept that possibility, not again.

And so, Garnet, alongside Amethyst and Pearl, keep all these truths from Steven as long as possible. Only revealing bits of information when they have to. For Amethyst it’s about her emotionally-evasive attitude (also, she legit doesn’t know all of that stuff herself). For Pearl it’s about how she learned to romanticize Rose’s own fucked-up obsession with secrets. For Garnet, with her usually very direct attitude and preference for the most straightforward solutions, I think it’s very much the events of ‘Future Vision’ that were still playing in her head every time she had the choice to actually Explain something to Steven and decided not to. 

But that, indeed, was Not Quite the Right Lesson. While being bluntly and directly told by Garnet all about the Many Ways He Could Die caused Steven to go into an anxiety spiral and an existential crisis for an episode - the way the Gems have been consistently secretive and evasive with Steven ended up causing him so much more emotional grief to him in the long run. As all of these secrets ended up revealed to him in the most surprising, dramatic and traumatizing way possible.

And the secretive attitudes ended up driving a wedge between Steven and the Gems. 

Even after they promised to be more honest with him. Because the sight of Steven crying on the roof that day is one that Garnet can easily move away from. Because Garnet’s Not Quite Right Lesson was almost as difficult for her to unlearn as Steven’s own. 

But after the big confrontation at the start of the Zoo Arc, Garnet ended up being the most upfront about the Crystal Gems’ history. Almost overeager to share what she knows about the past.

I mean also, again, Amethyst just has less to tell and Pearl is hiding secrets for reasons beyond her control - but I think it’s also important to consider from the perspective of Garnet’s arc.

Because the fallout of the Pink Diamond Reveal is very much centered around Garnet (or, well, Ruby and Sapphire). That was the Truth that was hidden from her 'for her own good'. And at the end of the day, despite all the grief that unveiling that truth has caused

It has also brought them, all of them, a lot closer.

There's a reason why 'the Truth' is Garnet's Final Missing Piece in the movie. It is as central to her character arc in the series as Lesbian AngstTM grief over lost love is to Pearl.

And still, some remnants of the Trauma of 'Future Vision' remained...

After all, even the very last episode of 'Future' was centered around the Gems once again trying to hide things from Steven (at that case, their turmoil about him leaving) for his own sake

Even though it once again just caused Steven a whole lot of grief.

It's maybe notable that at the end of this episode, Garnet, once again, tells Steven what's waiting for him in his Future...

[gffa]

EVERY SINGLE MOMENT OF THIS WAS SUCH A FUCKING BANGER. Baylan Skoll is reading exactly what Ahsoka fears and sets up this vision for her, that he says her legacy is one of death and destruction--which hurls her into a vision-slash-flashback of the clone wars, where she felt like this is all she learned as a Jedi, because this is what the galaxy was when she was growing up in it. That this is Anakin--or Ahsoka's own mind using Anakin as a proxy, because she STILL emotionally and mentally sees him as the one who teaches her, even if it's not really him, she imagines it to be him, because he's her Master, the one who taught her what she needs to know--but also this is the center of everything she can't let go of, all the hurt and fear and loss, it's all tangled up in Anakin and what he became. That she loves him and fears him in the same breath, that she remembers the good, the charming young man who was teaching her how to survive, who gave everything he had to her, while also remembering what he became, that he was so powerful that he became the worst nightmare the galaxy had ever seen, that neither of these is the whole of who he is, that he is all of this and more. He isn't just Anakin Skywalker, he's also Darth Vader. He isn't just Darth Vader, he's also Anakin Skywalker. He isn't just Anakin and Vader, he's also everything of Obi-Wan, of Qui-Gon, of Dooku, of Yoda--and she has to learn to accept that the same is true of her, too. The potential for tremendous darkness lurks in all their hearts, that's what the Jedi teach. No one is above the dark side. No one is above fear and clinging on and holding too tight. It's a lifelong journey not to give in to those things and you are so much more than just any one moment or even any one aspect. Yes, if she's everything he is, then she does have the potential to become the same kind of nightmare of death and destruction that he did, just as she fears. It's why she's held herself back from the galaxy, from the Ghost crew, from Sabine especially, because she's afraid, and only agreed to train Sabine in the first place because whatever abilities she has, they're so low Sabine can't become another Vader. Grogu does have the potential to become another Vader. Ahsoka does have the potential to become another Vader. She has killed many and destroyed so much. But that's not all she is. She's also saved so many lives. She also gently tucked Roo Roo Page back into her mother's arms. She also taught Petro and Katooni and Gungi and Zatt and Byph about how to get their crystals. She also saved Kaeden's life. She also protected Ezra from Vader. She's all those things, plus more, just as Anakin was all the things he was and more, too. Baylan was right that part of her legacy is death and destruction, but he's a dark sider, he lies and twists the truth, and the truth is--Ahsoka Tano, like every Jedi before her, is more than just one part of her legacy.

[juletheghoul]

covetous

a/n: Jesus Maggie, you really called me out on my bullshit for this one. Originally I want this story to just be a bunch of sexy encounters in a morally questionable world, now we're talking about feelings and love and how the hell did we get here? (This is how I would imagine him the first time he sees his Girl) Please enjoy this un-beta'd, barely edited request. All mistake and errors are mine! please enjoy

Warnings; 18+ no minors, Marcus pov, vague but big-legal age gap, there's no actual sex, but memories of it, vulgar yet romantic musings, master / slave dynamic (power imbalance) he’s still pretty possessive, Marcus calls reader Girl, reader calls Marcus Dominus - let me know if I missed any!

Pairing: Marcus Acaciusx F!Reader

word count: 1.1k (😅)

reblogs are appreciated

Masterlist series masterlist

War is easy. It’s a language he’s fluent in, something he excels in. He is blessed enough to have survived more battles that he could count and has been more than rewarded for his prowess. Battle plans, marches and military strategy are almost second nature, the fury, the heat of battle, all that he can anticipate and it’s probably the main reason he’s come this far in his life. 

Soldiers, camp life and brutality, those things are easy for him to understand.

Other matters, love, affection, attraction; these things are…harder. 

Physically, he’s perfectly adequate. He's never been ignorant to his looks, or his build. He knows that he fills the societal ideal for a man. He’s broad, he’s strong, he has a good face and no physical flaws.

He’s never been short of attention from the fairer sex either but that doesn’t mean anything as far as he’s concerned. He’s had his trysts, and he thinks he might have even been in love before but his luck seems to stop, and stay within his vocation. 

In his younger days, he’d broken his fair share of hearts, he’d been gifted the virtue of many a virgin in hopes of tempting him into a marriage. None of them had held his attention for more than that one night, and sometimes, in the late hours wherever he found his rest he secretly feared the Gods might be punishing him. Withholding the partner he hopes to find as payment for those broken hearts left in his wake. 

As he grew older, wiser and more practical he learned to ignore that little emptiness. He saw it more as a blessing. Would he be where he was now with a woman waiting for him? Would he have hit his station with children bearing his name pulling at his thoughts in the middle of battle? Perhaps the Gods had simply made a trade. His life, or his heart. 

He’d been content with his lot in life, until he’d seen her. 

She’d served at a gathering he’d been loath to attend. His eyes tracked her, the shine of her hair, the curve of her hip, her pretty smile. Her eyes had locked with his for half a heartbeat and he’d felt it in his belly. A rolling, like waves in a stormy ocean. 

She’d gone about her business, efficiently fulfilling her duties while the guests all spoke animatedly around him. He’d joined in after reigning in his reaction, but she’d taken every ounce of his attention with her. 

He’d negotiated her purchase the next day. 

-

She was quick. She learned everything faster than a lot of the others in his service, and she seemed to anticipate his needs before he spoke them. Most of the time, he barely needed to say anything at all, and so he kept quiet. Kept his thoughts, and his feelings to himself. 

His biggest need though, was her. He wanted her bad enough to hurt, to ache.

He was well aware of the practices in other houses. Slaves were there to obey, and in most houses that meant obeying with work, and with their bodies. He saw no issue in this, it was the way of the world. No matter how badly he wanted her though, he couldn’t make himself order her to spread her legs for him. Maybe it was a foolish, childish thing but he wanted her to crave it just as he did. He wanted her wet, he wanted her begging for him, he wanted to see pleasure and lust on her pretty face. 

He wanted her to want him. 

A year passed, and every second in her presence was exquisite torture. A torture he submitted himself to freely and with a perverse pleasure. It was a test of endurance, until the fateful night she’d come to him with her wet tunic, all of her body on display through the sheer fabric. The shadow of her cunt had sent him into a frenzy and when she’d come back and caught him fucking his fist he’d thought it was just another form of punishment. 

It was that look on her face though, that heavy lidded, open mouthed way she stared at him, nipples hardening that had finally made him crack. 

That first night he’d taken her, he’d stayed up in his bed, almost blinded with want. Her body had not alleviated the craving for her, if anything, it’d only made it worse. He’d replayed their encounter over and over, obsessed with the taste of her on his fingers, obsessed with the feel of her lips on his. From then on, she’d only cemented her hold on him. Her quiet obedience, her subtle seduction, the way she’d managed to scrape the shape of herself onto his brain.

She’d made herself the figurehead in his mind, the holy place at which he prayed, the Goddess he served. If he could, he’d light a thousand candles at the altar of her cunt, and pray to them daily.

He fought harder to return to her, he took note of her wants, of her preferences, and made sure to cater to her, despite no one in the house, not even her realizing. He dismissed the younger boys that lusted after her, he was covetous of her to the point of violence. A small smile from her could dictate his mood. The thought of her in pain made him feel like some feral wolf caught in a trap, ready and willing to chew part of himself away to reach her. 

Sometimes, after he’d spilled inside her, he’d let her fall asleep in his bed and relish the way she clung to him in her sleep. It was a double edged sword though, their stations in this life. A part of him fears that her want is only an act, a way to endear herself to him, her Dominus. A foundation to earn her freedom, or coin, or influence through him but then he sees the shy way she smiles at him and his fears are silenced to nothing. 

She cannot fake the way she flutters around his cock, she cannot pretend to feel nothing, not when he sees the same jealousy he feels shining through her eyes at the mention of the mostly political proposals he’s denied. The things she says, the way she takes her pleasure from him, all of these things only compound his delusions that just maybe, she feels for him a fraction of what he feels for her. 

It’s a sort of madness, truly, how that part of him that was the perpetual soldier had in so many respects switched their roles, had given her a control–a power he was sure she didn’t realize she had. 

He was sick with want for her, ravenous, and yet unable to soften himself in a way that would make her see the truth, make her see just how much she truly meant to him. He couldn’t make himself show her, that whatever she asked of him, he’d do with a smile.

For now at least. 

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[keytomind]

The right woman isn’t going to pick an argument with you for game or sport. She has had her fill of that bullshit and she is tired of it. If she picks an argument with you, it’s because she wants to teach you something important. She wants you to grow as a person or she wants the two of you to grow as a power couple. The right woman isn’t here for a fight. She is here to love you.

The right woman doesn’t need a boy; she needs a man. She needs a man who is capable of elevating himself, a man who does not mind being corrected if it is going to make him a better person. She needs a man who points the finger at himself before he dares point it outward at anyone or anything else. She needs a man of confidence who will inspire her to do better for herself and her family. The right woman no longer has any patience for boys, except for her sons (and even that wears thin).

The right woman wants to suffocate and drown herself in your masculinity. It makes her feel warm, loved, safe, and protected. By providing her with your masculine energy, you are creating an environment that allows her to radiate her own feminine energy, which is something that every man truly needs. He needs her loving warmth in order to balance himself out and to become the best version of himself. His voice, his mind, and his body will all be able to relax from the wars that he fights every day. The right woman is not threatened by toxic masculinity as she understands that the only thing toxic about masculinity is the absence of it in a man.

The right woman does not hide behind her man. Although she often wants him to lead and to assert his masculine energy appropriately, she will fight alongside him like a warrior Queen. And even though he would rather she stayed out of harm’s way, she would even stand in front of him and take a bullet to protect him. She goes to battle next to him whenever necessary and she safeguards his darkest secrets under lock and key. The right woman does not run away; she plants her feet like roots and she weathers the storm right next to him.

The right woman does not make excuses. She knows that she is not perfect and that there is still much that she can learn. She possesses the raw emotional intelligence to know that she isn’t always correct. She loves for him to teach her new things without belittling her or making her feel unintelligent. She takes accountability when she is wrong and she does her best to take action whenever possible. She is a true Goddess to the world who craves to be soft and little in the arms of the deserving man. The right woman is a force to be reckoned with.

The right woman learns his love language without asking, although there is no shame in asking in order to learn better. She studies his every move - what does he like, what does he want, what does he need - what turns him on, what makes him happy, what does he hold close to his heart.. what does he fear… she wants to know every single detail so that she can love him correctly. And the right woman should only expect the same reciprocity for herself.

The right woman understands that we are a team and that he is not a punching bag. Men are conditioned to be protective and to be strong, but men also fall weak because the human body can only take so much abuse, and some of our greatest battles are fought in our minds. This is not a sign of a lack of strength but rather it is an indication that he must rest as he is exhausted from fighting certain battles alone. While he would rather she did not engage in certain battles, he needs help dressing his wounds, protecting his body, and relaxing his mind so that he can safely remove his armor. The right woman will spring to action without having to be asked as nurturing him to health is her greatest reward.

The right woman doesn’t need to fight other women if they show you favorable attention. She knows to handle such battles with grace and she does not need to clench her fists. She instead will walk right into view, grab you by your tie, kiss you like it might be your last night on earth, and cling to you like a lifeboat while making eye contact with her newfound enemy, letting her know who won the battle without firing a single shot. Again, the right woman is a masterful Goddess who claims her territory appropriately.

The right woman comes in many different forms. She varies in shape, size, color, beauty, attitude, and much more. She will have her heart broken, probably more than once, by a man who did not value her for looking differently on the exterior. This will wound her temporarily, but in time, the right woman rises from her ashes and she learns her worth. If another man doesn’t value her for any such reasons, then she dodged a bullet because, ladies, I fucking promise you that there is a man out there, perhaps many men, who adore you exactly the way you are. If you aren’t his cup of tea, so be it, and if he doesn’t want you for you, the right woman knows when to say “fuck em”.

The right woman deserves absolutely nothing less than the right man, for without the right woman, that man is nobody and nothing. She makes him whole. She gives him great purpose. She gives him life and energy that had evaded him for years before they met each other. He would die for her as she would die for him, and it will be hell when the day comes that they are forced to live without each other. She may bless him with a family one day, but if not, they will make their home warm and full of the love that they both need to enjoy their time spent here in this life.

The right woman is absolutely fucking priceless. Fight for her and, when you do, the right woman will fight for you.

[radiance1]

Tim, officially, does not have a new caretaker.

Tim, unofficially, does have a new caretaker.

A large, large man with long flaming purple hair that was capable of touching the floor if it didn't move like fire with sharp glowing green eyes and a neutral, if a bit of a resting bitch face, expression on his face.

Comparatively, he was not dressed oddly. Nothing but a white compression shirt, grey sweatpants and a pair of black sandals. The only thing odd about it was the sword constantly strapped to his waist, though Tim ignored it when he saw the man using it to chop ingredients.

Fright, he called himself, and Tim never asked if it was his actual name or not. He was just glad someone came over as constantly as he does.

He doesn't know where the man goes at night, after making sure he's tucked into bed and asleep, but he never pried. Mostly because he wasn't supposed to know that, and he doesn't want Fright to catch onto the fact that he was constantly sneaking out at night either.

So they'll both keep their secrets.

===

Fright Knight was at a loss with himself.

His master, Pariah Dark, had been once again released from the Sarcophagus of Forever Sleep and he wasted no time to return to his side. Even with his previous betrayl.

The events that followed were unexpected.

His master did not continue his eons long war with life. Though it had long since turned silent with his imprisonment, it was still brewing under the current of 'peace' that the Ghost Zone fell into.

Fright Knight knew that well.

So, what exactly was he supposed to do when his master returned to his time as naught but a humble farmer and started to rebuild the bridge he had long burnt with the Master of Time?

He felt... conflicted.

Of course, reconnecting with the Ghost of Time was a good thing, and he has been subject to witness just how much passion they had for each other during days long past.

But his master picking up a life that was not one honed through blood was always an odd thing for him to experience. Two peas in a pod, as some would say they were.

War and Fear.

Where War went, Fear followed. Rivers of flowing blood with storms of fear promised was something too tempting for him to resist.

Fear was a sword, and he was War's blade.

So it was not something easy for him to adjust to when War settled down into peace and sought prosperity instead of his namesake. Of course, he, as always, adjusted regardless of the situation and followed his master in his newest endeavor.

It was much harder to preserve a life, than it was to end it. They both came to realize. On his master's part, farming was something he pondered over and donned for a brief time eons ago, the new methods of today clashing wildly with what little he knew of the activity before War sung to him again. For Fright Knight, he had not a single nail's worth of experience in the act, never having had an interest like War did and as such, never learned.

It felt rather odd to use his blade to cut gifts from the land, but if he replaced them with images of enemies long since snuffed, it wasn't exactly hard.

He could not stay there for long; however, it was just too... different, from what he was used to. The Ghost King knew this and told him he was free to be left to his own devices so long as it did not affect the rules the Master of Time had set for them.

Or rather, War. But as Fear was in his service, he was not exactly exempt from said constraints, either.

So he wandered, keeping to his 'human' persona he was told to set for himself here. He was thankful that these beings called Meta's existed as no one gave him more than a second glance.

Though if that was more something to do with his height he did not know.

He came upon a city, one of shadows and filled with curses in numbers that even made him pause in slight bafflement. Lady Gotham, the city's spirit, brushed against him as soon as he stepped foot within her haunt, and it did not take long for them to reach and accord.

Fear was allowed to stay, so long as he did not do anything she did not permit. He was fine with said rules, after all, what was another constraint compared to those set by Time itself?

He had a favorable view of this city, just the ambient fear alone made it worth stepping inside. It was better than War's attempt at peace, though it was nothing due to the being itself he was just... used to being surrounded by fear.

Then he met a human child by the name of Timothy Drake. A meeting by chance and nothing else, but he did need something to do by Lady Gotham's suggestion.

So he became the boy's 'caretaker' though if he were a good one was something he could not comment on.

He did not need sleep, his new ward did, so when night fell, he always stepped out of the city to go back to his master and reappeared the next morning.

The thing about his new master's attempt at peace, was that he was quite willing to give away the gifts he received from the land. Which was helpful, considering he had no idea how to acquire money in this new age.

[fellthemarvelous]

Jedi and attachment

The Jedi Order was around 25,000 years old when it fell at the end of the Clone Wars.

And I've seen people say "the Jedi don't teach emotional regulation" I guess because there are some Jedi who fell, but like, the number of Jedi who didn't fall far outweighs the number of Jedi who did fall.

And that's not to say that Jedi never made mistakes, but none of them gave into their anger and fear and hatred. Mistakes are normal, even for Jedi. Failure is the greatest teacher. They were apparently able to regulate their emotions well enough to actually learn from their mistakes and grow.

I'm not sure which part of "the life of a Jedi is not easy" isn't exactly translating well for some people.

What do people think Qui-Gon meant when he told Anakin being a Jedi would be challenging?

As Yoda said, it is a lifelong struggle not to allow fear to bend into anger. Fear leads to anger leads to hate leads to suffering. The Jedi never stop learning.

The reason they avoid attachments is because attachments distract them from the bigger picture, from their purpose. They are protectors and defenders of life, and they cannot be picky about who they choose to help, regardless of personal feelings.

As Obi-Wan has said, Jedi do not hold grudges. They cannot. They can be upset, yes, but they are given the tools to handle their emotions and often utilize them.

Anakin damned an entire galaxy when he fell to the dark side. The Jedi are not to blame for Anakin's fall. Anakin made his choice, and while he spent thirteen years being groomed by Palpatine, he made the choice to follow Darth Sidious.

ANAKIN FELL BECAUSE OF THE CHOICES HE MADE.

He is the one who slaughtered Jedi younglings. He's the one who slaughtered the Separatist leaders, and even though they were the enemy, they were defenseless and trapped in a room with the most powerful being in the galaxy after being sent there by Sidious and Grievous.

The reason the Jedi were so hesitant to accept him into the Jedi Order was because of his age. He was attached to his mother and his anger over her death is what caused him to slaughter an entire colony of Tusken Raiders. He didn't do it out of love. He did it out of hatred, and revenge is not the Jedi way.

It is not the fault of the Jedi that Anakin could not properly regulate his own emotions. He lied to the Jedi for three years. He hid his relationship with Padme, so how was Yoda supposed to know how to help him properly when he didn't have the full context? Of course his advice seemed bad because Anakin was not being forthcoming about the nature of his relationship with Padme. Yoda did not have a complete picture of Anakin's anxieties at the time, and while you can teach someone how to do something, you cannot control how they put the teachings into practice. You can only hope and trust that they are doing the right thing.

And the thing is, the Jedi would have helped Anakin and Padme. Yoda and Obi-Wan loved Anakin. We saw several instances of just how much Yoda cared about Anakin, especially so at the end of season six of the Clone Wars.

Anakin betrayed the entire Jedi Order because he allowed his fears to consume him. He participated in the genocide of the order he had been part of for thirteen years just to save the life of ONE PERSON who ended up dying anyway BECAUSE of him.

No one has ever said the Jedi Order is perfect because there is no such thing as perfect, but they were not ever the villains. They were never the bad guys. They were pulled into a war orchestrated by Darth Sidious who weaponized the compassion of the Jedi as a way to destroy the order.

When you look at the handful of Jedi who fell and claim that the Jedi "don't teach emotional regulation" you're just erasing all personal accountability from the fallen Jedi WHO MADE THEIR CHOICES.

There is only ONE Jedi (that I am aware of) who fell to the dark side involuntarily, and that was Ahsoka Tano. She was corrupted against her will and then killed. Anakin was able to resurrect her, and while he did a good thing, it only made his fear of losing her again even worse.

Maul murdered Satine and forced Obi-Wan to watch, but Obi-Wan managed to control his emotions and not go on a killing spree. He actually held a dying Maul in his arms. Ahsoka was failed by the Jedi Order, but she didn't fall to the dark side. Yoda lived for 900 years and never once fell to the dark side.

There are a variety of factors that went into Anakin's fall, but he is the one who made the choice to do the monstrous things he did. He was not being mind controlled. He had Jedi training, but he threw all of that away for one person. He gambled the fate of the galaxy on the belief that Palpatine would help him save Padme from dying, knowing that Palpatine was a Sith Lord and knowing that he was the one who was actually responsible for the war. He made a selfish choice at the expense of everyone else in the galaxy and the only person who won in the end was Darth Sidious. It was the biggest lesson that Anakin ever learned.

This is not a failure of "teaching emotional regulation". This is the failure of someone who allowed his personal feelings to overshadow his Jedi training, and he is responsible for the consequences of his own actions.

End note: This is not an Anakin Skywalker bashing post. I love Anakin Skywalker, but he absolutely is to blame for his fall to the dark side. He's a fascinating character. I could write a whole ass separate post on why I love him so much. Anakin Skywalker/Darth Vader is an icon.