#ANYWAYS. i do like seeing these two get more friendly with each other :]

[zeciex]

Let me rant a bit about Dae and her relationship with Edelin, because I've had a few comments telling me that I'm focusing too much on minor/secondary characters.

Daenera has lost her entire crew, she's alone and in need of some form of allies and companionship--and that's where we get the start of the relationship with Edelin. We know Daenera can be kind and friendly with no secondary motive, but the start of the relationship is very much with a motive--to find an ally. Edelin is the easier target because Mertha would never come to her side. And then from there, Daenera genuinely grows to like Edelin and she sees how she's being treated and how she's underestimated, and she makes a friend of her. That's not to say that there's still not ulterior motive beneath it all but here's the thing--this chapter and in a previous scene, we see Edelin showing that she KNOWS what Daenera is doing and she tells her straight up that if it came to the two, she'd choose herself. And Daenera can respect that. They see each other and they decide to find company in one another, knowing there's more to it.

And then we get me trying to establish a growing relationship between them--me trying to make the secondary/minor characters have a storyline/character arc/character development.

Edelin is also a character who's end I haven't decided on--which opens her up to be a reoccurring character. Giving her development makes her not flat and that development will come through interactions with Dae.

Anyway.

Yeah, Daenera very much went through the stages of grief. It was a hope lost, a dream, nothing fully tangible for her. She hadn't met her sister, they didn't have a relationship, she was... just a hope of life. She grieves for her, but that grief is a drop in a stream for the loss she feels for Luke--and he is a drop in the ocean she will face later--

Aemond really wanted to comfort her, but I also don't think he knows how. It's not exactly something he has learned--if anything, what he has learned is to bottle it up and not speak about it. All he could offer her is his company/quiet as she worked through it.

And he did bring her comfort. As much as she hates it, he does give her solace. Its a strange thing.

Aemond enjoyed the whole interaction at the end. He was so amused, and I think a part of her were also amused. We'll see a bit more of this fighting-but-not-really/throwing shade and japes.

A Vow of Blood S2 - Ch. 3

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, child murder, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 3: Word of the Dead

AO3 - S1 Masterlist - S2 Masterlist

Weariness had become a shroud around Daenera, wrapped tightly in its suffocating embrace. It pressed into her skin, her bones, deep inside. She sat before the dressing table, the polished surface of the mirror reflecting a face she barely recognized, her features drawn and pale, shadows pooling beneath her eyes. The glow of the candlelight flickered unevenly, throwing long, restless shadows across the chamber, though even the golden hues couldn’t soften the sharp lines of her exhaustion. 

Behind her, Mertha’s voice grated against the stillness, sharp and unforgiving as the scrape of iron on iron. The older woman held up the damp remains of Daenera’s dress, the once-lustrous fabric darkened and heavy with rain. She shook it with an exaggerated vigor, droplets splattering the floor like blood against stone. 

“–I hope you’ve had your fill of death,” Mertha snapped, her voice climbing. “I hope you’ve commended the sight to memory! The poor boy.”

The sound of rain battering the shutters filled the room, a steady rhythm drumming against the windowpanes like the beating of some great, restless heart. . It was as though the gods themselves had grown tired–tired of the endless schemes and betrayals of mortals, of their blood-soaked ambitions and unending grievances. Perhaps they sought to drown the world in their wrath, to wash it clean of sin and sorrow. But mercy was not the gods’ way, and the rain fell without promise of redemption, a bitter reminder of how unyielding the world remained.

Her fingers rested lightly on the edge of the dressing table, the cool wood grounding her as Mertha’s tirade continued unabated. The chamber felt stifling despite the chill creeping in from the storm, the air thick with unspoken tension. Somewhere in the depths of her fatigue, Daenera wondered if the gods had sent the rain not as wrath but as a mockery–an illusion of cleansing that would never touch the festering wounds of this world. No storm could wash away the sins that had taken root here.

Daenera watched the droplets race down the glass, her envy flaring briefly. How simple it must be, she thought, to be the rain–to rage freely, without consequence or restraint, without care. The rain lashed against the stone walls of the Red Keep, it seemed to carry the weight of its own wrath–seemed to mock her. 

Patrick’s life had been the noose she carried, her every movement constrained by the knowledge that the Greens held his fate in their hands. But now that burden was gone, severed by her own hand. And in truth, she felt a bitter sense of relief, even triumph–it stirred something far darker within her. 

It would take time before the Greens loosened their hold on her again; she knew that much. The death of the boy would only deepen their scrutiny, tighten their watch. Yet she had paid that price willingly, knowing that it would cost her what little freedom she had. And yet, there were still freedoms she could take within the confines of this gilded cage.

A bird in a cage might not be free to fly, but it could still sing–and it could still bite.

The thought brought a bitter twist to her lips, an almost imperceptible smile that carried no warmth. If this was to be her prison, she would make it as wretched for her captors as it was for her. Let them watch her every move, chain her to her chambers, whisper their suspicions behind closed doors. She would show them there was no caging her rage. 

Her fingers grazed the edge of the table, the cool wood grounding her as her thoughts turned sharper, more deliberate. She could make life miserable for them–Aemond, Alicent, Aegon, Otto, even Mertha. 

Her reflection stared back at her, unyielding, as she leaned closer to the mirror. The shadows beneath her eyes seemed to deepen, the firelight flickering across her features like the glow of embers. That ember of rage had been with her since the moment she rose amidst the rubble of her chambers. It had been a spark then, small and fragile, but it had grown, fed by every indignity, every insult, every betrayal. It burned against her ribs now, a constant reminder of what she had lost–and what she would one day reclaim.

Aemond. His name pressed against her mind like a sharp edge. He had gotten what he wanted–a wife bound to him by chains as much as vows. But she would make sure he wished he hadn’t. She could see his cold, calculating expression in her mind’s eye, his singular gaze that sought to pierce through her, to lay claim to what he had ruined. 

“They should make you take his place in the dungeons,” Mertha spat, her voice sharp and unforgiving as she moved about the chamber like a restless bird. The fabric of her skirts swayed and hissed with her movements, the quiet rustling as sharp as a blade in the otherwise suffocating silence.”That is where you belong–among rapers and murderers, you wicked creature.” 

“I would take the night watch over her myself,” Mertha said, a sneer curling at the corners of her lips, her tone dripping with self-importance. “But the day has drained me, and you are young. Your energy will serve you better tonight.” She busied herself with gathering the discarded underdress from the floor, shaking it out before throwing it carelessly into the basket at the foot of the bed. “It will be a long day tomorrow, and I’ll need my strength.”

Mertha’s gaze snapped back to Edelin, sharp and commanding. “You must not fall asleep,” she warned, her voice lowering into something that resembled a hiss. “The gods know she cannot be trusted. I wouldn’t want to wake in the morning and find you dead, as they did the poor boy.” She straightened, brushing her hands off with exaggerated finality as if ridding herself of some invisible stain. “Stay vigilant, do you hear me?”

Daenera’s gaze lifted from her reflection in the mirror to regard the older woman. Mertha’s face was pinched with disdain, her eyes gleaming with self-righteous fury as she discarded the damp dress in a basket. A sickly pallor clung to her skin, her complexion ashen and lifeless, while the whites of her eyes blotted with red. The skin around them was flushed and swollen, betraying the rawness of fatigue and strain. It wasn’t hard to guess the cause. She’d been retching–violently so, if the bloodshot state of her eyes was any indication.

Her attention did not linger long; instead, it drifted to the young woman just behind her. The girl had been uncharacteristically silent, her usual chatter replaced by a subdued quiet since leaving the sept. There was a heaviness to her presence now, a weight in her every movement as she worked through Daenera’s hair with a brush. The tangles yielded reluctantly to her careful ministrations, and each stroke of the brush seemed to carry an unspoken frustration. She did not meet Daenera’s gaze in the mirror, her focus fixed on the task at hand. 

“You will remain at the Princess’s side at all times. Do you understand?” Mertha snapped, her tone dripping with scorn as she pointed an accusing finger at Edelin. The older woman loomed like a shadow over the younger lady-in-waiting, her presence a constant weight that pressed down on the room. “You will not let her out of your sight for a single moment–not a single breath! If she so much as steps into the privy, you will stand outside, staring in at her from the open door!”

Daenera grimaced, her frown deepening as the indignity of Mertha’s command settled over her. The thought of being watched even in her most private moments, of someone hovering behind her as she relieved herself, made her stomach twist with revulsion. 

Edelin seemed to share her unease. The younger woman’s hands faltered in their careful work, her brushing pausing for the briefest of moments. She hesitated, her lips parting slightly as if to protest, but Mertha’s sharp, scornful gaze bore down on her like a hammer. Reluctantly, Edelin turned back to her task, her face a careful mask of submission that failed to hide the faint tremor of her fingers.

“Yes, Lady Mertha…” she murmured, the words clipped and heavy with reluctant obedience. Her frown deepened as she resumed her brushing, the strokes growing firmer. 

“And if she proves even a bit difficult, you will call for the guards immediately. Do you understand me?” Her sharp voice carried across the room from where she stood. “I will not let her humiliate us again.” She hefted the basket with a grunt, the motion sharp and deliberate, as though the weight of her burden served as evidence of her righteousness. Her eyes, hard and gleaming, turned towards them.

Daenera felt the prickle of Mertha’s attention against the back of her neck, an unwelcome presence that tightened her shoulders. She met her gaze in the mirror, her expression calm but cold, her eyes glittering with defiance. They held each other’s stare for a long, tense moment. 

Then, Mertha shifted her focus to Edelin, her tone hardening. “Be wary of her, girl,” she warned, her words laced with bitter scorn. “She is as kind as a viper and twice as cunning.”

Edelin shifted but said nothing, her head bowing slightly in a gesture of reluctant acknowledgement. Her hands moved with practiced care through Daenera’s hair, the brush going through the strands smoother now.

With a final sniff of disdain, Mertha spun sharply on her heel, the heavy skirts of her dress swishing against the stone floor with each forceful step. The wicker basket bumped against her hip, the motion punctuating her retreat as she disappeared behind the lattice screen. Moments later, the muffled sound of the chamber doors opening and shutting reached them, followed by a decisive click that seemed to echo in the still air.

“A viper,” Daenera murmured, her voice soft and edged with a dry humor. “How inventive.”

The room settled into silence, broken only by the steady drumming of rain against the windows, the world outside dark and lost in the storm’s fury. The fire crackled in the hearth, sending errant sparks dancing upward before they vanished into the darkened stone. Its heat radiated outward, warring with the persistent chill that lingered at the edges of the chamber, crawling along the floor like an unwelcome guest.

The brush moved slowly through Daenera’s hair, the soft bristles tugging against stubborn tangles as they worked through the dark curls. Each stroke coaxed the locks into a loose cascade, spilling down her back in an unruly spill of shadowy waves. The ends tickled the curve of the chair’s back, swaying faintly with each pass.

Daenera’s gaze shifted from her own reflection in the mirror to Edelin’s, studying the girl as though seeking answers in her quiet demeanor. The red-gold of Edelin’s hair gleamed in the firelight, the strands pulled back into a tightly braided coil pinned neatly at the nape of her neck. Her pale blue eyes remained fixed on the task, unyielding and methodical, but the faint crease between her brows betrayed her unease. Her lips pressed into a tight line, a silent barricade holding back whatever thoughts churned behind her calm exterior.

The silence grew heavier, thick with words unspoken, until Daenera broke it. Her tone was soft, measured, yet it carried the weight of apprehension.

“What is it?” she asked, her fingers drifting to toy idly with the edge of a strand of hair. “I can feel you want to say something.”

Edelin drew in a deep breath, measured through her nose, as though summoning every ounce of courage within her. The brush in her hand stilled mid-stroke, her fingers tightening around the handle. Slowly, deliberately, she lifted her head and met Daenera’s gaze through the mirror. Her blue eyes were steady, but the faint quiver in her lower lip betrayed the turmoil beneath her composed exterior. 

“Did you poison him?” She asked, her voice low. The words hung in the air like a blade suspended over a neck. The corners of her mouth pulled downward, her expression strained, but she pressed on. “I want you to tell me the truth.”

Daenera’s face remained impassive, her dark eyes locked with Edelin’s in the glass. Her heart thudded a painful rhythm against her ribs, the ache reverberating through her chest. The acrid taste of bile rose in her throat, and her tongue felt dry, as if all the moisture had fled her mouth. She resisted the urge to look away, though it took more resolve than she cared to admit.

“I cannot give you the truth,” She said at last, her voice calm but laced with an edge of weariness. Her words were measured, deliberate, as though she were stepping carefully along the edge of a precipice. “You know that.”

“You can,” Edelin pressed, her tone soft but insistent. 

Daenera’s lips twitched, the faint curve caught somewhere between a smile and a scowl, though it was neither. “And what will you do with it?” She asked, her voice strained. “What then? Will you bring it to the Small Council? March into the Great Hall and lay it before them?”

“I should,” Edelin said, her voice barely above a whisper. “It is my duty.” Her pale blue eyes held Daenera’s in the mirror, unflinching despite the tremor in her fingers. The words lingered in the air, as though the room itself held its breath, waiting for what might follow.

Edelin moved, setting the brush aside on the polished surface of the dressing table. The faint clink it made against the wood seemed louder than it should have been, an unspoken punctuation. She straightened, drawing herself up, her youthful features set with a determination that made her seem older than she was. 

“I am not asking for them,” she continued, her tone sharper now, steadier. “I am asking for the truth–for myself.” Her hands disappeared briefly into the folds of her skirts, and when they reemerged, she held a small pouch. 

Daenera’s gaze flickered to the object as Edelin placed it on the table before her, the soft scrape of fabric against wood drawing her attention. The pouch was unassuming, its pale, creamy cloth bright against the dark surface. But it was damning in its simplicity, a quiet truth laid bare between them. 

The silence that followed was suffocating. The storm outside raged on, the relentless drum of rain on stone a backdrop to the tense stillness that filled the chamber. Daenera’s heart plummeted, a hollow ache settling deep within her chest as the lavender pouch lay before her. The scent of lavender wafted into the air, delicate yet overwhelming, mingling with the cloying remnants of incense that still lingered in her nostrils. It was a sickly-sweet aroma, at odds with the cold dread that coiled in her stomach. Her eyes burned with the prickle of unshed tears, though she refused to let them fall. Tears would not help now. 

Her gaze lifted slowly from the pouch to Edelin’s face. For a moment, the younger woman seemed transformed–her features hardened by the weight of understanding, the sharpness of her expression far removed from her usual youthful softness. The knowledge she carried was etched into her face, undeniable, even as she sought a confirmation she already knew in her heart. 

“You could take it to the Council,” Daenera said, her voice strained and dry as though every word scraped against her throat. “They would no doubt welcome your… evidence.” Her tone grew brittle, laden with weariness. “But it would change nothing. Their punishment is already decided.”

Her hand moved, reaching tentatively towards the pouch. She wanted to seize it, to hide its damning presence from sight, yet part of her just wanted it within her hold–wanted the security of it, however damning it was for her to keep. Before her fingers could close the distance, Edelin’s hand shot out. She slid the pouch across the table, out of Daenera’s reach. 

“Are we all so easily discarded?” Edelin demanded, her voice cracking.

Daenera froze, her outstretched hand retreating slightly as Edelin’s words settled on her with the same sharp sting as a slap. Her brows knitted together, as she stared up at Edelin. “Nothing about this has been easy,” she said, her words twisted into something sharp and bitter, almost a sneer. Her voice was raw and strained as tears burned at the back of her eyes. She blinked them away fiercely, unwilling to let them fall. 

“You told him he was going home,” Edelin pressed.

“This was the only way he was ever going home,” She answered, her jaw tightening as she leaned back against the seat, the wood pressing into her spine. “The Hightowers would never have released him.” Her gaze flicked back to meet Edelin’s, her voice growing harsher, weighed with frustration. “He would have stayed in the dungeons–alone, forgotten, rotting in the dark. Every footstep outside his cell would have been a death knell, every echo a reminder that the noose was waiting.”

Her throat tightened as she swallowed hard against the lump rising there, her emotions clawing at her like a living thing. It felt as though she had swallowed a jagged stone, its edges tearing into her, making every breath ache. “I didn’t want him to suffer.”

Edelin stood silent for a moment, her pale blue eyes searching Daenera’s face, her expression wavering between pity and unease. When she finally spoke, her tone was measured, understanding yet cautious, as though she were treading carefully across ice. 

“I understand that,” she said, her voice low. “Truly, I do. But… it gives me pause.”

She hesitated, her hands twisting together as she gathered her thoughts. “I have been kind to you, as you have been to me,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “And I am grateful for that kindness, Princess. But… I am still in their service.” Her words hung heavily in the air as she looked down at her hands, her fingers knotting in the fabric of her skirts. “I’ve held my tongue before because you asked it of me–held my tongue when I properly shouldn’t have…”

Her voice broke, and she raised her head again. “I don’t want to find myself in the same position as the boy,” she said, her words low. “I don’t want to end up discarded, forgotten, let to rot because I’ve been loyal to the wrong person.”

“You won’t,” Daenera said firmly. The words hung in the air, a promise or a plea–it was hard to tell.

“You don’t know that,” Edelin countered, her voice trembling slightly. “I might end up in the dungeons, just as he did. Waiting for the noose.”

Daenera held her gaze, reading the desperation written across the young woman’s face. She understood Edelin’s fears all too well–that her kindness, her proximity to Daenera, would mark her. And yet, even as her chest tightened with the weight of understanding, she found herself speaking. Words rose unbidden, soft but steady. “I don’t believe you’ll find yourself in that position. You are neither child nor fool, and that is why I trust you, Edelin. You’ve stood by me when many would not, when it would have been easier to distance yourself. I see the risk you take, and I do not take it lightly. If the time comes when they turn their eyes toward you, I will not begrudge you for your choice.”

Edelin nodded and stared into the middle distance, her expression apprehensive. When she finally spoke, her voice wavered, as if she were forcing herself to ask a question she feared the answer to. “There are still berries in the pouch… Are–are you going to poison the King? The Small Council? Your husband?”

The words hung in the air, heavy and dangerous. Daenera let out a slow breath, her lips curving in a faint, humorless smile. “If I’d meant to poison them,” she said, her tone edged with sardonic amusement, “it would have been done by now.” She shifted in the chair, her eyes drawing to meet Edelin’s wary gaze. “I’d be no freer for it…”

No, she would not be spared. She could already see it–herself locked away in a damp, lightless cell, awaiting a trial that was no more than a performance. The verdict would be predetermined, her fate sealed. Whether it ended with a rope tightening around her neck or the cold kiss of a headman’s blade, the result would be the same. 

Even if she somehow managed to rid the Keep of the Greens, even if she tore them out like the weeds they were, the realm would still cry out for justice. The lords and banners of Westeros would demand her head, and her mother, for the sake of the crown, would have no choice but to oblige them.

Daenera’s heart twisted at the thought. Her mother, who had already lost so much, would lose yet another child–this time by her own hand. It would break her, she thought. 

And she didn’t want that for her. She didn’t want to be the shadow that darkened her reign, the wound that festered in the heart of her rule.

But more than that, she didn’t want to die.

Daenera glanced at the pouch where it rested on the table, the faint scent of lavender clinging to the air like a ghost. She knew exactly how many berries remained. Four. Four lives she could take, if she so chose. 

For a fleeting moment, Daenera allowed herself the indulgence of impossible imaginings, the kind that belonged to children spinning dreams of kingdoms they would never rule. Each name pressed against her mind like a dagger poised to strike.

Aegon, who occupied the throne that was her mother’s by right, his existence the linchpin of the Green’s ambitions. Otto, the Hand that set the board against her mother. Aemond, the rider of Vhagar, the Greens’ most fearsome weapon, and her brother’s murderer…

Her fingers tightened instinctively, though there was nothing in her grasp. She would need three to strike at the heart of their power. Aegon, Otto, and Aemond. Without them, the Greens’ strength would falter, their unity splintering like a cracked blade.

But that would leave her with only one berry. One final life to take.

Her thoughts turned to Alicent. The Queen Dowager had tormented her mother for years, weaving webs of guilt and ambition to smother the rightful Queen’s claim. Alicent’s venom had seeped into every corner of the Red Keep, infecting all it touched. Yet as much as Daenera despised her, Alicent’s power was waning. Without her sons and father, the Queen Dowager would be nothing more than a shadow in a court that no longer needed her. Killing Alicent might bring momentary satisfaction, but it would do little to weaken the Greens’ cause. Her death would be a wound that no longer bled.

For a fleeting, haunting moment, Daenera thought of using the berry on herself. It would be over in an instant–a brief, bitter swallow. Her death would be on her own terms, out of the hands of her mother. That would be a waste, and she had no use for waste. There were other ways to die, should she decide on that course. The berry was a tool, not a reprieve.

If Aegon, Otto, and Aemond were removed from play, the Greens’ foundation would crumble. Their strength would falter. But even without its leaders, the council still held power. The Small Council would not vanish overnight; its members would scramble like rats on a sinking ship, seeking to salvage what they could.

Yet one figure remained in her thoughts, an unseen viper lurking in the shadows of the court: Larys Strong.

The clubfoot. His loyalty was to no one but himself, his scheming far more insidious than the others. It would be a mercy to her mother if Larys Strong was removed entirely from the board–and Daenera would take great satisfaction in his death. 

But such thoughts were idle, and she pushed them aside–for what use was poison without a means to deliver it? She had neither the freedom to act nor the cunning to see it done unnoticed. And though vengeance burned within her, she could not stomach the thought of dying as both a Kingslayer and a Kinslayer. History would not look kindly on her, even if her heart carried honor. No, she did not wish to die–not yet.

“The remaining berries are assurances,” She added softly, her voice taking on a weightier tone. They were a contingency. “For myself.”

Understanding flickered in Edelin’s eyes, her expression softening with sudden clarity. Before she could voice her thoughts, Daenera tilted her head ever so slightly, a wry smile playing at her lips. “And Mertha, perhaps,” she said, her voice carrying a dry edge. “If she keeps on the way she does.”

The jest hung in the air, and after a beat, the corner of Edelin’s mouth twitched, her lips curving into a faint smile. It was the kind of amusement one found when laughing felt almost too dangerous–subdued, guarded, but genuine. The firelight danced between them, casting flickering shadows across the polished oak table and the intricate weave of the rushes beneath their feet.

Silence settled in the room once more, punctuated only by the soft crackle of the hearth and the faint rustle of fabric as Daenera adjusted her seat. But it didn’t last. She leaned forward, her voice cutting through the quiet. “What will you do?”

Edelin rose slowly. Her fingers tightened around the pouch in her hands as she looked down at it, her brows furrowing as though the pouch itself might offer some guidance. A heartbeat passed. Then another. Finally, she drew in a breath, her voice firm but low as she answered. 

“I’ll hide it.” Her voice carried the conviction of a decision made, though her gaze, when it lifted to meet Daenera’s, revealed the unease beneath her resolve. “Your chambers will be searched come morning. They’ll tear through everything–every chest, every corner. I will take it with me and keep it hidden.”

Relief washed over Daenera, lifting the weight from her chest, though a shadow of unease lingered at the edges of her thoughts. “You cannot hide it in your room. They’ll question you either way, but if they uncover it…”

Edelin gave a short nod. “I won’t say a word of this.” She paused, looking down at the pouch in her hands. “I will keep your secrets.” Her eyes lifted, meeting Daenera’s. “But if the choice comes down to you or me…”

“I understand,” Daenera said, reaching for her hand. Her fingers closed over Edelin’s, feeling the faint outline of the pouch concealed within. “I am thankful for you, Edelin. Truly. I value your friendship more than I can ever express.”

The girl’s slips curved into a faint smile, a look that carried warmth and steadied Daenera’s frayed nerves. The weight that pressed against her chest eased just slightly, like a knot loosening. 

Without another word, Edelin shifted her hand, tucking the pouch deep into the folds of her skirts. The moment passed, and she stepped behind Daenera, where she began to gather the dark waves of her hair. Her fingers moved deftly, weaving strands into a loose braid, her touch light yet sure. She worked in silence for a time, adding thin ribbons of silk to the braid, the delicate fabric glinting faintly in the firelight.

“I am sorry,” Edelin murmured after a moment, her voice soft, almost tentative, as though the words were a fragile offering. “For your loss.”

Daenera blinked, the words catching her off guard, though she quickly masked her surprise. The weight of grief, ever-present and unyielding, swelled in her chest. She swallowed hard, willing away the tears that threatened to rise. “Thank you,” she managed, her voice barely above a whisper.

The silence that settled over the chamber was tentative, stretched taut between them like an invisible thread that might snap at the slightest of breath. The fire in the hearth crackled, its embers pulsing faintly in the dim light, casting shifting shadows across the polished wood of the dressing table. Rain still drummed against the windowpane–louder in the silence.  

Daenera watched Edelin through the mirror as the girl worked through the length of her dark curls. The younger woman’s movements were practiced, careful, as she wove the ribbons of silk through the strands, taming their unruly wildness in preparation for the morning. Edelin had fallen back into her quiet diligence, though Daenera did not miss the occasional flicker of thought in her eyes. 

When Edelin finally spoke, her voice was measured, but there was something tentative beneath its surface, something that made Daenera’s lips twitch with wry amusement. 

“What will you do now?” She asked, her pale blue eyes fixed on the task before her, the words carrying an air of casual curiosity that did not quite mask the deeper intrigue beneath. 

Daenera exhaled softly, lifting a hand to toy with one of the silk ribbons that had been woven into her hair. She wound one tightly around her fingertip, then unraveled it, only to wrap it around another. A small, idle act–something to busy her hands while her mind shifted through the weight of the question. 

“What can I do but languish in bed all day?” she murmured, her lips curling in a wry smile. “I shan’t leave my bed for a week, I think. Not that it matters–I won’t be permitted beyond my chambers regardless.” Her lips quirked as she met Edelin’s gaze through the mirror. “ I should be rather easy to keep an I on, don’t you think?”

Edelin hummed softly, twisting another length of silk through Daenera’s dark locks. “Mertha will be beside herself,” she mused, amusement creeping into her voice. “What was it she said this morning? ‘The only people who can afford to spend their days sprawled in bed–”

“‘Are down on the Street of Silk,” Daenera supplied with a smirk, shaking her head in amusement. She stretched lazily, her fingers tracing the embroidered edges of her robe. “Yes, I seem to remember something to that effect.” She stretched her arms above her head, letting her limbs go slack as she lounged back on the chair. “It’ll give her something to gnash her teeth over, and I rather like the thought of it. What can she do? Drag me from bed? She’d have to haul me through the halls like a sack of grain, and I doubt she has the strength or the nerve to try.”

A small chuckle escaped Edelin–almost a snort–before she caught herself, pressing her lips together as if she had not right to find humor in any of it. But Daenera saw it–the briefest glimpse of something lighter beneath the surface. It was a fragile thing, but it was there nonetheless and it eased the mood. 

“You’re making things harder on yourself by opposing her at every turn,” Edelin chided, though there was no true reproach in her tone–just the weary truth of someone who had spent too long in the company of Mertha. “Not everything has to be a battle. Sometimes it’s easier to endure than to suffer the consequences of her ire.”

Her brow furrowed slightly, hesitation flickering in her gaze before she continued, softer now. “And… she should never have struck you.”

Daenera’s gaze drifted to her reflection in the mirror, tracing the contours of her face. The cheek that had been struck bore only the flush of exhaustion, no bruising, no swelling. The slap had stung, but it left no lasting mark—whether by design or by lack of force, she could not say. Had Mertha wielded just enough control to ensure it would not linger, or had the sheer audacity of the act stolen some of its strength? Either way, the sting had been real, sharp enough to startle but not wound. And, in some strange way, she had welcomed it.

“I was deserving of that one–” she murmured, the admission barely more than a breath.

“No.” Edelin’s voice was firm, sharper than before. Her red brows knitted tightly, her displeasure writ plainly across her features. “You are a Princess. It doesn’t matter what you may have done–she had no right to lay a hand on you.” Her head shook slightly, as if the very thought of it unsettled her. “Her mistreatment of you–it isn’t right.”

The vehemence in her tone, the unguarded concern that colored her words, sent a flicker of warmth through Daenera. It was a rare thing to hear such defiance spoken on her behalf. A rare thing, to feel the weight of someone’s anger on her account.

For a moment, she simply watched Edelin, her expression unreadable. Then, slowly, the ghost of a smile touched her lips, fleeting but genuine.

“I do not understand why you allow it,” she said, her voice edged with quiet fury. Then, as though realizing she had overstepped, she hesitated, drawing in a sharp breath. “Forgive me, Princess. It is not my place.”

Daenera caught the flicker of restraint in Edelin’s reflection, the way her lips pressed into a thin line as if she wished to swallow the words back down. “Do not hesitate now,” she said, her tone measured, absent of reprimand. If anything, there was an openness to her words. 

Edelin’s shoulders squared, seemingly emboldened. “Then I will speak plainly.” Her voice softened, though urgency still simmered beneath the surface. “Why not go to him?” Why not let him put a stop to it?” She hesitated just slightly, as if weighing her words. “He’s your husband–”

Daenera’s expression darkened, and the flare of irritation was immediate. Her lips curled into something that was neither a smile nor a scowl. “He is my brother’s murderer,” she said flatly. 

The words settled like iron between them, heavy and immovable. Aemond’s name was not spoken, but it didn’t need to be. His presence loomed over the conversation all the same. 

Edelin did not flinch, though the tension in her posture grew, her hands tightening ever so slightly around the strands of Daenera’s hair as she twisted them into careful braids–had the hands been Mertha’s, Daenera was sure she’d feel the reproach burning at her scalp. 

“Then I could go to him,” Edelin said carefully. “He is still your husband. He would not allow–”

Daenera’s lips curled into something caught between a sneer and a smirk. “We may be married,” she said, her voice clipped with barely restrained irritation, “but I have no desire to rely on him.”

Even as the words left her mouth, she heard the petulance in them, like a child railing against a gentle reprimand. It irked her. She was no child, yet the stubbornness in her own tone betrayed her.

The very thought of going to Aemond–of seeking his protection, of pleading for his intervention–curdled in her stomach like spoiled milk. The notion made her blood boil. To humble herself before her brother’s murderer, to ask anything of him, would be a betrayal of all that still burned within her. The thought stung sharper than any of Mertha’s slights, cutting deep into the raw edges of her pride. She would endure a thousand small humiliations, suffer every sneer and whispered insult, before she would ever crawl to Aemond Targaryen for help. 

He had already taken too much from her. She would not give him this.

“I do not want him to know.”

She would suffer Mertha. She would suffer this prison. But she would not suffer Aemond’s protection. 

“Your pride may keep you standing, but it will not make it any easier,” Edelin murmured, finishing the last braid. “And you will only suffer for it.”

Daenera grimaced, rolling one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “Perhaps,” she allowed, though there was no real concession in her tone. Then, as if to undercut the moment, the corner of her lips curled in a ghost of a smirk. “But should it ever become too much to bear… I still have a few berries left.”

She watched Edelin’s reaction through the mirror, saw the way her lady’s eyes widened, her fingers briefly stilling in Daenera’s hair. There was a flicker of hesitation–just for a heartbeat–before the tension shattered with a sudden, incredulous laugh. Edelin shook her head, amusement chasing away her earlier unease, her lips pulling into an exasperated smile.

“Gods save us,” she muttered, still chuckling, “You are impossible.”

Daenera only hummed in quiet satisfaction, tilting her head slightly as Edelin resumed her work, weaving silk through the long, dark strands. The storm still raged beyond the Keep’s walls, the wind howling through the towers, but within the chamber, for just a fleeting moment, the weight of it all seemed a little lighter.

Once Edelin finished weaving the last of the silken strips through Daenera’s braids, she stepped back, seemingly admiring her work with quiet satisfaction. Daenera studied her reflection, tilting her head slightly as she took in the intricate braids cascading down her back. They varied in thickness–some woven tightly, others looser, softer–and threaded through them were silken ribbons of varying hues. Deep crimson, pale gold, and midnight blue intertwined with the dark strands of her hair, each color catching the firelight as though a rainbow had been woven into her tresses. 

Her father, Laenor, had taught her to braid her hair like this. "To protect it," he had said, his hands deft and sure as he wove the strands together, "and to keep it from tangling into mats. You’ll thank me for it one day."

And she had.

Even now, she could recall the warmth of his hands as they guided hers, the quiet patience in his voice as he showed her how to twist and weave each section with precision. It had been one of the few things they shared—an unspoken ritual, a bond forged in simple, careful movements.

She had been young then, barely past her sixth nameday, her hair wild and unruly as the sea. He would laugh as she wrinkled her nose in frustration, murmuring, "It’s a Targaryen mane, but it has the soul of Velaryon waves. Stubborn as the tides."

She had not understood then how precious those moments were. How fleeting. But this–this, at least–was something of him that remained. And for that, she would always be grateful.

Daenera rose from her seat, rolling her shoulders as she stretched her aching limbs, feeling exhaustion seep deeper into her bones. Every movement felt weighted, as though the events of the day had carved themselves into her flesh, leaving her heavier with their burdens. The thick layers of her night robe trailed behind her, whispering against the cold stone floor as she made her way towards the bed. 

When she reached it, she sank onto the mattress with a slow, weary exhale, feeling the feather-stuffed bedding give beneath her weight. For a moment, she simply sat there, pressing the heels of her palms against her eyes, willing away the dull throb of fatigue. Gods, she was tired. The kind of tired that settled into the marrow, that no amount of sleep could truly mend. 

And yet, she knew rest would not come easily. Even if her body yielded to it, her mind would not. It would race in endless circles, retracing the same agonizing thoughts, the same bitter regrets, the same simmering anger that refused to fade. 

She let out another slow breath, lowering her hands to her lap. The chamber was quiet save for the faint crackle of the fire and the steady drum of the rain against the windowpanes. 

The quiet rustle of fabric and the soft click of the drawer were the only other sounds in the chamber as Edelin moved with quiet efficiency, gathering the leftover ribbons and slipping them neatly into their place. Her fingers worked with practiced ease, smoothing each strip of silk before tucking them away, the motion precise, almost reverent. When she finally closed the drawer, the faint snick of wood meeting wood echoed in the stillness, a small, measured sound against the hush of the room.

“Would you choose a book?” Daenera murmured at last, her voice quiet but steady.

Edelin paused, glancing over her shoulder. “A book?”

“I doubt I’ll find any rest, and I have little desire to be left alone with my thoughts,” Daenera admitted, shifting back against the headboard. She reached for the pillows, propping them up to sit more comfortably. “I thought I’d read to you, as I promised I would.”

For a moment, there was only silence. Then Edelin’s entire face lit up, her expression shifting from wary surprise to something far softer. “Really?” She asked, her voice carrying an unmistakable note of hope, her pale blue eyes bright with something almost childlike. 

Daenera inclined her head in a slow nod, and that was all the encouragement Edelin needed. Without hesitation, she turned swiftly, the fabric of her skirts whispering against the cold stone as she hurried from the bedchamber into the adjoining common room.

Beyond the doorway, the faint sounds of movement reached Daenera’s ears–books shifting, the soft scrape of parchment, fingers trailing along leather-bound spines. The quiet rustling carried through the dimly lit chamber, each sound deliberate, searching.

Moments later, Edelin reappeared, cradling a book in her hands as though it were a relic of great worth. She held it carefully, reverently, her fingers tracing the embossed title along the gilded spine before she extended it toward Daenera. The firelight flickered over the worn leather cover, illuminating its deep indigo hue. 

The Watchers on the Wall by Maester Harmune.

Daenera’s gaze flickered over the familiar gilded spine, recognition settling like a stone in her chest. It was one of Aemond’s books.

For a moment, a stubborn flicker of defiance sparked within her. A part of her wanted to refuse it outright, to push it back into Edelin’s hands and send her to find another–any other–so long as it did not bear the mark of him. The thought of reading something Aemond had once poured over, of letting his choice in words take root in her mind, was enough to make her fingers twitch with hesitation.

But just as quickly as it came, she forced it down. It was a childish, foolish kind of obstinacy, and she knew it. It is only a book. Whatever satisfaction she might gain from spiting Aemond in this small way was not worth the effort. To refuse it would be to give him more power over her than he already held.

With a quiet resolve, she took the book from Edelin’s hands and settled back against the pillows, fingers tracing the worn leather before she opened it to the first page.

When Edelin lingered at the bedside, her hands clasped before her, Daenera glanced up, a slight furrow creasing her brow. The girl stood uncertainly, her posture stiff, as though waiting for permission she had never needed before.

Daenera tilted her head, studying her for a moment before patting the empty space beside her. “Join me,” she said, her voice softer now, lacking the usual guarded edge. “You can’t very well stand there the whole time. And–I’d like the company.”

Edelin blinked, her expression shifting between hesitation and something unreadable. But the reluctance lasted only a moment before she relented, moving with careful grace as she crawled onto the bed, settling beside Daenera atop the thick layers of blankets.

The fire crackled in the hearth, casting golden light over the pages as Daenera opened the book. The weight of it felt solid in her hands, the scent of parchment and ink mingling with the lingering traces of lavender from the silken sheets.

Then, in a voice steady and measured, she began to read. 

“It is said that the wind howled across the black pines of Sea Dragon Point, carrying with it the cries of wolves and the whispers of greenseers, when the Warg King had called forth a storm from the spirit wood, thick with mist and shadow, to blind his foes. But winter was coming for him, and winter did not fear the dark.”

She read aloud from the Chronicle of Sea Dragon Point, one of the many accounts compiled within the Waters on the Wall. The words painted images of long-forgotten battles, of the King of Winter riding at the head of his armies, banners snapping in the frozen wind as he marched against the Warg King and his skinchangers. The story spoke of war-wolves the size of destriers, of ravens that carried the voices of the dead, of a battle fought beneath a sky thick with swirling snow and seething magic.

Edelin listened intently, her breath slow and measured, and as the tale unfolded, her head found its way to Daenera’s shoulder. It was a quiet, unspoken thing–no hesitation, no formality, just a simple shift in weight as she rested against her.

Now and then, she murmured soft comments, wondering aloud if the Warg King had truly wielded such power, or if the greenseers’ whispers were just the fancies of storytellers. Daenera responded when she felt inclined, but for the most part, she simply read on, allowing the cadence of the words to fill the space between them.

It was… comfortable. Almost familiar in a way she had not expected.

For a fleeting moment, it felt like another life–like the nights she once spent in the nursery, reading to her younger brothers beneath the warm glow of candlelight. She remembered Joffrey nestling close, too proud to ask outright for another chapter but lingering until she gave in. She remembered the way little Aegon would nod off before the end of the tale, his small fists curled into the blankets, his silver hair tousled against her arm.

That time was gone now. Her brothers were gone too, one buried, the others out of reach.

But here, in this quiet moment, with the fire casting long shadows across the walls and the steady weight of Edelin at her side, she allowed herself–just for a little while–to remember what it was like to be a sister instead of a prisoner.

She had fallen into a steady cadence of words, weaving through one chronicle and into the next, when the distant groan of the chamber doors echoed through the quiet. It was not a sound easily mistaken–the heavy wooden doors did not yield to passing drafts or the stirrings of servants. Someone had entered. 

Daenera stilled, her gaze lifting just slightly from the book in her hands. Beyond the lattice screen, she caught a flicker of movement–a shadow gliding across the floor, tall and deliberate. Then, a glint of silver, unmistakable even in the dim light, and the sound of measured footsteps against stone. 

Aemond.

The warmth of her head resting against her shoulder vanished as Edelin sat up abruptly, her breath catching as she straightened further. 

Aemond did not acknowledge them at first. He crossed the chamber without hesitation, his long strides carrying him toward the desk tucked into the corner, moving with the same quiet purpose he always carried. A drawer scraped open, its sound sharp against the hush. He rifled through its contents with practiced ease, plucking something from within before shutting it once more.

Only then did he turn, his gaze flickering toward them.

His eye found Daenera first.

Daenera refused to acknowledge him, her gaze fixed on the weathered pages of the book before her. The words blurred into meaningless symbols, their substance lost to her entirely. Yet she kept her eyes trained on them, feigning indifference even as she tracked his every movement from the edge of her vision, her senses sharpened to his presence. Every measured footstep, every shift in fabric, every controlled breath–she noted it all, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of meeting his gaze.

“Leave us.”

Aemond’s voice cut through the quiet, smooth and unyielding as tempered steel. The weight of his command was absolute.

Edelin stiffened, hesitating only for a heartbeat before swiftly rising from the bed. She had been seated near him–on his side. The very thought sent a bitter taste to the back of Daenera’s throat. Would she ever allow him in that bed again? If it were her choice, the answer would be never.

Edelin dipped into a quick curtsy, her skirts whispering against the stone as she moved. Before departing, she cast a fleeting glance toward Daenera, her hesitation evident, as though silently asking if she should truly leave her alone with him. Daenera nodded in reassurance, and with no further protests, Edelin turned and hurried through the chamber, her steps light but swift. The door closed behind her with a quiet click.

Silence settled in the room like an encroaching fog, thick and unrelenting. And then, there were just the two of them.

As Aemond turned his back to her, Daenera’s gaze flickered upward. The candlelight glowed against the hard lines of his shoulders, the deep green of his doublet darkened further by the shadows. He moved with an air of quiet purpose, reaching for the flagon of wine resting upon the table. The deep red liquid sloshed against the sides of the goblet as he poured, the only sound in the heavy, suffocating silence. He lifted the glass to his lips and drained it in a single swallow, setting it down with a dull clink against the wooden surface before abandoning it entirely. Not a single drop left. 

Daenera forced her eyes back to the open book before her, though the words on the page blurred into nothingness. She turned the mover in her mind, trying to weave sense from them, to anchor herself in something that was not him. And yet, from the edge of her vision, she caught the way he moved–a controlled, deliberate pace as he wandered back to the desk, returning whatever it was he had retrieved back into its place–a habit, she knew.

When he turned at last, his gaze found her. She felt it settle upon her, heavy as a weight pressed into her skin. There was no mistaking his interest–his presence bore down on her, a silent force demanding acknowledgement. Her grip tightened slightly around the edges of the book, the parchment rough beneath her fingertips. The pages might as well have been blank for all she could read of them now. 

He leaned back against the desk, a picture of ease, though she knew him well enough to recognize the tension radiating off of him. He watched her for a long moment, the familiar prickle of irritation itching beneath her skin as his gaze slid over her. 

She would not give him the satisfaction of meeting his gaze. 

Then, without a word, he pushed off the desk, his movements measured and steady as he crossed the room. Each step sent a ripple of tension through her, her pulse quickening in defiance of her will. The sound of his boots against the stone floor echoed in the silence, a slow, deliberate rhythm that grated against her nerves. He rounded the bed, drawing closer, and for a fleeting moment, she bracing herself, half-expecting him to lower himself onto the mattress beside her, to claim his place without care or question. 

But instead, his hand reached out, long fingers curling around the pillow at her side. He lifted it, the fabric shifting beneath his grip, and without a glance in her direction, turned and carried it across the room. 

Daenera breathed out in relief, heart shuddering in her chest. Had he dared to settle beside her, she thought she might have driven the spine of the book straight into that cursed sapphire eye before smothering him with a pillow for good measure.

He settled on the chaise with the same quiet deliberation, shrugging off his belt and unfastening the claps of his doublet. The fire caught the hard planes of his face as he discarded the garment, his movements unhurried, effortless. Every action spoke of ownership, of familiarity, as if he had already decided this was his place to claim. 

Bitter words rose unbidden to her lips, lodging against the back of her teeth. She did not want to break the silence, did not want to acknowledge him, did not even wish to breath the same air as him. And yet, despite herself, her lips parted. 

“I do not want you here,” she said, her voice cold as iron.” From now on, if you wish to sleep well, you will do so in your own chambers–or else you’d have to sleep on the floor like a dog.”

Aemond did not flinch, nor did he seem surprised. Instead, he merely shifted, settling into the chaise with an air of measured indifference. “The chaise is comfortable enough.”

Daenera’s gaze narrowed at the page. “Not when it’s wet.”

His eye seemed to gleam with something unreliable, she felt it even as her gaze was set on the book, felt the faintest trace of amusement curling at the corner of his lips. “And if I have all the water removed?”

She hated the way he spoke–calm, controlled, so certain of himself. And she hated, more than anything, that he found humor in her defiance. 

And so, pettily–because pettiness was the only weapon left to her in this gilded prison–she answered, each word honed to a pointed edge. “Then I will fucking piss on it.”

The night had stretched into an eternity, an unending cycle of drifting in and out of fitful sleep, caught between waking and dreaming. Sleep, when it came, was shallow and uneasy, frayed at the edges by restless thoughts that refused to settle. Every time she closed her eyes, she found herself back in the depths of the Sept, standing in the cold, candlelit silence as the Silent Sisters worked over the lifeless boy laid out before her. His skin was pale, waxen, his golden curls damp and darkened in death. Their knives moved with reverence, slicing into his flesh, prying open his ribs as they reached inside to extract his organs–one by one–while she could do nothing but watch. 

Sometimes, the boy on the stone slab was not golden-haired at all. Sometimes, his pale curls had bled into a deeper hue, shifting, thickening, taking on the unruly wildness she knew so well. And suddenly, it was not him, not the boy she had poisoned, but someone else. A brother. 

His skin was pallid, his lips drawn into the ashen stillness of death, the cold finality of it settling over him like a shroud. The candlelight flickered across his face, casting shifting shadows over lifeless features, hollowing the soft curve of his cheeks, deepening the sunken stillness of his closed eyes.

She could almost hear the whisper of her own voice, soft and coaxing, weaving lies as gently as a mother tucks a child into bed. You are going home, Patrick. Words that had been meant to soothe, to soften the edge of his fear, yet had been nothing more than empty breath–cruel deceptions clothed in mercy.

And as she gazed at the boy laid bare upon the cold stone, she wondered if Luke, too, had believed he was going home. Had he looked toward the horizon with relief, with the quiet certainty that he would see his mother again, that he would sleep once more beneath Dragonstone’s sky? Or had he known, as Vhagar’s shadow swallowed the storm, that home was a place he would never reach?

When the Silent Sisters turned away, their robes whispering against the cold stone, something shifted. They moved as shadows, silent as the dead, carrying away the glass jars that held what remained of the boy’s insides. The air was thick with the scent of myrrh and death, clinging to Daenera’s skin like a second shroud. She should have turned away too, should have followed them into the dim corridors beyond the chamber. But she could not.

Neither the golden-haired child she had poisoned nor the dark-haired boy who had haunted her dreams remained. Instead, something smaller lay swaddled in cloth, its frail shape stark against the hard, unyielding stone.

So small. Too small.

Her breath caught in her throat, a sharp hitch of air she could not release. The cold of the Sept pressed against her skin, but she felt nothing, as if her body had numbed to everything but the sight before her. The chamber, the distant murmur of prayers, the lingering scrape of steel against flesh–all faded into the periphery. Her world shrank, narrowed to the impossibly delicate bundle lying before her.

Her fingers trembled as she reached out, longing, desperate.

And then she saw it.

A wisp of silver hair, soft and fine as gossamer, barely visible in the dim glow of the candles.

Her breath shuddered from her lips, unsteady, uneven. Too small. Too impossibly small to be here, in this place of death and decay. The chill gnawed at her bones, but she did not care.

All she wanted in that moment was to gather the bundle into her arms, to cradle it against her chest, to shield it from the cold grip of the stone. To take it from these walls, away from the death and decay that clung to the air, and let her warmth pour into it, chasing away the chill that did not belong to something so small.

Her fingers curled, desperate to grasp the soft swaddling cloth, to feel the impossible weight of it against her. If she could only hold it, she could will life into it–breathe warmth into cold flesh, whisper comfort against a too-fragile brow.

But even as she reached, the air around her seemed to still, thickening like mist, pressing heavy against her lungs. The chamber wavered at the edges of her vision, the candlelight dimming, shadows creeping in like grasping fingers. And then–

A shudder ran through her chest, sharp and sudden.

She gasped, torn from the dream, her body lurching awake as if pulled from deep waters. Sweat cooled against her skin as the room pressed down around her. The air felt thick and suffocating, clinging to her like unseen hands. Her pulse hammered against her ribs, a dull ache pressing behind her eyes. The world was dark, the only illumination the flickering firelight casting restless shadows across the walls. For a moment, she simply lay there, staring at the canopy overhead, struggling to separate dream from memory. The phantom scent of incense still lingered in her nostrils, the cold touch of the Sept’s stone floor ghosting along her bare feet. 

No matter how many times she pulled the blankets over her, no matter how fiercely she willed herself back to sleep, the cycle would begin again. Each time she closed her eyes, she was back there–watching, waiting, unable to move. 

And each time, when they turned into the bundle of darkened fabric, she’d wake before reaching him. 

The only solace Daenera found in the endless, wretched hours of the night came in the form of the man she despised. It was a strange, loathsome comfort, knowing he was there–just beyond the edge of her sight, a shadow lingering at the periphery of her awareness. She could not see him, but she felt his presence like the faint warmth of a dying fire, an awareness that settled into the marrow of her bones, a tether that kept her from slipping too far into the abyss of restless dreams. And she hated herself for it.

When she finally woke, it was with a sluggish, heavy pull, as though her body had been weighted down by lead. The weight of exhaustion pressed heavy against her limbs, dragging at her movements as she pushed herself upright. She braced one arm against the mattress, her fingers curling into the soft fabric of the sheets as she rubbed at her face, trying to rid herself of the drowsy fog clinging to her thoughts.

The world around her felt strange, disjointed, as though she had woken in a place that was not her own–like a song heard through thick stone walls. The air felt cloying against her skin, thick with the scent of spent candle wax. Weariness clung to her, needling beneath her skin like trapped embers, crawling like a thousand unseen ants. 

The light streaming through the windows stabbed at her eyes, sharp and unforgiving. 

Daenera winched, turning her face slightly away, blinking against the warmth that flooded the chamber. The sun had already climbed above the walls of the Keep, its position telling her it was later than when she was usually awoken. Mertha was nothing if not punctual. The old hag roused her at the break of dawn, when the sky bled red and bruised above the horizon.

She frowned at the daylight, as if it had betrayed her. There was no evidence of the previous night’s storm–no lingering mist, no streaks of rain trailing down the glass. The sky was clear, bright, as though the day before had never happened at all. If not for the ache in her bones, the weight of her heart pressing against her ribs, she might have thought it had all been nothing more than another fevered dream.

Frowning, she rubbed her face again, the press of her fingers doing little to chase away the lingering grogginess. She forced herself more upright, her gaze drifting across the chamber, searching–until it landed on the chaise. 

Empty. 

No trace of its occupant remained. 

The pillow and blanket had been put away. There was no discarded boots, no abandoned clothes draped over its back. It was as if Aemond had never been there at all. 

Her frown deepened as a strange tightness coiled in her chest. 

The faint murmur of voices carried through the air, distant but distinct. Beyond the bedchamber, in the adjoining room, figures spoke in hushed tones, as though wary of disturbing her rest. 

Daenera’s unease curled in her chest, coiling tighter with every passing moment. She pushed the covers aside and swung her legs over the edge of the bed, her bare feet meeting the cold stone floor with a quiet tap. For a moment, she simply sat there, listening, her senses sharpening against the strange stillness of the morning.

She pushed the blankets aside and rose from bed, bare feet meeting the cool stone floor with a shiver. Moving towards the chair, she plucked up the robe she had discarded the night before, the silk slipping like water through her fingers as she pulled it around herself. The fabric was soft, another layer of warmth, but it did little to shake the lingering heaviness in her libs. She slipped her feet into her waiting slippers, and with slow steps, she shuffled towards the adjoining chamber. 

The scent of food reached her before she stepped through the archway–warm, rich aromas of roasted meat, freshly baked bread, and ripe fruit heavy in the air. Her stomach twisted, though whether in hunger or unease, she couldn’t tell. 

She halted just beyond the threshold. 

Sunlight streamed through the tall windows in thick, golden shafts, illuminating the room in a hazy glow. The long dining table had been set in one end, its polished surface laden with an array of food–ripe fruit and shelled nuts, boiled eggs, meats sliced into neat portions, warm loaves of crusty bread. And at the far end of it all, seated with an unreadable expression, was Aemond.

Her eyes found him immediately, drawn to him before anything else. He sat at the head of the table, his posture relaxed, one arm resting against the table, his long fingers absently tapping on its surface. Yet there was nothing idle about him–his presence, as always, engulfed her. His gaze drew from Edelin to her. 

With a gentle clink, Edelin set down a bowl of berries, the delicate sound barely disrupting the thick silence hanging in the room. Her movements were deliberate, careful, as if wary of disturbing something fragile, something already on the verge of splintering.

She straightened, smoothing invisible creases from her apron before lifting her gaze. Her eyes met Daenera’s–hesitant, searching–and for the briefest of moments, her expression betrayed something unspoken. A sadness, quiet and lingering, settled in the slight crease between her brows.

It was not pity, not quite, but something close to it.

“Why are you still here?” Daenera’s voice was all cool disdain as he stepped further into the room, her movements unhurried as she drifted towards the table. “I thought we had come to an understanding.”

Stopping to the chair to his left, she rested a hand against the carved wooden back, her fingers idly tracing the grain before plucking a single berry from a bowl. She rolled it between her fingers, holding it before her mouth. “I see my threats weren’t enough to deter you.” She popped the berry into her mouth, chewing slowly, letting the silence stretch for a moment. “What will it take? Must I piss on all the furniture to rid myself of your presence?”

A sharp clatter split the air.

The clatter had rung through the chamber like a struck bell, reverberating off the high stone walls. Edelin stood frozen, her fingers splayed over the tray as if by sheer force of will she could undo her mistake. Her face burned crimson, shame creeping up her throat.

Daenera barely spared her a glance. The noise had startled her, yes–sent a jolt through her ribs, coiled her nerves tighter–but she had not reacted beyond a slow, measured breath. She seemed to feel the impact echo through her bones, the feeling jarring. 

Her attention returned to Aemond. 

He did not flinch, nor did he seemed to care for the source of the commotion. His gaze met hers, sharp and unreadable, the corner of his mouth curved–just slightly, just enough for her to see it. His amusement bled into something more serious, the curve flattening. 

“I have something to tell you.”

He moved then, shifting the plate before him. The scrape of metal against polished wood was soft, deliberate, as he pushed it across the surface towards her. It came to rest beside the chair she gripped, inviting her to take a seat. 

She did not sit. 

Her gaze flickered downward. The food had been arranged with thought–small portions of roasted meats, ripe fruit sliced into pieces, chilled grapes and peeled tangerines. Freshly baked bread, still warm, set alongside honey and jam. And a cinnamon cake topped with sugar. 

The scent curled into her senses. She felt a pang of hunger deep in her belly, but what fleeting warmth that came with the offering did not reach her. 

A sick, molten heat curled in her stomach. Half of her wanted to shove the plate away, to overturn it onto  his lap and let him wear his pathetic attempt at civility like the mockery it was. But she did not move. 

“Are you to soften the blow of telling me you’ve killed another of my brothers with cake and tea?” Daenera scoffed, her voice laced with venom. “Do you think it will make it easier to swallow?”

He hadn’t been gone long enough for it to be true. She knew that. But the words left her lips all the same. Her fingers curled around the back of the chair, knuckles whitening as she glared at him. The scent of warm bread and sugared fruit lingered in the air, cloying and thick, but it did nothing to soothe the tightening in her chest.

Edelin, wisely, said nothing. Without another word, she gathered the tray, her movements careful, practiced. She turned on her heel and slipped from the chamber, the heavy wooden door falling shut behind her with a muted thud.

Aemond remained composed, his expression an unreadable mask. Not a twitch of his jaw, not the slightest crease in his brow betrayed his thoughts. And yet, there was something in his eye–a flicker of something elusive. Amusement? Irritation? Pity? Worry? Daenera could not tell. He did not rise to her provocation, did not sneer or scoff as she expected. He merely regarded her, studying in that way of his, as though peeling back her layers to reveal her bleeding insides. 

The silence stretched between them. Then, at last, he spoke. 

“Sit,” He said, his voice smooth, measured. A urging that bordered on command. 

There was something in the way he held himself, in the deliberate calm of his tone, in the weight of his single eye upon her that made unease coil deep in her belly. It was in the quiet insistence of his words. The way he looked at her–with a gentleness so sharp that it cut her more deeply than his scorn ever could. 

A knot tightened in her throat. 

“I don’t want to,” she said, the words leaving her lips before she could stop then, a childish defiance she knew already was useless. And yet, she clung to it, as if voicing her refusal would keep at bay whatever terrible thing he meant to tell her. 

Aemond did not blink. 

“Sit down, Daenera.” This time, his voice was firm, unyielding as cold steel. 

Her fingers curled around the back of the chair, nails biting into the polished wood, pressing so hard she felt the strain in her joints. The wood did not give, would not break under her grip–so she did. She released her grip on it and lowered herself into the chair. Her hands found their place in her lap, curled into fists against the silk of her robe.

Aemond did not gloat. He did not smirk as she had expected him to–no cruel twist of his lips, no gleam of satisfaction in his eye. Instead, he regarded her with a quiet gentleness that unsettled her more than his arrogance ever could. And that, somehow, was so much worse. 

His arrogance, his cruelty–those things she could fight against. They gave her something solid to grasp, something to spit venom at, something to push against. But this… this quiet patience, this measured restraint, this softness–it felt like a dagger slipping between her ribs in slow, excruciating inches. It stripped her of armor, left her exposed and flailing. 

Whatever words he held back lingered in the air, an unspoken storm gathering in the silence between them. It clung to her skin like damp fog, coiling around her ribs, settling in her chest like water filling a drowning woman’s lungs. She felt it, the suffocating dread creeping through her, the gnawing certainty that whatever he meant to say was not anything good. 

Aemond inhaled slowly, deliberately, the movement measured and precise. His fingers twitched idly against the polished wood of the table–just the faintest motion, absent and unhurried, betraying some restless thought stirring beneath his composure. Daenera’s gaze flickered towards them before she forced herself to look away, to return her focus to his face. 

And yet, she could still feel them. 

The ghost of his touch lingered, seared into her skin as if he had only just held her, as if his grip had never loosened. She still recalled the bruising pressure of his fingers, the way they had burned into her flesh, branding her in ways she could never truly scrub away. She still carried the bruises on her thighs, small blossoms of purple. 

Aemond shifted slightly, brow contemplative. He parted his lips as if to speak, then hesitated, exhaling through his nose in a soft hum. It was not so much uncertainty that held his tongue, she thought, but something else. He was choosing his words with care, as though the right words would lessen the blow of what he wished to tell her. 

At last, he spoke. 

“We’ve received word,” he said, his voice a quiet drawl, “that your mother has returned to Dragonstone.”

Daenera exhaled, a slow and measured breath, though it did little to steady the storm within her. Her mother had left Storm’s End. Had returned home. 

For a fleeting moment, relief washed over her, swift and forceful, crashing over her like a wave breaking against the shore. But just as quickly, it retreated, dragging something heavier in its wake. Grief surged to take its place, welling up inside her like the rising tide, lodging itself between her ribs. It pressed against her throat, made it difficult to swallow, difficult to breathe. 

Had her mother abandoned the search?

Or worse–had she found what she was looking for?

She closed her eyes. Just for a moment. 

And in that single moment, she saw him. 

Her brother lay upon the cold, unforgiving stone. The Silent Sisters worked over him with quiet reverence, their hands steady in their duty. She saw the pale, waterlogged flesh, the places where his skin had turned grey, kissed too long by the sea. Salt clung to him like a second burial shroud, glistening against the limp, tangle mess of his curls–curls that had once been soft, once had been warmed by the sun, now stiffened by the ocean’s embrace.

But would he truly look like that after all this time? After all that happened?

The thought coiled inside her like a living thing, sinking its fangs into the tender flesh of her heart. She almost wanted to ask him, almost wanted to force the truth from his lips, to demand if her mother had found something, anything. But the fear held her still. Because she already knew the answer. 

There was nothing left to find. 

Daenera forced herself to breathe, slow and steady, though it did little to ease the tightness coiling in her chest. The weight of exhaustion pressed against her ribs, heavy as a millstone, and the warm air of the chamber felt thick in her throat. She willed herself to keep her composure, to smother the grief before it could bloom into something she could not control. Her fingers curled into the fabric of her robe, nails biting into the silk.

She gave a small nod, a single, curt motion that barely disturbed the strands of silver hair falling over her shoulders. Her lips parted, then pursed, as if to trap the question before it could leave her tongue. She swallowed, forcing down the bitter taste of sorrow.

And then, at last, she spoke.

“Is that all?” Her voice was a blade’s edge, honed sharp, but strained–fraying at the seams. She would not break–not in front of him.

The silence that followed was brief, but it dragged, a heartbeat too long, as if the weight of what he was about to say needed that extra breath to settle. The tension drew taut as a bows string before the arrow was released. 

Aemond’s gaze remained on her. “No,” he murmured, softer than she expected. He straightened slightly, a mere shift in posture, yet it felt deliberate, careful, as though bracing himself. His hands, long-fingered and calloused, stilled against the table. “Your mother lost the child.”

A thousand thoughts stormed through her mind, each one crashing over the next. She thought first of Jace. The last she had head, he was at Winterfell, far beyond the Green’s reach–surely beyond their reach. But then–Joffrey? Aegon? Viserys? Had something happened to them? Had the war already stolen more from her than it had already taken?

And then, at last, the truth settled in. 

It was not them. It was not one of her brothers. 

It was the child–the one her mother had been carrying. 

The realization landed like a blow, knocking the breath from her lungs. She felt the weight of it sink into her bones, cold and merciless. Grief swelled in her chest, thick and cloying, rising like a tide she could not hold back. The air thickened, turned to something unbreathable. The room blurred at the edges, light wrapping around her vision as nausea coiled in her gut, sharp and violet. 

She rose, too quickly, the legs of the chair scraping roughly against the stone floor. The sound barely registered. Blood pounded in her ears, drowning out the distant murmurs of the Keep beyond these walls, drowning out the warmth of the fire, the lingering scent of sugared fruit and cinnamon still cloying in the air. 

Her composure slipped, crumbled through her fingers like sand. 

Her sibling–gone before they could even be held, before they could take their first breath. 

The grief curled inside her like a living thing, sharp-toothed and ravenous, tearing at the fragile seams of her restraint. Her throat burned, bile rising, but she forced it down.

Out of the blurred edges of her vision, Daenera caught the slightest movement–a flicker of motion that, for a moment, she mistook for hesitation. But it was not hesitation.

Aemond reached for her.

His fingers hovered just shy of her own, the barest breath of space between them, as if he meant to grasp her hand, to still her, to ground her. But she wrenched away before he could touch her, as if his fingers were flame and she had already been burned too many times. The motion was sharp, instinctual, a recoil from something she could not bear to endure. She turned her back to him, closing herself off, severing whatever fragile moment might have passed between them before it could take shape.

A sharp ache bloomed in her chest, spreading like a bruise, pressing heavy against her ribs until it felt as if they might crack beneath the weight. She strained to breathe, to force air past the tightness in her throat, but it caught and stuttered, shallow and uneven. Her hands found her hips, fingers pressing against the curve of her spine as she tried–gods, she tried–to steady herself.

Her gaze lifted skyward, as if seeking solace in the high vaulted ceiling, in the distant light that streamed through the windows. But the tears burned hot behind her eyes, threatening to spill, and she clenched her jaw, willing them away.

And she did not want him to see. 

She did not want him to watch her unravel, to bear witness to her pain, to see the raw, ugly thing that grief made of her. Vulnerability was a weapon turned against its wielder, and she would not offer him that blade–not again.  

A sob rose in her throat, thick and strangling, but she swallowed it down, forcing it into the put of her stomach where it could rot unseen. 

Her mother had wanted this child–had longed for it. Daenera had seen it in her eyes, had heard it in the quiet way she spoke of the babe, in the way she touched her stomach as if the child were already there in her arms. 

And now, there was nothing. 

Her hand rose, fingers trembling slightly as she tugged at the collar of her dress, as if loosening the fabric might somehow loosen the tightness coiling in her chest. She pressed her palm against her heart, felt the frantic beat beneath her skin, fast and uneven, as though her own body rebelled against the weight of the truth. 

Her mother had lost a son. 

And now, she had lost another child. 

Another life stolen, another piece of her mother torn away. And the gods were silent. 

Daenera closed her eyes.

For a fleeting moment, she no longer saw her brother stretched out upon the Silent Sisters’ stone table, his chest broken open, his curls stiff with salt.

Instead, she saw something smaller.

Too small.

A bundle of fabric lay upon the cold, unforgiving slab–wrong, out of place, never meant to be there. The candlelight flickered, casting shifting shadows over the swaddled form, over the impossibly delicate curve of it.

And then, a wisp of silver hair.

Soft. Fine as gossamer. Barely visible in the dim light, but there all the same.

Her breath hitched, caught somewhere between her ribs, aching as though something inside her had cracked. The room around her faded, the weight of the present slipping beneath the tide of grief pulling her under.

Oh, gods. The letter. 

The realization dawned on her, settling in the pit of her stomach like a stone. 

By now, Fenrick would be on his way to Dragonstone, carrying the letter she had written with such careful, measured words. She had tried–foolishly, naively–to offer her mother some semblance of solace, to give her something to cling to amidst the reunion on loss. She had told her that the child she carried would bring her comfort–that not everything had been lost. 

Regret was a sharp, bitter thing, curling around her ribs and sinking its teeth deep.

Behind her, Aemond spoke, his voice low, careful. “Daenera…”

She lifted her hand, fingers trembling slightly as she motioned for him to stop. Not yet. She wasn’t ready to turn, to face him, to bear the weight of his gaze pressing against her as it always did. 

Her grief twisted into something worse–guilt. It tore through her anew, sharp and relentless, pulling her apart at the seams. 

Had she done this?

Was this her punishment? A cruel retribution from the gods for what she had done to the boy who trusted her? For the poison she had slipped into his food, for the lies she had whispered as she sent him to his death?

Her breath shuddered in her chest, jagged and uneven, but she swallowed the turmoil down, forcing herself to steady. She wiped at her cheek, smearing away the single tear that had escaped before it could be seen. Before he could see it. 

“When?” Her voice came, quieter than she had intended, hoarse with the effort of keeping herself together. “When did this happen?”

Aemond was silent for a beat too long. Then–”Does it matter?”

At last, Daenera turned to face him. Her movements were slow, reluctant, as if forcing herself to meet his gaze would make the weight in her chest any easier to bear–but it did not, it only made it all the heavier. Another tear slipped free trailing in a  slow descent down her cheek before she wiped it away with a trembling hand. It was a futile effort. More clung to her lashes, catching the light like glistening shards of glass. She could feel them tremble, feel the heat behind her eyes threatening to spill over again, but she refused to let them fall. 

She met his gaze, and it nearly undid her. 

His expression was carefully neutral, yet there was something guarded in the set of his jaw, something restrained in the way he held himself. And his eye–gods, his eye. It was not cold as it so often was, nor sharp with mockery, nor darkened by cruelty. Instead, there was a softness there, a quiet, somber patience that only deepened the ache in her chest.

“I–” the words caught in her throat, breaking apart before it could fully form. She swallowed against the lump in her throat. “Did I–?”

Her lips parted, but she could not finish the question. Was it my fault? The words remained trapped behind clenched teeth, rattling inside her skull like a dying thing. Did I do this? The thought alone sent a fresh wave of nausea rolling through her. Had the gods seen what she had done? Had they cast their judgment, taken something from her mother in retribution for what Daenera had stolen from another?

The guilt gnawed at her, a ravenous beast sinking its teeth into her ribs. She could not bring herself to ask him, could not bear to voice the thought that had already sunk its claws into her mind. 

And worse–why, why in all the gods’ names, was she looking to him for reassurance? Why was she searching his face for some denial, some certainty that this was not her doing, that she had not willed this tragedy into being?

Hatred curled inside her–hatred for herself, for the shameful, desperate way her heart clung to his presence in this moment. She swallowed again, fingers curling into the silk of her robe as she forced her voice into something steadier, something more composed, though it still trembled. “When did it happen?”

Aemond tilted his head slightly, watching her in that way he always did–like he saw more than what she gave. He studied her, peeling back the layers of her composure as though he could see the raw, open wounds beneath. 

“It was before.”

Before. 

Before she had killed Patrick. Before she had sealed her own damnation.

For the briefest of moments, the relief came swift and sharp, crashing through her like a desperate breath breaking the surface of deep waters. It was a cruel, fleeting thing, barely there before it was swallowed whole by something far worse. A wave of guilt surged up in its place, heavier than before, pressing down on her like a boulder against her chest. She felt sick with it, sick with herself. What did it matter when it had happened? What difference did it make? The child was still gone, lost before ever taking a breath. And yet, for the smallest fraction of time, she had felt relief that it had not been her fault. That it had not been her sin that had stolen another life from her mother’s arms. 

She clenched her hands into fists at her sides, nails biting into the flesh of her palms until she could feel the sting of it, grounding herself in the pain. She could not allow herself that feeling, could not let herself grasp onto it. Her mother had lost her son, and now she had lost another child. 

There was no comfort in the timing of it, no absolution in the fact that it had been before Patrick. And yet, she had sought it anyway, like a coward grasping at scraps of solace in the face of an unbearable truth. 

She forced her shoulders back, forced the breath into her lungs, forced the grief into something small and quiet, something she could lock away until she was alone. Because no matter how much she might feel as though she was drowning, she could not afford to let herself sink. 

“Before,” Daenera echoed, the word curling bitterly on her tongue. Her brow furrowed, and something inside her twisted. The grief threatening to pull her under began to harden, cooling into something sharper and accusatory. “When before?”

Aemond inhaled through his nose, slow and measured, though his posture stiffened slightly. He bore the weight of her accusation as he bore all others–like armor, as though he had long since learned to let such words slide from his skin like rain against steel. He did not flinch, nor did he waver. Instead, his head tilted, just enough for the sunlight to catch the angular lines of his face. 

When he finally spoke, his voice was the same even, measured tone. “Before.”

Before Patrick.

Before Luke.

The child had been lost before he had ridden to Storm’s End, before he had given chase in the rain, his rage and wounded pride spurring him forward, before the storm had swallowed them both whole. Before the sky had split with the crack of thunder, before Vhagar’s massive jaws had closed around Luke and torn him from the sky. Before the sea had claimed whatever was left, dragging it down into the cold, endless depths, leaving nothing but salt and silence in its wake. Beforeher mother had searched those very waves, desperate, grieving, calling for a son who would never answer. BeforeDaenera’s own hands had been stained with the blood of the innocent, before poison had coated her fingertips, before death had followed in her shadow.

Before everything.

And yet, no matter how she turned it over in her mind, no matter how she tried to unravel the cruel weaving of fate, she could not shake the truth of it.

It did not matter.

The order of their suffering changed nothing. The loss remained. The grief endured. The dead did not return.

“It seems the news of our father’s passing brought it upon her,” Aemond continued, his voice careful. And yet, his fingers–long and deft, ever steady–began to tap idly against the polished wood of the table. A restless habit, though whether born of irritation or impatience, she could not tell. 

Daenera’s lips parted, but only a breath escaped before her grief twisted into something else entirely–something raw and seething, something blistering beneath her skin like an open wound. 

“When her rightful claim was usurped.” She did not temper her hanger, did not bite back the words before they could lash out. She wanted them to land.

Not only had her mother lost her father, but her very birthright had been stolen from beneath her, torn away by those who had sworn loyalty and then betrayed her in the same breath. Her throne had been usurped, her claim trampled beneath the weight of ambition and treachery. She had carried a child, nurtured it within her, only for it to be wrenched from her before it could ever take its first breath. And then, as if the gods had not yet finished their cruel work, she had lost her son–her sweet, bright boy–swallowed by the storm, by the beast, by the sea.

The gods were vicious, their judgment as merciless as it was senseless. They were no wise and righteous overseers, no keepers of justice and fate. They were cruel, capricious, laughing down from their lofty halls as mortals broke beneath their whims. What justice was there in this? What righteousness? There was none–only suffering, only grief, only the relentless toll of loss upon loss, piling higher like bodies left to rot upon the battlefield.

How could they punish her–her mother, whose only crime had been existing as her father’s heir–while those who had taken, those who had stolen, those who had murdered were left to rule, to thrive, to wear crowns dripping with the blood of the innocent?

The gods had no justice. They only had cruelty.

Aemond’s jaw tensed, just slightly. A small shift, a twitch of muscle, but she saw it. 

“How many more must die for your family’s ambition?” She bit out, fury coiling around her grief like a viper. 

“The fault is not ours,” Aemond siad, his tone composed, infuriatingly patient, as though he expected her anger, as though he would simply weather it like a storm passing overhead.  “The child was malformed, he continued, his voice careful, as if he were offering her something close to reassurance. “It is said it had horns, scales…a tail.” He exhaled, shaking his head slightly. “It would not have survived, whether it came now or later.”

“Who?” Her voice was sharp, demanding, slicing through the thick silence between them. “Who said this? How do they know?”

Her breath quickened, her hands curling into fists at her sides, nails biting into the flesh of her palms. The words felt too heavy, too cruel to accept without a fight. Aemond had spoken them so plainly, as if they were mere facts and not a sentence of grief carved into her very bones.

“How do you know it's the truth?” She challenged, stepping closer now, her gaze burning into his.

Daenera seethed, but she could feel her fury unraveling at the edges, slipping through her fingers like sand. She needed someone to blame, needed it to make sense of it all, needed somewhere to aim her anger before it ebbed out entirely, only leaving behind an aching emptiness. But Aemond did not flinch, did not rise to her anger. 

“We have received multiple accounts,” he said, his voice dreadfully gentle, offering her no cruelty, no satisfaction, only the quiet inevitability of truth. 

Daenera felt the fight drain from her in an instant, like a blade sliding free from between her ribs, leaving behind only the gaping wound, the hollow ache where fury had once burned. The fire inside her flickered, then went out entirely, snuffed like a candle’s flame, leaving only behind the curling remnants of smoke, grief’s cold fingers creeping into its place. 

She swayed slightly on her feet, her pulse thrumming in her ears, tears pressing hard against the back of her eyes. She closed them, only to find that the darkness brought no relief. The image waiting for her there–waiting in the hollow spaces behind her ribs, in the marrow of her bones. The small bundle wrapped in cloth. The wisp of silver hair barely visible. Unbearable stillness. 

She rubbed her hand across her face, as though she could wipe away the vision along with the tears that threatened to spill. With a quiet, weary sigh, she sank back into her chair. 

She wished she had been there. 

Wished she could be there now–with her mother, beside her, as she mourned her children. 

Daenera was growing weary of grief, of loss. It clung to her like a second skin, a weight that hadn’t lessened yet, only shifted, pressing down on her in different ways, at different times. She was drowning in it. The loss of this sibling–one she had never met, one she had only allowed herself to hope for–was but a drop in the ocean of sorrow that had already swallowed her whole. 

It was a cruel thing to admit, even to herself, but it was the truth. Compared to Luke, compared to the gaping, irreparable wound his absence had left inside of her, this loss felt small–manageable. A shallow wound against a deeper, festering one. 

Perhaps that was not so strange. 

And perhaps, there was only so much grief one could carry before it became to heavy to bear. So she gathered this small sorrow, cupped it in her hands like water, and let it slip through her fingers, pouring it into some quiet place within herself where it could no longer drown her. 

“I wanted to be the one to tell you,” Aemond said softly. 

Her gaze lifted to meet his, and this time, there was no scorn in her eyes, no reproach or bitter edge to her expression. Only something quieter, something more measured. A tired understanding, perhaps. A truce, however fragile, however brief. 

The sunglint spilled through the high windows, cutting through the coldness of the chamber, catching the strands of his pale hair and turning them to gold. The light softened him, rounded the edges of his sharp features, took the severity of him and made him something almost gentle. Almost human.

Daenera swallowed, drawing in a slow, steady breath, holding it deep in her lungs before releasing it, exhaling the grief, the weight, the ache–if only for a moment. 

“Thank you for telling me,” she murmured at last. 

Aemond studied her, his gaze lingering. And then, quiet, deliberately he ventured, “I wanted to tell you about–”

“But you didn’t,” Daenera cut him off, her voice regaining an edge–something brittle. A simmering ember of anger licked at her ribs. It did not blaze into a roaring fire, but it smoldered there, deep and slow-burning, waiting. 

“I waited for you,” she said, the strain in her voice betraying the wounds that had yet to close, the kind that festered beneath the skin and leaked poison into the blood. “I waited for you, but you never came.”

For the first time, Aemond broke her gaze. He turned his face ever so slightly, his eye flickering away, his shoulders going taut beneath the fabric of his doublet. The shift was small, but she saw it bathed in the light of day as it was–the tension in his jaw, the almost imperceptible curl of his lips, the way his fingers twitched against the table as if resisting the urge to move. It could have been mistaken for annoyance, but it wasn’t. 

Shame, she thought. Regret, perhaps.

His next words came as softly as they had the last time, spoken with the same quiet weight, the same bitter aftertaste. “I wanted to give you one more night.”

The same words he had spoken when they sat together in the ruin of her chambers, amidst shattered glass and scattered blood. One more night believing her brother was alive. An explanation. A bitter solace. A stinging mistake. 

One more night–one night too long. And yet far too little. 

“It wasn’t enough,” Daenera murmured. Her voice was quieter now, but no less firm. “It would never be enough.”

They held each other’s gaze for a long moment, the silence between them thick with everything neither of them would say. Words unspoken tangled in the space between them, unsaid truths pressing against the weight of air. 

And still, neither of them looked away.

“You should have been the one to tell me,” she murmured, finally breaking her gaze, her voice quieter now. “Just as I should be the one to tell Patrick’s parents of their son. 

Her fingers curled slightly against the table’s surface as she lifted her gaze back to him. “I do not expect it to bring them peace. But at least they will know. I owe them that much.” It was the kindest thing she could offer. “Let me write to them. Let me be the one to inform them of his passing.”

Aemond studied her. His lips pressed together, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face–perhaps a sharp remark, a cutting jest waiting on his tongue, but if so, he swallowed it. Instead, his gaze flickered downward, settling on the plate of food in front of her, untouched, the warm of it long since dissipated.

“If you eat,” he said at last. 

Daenera blinked at him, caught off guard by the audacity of it. It was so unexpected, so absurdly him that she nearly let out a sharp, humorous laugh. Instead, her expression darkened, her brows pulling together as a scowl twisted her lips. She briefly entertained the idea of overturning the plate onto his pristine doublet, watching the food spill into his lap with a pure, spiteful satisfaction. She could already picture it–the way his lips would tighten, the sharp edge of his glare, the inevitable snap of his patience. 

The thought was tempting. 

Spite crackled beneath her skin, hot and restless, but she forced it down. 

It should be her that told Patrick’s parents. She had taken their son’s life–whatever justification, whatever mercy she had told herself had softened it, it was still her hand that had ended it. And for that reason alone, she begrudgingly reached for the plate, sliding it towards herself with slow, reluctant movements. She picked up a piece of tangerine, lifting it to her lips without breaking her glare, scowling at Aemond as she chewed. 

Across the table, the corner of his lips curled–just slightly, just enough to make her scowl deepen. 

The first few bites were an effort, her throat constricting, her stomach coiled so tightly it felt as though it might reject the food entirely. But the more she ate, the more the tension eased, the tightness giving way to something else–something she had not realized had been gnawing at her. Hunger.

She had barely eaten since the day before yesterday. Perhaps even longer than that. She had forced herself to move, to speak, to endure, but she had done so on nothing but sheer will. And on some level, she suspected Aemond knew.

Her eyes flicked up, narrowing slightly as she caught him watching her. “Are you not going to eat?” she asked, her tone sharp, edged with irritation. 

“I’ve eaten,” Aemond replied, entirely unbothered.

“Are you just going to stare at me while I eat? If so, I’d much prefer if you left.”

If anything, he seemed amused by her hostility. His hand lifted lazily from the surface of the table, reaching for her plate with deliberate slowness, plucking a single grape between his fingers.

Daenera reacted before she could think.

Her hand snapped out, slapping against his with a sharp smack. The sound echoed between them, louder than she had expected, but she did not regret it. Resentment flared in her chest, hot and immediate. If he had wanted to sit here, if he had wanted to share her food the way they had once done before, then perhaps he shouldn’t have murdered her brother.

The vitriol did not make it to her voice, though. Nor did it reach the glare she leveled at him. Instead, her tone was cold, flat, edged with something quieter, something just as sharp. “If you’ve eaten, then leave. Or get your own food. Don’t steal mine.”

Aemond’s gaze flickered to where she had struck his hand, then back to her, something unreadable passing over his expression.

Then, with an infuriating little smirk, he popped the stolen grape into his mouth.

The doors swung open with a quiet creak, and the sharp rhythm of approaching steps cut through the silence. Daenera barely had time to register the intrusion before Mertha stood before her, her hands folded neatly, her face in that ever-present mask of tight-lipped disapproval–though now, it was drawn even tighter, as though she had bitten into something sour and found it worse than expected. 

Edelin hovered behind her, expression worried. 

“My prince,” Lady Mertha said stiffly, inclining her head. “Forgive the intrusion, but the Lord Confessor’s patience has worn thin. He insists that they begin the search now.”

At the words, Aemond leaned back slightly in his chair, the shift slow, deliberate. Whatever flicker of amusement that had lingered in his features vanished in an instant, his face hardening into something cold and impassive–his familiar mask of steel and ice. Every trace of that infuriating smugness from moments before was gone, replaced by something unreadable, something distant. 

His fingers twitched idly on the tabletop, betraying the only sign of his irritation. He inhaled through his nose, the sound quiet but edged with something restrained. 

“Very well,” he said at last, his voice carrying no emotion, nothing but the crisp weight of obligation. 

Mertha did not move. She did not bow her head in dismissal, did not turn to fetch the Lord Confessor. Instead, she lingered, her dull gray eyes dragging from Aemond to Daenera, her gaze narrowing as her expression tightened. 

“Princess,” she said, her tone stiff with expectation. “We must get you dressed properly. You are in no state for company.” With a sharp flick of her wrist, she gestured for Daenera to follow, already turning towards the bedchamber. 

A cold prickle of unease ran down Daenera’s spine, a familiar dread twisting deep in her chest. She knew what waited for her behind the dressing screen, beyond the sight of others. Knew what Mertha’s cruel hands would do. The evidence of it still lingering on her skin–every cruel pinch, every warning squeeze, every silent reproach. The thought of it–of standing there, bare beneath Mertha’s fingers as she worked over her with disapproving hands and sharp, muttered words–made tension coil in her stomach. 

But still, she rose to her feet. 

“Lady Mertha,” Edelin interjected smoothly, stepping forward with an air of quiet insistence. “Allow me to see to the princess. I will dress her.”

Mertha’s head snapped toward her, lips pressing into a thin, bloodless line.

Edelin did not falter. “The Lord Confessor’s men will need to be supervised,” she continued, her tone carefully even. “They will tear through this chamber like hounds after scraps. Someone must ensure they do not leave a mess we will only have to clean later.”

Mertha’s lips twitched, her displeasure barely concealed. She exhaled sharply though her nose and turned back to Daenera, her eyes narrowing in quiet suspicion. Her gaze lingered for a beat, as if considering whether to press the matter, to drag Daenera to the screen herself. 

But then, without a word, she pivoted sharply on her heel. “Very well, make her presentable,” she said and strode to the doors, her skirts sweeping across the stone floor as she went to admit the Lord Confessor and his men. 

Daenera let out a slow, controlled breath, grateful for Edelin. 

She stepped into the bedchamber, the warmth of the late morning sun filtering through the tall windows, casting golden light against the cool stone walls. The air was still, thick with the lingering scents of candle wax and the morning meal. 

Crossing the room, she made her way to the basin, dipping her hands into the cool water before bringing it to her face. The sudden chill sent a shiver down her spine, but she welcomed it, relished the way it momentarily cleared the haze from her mind–and washed the salt from her face. Droplets slipped down her skin, trailing along her jaw, and she reached for a cloth to dry them away, pressing the fabric against her cheeks with slow, deliberate movements. 

When she finally lifted her gaze to the mirror above the basin, she understood why Mertha had been so quick to comment on her appearance. 

Strands of hair had slipped free from their braids, some curling in wild disarray around her face, the carefully woven plaits loosened from restless sleep and the wear of the day. The silk strips woven into them had come undone, some hanging limply, others barely clinging to the braid at all. Shadows bloomed beneath her eyes, a testament to the fitful rest that had done little to ease the weight pressing on her shoulders. 

She looked tired. Worn. 

And she was. 

The distant murmur of voices drifted through the open archway, punctuated by the shuffle of boots against stone. Low, hushed tones woven together, an indistinctive hum of men speaking, orders given. Yet amidst it all, one sound stood apart–the rhythmic, deliberate tap of a cane against the floor. 

Daenera’s breath stilled for a fraction of a moment, an instinctive reaction, though she forced herself not to tense. The sound unsettled her. The slow, measured beat of it, never hurried, never uncertain. A herald of unpleasant things. 

Edelin’s hands remained gentle, undisturbed by the noise beyond the chamber. With practiced efficiency, she helped Daenera out of her nightgown, the fabric slipping from her shoulders in a whisper of silk. A moment later, she was easing her into a fresh gown–a modest, loose-fitting dress of grayish-blue brocade, its fabric soft against her skin. 

The girl worked swiftly, fingers deft as she moved to Daenera’s hair, undoing the intricate weaving she had secured the night before. The ties slipped free one by one, and with them, the last remnants of braids unraveled. Her dark hair spilled down her back, loose and soft, waves curling from where it had been bound. 

Edelin hesitated briefly, as if expecting some instruction, some desire for her to gather it up, to set it with pins and ribbons. But Daenera gave none. She let her hair fall as it was, unbound and unstyled, unwilling to fuss with it. She had neither the patience nor the mood for it. 

“Would you prepare ink and parchment?” Daenera asked, her voice quiet but firm as Edelin removed the final braid from her hair. Strands slipped free, falling in loose waves over her shoulders and down her back, pooling like dark silk. “I expect I will need more than one sheet.”

Edelin gave a small nod, setting aside the silk strip she had unwoven and placing it neatly on the surface of the dressing table before turning to fulfill Daenera’s request.

Daenera exhaled, lifting her hands to her hair, running her fingers through the long, thick strands to smooth them out. Rising from the chair, she swept the mass of it over her shoulder before letting it fall back behind her. It cascaded down past her hips, heavy and unbound.

Mertha would surely find fault with her appearance–the simplicity of her dress, the lack of jewelry, the way she left her hair undone instead of setting it in careful plaits and coils as a lady ought to. But Daenera could not bring herself to care. Not today.

Without another word, she turned from the mirror and made her way toward the common room.

The room was a whirlwind of movement, a flurry of restless energy as men tore through every corner of the space with methodical precision. Cupboards were thrown open, drawers upended, books lifted and set aside, decorations shifted from their places as hands dragged across every surface in search of something unseen–something they would not find. The scrape of wood, the rustling of parchment, the dull thud of objects being set down or discarded–all of it filled the air, mingling with the thick oppressive tension that hung like a storm waiting to break. 

As Daenera stood at the threshold of the room, men moved past her with single-minded purpose. They did not pause, did not acknowledge her presence beyond the necessity of stepping around her, their focus set entirely on the task at hand. 

Her gaze swept across the room, cutting through the chaos–until it landed on him. 

Larys Strong. 

The Lord Confessor stood apart from the frenzy, watching rather than searching, his sharp gaze meeting hers. He inclined his head in acknowledgement. But the way he looked at her–calculated, considering–made something crawl beneath her skin, made indignation flare within her chest. 

She gritted her teeth and turned away from him, tearing her gaze from his prying stare, intent on ignoring him. 

Her eyes drifted to the far end of the table, where Edelin had already set out the ink and parchment with meticulous care. The quill rested neatly beside them, its tip glistening faintly in the afternoon light. Her seat from earlier had been pushed in, the remnants of her interrupted meal cleared away–no trace of the bread or fruit remained.

Only the cup of tea lingered.

It had been moved, no longer in its original place, but now sitting beside the pot of ink at the opposite end of the table, as if subtly repositioned to accompany her new task. The gesture was a small one, yet Daenera recognized Edelin’s quiet consideration in it. A reminder. A kindness. A way to steady her hands before she set ink to parchment and wrote the words she did not want to write.

But she hardly had time to register the small act of consideration, her gaze barely flickering over the carefully arranged parchment and ink before her attention was drawn elsewhere–to him.

Her eyes found him without meaning to, latching onto his presence as though pulled by an unseen force. Aemond.

He had not moved. He sat where he had before, poised yet at ease, as if entirely unaffected by the commotion around him. His profile was sharp in the glow of the sunlight, the golden strands of his hair catching in its warmth, making him seem almost otherworldly–almost soft. But Daenera knew better.

She had half-expected–half-hoped–that he would have left by now. It would have been easier, cleaner, not to have to share space with him, not to be reminded of the tangled, wretched mess that existed between them. And yet, bitterly, begrudgingly, she felt something cold and treacherous loosen in her chest at the sight of him still lingering. She could not call it relief–she refused to call it that.

She said nothing as she passed him, her steps measured, controlled. She felt herself brush past him without sparing him a glance, settling into the chair before the parchment–at the opposite end of the table where he was sitting. Her fingers smoothed over the parchment’s surface, grounding herself in the task. 

“Her herbs are over here,” Mertha said, her voice clipped as she gestured towards the far corner of the long room. Her tone held its usual note of authority, sharp and reproachful. 

At the entry to the apartments stood Maester Gilbar and his apprentice, their washed-out gray robes blending into the stone walls, their presence unassuming. The eldest maester’s hands were clasped before him, knotted with age, while his much younger charge stood attentively at his side, watching, waiting. 

“You can remove all of it–”

“No,” Aemond’s voice cut through the room like the edge of a blade. 

From his place at the other end of the table, he barely shifted, only tilting his head slightly as he spoke. He lounged against the wooden surface, leaning lazily on one elbow, his posture deliberately relaxed, yet anything but careless. A book lay flat before him, its pages untouched, as it had merely been something to occupy his hands rather than his mind. 

“You will look through it,” he continued, his voice steady, cool, leaving no room for argument. “Remove only what is necessary. The rest, you will return as it was.”

Mertha stiffened, her lips pressing into a tight line. Her disapproval was palpable, her fingers curling ever so slightly against the fabric of her skirts. “The Dowager Queen ordered it all removed.”

“And I am giving you new orders.”

Aemond’s gaze met hers, cold and controlled, his brow lifting ever so slightly in challenge. There was no raised voice, no outward sign of irritation–just that quiet, unwavering authority that left little room for defiance. His mere presence seemed to consume the room, filling every empty space, pressing against the walls like something unseen but undeniable. There was an air of danger about him, something quiet and coiled, like a blade resting in its sheath–hidden, but no less lethal.

He did not need to raise his voice, did not need to move with any grand display of power. It was in the way he carried himself, the effortless command in his posture, the sharp edge to his gaze. He was a man who did not need to remind others of his authority–he simply was.

And everyone in the room felt it.

Maester Gilbar cleared his throat, the sound rasping in the thick silence, his aged frame shifting slightly as he adjusted his stance. The chain around his neck swayed with the movement, metal links clinging together in quiet protest. His apprentice remained still beside him, rigid, uncertain, while Mertha lingered a moment longer, the weight of unspoken words seemingly pressing against her lips. 

Reproach flickered in her eyes, her mouth tightening as if she might yet voice her displeasure. But in the end, she swallowed it down, gritting her teeth. Without another word, she turned sharply on her heel and gestured for the maester to follow. 

Daenera barely spared them a glance. 

She could still feel Aemond’s gaze on her, heavy, unwavering, pressing against her like the ghost of a touch. It prickled against her skin, demanding acknowledgement, but she refused to meet it–refused to feel grateful that he would let her have her herbs. Instead, she turned her attention to the parchment before her, dipping her quill into the inkwell. The dark ink clung to the tip, and she tapped it twice against the edge to shake off the excess, watching the tiny droplets stain the rim. 

The quill hovered over the parchment, poised and ready.

But no words came. 

Her mind, once full of thought, so burdened with what needed to be said, now sat empty, blank as the page before her. The silence stretched, her breath shallow, her fingers tightening around the quell as though she could will the words into existence. 

The nose of the search continued around her, a steady drum of disruption–the shuffling of boots, the scrape of furniture being moved, the voices cutting through the space as orders were given and carried out. Daenera remained still, putting it out of her mind as she stared at the blank expanse of parchment before her. 

How do I even begin?

What words could she possibly offer? What comfort could she give when she knew there was none to be had? No sentence, no carefully chosen words could soften the sting of their loss. 

She dipped the quill into the ink, pressing the tip lightly to the parchment, watching as the black stain bleed into the fibers. The soft scratch of the quill met the paper, delicate, hesitant, but the wound was swallowed by the nose around her. 

Lord and Lady–

The words sat before her. She stared at them, then with a frustrated breath, dragged the quill through them, striking them out.

Setting the quill aside, she crumbled the ruined parchment, tossing it aside before reaching for a fresh sheet. 

I have no words to offer you comfort in this–

Her jaw clenched. No, that wasn’t right either. It was the truth, but the truth was a hollow thing. She scratched through the sentence, crumbling the parchment and tossing it aside again, reaching for another. 

The pile of discarded parchment had grown into a small mountain of frustration, crumpled remnants of failed attempts littering the table like fallen leaves. Each rejected letter, each scratched-out sentence, only fed the gnawing irritation curling in her chest. The right words would not come–not ones that mattered, not the ones that might dull the edge of grief for the parents of the boy she had taken. Nothing was enough, nothing could be enough, and the futility of it all made her stomach twist. 

With an aggravated sigh, she set the quill aside, fingers stained with ink curling slightly before she flexed them in an attempt to rid herself of the tension coiling in her knuckles. 

Leaning back in ehr chair, she pressed her spine against the unforgiving wood, tilting her head until it met the backrest with a dull thud. She stared at the ceiling, letting her breath escape in a slow exhale before dragging her gaze back to the ruined parchment strewn across the table. A waste of paper.

Her hand lifted, fingers ghosting over the rim of the now-cool teacup beside her inkpot before she sighed once more, this time softer, quieter. “Edelin,” she murmured, her voice no longer edged with irritation but something wearier. “Bring me more tea.” A pause. Then, almost as an afterthought, she added, “And pour one for yourself as well, if you’d like.”

Edelin, who had remained silent at her side, flinched slightly, as if the request had startled her. Daenera turned her head just enough to watch the girl’s expression shift, the small crease between her brows deepening with confusion.

“I’d like it if you’d join me,” she said, offering a simple invitation. 

“Princess?”

“You can practice your letters,” Daenera continued, her voice softer now, almost absent as she reached for one of the discarded parchments. Her fingers smoothed out the crumpled sheet, revealing the tangled mess of scratched-out words, failed beginnings that never found their end. “Or draw, if you’d rather,” she added, turning the parchment slightly in her hands before glancing back at Edelin. “It seems such a waste to discard them entirely.”

Edelin’s eyes widened in surprised. Then, before she could stop herself, her lips curled into a smile. “Really?”

Daenera gave a small nod, watching as Edelin tried–and failed–to temper her excitement. There was something almost childlike in the way her expression brightened, a rare glimpse of unguarded joy that had no place in a world like this.

But before Edelin could utter another word, a sharp, disapproving noise cut through the moment like the scrape of steel against stone.

Mertha.

The older woman stood rigid, her scowl carved deep into her face, hands planted firmly on her hips, her entire stance radiating displeasure. Her lips curled downward, thin and bloodless, eyes narrowing as she fixed Edelin with a look meant to wither whatever foolish notion had taken root.

Edelin hesitated, her fingers twitching faintly at her sides. For a fleeting moment, she looked down, studying her hands as though considering whether to retreat, to bow her head and fall back into the quiet, obedient role expected of her.

Then, as if making a decision, she lifted her gaze once more–this time meeting Daenera’s eyes.

“I would like that,” she said at last, her voice steady despite the deepening scowl Mertha shot her way. A quiet defiance, a choice made.

She reached for the empty teacup, fingers wrapping around it with deliberate intent.

“Thank you,” she added, as if daring Mertha to object.

As Edelin moved through the room towards the pot of tea hanging over the fire in the hearth, her steps light but unwavering, she seemed intent on ignoring Mertha’s sharp, narrow-eyed scowl. The older woman’s silent disapproval lingered, thick as smoke, still, Edelin did not falter. If anything, she carried herself with more purpose, as though determined to have this small act of defiance. 

The Lord Confessor’s men continued their search–ransacking, really–their hands trailing over every surface, their eyes scanning each object as if the very stones of the room might whisper her secrets. Drawers scraped open, rugs were lifted, shelves emptied only to be hastily repacked–much to Mertha’s displeasure. No corner was left undisturbed, no possession too insignificant to escape their notice. They moved with the cold efficiency of hounds on the scent of prey, though whatever they sought would not be found. Because there was nothing to find.

And then, amidst the chaos, Larys Strong moved. 

Unlike the others he did not search. He did not paw through her belongings or upset the furniture with prying hands. He did leave the marks of disturbance in his wake. Instead, he drifted through the chamber like a shadow, his presence deliberate, unhurried. The slow, steady tap of his cane accompanied each of his steps, the sound too precise to be anything but intentional. 

It was not necessity. It was a reminder.

Larys was not a man who commanded a space the way Aemond did, with his sharp-edged presence and the sheer weight of his gaze. No, he was something far more unassuming. He did not demand attention–he crept into awareness, slipping through the cracks of conversation and silence alike. A cripple who wore his affliction like a mask, a man who allowed others to see only what he wished to see–less–while beneath the surface, his mind wove its webs. 

His presence felt like a violation. 

Not just his, but theirs. The men rifling through her things again, treating what little she had as though it belonged to them. The first time had been her old chambers, where every object, every piece of fabric, every book had been hers. They had torn through it as they did not, leaving nothing untouched. 

And now, in this new chamber, this space meant to be hers, meant to be a sanctuary–even if it was the one she had desired–it felt the same. 

Violating.

It reminded her too much of that night–of how he had ordered her stripped, of how his men’s rough, indifferent hands had seized her, pulling at laces and fabric with the same disregard they now showed to her drawers and cupboards. They had peeled her apart, layer by layer, until she had been left standing in nothing but her smallclothes, the cold pressing against her skin.

The memory curdled in her mind, but she pushed it down.

The tap of his cane against the stone made the muscles in her spine tense, the hairs at the nape of her neck prickling as Larys approached. This time, his gaze was not on her–his attention was, however. His head tiled slightly, his sharp eyes flickering towards the far wall, where a great tapestry of the finest greens hung. It was a beautiful piece, expertly woven, depicting a vast forest bathed in golden light, its canopy breaking just enough to allow the sun to dapple the moss-laden earth below. 

“Such fine work,” he murmured, his voice smooth, carrying the careful cadence of a man who measured every word before he spoke it. His fingers curled over the head of his cane, watching the tapestry with something unreadable in his expression. “The details are exquisite.”

Then, his gaze slid back to her, keen and knowing. 

“But I wonder, Princess… Were you displeased with the ones I gifted you”

Daenera inhaled slowly through her nose, her fingers tightening around the quill before she dipped it into the inkwell, watching as the dark liquid clung to the tip. She set her gaze firmly on the parchment before her, the fine script of her unfinished letter waiting to be continued. The quill hovered above the sheet, ink threatening to drop onto the page as she let her silence stretch just a little longer than necessary. 

“I did not care for them,” she said at last, her words cool, edged with quiet finality. She saw no reason why she shouldn’t be so blunt. 

She did not want his gifts. Did not want anything hanging in her chambers that bore his influence, anything that served as a reminder of his betrayal and all that had followed. She did not want his eyes watching her–even in something as inanimate as a tapestry. 

Larys did not so much as blink at her curtness. 

“I had thought they were just to your liking,” he mused, unbothered. “They are not so different from the ones you have up now. I had them woven with such care, you see… selected by my own hand. A thoughtful gesture,” he continued, his fingers drumming idly atop the head of his cane. “I had hoped they might bring you some joy–a touch of something familiar, perhaps. After all, I know how fond you once were of your time in the Kingswood along with my brother. 

Daenera’s fingers tightened around the quill, ink pooling at its tip as it hovered above the parchment. Her jaw clenched, fire burning in her chest. When she lifted her gaze, she met Larys’s sharp stare with a glare of her own, her lashes fluttering slightly as she steeled herself against the venom curling on her tongue.

“Indeed,” she said, her voice cool and flat, though there was no mistaking the sharp edge beneath it. “I do have fond memories of your brother.” She let the words linger, let them settle between them like a blade laid across the table. “He was a good man. Honorable. Trustworthy.”

Unlike you.

“He understood loyalty was not something to be bartered but something to be upheld,” Daenera continued, her voice smooth but edged with quiet steel. “A shame such virtues are not inherited by blood.” Her quill tapped lightly against the parchment. “He was a man who deserved better fate than that that befell him. He would be disappointed in you.”

Larys came to a slow halt before her, the steady tap of his cane ceasing as he reached for one of the many crumbled pages strewn across the table. His fingers plucked a discarded letter, smoothing over the creased parchment, peeling it open with a care that felt almost like mockery. 

“Perhaps,” he mused, almost a hum. “But he is not the only one who deserved a better fate than the one that befell him…”

The soft scratch of parchment unfurling filled the space between them, the sound prickling against her skin like the scrape of a dull blade. 

Daenera remained still, her breath shallow, as she watched his gaze skim over the parchment, absorbing the tangled scrawl of condolences, of words she had tried and failed to shape into something meaningful. The weight of it, the intrusion, made her stomach twist. Though the letter was unfinished, though it contained nothing but fragmented apologies and half-formed regrets, it was hers-

It was as though he were peeling back the layers of her skin, prying into the raw, festering wound beneath, sinking his fingers tino the rot of her guilt and pressing–just to see where she would break. 

Daenera gritted her teeth. Grief, anger, and shame stirred tight within her chest, each emotion tangled so thickly she could no longer separate one from the other. She refused to meet his gaze, would not give him the satisfaction of seeing how deeply his words struck. Instead, she focused on the quill in her hand, though it trembled ever so slightly. Ink pooled where the tip met the parchment, spreading across the sheet like spilled blood, soaking greedily into the fibers. 

“It is not an easy thing, is it? Larys mused, as if he understood, as if he had ever understood. “Writing to the bereaved.” His tone carried the same insidious softness, the kind that soothed while it pried. “He was a young boy. Such a shame…”

The words slithered between them, curling in the space like smoke, like something that could not be battered away.

A sharp, seething urge shot through her–to reach across the table, to rip the letter from his hands, to tear it apart piece by piece until there was nothing left for him to inspect, nothing left for him to pick at.

“A shame, indeed,” she said, her voice cool but brittle.  He was a child, yet you imprisoned him as though he were a traitor grown. A child who fell ill in a cell, a child who could have been saved had any of you thought to do so.”

“Children grow into men, Princess. And men take up swords,” Larys murmured, his voice smooth, deliberate, each word measured as though he were weaving a trap with silk instead of steel. “It would be foolish to ignore the seeds of treason simply because they have yet to bear fruit.”

His fingers released the crumpled parchment, letting it fall open on the table before her, the unfurled words laid bare like an exposed wound. His head tilted slightly as he regarded it, as if contemplating the weight of what she had tried–and failed–to say.

“I do not envy your task, Princess,” he continued, his tone almost gentle, as though he were offering condolences instead of pressing a blade deeper into an already festering wound. “Telling grieving parents of their child’s fate… such a burden.”

The way he said it sent a slow, crawling heat up Daenera’s spine, something between fury and unease. But before she could summon a response, before she could shape her anger into words, he exhaled softly–almost thoughtfully–and added,

“I do hope they will find solace in your words. That they will read them and know their son was… cared for.” His gaze flickered back to her then, his lips curling in something that was not quite a smile. “Unfortunately, he put his life in the wrong hands.”

“Lord Larys.”

Aemond’s voice cut through the room like a blade, sharp and unyielding. Cold steel wrapped in quiet authority.

“Refrain from speaking to my wife.”

He did not so much as glance up from the book before him, his posture as composed as ever, as if the matter was beneath his notice–as if Larys himself was beneath his notice. Yet there was no mistaking the warning beneath his words, the subtle finality that severed whatever the Lord Confessor might have continued to say.

“You are not here for company,” Aemond continued, turning a page with deliberate ease, as though entirely unbothered. “You are here to supervise the search. Do your job.”

Silence settled between them for a heartbeat, thick and weighted.

Then, Larys released a slow, measured breath, his expression unreadable. “Of course, my prince,” he murmured, inclining his head ever so slightly. “Forgive me.”

His gaze lingered on Daenera for the briefest of moments, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes before he turned away. The rhythmic tap of his cane punctuated his retreat as he drifted back into the middle of the room, vanishing into the controlled chaos of the search.

Even as he moved away, Daenera could still feel the lingering presence of his words, the weight of what had been said–and what had been left unsaid. 

Agitation and guilt simmered beneath her skin, a restless, needling sensation that refused to settle. It pricked at the edges of her composure, rising in waves, pressing against her ribs, tightening around her throat like unseen hands. It burned low and slow, like embers waiting to catch flame, and she despised the way it made her feel–feeling she could not name.

Her gaze drifted, drawn as if by some unseen pull, towards Aemond.

He sat at the far end of the table, his posture deceptively relaxed, yet nothing around him was truly at ease. One elbow rested against the wood, supporting his weight, while two fingers ghosted along the sharp plane of his cheekbone, the others curled at his jaw, cradling his head in an absentminded pose. His eye remained lowered to the book before, expression unreadable, his gaze steady on the pages–but Daenera felt his attention all the same.

Even as he remained still, she knew he missed nothing. 

She watched him through her lashes, unwilling to fully turn her head, unwilling to acknowledge that she was watching at all. The midday sun poured through the high windows, spilling golden light across the room, illuminating the polished wood of the table, the cold stone walls, the shifting shadows of those still searching through her belongings. It bathed him in its glow, catching the silver strands of his hair, turning them almost white, almost golden. He looked terrible and beautiful all at once.

Yet even in the warmth of the sun, even in stillness, he reamined himself–a blade, a beast dressed in civility. 

Protector. Monster.

He was both, and she did not know which unsettled her more. 

She hated that his mere presence steadied her, that even without a word, without a glance, he anchored her in a way she could not understand–did not want to understand. Hated that the weight of him in the room, the quiet force of his authority, was enough to make Larys retreat, enough to remind everyone present of who truly held power here.

She despised the way it settled the storm inside her, the way it quieted the trembling in her fingers, the unease coiling tight in her chest. That it protected her, even when she did not want it, even when she had no wish to rely on it.

And still–still–she found solace in it.

As much as she wanted to recoil, to push against the feeling, to reject the bitter comfort his presence provided, it was there nonetheless. A truth she could not deny. A truth she hated herself for.

Daenera forced her gaze downward, fixing her attention on the parchment in front of her, where a heavy blot of ink had spread like spilled blood, seeping through the sheet beneath, and the one under that. Her fingers curled around the quill, her grip too tight, too stiff, as she stared at the ruin of what should have been her letter. 

For a fleeting moment–briefly, childishly–Daenera entertained the thought of snatching up one of the crumpled letters and tossing it at his head. 

His blind side was to her–an oversight, a vulnerability he rarely allowed.

Aemond had honed his reflexes through years of relentless sword training, his body molded for combat, his instincts sharpened to near-perfection. On the battlefield, he could read an opponent’s movements before they even struck, knew the rhythm of the fight as intimately as a dancer knew the steps of their routine.

But here?

Here, where there was no battle, where he was at ease, unexpecting–he was vulnerable.

She knew he struggled with his peripheral vision, with his depth perception. A flaw he compensated for in war, in the controlled chaos of combat, but outside of it? It was different. He might catch her movement in the last instant, might sense the shift in the air, but too late–the crumpled letter would already be sailing toward him, already bouncing off his head before he could react.

She could see it so clearly in her mind–the sharp flicker of awareness flashing across his face, the subtle tightening of his jaw, the briefest beat of delay before he turned toward her. His single eye, always watchful, always seeing too much, would land on her at last.

There would be no true surprise in his gaze, only that quiet, knowing amusement he always carried, that lingering intrigue that never quite left him when it came to her. He would not scowl–not truly–nor would he chid her–no, he would smirk, if not with his lips, then with his gaze alone, a gleam of something half-mocking, half-entertained. 

And if there had been no one else in the room, perhaps he would have picked it up and tossed it back. Perhaps he still would.

She exhaled, shaking the thought from her mind, dismissing it as she reached instead for the ruined parchment. Setting aside the ones the ink had bled through, she placed them neatly near the chair beside her, making room just as Edelin returned. 

The girl carried two steaming cups of tea, the rich, earthy scent of it curling through the air, grounding Daenera in the presence. Edelin set them down with quiet care, the porcelain clinking softly against the wood before she settled beside her with a small, pleased smile. 

Without hesitation, she turned her attention to the page in front of her, her fingers curling around the dry quill, bringing its point to the words, tracing over them. A learning habit, Daenera realized. The motion of following the letters an attempt to make her body remember them, as though committing their shape to touch, she would be able to write them at a later time without jumbling their order. 

Daenera turned her attention back to the blank sheet before her, forcing herself to block out the distractions around her. The shuffling of boots across stone, the scrape of drawers being opened and closed, the rustle of pages as books were shifted from their places–she ignored it all. Even Mertha’s sharp, shrill reprimands, snapping at the men to return everything to its proper place once their prying hands had finished disturbing it, became nothing more than background noise.

The midday sun poured through the high windows, its warmth spilling over her back, pressing against her skin like a heavy cloak. It should have been comforting, that steady heat, the way it wrapped around her like a blanket. But she barely noticed it now.

Instead, she reached for the quill, dipping it into the inkwell, watching as the tip darkened before she brought it to the parchment. The first few words came hesitantly, uncertain, and before she had even formed a full sentence, she was already reaching for a fresh sheet. Again and again, she wrote–each attempt falling short, each line either too impersonal, too forced, too hollow.

It took several discarded pages, ink bleeding across the table from her hurried scratches, before she finally settled on what needed to be said.

The letter toed the line between formality and something more personal. Not distant, but not too familiar. Careful. Measured.

It would not bring comfort. She knew that much.

But at the very least, it would be something.

The letter read:

To Lord and Lady Piper,

I write to you with a heavy heart and deepest regrets to inform you of the passing of your son, Patrick. 

There are no words in this world that can mend the wound left by the loss of a child, nor do I dare offer you empty comforts, knowing they would be unworthy of your grief.  It is a poor thing to learn of such sorrow through ink and parchment, a message carried by dark wings instead of spoken by the lips of one who knew him. And yet, it is all I can offer. 

Patrick was a boy of great heart and keen mind. He was kinder than most, and I cared for him as though he were my own blood. He did not deserve the cold isolation of a cell nor the sickness that crept upon him while he was there. I do not pretend that my words will change what was done, nor will I insult you by pretending what happened was just. He was imprisoned when he should not have been. That is the fault of the men who placed him there. And mine as well.

I blame myself for his fate, for not doing more, for not being able to save him. I did all within my power to protect him, to see him freed from that cell, to have him home in your arms where he belonged–but it was all for naught. I do not ask for your forgiveness–I do not deserve it.

When the illness took hold, I was there to hold his hand. I told him he would be going home. And in the end, I can only hope that he believed me. 

I wish I could give you something more, something to make this loss less cruel, less unbearable. But I have only this truth to offer you, and the promise that I will carry his memory with me, as I carry my own grief. 

May the gods grant you the strength to endure what they have taken from you.

Daenera Velaryon.

A shallow breath shuddered from Daenera’s lips as she leaned back, watching the ink dry on the parchment. She leaned back slightly, as if putting distance between herself and the words now sealed in ink. They now sat before her, each letter etched in careful, deliberate strokes. Yet they did nothing to ease the weight pressing against her ribs, the ache deep in her bones.

She blew softly over the parchment, coaxing the ink to dry, though she knew it was more out of habit than necessity. No amount of breath could lift the weight of the words she had written, nor could it undo the truth they carried–or ease the lie that kept it all together. Her gaze lingered on the letter, her fingers gripping the edges with just enough pressure to crease the parchment. 

Ink stained her hands, dark smudges trailing across her fingertips, smeared in uneven blotches along her palm. It had dried in places, turning her skin a mottled mess of black and gray, sinking into the fine lines of her palm. The sight of it stirred something uneasy in her–it looked too much like blood. 

Her jaw clenched, and she forced herself to blink the thought away.

She traced the edges of the parchment absently, the rough fibers pressing against the pads of her fingers as her gaze flickered over the lines once more, as if searching for something she had missed. A mistake. A word too cold. A sentiment too weak. But no–there was nothing more to add, nothing that could make it enough.

A thought crept in, unbidden.

Had her mother received one such letter?

Had she held a piece of parchment in shaking hands, inked with the confirmation of her son’s death? Had it carried some semblance of comfort, or had it only deepened the wound, made it real in a way that even grief had not yet managed?

She tried to imagine it—the moment the letter arrived at Dragonstone, the moment her mother’s fingers had broken the seal, the way her breath must have caught as her eyes traced over the words. Lord and Lady Piper. Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen. Did it make a difference? Did the words soften the loss, or only sharpen its edge?

Was it ever a comfort?

Her fingers stilled against the parchment, her breath shallow, the ache in her chest pressing deeper.

No.

It never was.

“Edelin,” she murmured, turning slightly towards the girl at her side. Her voice was quiet, strained, as though the words caught against the tightness in her throat. “Take this to the prince.”

She held the letter out, fingers curling slightly as though reluctant to part with it. For all her certainty in her choice, a part of her still balked at the idea of handing it over–to let him be the first to read the words she had beld onto the page. 

Edelin nodded without hesitation, settling her quill down. Rising from her seat, she smoothed her skirts before stepping away, her movements quiet against the ruckus the room held. The soft rustle of fabric accompanied her as she brushed past Daenera’s chair, slipping away like a shadow towards the other end of the table. 

Daenera did not watch her go. She did not follow the letter’s small journey. Instead, she let her hands fall to her lap, curling and uncurling her ink-stained fingers as if she could shake loose the lingering weight of what she had written. 

But the stain remained.

And so did the ache. 

Aemond’s gaze lifted from the book, slow and deliberate, as though drawn from distant thought. The golden light streaming through the windows spilling over his features, casting sharp relief over the high cut of his cheekbones, the straight curve of his nose. It caught in the dark sweep of his lashes, making the silver flakes of his eye gleam as he lifted his gaze.

Edelin approached, extending the letter towards him. He took it without a word, his fingers brushing against the parchment, turning it slightly in his grasp before his eye began to move over the page.

Daenera did not turn to watch him directly, but she observed nonetheless–from the corner of her eye, from the shift in his posture, from the slight tightening at the corner of his lips as he read. He said nothing at first, only tilted his wrist slightly, as though weighing the letter, his mouth pursing.

Then, after a long pause, he handed the parchment back to Edelin with a quiet murmur, his voice low, measured.

“If you wish it sent, sign your name properly.”

A simple statement. A pointed one.

And though his tone remained smooth, unbothered, Daenera did not miss the meaning beneath it.

Frustration flared hot in her chest, her teeth grinding together as she shot Aemond a sharp glare. The audacity of his demand grated against her, and it did not help that he had made it with such maddening ease–voice soft, measure, but pointed. Across the table, he remained composed, watching without so much as a flicker of irritation, his patience sharpened by quiet amusement. 

Edelin hesitated beside her, shifting slightly before placing the letter back into her hands with a sheepish expression, as though she were a guilty child caught between warring parents.

Daenera snatched the parchment from her grasp, fingers tightening around the quill as she dipped it into ink, bringing it down with a sharp, deliberate stroke.

Velaryon–scratched out.

The ink bled into the fibers, a jagged line slashing through the name like a wound. Without pause, she wrote another in its place–Baratheon–deliberate, bold, unmissable beneath the old name. He wanted another name, then so be it. She’d give it to him. After all, had that not been her name too?

She felt a sharp flare of satisfaction at the name she had written, knowing well the sting it would carry. Her former husband’s house. A name that no longer belonged to her, but had been hers nonetheless.

She knew he would not accept it–of course, he wouldn’t. But that was never the point.

It was meant to needle him, to press against the edges of his control, to remind him–even now, even here–that she had been someone else's, and she did not yield so easily. A deliberate act of defiance, a small rebellion carved in ink, meant to test the boundaries he had set around her. 

It was childishly spiteful, she knew. A petty thing. But in that moment, she didn’t care. 

She did not look at Aemond as she thrust the letter back into Edelin’s hands, her irritation evident in the quickness of her movements. 

Edelin turned on her heels, practically flying back to Aemond’s side as though she were a raven sent across great distances, bearing news between warring houses. She presented the letter once more, and Daenera watched as Aemond’s gaze dropped immediately to the name she had chosen to sign. 

His eyes sharpened. 

His lashes fluttered ever so slightly as he glanced up at her, a slow, knowing shift of his gaze, before the corner of his lips curled–not in displeasure, but something far more infuriating. 

Unabated amusement.

He leaned back in his seat, the movement slow, deliberate, the very picture of unbothered ease. With little ceremony, he handed the letter back, his fingers releasing it effortlessly, as though the exchange was of no consequence to him–as though he had expected as much from her.

His gaze did not return to his book, nor did he so much as glance at the letter again. Instead, his eye remained fixed on her, watching, studying, waiting.

Daenera met his stare with a glare of her own, sharp and unwavering, though it only seemed to amuse him further. There was no irritation in his expression, no hint of frustration–only that quiet, infuriating amusement, lurking at the edges of his lips, flickering in the depths of his gaze.

As though he was enjoying this.

As though her defiance was not a thorn in his side, but something else entirely–something expected, something welcome.

The realization only made her grip tighten around the quill, her fingers aching with the force of it. She snatched the letter from Edelin’s hands, her movements sharp, unrestrained. The tip of the quill scraped against the parchment, the sharp sound slicing through the air as she pressed down, almost hard enough to tear through the delicate fibers of the page. Ink pooled at the tip, bleeding into the paper in thick, deliberate strokes, the force behind her writing betraying the anger simmering beneath her composed exterior.

She knew she should temper her hand, ease her grip–but she didn’t. She let the pressure build, let the sharp drag of the quill against the parchment carry the frustration she would not speak aloud. Let it show in the harshness of the lines, in the way the ink settled too dark, too heavy in places.

The tension in her fingers refused to abate, and for a fleeting moment, she almost wished the parchment would rip. At least then, it would be a tangible break, something to match the slow, grinding strain inside her.

She struck out Baratheon with a single, merciless slash, the ink bleeding into the fibers, dark and final. But she didn’t stop there.

Her grip on the quill tightened, her fingers aching from the pressure, but she barely noticed. The anger coiling in her chest, hot and unrelenting, demanded release, and so she let it spill onto the page in jagged, furious letters:

‘Daenera Strong, or so my stupid, long-faced, one-eyed prick of a husband likes to call me.’

Without pause, she shoved the letter back into Edelin’s hands, uncaring of the way the parchment wrinkled under her fingers, crumpling slightly as it was passed over once more. 

This time, when Aemond took it, the amusement in his gaze grew. 

His eye flicked over the words, his grip tightening just slightly at the edges of the parchment. The telltale shift of the corner of his lips, the slow inhale through his nose, the way his eye fluttered up to meet hers–smug.

Daenera watched him, the sharp curl of satisfaction twisting in her chest–until it soured.

Aemond, ever composed, merely handed the letter back once more, his movements slow, effortless, expectant. He had known she would do this. Had known she would try to needle him, to test the limits of his patience. And still, the outcome had been inevitable.

The only way to have the letter sent, to have it reach Patrick’s parents as she intended, was to obey.

Her pride bristled at the thought, a fresh sting of resentment flaring in her chest as Edelin returned to her side, wordlessly offering the letter back.

Daenera took it, unfolding the crumpled parchment with deliberate care, smoothing the creases between her fingers. The ink had bled slightly where she had pressed too hard, and she knew she would need to copy it onto a fresh page. A part of her burned with the urge to refuse entirely, to dig her heels in out of sheer defiance.

But her pride was not worth more than this letter.

And so, she gripped the quill with steady fingers and began again, each word carefully rewritten, each sentence weighed with the same deliberate precision as before. The slow, rhythmic scratch of ink against parchment filled the space between them, replacing the silence that had settled over the room like a thick, heavy fog.

When she reached the end, she did not hesitate.

She signed the letter, firm and unflinching:

Daenera Targaryen.

The name felt heavier than ink alone, final in a way she could not bring herself to dwell on.

Without another glance at the words, she sent it back to Aemond. Daenera’s gaze drifted toward him, drawn by something she could not quite name–resentment, perhaps, or the unwilling pull of inevitability.

She watched as Aemond read over the letter once more, his eye moving steadily across the page, his expression unreadable save for the faintest purse of his lips. But she saw it–the satisfaction lurking in the subtle pull at the corners of his mouth, a quiet triumph in the way he held himself.

When he lifted his gaze to meet hers, it was with a look of quiet acknowledgment, a brief but pointed glance that told her what she already knew: this was always how it was going to end. He gave her a single, curt nod–nothing more, nothing less–before turning his attention away, already moving on to matters of greater importance in his mind.

His gaze landed on Maester Gilbar and his young apprentice, who stood a few steps away, engaged in hushed conversation with the Lord Confessor.

“Maester,” Aemond called, his voice smooth but firm, effortlessly drawing their attention. He extended the letter toward him with the same effortless authority he wielded in all things. “See to it that this letter is sent immediately–and that the boy’s body is returned home to his parents.”

The aged maester blinked, his rheumy eyes flickering with brief hesitation before he inclined his head in acknowledgment. The chains around his neck swayed with the motion, the dull clink of metal filling the space between words. Without turning, he lifted a hand in a slow, deliberate gesture, beckoning his young apprentice forward.

The boy obeyed at once, scurrying through the room with hurried steps, weaving past the men still shifting through Daenera’s belongings. He reached the letter where Aemond had left it and plucked it up with careful fingers, clutching it as though it were something precious–hough, if the boy had any true understanding of its weight, he did not show it.

Returning to his maester’s side, the apprentice lingered, wide-eyed and eager, standing as still as a well-trained hound awaiting its next command.

The maester, for his part, barely acknowledged him.

He inclined his head once more, the movement stiff with age, offering a murmured farewell before turning on his heel.

The apprentice followed close behind, the letter tucked beneath his arm, his other hand grasping the small woven basket filled with dried herbs and tinctures–remnants of whatever search they had conducted through her chambers

Daenera did not look away.

Even as the weight of it left Aemond’s hands, even as the finality of it settled over the room, she kept her gaze on him, knowing–hating–that he had won this battle, small as it was.

Daenera swallowed, her throat tight, her emotions tangled in a bitter knot she could not untangle. She felt grateful–resentfully, unwillingly grateful–that Aemond had not only ordered the letter sent but had also ensured Patrick’s body would be returned home. It was the least that could be done, and yet the taste of that gratitude was sour on her tongue, thick with resentment.

She pushed back her chair abruptly, rising from her seat and abandoning the small ruin of failed attempts that littered the table–a mountain of crumpled parchment, discarded words that would never be read, ink-blotted sheets soaked with frustration, and the quill still dripping onto one of them, its black stain spreading outward like spilled blood.

As she stepped forward, she rubbed her stained fingers together absently, the ink smearing across her skin. She would have to scrub them clean later, but for now, she let it sit there, let it linger like something earned.

Aemond’s gaze lifted as she moved, his eye following her, tracking her without urgency.

There was something almost lazy about the way he watched her, his head tipping back against the chair, his body sinking deeper into its frame. He studied her through dark lashes, the way a cat might watch the shifting light as it basked in the sun–idle, observant, but never truly unaware.

She did not slow as she neared him.

Instead of stopping before him, she moved around his chair, stepping between him and the towering bookshelves behind him. She did not hesitate, did not break her stride, circling him with deliberate ease before coming to a halt at his side.

And then, without a word, without so much as a glance toward him, she reached down and swept the book from the table, stealing it from his grasp before he could react.

She did not want to read it.

She simply did not want him to.

The weight of the book settled in her hands, cool against her ink-stained fingers, and before he could protest, before he could even move, she turned on her heel and strode into the bedchamber, taking it with her.

[infizero]

unexpected sudden emotional maturity from sapphire

[kajibunny]

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ we're just friends! (or are we?) w/ the wind breaker boys ✧⋆⭒˚｡

✿ featuring: hajime umemiya, jo togame, haruka sakura, hayato suo, ren kaji ✿ fluff, mutual pining, hidden feelings (aaaa), suggestive for suo, a lil angst (with comfort) for kaji ✿ a/n: i guess by now everyone can tell that i’m very into the friends to lovers trope ໒꒰ྀི´ ˘ ` ꒱ྀིა~♡ it’s def my fav!!! and these wb bois are all perfect friend material, and ofc boyfriend material too! enjoy, cuties! ✿ wc: 2.3k

— you have a closely intimate friendship to the point that everyone around you thinks you two are dating, though you know you're not lovers (yet), but are definitely more than just friends.

ʚɞ umemiya 

— sharing hello and goodbye kisses with each other.

ꕤ you and umemiya are the definition of 'affectionate', as your love languages both consist of physical touch. but maybe with each other, a little bit too much for just friends.

ꕤ the word "boundaries" did not exist to the both of you once you were within arm's reach of each other. you and umemiya give each other hello and goodbye hugs, sometimes cheek and forehead kisses, as a greeting, right? to be friendly. though he doesn't seem to do that as often to other people, or at all, even. just to you. only to you. 

ꕤ he also loves cuddling up to you whenever he takes a nap on the rooftop, inviting you to join him in picking out some veggies that you two could make a meal together with.

ꕤ while you two were cooking together, you definitely gave off a 'married couple' vibe with the way you held the ladle up for umemiya to taste, the way he had pressed his palm to your back whenever he needed to pass through, the way he fed you with his own spoon and giggling while complimenting how delicious your cooking was, the way he wrapped his arms around you and hummed while he helped you wash the dishes. anyone who saw would have immediately bid their congratulations and would think you two are newlyweds.

ꕤ hiragi took one look at the both of you appearing all lovey-dovey, and the confusion of whether you two were dating or not made his stomach scrunch up in pain. 

ꕤ umemiya calls you such adorable names when referring to you in conversation, too. his tiny bean, his ray of sunshine, his cherry blossom, it was always "his", as if you belonged to him. he was openly affectionate with you and was not afraid to show it.

ꕤ many guys also took a liking to you, but never attempted to even make a move or confess, because they were already under the assumption that you were umemiya's, seeing you two playing with each other's fingers and comparing hand sizes like you were made for each other. but how could that be, you and umemiya were just friends, weren't you?

ʚɞ suo 

— you get a special seat (on his lap).

ꕤ suo just can't seem to keep his eyes and his hands off of you. you always have to be within his vicinity, or he's not sure how he'll be able to stand it. 

ꕤ he sees you at the corner of his eye, after you have made your way back from the restroom. you and the other bofurin first years were at an izakaya, and the moment you returned, all of their eyes were glued to you and suo, as if they already knew something was going to ensue. you two have been friends for a long time, but the way you acted towards each other felt like you two have been lovers for a long time.

ꕤ suo was always up in your space, whether its pulling random pranks on you, inviting you to go out then paying for everything even though you tried to stop him (nothing can stop suo), visiting your home and leaving an endless supply of tea enough to last you a whole year - his excuse being it's there for whenever he comes over, and multiple instances which all prove that suo was no doubt a very clingy friend. not that you minded, anyway. you were used to suo and his antics.

ꕤ he had his ways of persuading you too (he is the master of negotiation, after all), and you just couldn't resist him, as you loved being around suo just as much. 

ꕤ this time, he took advantage of your short absence and made himself comfortable in your chair, and wouldn't even move an inch. "hayato, that's my seat!" you exclaimed. "hm?" suo tilts his head. "you can just sit on my lap, then." he smiles, with that damn mischievous smile you know all too well. you tried to get him to move by gently pushing him back and forth but suo seemed to not have a care in the world. 

ꕤ you can't tell whether suo is serious or joking sometimes, but nirei and sakura seems to have their doubts that you two are "just friends" as you both claim.  "are you sure the two of you aren't dating?" nirei asks you. sakura blushes and lets you know his thoughts, too. "y-yeah...! you two are unusually close!" you always reply to them with an astounding "no!" but suo just laughs and does not affirm nor deny any of their claims. 

ꕤ suo pulls you in close, making you sit on his lap regardless of your little outburst, and you weren't sure if it was hot in the izakaya, or if it's just you, but you certainly felt warmth overcome your body while it was pressed flush against his, his arms wrapped around your waist nonchalantly. "hayato!" you protested, trying to squirm your way out of his grasp, and pushing away all intrusive thoughts about his and your bottom halves being so close together, only separated by thin pieces of clothing.

ꕤ nirei, the most observant of the bunch (next to suo), points out that you even call suo by his first name, and that's another one of the reasons why you two seem like you're dating. 

ꕤ with suo, everything seems to be a mystery. but in suo's perspective, it's all clear. he loves you, whether it's as a friend or as a lover, that's for him to know and for you to find out. 

ʚ�� togame 

— leaves everyone on read except you.

ꕤ togame just doesn't understand why people need to type out what they want to say, aren't calls more personalized? he didn't understand at all, until he met you.

ꕤ you were, to put it directly, a chatterbox in all forms. you loved to talk, regardless if it's chats, calls, or in person, you just yapped your heart out to him everytime, and he lives for it. he wouldn't miss a second of you opening your mouth and giving him a taste of your innermost thoughts. he absolutely adored talking to you, because it was you, and you were special to him.

ꕤ the shishitoren guys thought it was so funny and adorable whenever togame picks up his phone so quickly because he thought it was you calling, then scowls when he realizes it isn't, and immediately silences it and shoves it back in his pocket. this caused him to set a different ringtone just for you, so he could pick up on the very first ring.

ꕤ you were also the first reply he ever sent via sms, a simple "ok" to your long message talking about how you thought it was amazing that he won the town's annual eating contest for many consecutive years in a row and that you were totally ready to challenge him next year by stuffing your face with okonomiyaki and invited togame to join you and have some with you so you could keep an eye on the competition. he found your personality totally amusing, his face immediately lighting up with a gentle smile whenever you sent him messages.

ꕤ anyone who sees how happy he is while he rereads your texts over and over would interpret that as togame being totally, irrevocably, head over heels in love with you.

ꕤ he doesn't actually reply to anyone at all ever, but he wanted to share all his firsts with you, he just couldn't help it. you were captivating, witty in your words, and very very charismatic, bombarding him with the cutest and funniest messages everyday. of course, he doesn't mind at all and is always looking forward to them.

ꕤ you two stay on calls for longer than eight hours at a time talking about how each other's day went, and yet you wonder why people always think you two are dating. normal friends don't stay up until the break of dawn chattering for hours on end, expressing all the things they like about each other, do they? at least togame knows he wouldn't do it with anyone that wasn't you, as he valued his precious sleep time dearly, but as time went on, you became more precious and more dear to him than his sleep time ever could.

ʚɞ kaji 

— play fighting like an old married couple.

ꕤ kaji is the type to never go down without a fight. needless to say, that also applies to you. but your fights with him were different, more banter adjacent, more affectionate and playful. only lasting for a few minutes.

ꕤ kaji had a huge soft spot for you, as even though you did irritate the heck out of him sometimes, somehow he still could not stay angry or annoyed at you for more than one second. he just couldn't resist the way you crossed your arms and huffed with your cute little frown. he thought you were the most adorable angry little thing he's ever seen and wanted to pinch your cheeks out of cuteness aggression and frustration, but he would never say it to your face.

ꕤ one time, you two had a heated argument because he said he could hear you just fine but wouldn't bother to take off his headphones. you argued that it was impolite and that you won't talk to him at all anymore if he does that again, and you two were at each other's throats, giving one another a piece of your mind, until kaji mutters a 'sorry', and you began to sob uncontrollably and let him hold you in his arms while he stroked your hair to comfort you because you two couldn't stand the intensity and tension of being angry at each other for long.

ꕤ you had your less serious fights too, like when you made him a bento box for lunch and you two had a picnic together with his vice captains. you fed him the food with your chopsticks, kaji teasing you by saying "it's bland." and you reasoning out that kaji was 'as salty as his tastebuds'. kaji then asked you if you wanted to have 'a taste of his fists', which ended up with kusumi and enomoto snickering in the background wishing that the both of you would just date each other already.

ꕤ whenever you two argued, your faces were so close to one another's that you were just a few centimeters shy from kissing, the tip of your noses touching. kaji had to hold himself back, a lot. like an insane amount. friends didn't want to kiss and make out with their friends, right? but kaji did. and you did too.

ꕤ his way of apologizing is by suddenly leaving a lollipop with you. he puts them in your bag, or places them in your pocket while you weren't looking. it was his little peace offering, one that you treasured and collected, accumulating dozens of them by your bedside table. kaji would gladly give up his last lollipop for you, and no one could argue otherwise.

ʚɞ sakura 

— blushing wildly whenever you two are around each other.

ꕤ you and sakura always looked like you two were having a blushing competition. the littlest touches and the most minimal contact had both of your cheeks heating up in response.

ꕤ it was like sakura's blushing was contagious. ever since you two became good friends (if you could call it that, though it seemed to be more than that at times), being around him triggered a whole bunch of embarrassing and hilarious but sweet situations.

ꕤ you once dragged sakura off to his very first cherry blossom viewing in the park, and needless to say, with both of you being a chaotic (but cute) duo, it kind of felt like you were on a wild rollercoaster ride with him. 

ꕤ you took a stolen photo of sakura while he was mesmerized by the falling pink petals. you thought he looked adorable, but sakura thought otherwise. he was a blushing mess and told you to delete them, but you said they were cute and that you were going to make it your wallpaper. 

ꕤ sakura chased after you, and tripped over a stray cherry blossom branch, leaving you two in quite a suggestive position, sakura on top of you, pinning your wrist down with his hand. your cheeks were as pink as the cherry blossoms, and tried as you might, you couldn't keep your eyes off his lips. friends don't observe their friends with wanting eyes, do they? 

ꕤ suo and nirei instantly noticed how huge of a klutz you were around sakura. they also noticed how curious sakura was about you, always (not so subtly) asking nirei how much he knew about you, or your likes and dislikes, then asked him not to tell you that he asked about you. but suo told you instead, because they were your biggest supporters and cheerleaders (and biggest shippers, of course) after all. 

ꕤ on sakura's birthday, they made you hold the cake and surprise him, which was a huge mistake, because before it could even reach him, you slipped and fell over him. luckily, sakura had good reflexes and was able to catch you before you completely toppled over. some of the smushed cake ended up on his and your face, which you tried to wipe off as you apologized, but sakura dipped his finger onto the icing that got on your cheek and licked his finger. "t-the cake's not bad, i guess..." he looked away from your smiling face as you greeted him happy birthday in a sing-song tune.

ꕤ suo, being a menace, greeted sakura happy birthday as well as gave him a 'best wishes to the happy couple' greeting card, that sakura threw back at him like it had a virus on it. 

ꕤ sakura definitely had a memorable birthday that year, but now that he thought about it, all of his memories that were memorable to him had one thing in common: you were in all of them. you, the greatest gift he could ever ask for on any and every occasion. 

© kajibunny 2024 / all rights reserved

[mygnolia]

YOU MAKE ME GO CRAZY OVER YOU !!

୨୧ -› hey, that boy over there..isn't he the most popular student athlete on campus? how did you two meet, anyway?

pair -› jock/athlete! enhypen x fem! reader | wc -› 3.5k (700 per member) | no warnings! | library

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ LEE HEESEUNG

im gonna sigh dreamily when i say he’s most DEF basketball captain. 

yes ik i wrote about this in wrong number i dont CARE i will say it with my whole chest 

DORK DORK DORK but cute dork with lethal face card. smirks after making yet another basket and winks at you

age old question how tf did yall meet!!! 

you pass by the gym and some guy on the way stops to talk to you 

like “hey i know you from somewhere”

“yes heeseung we were partners from a project two weeks ago how do you not remember..” 

he’s embarrassed asf especially because he remembers a lot of people’s names

after that he wants to be in your good graces and be friends

totally not because he remembered how you did a lot of the work for said project no complaints!!

and he doesn’t want you to rat him out to the teacher… or tell other people he’s not friendly

‘hey y/n, come to my game? i’ll do better if you’re there :)” 

you go only because you needed to complete an assignment while you were there at school anyways 

but sometimes you’d see him laughing with his friends, or how serious he is on court and woah, heeseung looks cool for once

you wait for him after because you figured he needed you for something 

“awh, you wanted for me?” “i could be doing much better things.” “awh, come on y/n let’s get some ice cream! my treat since we get to spend time together” 

he’s annoying but you let him tag around because he doesn’t bother you LOL

more under the cut!

drags you along when he practices alone so he can have some company

you like the company and the white noise too

you definitely doubt if he likes you because he is SUCH A FLIRT but no he DOES! he writes a confession on a basketball and ‘misses’ so you can catch it

you pass it back without seeing the message 

but heeseung keeps missing and it almost hits you on the head and you’re like ‘dude you SUCK hello??” he says ‘oh lol maybe it’s the ball” byee why was he smooth with it!!!!

you check the message and roll your eyes 

“if i make this you have to kiss me” you tell him and you’re about to shoot but he picks you up and brings you right next o the next to let you throw it in and then kisses u!!!!

not to be like oh im writing an smau on basketball captain heeseung but.. *tucks hair behind ear* 

most definitely tries to be mysterious and cool when you’re dating 

dribbles in front of you, trick shots, runs up to you when you’re alone, gives you one kiss between ever basket he makes 

teaches you how to play!!!!

ABSOLUTELY lights up when someones mentions you when you two date

“oh yeah my partner in math is ___” 

“omg ___?? the love of my life ___??” 

you lowk have to drag him away i fear 

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ PARK JONGSEONG 

baseball captain *faints* 

enhypen x mariners and him speaking in english…so you want me DECEASED 

baseball captain jay and you who attends his games because jake aka ur friend on the team knows you have nothing better to do 

“i bet you won’t make it even to five games before buying cotton candy” jake says because you have a MASSIVE sweet tooth 

you tried really hard because $15 and a burger was on the line 

and you kept coming because…well there was a cute captain who always knew how to rally his teammates and get them excited 

also great sportsmanship and was super friendly to everyone! 

definitely got mad when the umpire makes a wrong call 

sharp reaction times. EVEN SHARPER JAW. 

of course you stared! of course you were not paying attention to whatever jake was saying about his test after their game..how could you when jay was doing his lopsided smile as his friend pats him on the shoulder from ten feet away??

one time you come early because they’re practicing on the field and you see jay and jake passing to each other

jay just so effortlessly throwing the ball…oh my god

he’s just so perfect and jake cheers from the sidelines because he knows his captain pays attention to every single person who has stepped foot on the baseball field iNCLUDING YOU

you come up to jake after the fourth game, showing him you still had your $5 and your tongue wasn’t stained with any blue or pink

jay comes over, arm thrown around jake’s shoulder as he waves and smiles to you 

dark hair with a twinge of sweat as he runs a hand through it, pulling it back to place on his cap 

JAY IN A BASEBALL CAP *faints again*

he walks you out to the parking lot and asks what the $5 in your pocket is for because he keeps seeing you pull it out 

you explain your whole bet to him and he nods

next game. before it starts. he gets you cotton candy and makes sure it gets to you somehow 

you smile and you’re all giddy when you eat it because there’s a p.j. on the cap and he’s just so cute 

jake doesn’t say anything he already knows it’s happening between you two. 

jay finally writes on a baseball and tells you to catch, and it says ‘let’s date’ and you grab a sharpie and scribble ‘kiss me first’ 

OH YEAH HE WALKS OVER AND KISSES YOU. 

soon every game instead of cotton candy  it’s his baseball cap when it’s sunny, his jacket when you’re cold, baseballs with notes on them, and roses for his girlfriend aka youuuuu 

jay is such a romantic and he is not afraid to show it 

he orders custom jerseys that say jay/n on the back with the day you got together!!!!! 

BEST BOYFRIEND EVERRRRRR

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ SIM JAEYUN

rugby player jake but he has dark long hair let that settle in 

campus flirt campus playboy but in reality he doesn’t go on dates and nothing really happens past the smiles, he’s just super popular

you are also pretty well known! a little flirty but super sweet and your charm and how expressive and open you are with other people is what people like!

and he sees you cheering with your friend who he remembers is dating someone from the team

rugby has no gear so he just runs like no tomorrow 

smiling in the sun or determined stare as he talks to his team, you never know 

he yells either in frustration, victory, or defeat, literally will never be silent 

so after a game you follow your friend down to the railing and she has her little moments with her boyfriend 

and you and jake kind of awkwardly stand there for a moment 

he wipes his sweat off with a towel and smiles at you, cracking the ice 

“how long have you had to deal with that?” he points over to them 

you shrug and tell him “however long you’ve been dealing with it” he laughs 

oh wow his smile when he’s right in front of you is just so pretty 

and his little chuckle as he shakes his head and looks back up at you 

‘who do you watch on the field?’ he asks, with a little smirk because he likes you 

‘whoever catches my attention’ you tell him also smiling 

oh its a CHALLENGE. he will make sure to run on the side of the field you’re watching from, winking at you on the field, ugh just everything 

you come to a party at the end of the season to celebrate and he sees you 

“you came!!” super happy and makes sure you are next to him all the time 

“y/n you know the teammates, yeah?” you smile and congratulate them 

he leaves to get you a soda/water and jungwon leans in 

“jake LOVES to talk about you by the way” 

“yeah he always says how pretty you are in the library or in class, he likes when your friend comes because that means you come with her”

heeseung nods, “super into you, no joke” 

jake comes back trying to play it off “who’s into y/n?” 

you poke at his shoulder and smile, “you” and he’s all bashful and giggly 

loves to call himself ‘y/n’s girlfriend’ 

‘sorry, i can’t i have to buy flowers for y/n’ ‘sorry y/n needs me to help her study’ ‘sorry y/n needs a ride here’ STUCK TO YOUR HIP

ofc he doesn’t abandon his friends but he loves spending time with you :3

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ PARK SUNGHOON

sunghoon’s reputation proceeds him—cold on the court and just as reserved off of it

ugh he’s so annoying, he always has his bag in the same spot as yours and he always is at the water filling station with hos annoying 32oz bottle before you

also hogs that automatic tennis ball throwing machine like how are YOU supposed to practice tennis too 

‘hey i need that’ he furrows his eyebrows and shrugs 

‘i was here first’ ‘what are you twelve????’ sunghoon tells you ‘get here earlier next time then 

oh yeah. for the next week you ran to the courts everytime to get it before him 

one day he sees you and races you to the gates and you beat him 

sulky after as if his career is over

definitely varsity and one of the best, but he never approaches girls after his games

one time you go to a men’s game because it’s one of the most anticipated of the season 

its neck to neck, third set with 40-adv, sunghoon’s serve

he chases after that ball and sends it over, it barely hits the net and tumbles over, AND HE WINSSSS BRAHHHHH 

even if you hate him you will admit that he made the game extremely interesting 

you see his friends congratulate him and you notice that he never gets his clothes dirty 

always wears white to practice—pristine asf 

secretly he loves watching you too

even if you hate him for getting on your nerves some days and almost never doing more than bare minimum, you cannot lie and say sunghoon isn’t a huge inspiration 

just as you are to him 

sunghoon thinks your tenacity and passion for tennis is what makes you so fun to watch 

so even if he has homework, he goes to a game of yours and comes down to the court after the game 

bumps your shoulder after, ‘good game, y/n’ and you’re like ?? ‘you’re here?’ and he’s sooo nonchalant when he says ‘of course, i can’t miss a fun game can i?’ 

there’s a fun mixed doubles tournament for a whole gift basket of things and you come up to him 

‘hey let’s pair up’ and he grins 

you two play each other for practice and you’ve tied the score so many times you’ve lost count

and sunghoon’s a little annoying but oh lord he’s so attrative??? so maybe he wasn’t THAT annoying…

mixed doubles tourney rolls around and oh yeah. you two win.

you know much he likes natto and you say ‘here you take the natto’ he shakes his head ‘no you eat it all the time’

you two bicker and you say ‘fine lets just share it!’ and to your surprise..he opens the package and just mixes it all in 

you two sit and share the natto, then he tells you he thinks you’re pretty cool on court 

you raise your eyebrow cuz where is this coming from!! and he rolls his eyes 

‘nevermind maybe you’re only bright on the court’ 

‘hey what’s that supposed to mean!!!’ you take the natto and eat all of it LMFAO and then he pouts because noo his natto!!!

you kiss his cheek. it’s ok everything is ok now he is a happy boy 

“you’re my match” you write on a tennis ball pin and he keeps it on his bag like his life DEPENDS on it

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ KIM SUNOO

THE CUTEST VOLLEYBALL SETTER EVER 

i hate to be like oh you’ve had the fattest crush on him for like two months BUT ITS TRUE 

you’re on yearbook and you make an excuse to go see sunoo play!!

you two met when you were at a volleyball game and you told him to smile, but he’s one of those guys who says “wait delete that take another one!!” 

and ofc you agree, snapping a few cute photos of him

he posts to his social media, tagging you with a cute song saying ‘thanks photographer :3” 

and so you it begins, your small little crush on him..

he loves seeing you at his games, always makes sure to wave to you on the court 

hey so setter sunoo is insanely good at what he does 

so graceful when he places a NASTY setter dump on the other team, a glare shot at one of the other team’s members bad-mouthing him, but a glowing smile as he high-fives all his teammates! 

super supportive, and you loveee that about him!! he cares so much about everyone it makes your heart warm 

“here, let’s eat together,” you tell him, and you bring him some noodles you made because he said he was craving some 

he smiles at you and sits down, beginning to slurp slurp slurp and SCOREEE he loves it 

“thanks y/n, let me treat you some time :)” UGH DEAD DEAD 

KIM SUNOO KING OF FLOAT SERVES 

huge smile on his face when it lands where it needs to, he loves that feeling of satisfaction and soaks up all of your praise after his games are over 

he slips out of practice sometimes to see what you’re doing in yearbook, and he’ll take your camera to tell you to smile as he takes pics

someone in your class tells you too to look overfor a photo , so he loops an arm around your shoulders to pull you close and smile 

AND OH EM GEE UR LIKE TOTALLY GEEKING OUT OVER IT HELLO??????/ 

you ask her to print you a copy of it to save in your scrapbook, but sunoo cuts in and asks for another one 

“i like seeing you” DEAD IN A DITCH esp when he smiles at you and then runs off to practice before he gets in trouble

so competitive on the court and it makes him a little sulky when he loses 

“argh i did so bad today” he’d tell you, but in your eyes hello kim sunoo could do no wrong!! and you share your snacks while reassuring him 

he swears tho, “nooo, i had to look cool for you!” and you’re tired of hearing him say and do all of these sweet things and straight up 

“why?” “what do you mean, y/n?” “why do you want to look cool for me?” “well i liked you duh!” 

but sunoo never wanted to confess, he was too scared he wasn’t good yet at showing you all of his perfect bf traits 

WELL HE THOUGHT WRONG!! he’s been perfect from d1 so now he just sneaks in like 40 kisses before every game 

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ YANG JUNGWON

see so jungwon, he’s been a little FLIRTY as of recently. 

“you like older guys? but im a younger guy with rhythm” WHAT THE FKSCNHDJFD

whatever. anyways jungwon focuses on badminton like it’s a lifeline 

hitting birdies in his sleep would be smth he would do if he could, he loves how aggressive he can be in the sport without moving too much, lots of strategy involved 

you come to one of his games because your friend is on the other team, and you want to cheer him on

but jungwon notices you’re literally from his school?? 

isn’t it weird you’re going to a game for someone on the other team…

so he sets off a plan 

he goes to you after the game before your friend can

“hey, how come you don’t support anyone on our team” so straight to the point help 

and you tilt your head in confusion because “well i don’t know anyone from the team and you’re all scary”

scary??? jungwon makes it his personal mission to debunk that cuz no one is SCARY 

maybe sunghoon but that’s because he’s varsity 1 and the best player within 150 miles but whatever

he makes it his mission to wave to you when he sees you and when he’s sat next to you in one of your classes he’s like yay perf 

“you’re the guy from that badminton game huh?” “is that a good or bad thing” 

you shrug “whatever you want it to be” 

and he asks you to go to his next game but if he wins, you have to support the team and if he loses 

and you stare at him like “wtf do i get out of it” 

jungwon did NOT think about that 

he promises to buy you a snack after 

and it’s free food so you can’t complain 

you two talk more and he finds out you used to play badminton before you hurt your ankle and wanted to focus on school 

so he takes you to practice and gives you one of his expensive rackets

lowk falling in love everytime you laugh and chase the birdie 

jungwon pretends to hate chasing after it but he’ll still hit it back even if it’s out of bounds because he doesn’t want to waste your time picking it up

you two sit down and you tell him how fun it was to be able to play, and how much you missed it from your childhood 

your school holds a small festival where other school athletes go against your team modified lighting rounds 

paired with vendors and fun carnival stands, but the main attractions are always the variety of sports to watch

jungwon is one of the representatives from your school but so is your friend from the other school, so it’s heated when they play

you tie a ribbon around his racket (curtesy of sunghoon for helping you out) and write a note saying “if you do good ill cheer for you” 

AND HE WINS. so you keep your end of the bargain and cheer for him after the game is over, giving him a high five and a hug

he walks with you and asks about what you two are BECAUSE THIS IS A DATE this is date behavior 

“of course i like you won who wouldn’t”

let’s just say he gives u little kisses all over when you two are alone sigh so cute

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ NISHIMURA RIKI

he’s been on the soccer team ever since he was a freshman and even before, retaining his cute features and mischievous personality 

when you became assistant manager you were scared but your brother heeseung was on the team and your mom told you to look after him at school 

and riki takes after heeseung a LOT when they play and heeseung even goes as far as inviting riki over 

so riki’s super good at soccer by the time heeseung leaves, but he also has this small crush on you that heeseung’s told you about 

you just never said anything because you never had a reason to nor were you uncomfortable with it 

but junior year hits and riki comes back from winter break with pitch black hair all styled 

also…a lot taller than you. and no more baby fat 

and you paid attention to some of it because you saw him for practice, but the hair really did it 

during practice he loves to mess with you saying things like “can you fill up my water y/n pleaseeee” “no you have two feet” “ill win the next game against ____ if you get me water” “i’ll kick you off the team if you don’t win” 

he sighs and gets up, glaring down at you and you try not to let his playful stare affect you, but SOMETHING was different something was in the air

if riki doesn’t play good, it’s because his team manager aka you is NOT there 

you come back the next day to find out he was sulking and didn’t play super well because you weren’t encouraging him

“go run a lap, riki” and HE DOES JUST THAT “go practice on the field by yourself”

“how about you ask me to date you next” he grumbles 

and you HEAR him. loud and clear. 

but you’re like agh what if he doesn’t mean it what if he’s just joking 

at the next game he does super well and you congratulate the whole team 

yas team hybe eats 

you two are getting ready to go home when he finally brings it up

“you heard what i said on tuesday” and you know exactly what he means 

“yep.” “so why didn’t you say anything back” “i didn’t know if you were being serious”

he scoffs “y/n when have i ever not been serious about you”  

he opens your door even if he’s passenger princess 

makes fun of you for how much closer you need the wheel to be to drive

YAYYYY Y/NKI IS REAL

he loves to drape an arm around your shoulder walking around school 

acts as if he’s older when you two are literally the same age HELP 

reblogs/interactions are appreciated always!

have some shameless self promo for my spiderman!riki fic!

and my upcoming jake fic!

[starvulture]

anyway, since im in financial aid hell with my school rn....

simon riley who really is only an acquaintance to you, some guy you're friendly with because you seem to have a similar routine when it comes to the cafe two blocks from your house and the physical therapist office you both attend.

simon, who's on extended medical leave from a torn rotator cuff surgery and six weeks into twelve of his own physical therapy treatment.

simon who overhears you with a friend in the cafe one morning venting your frustrations with the cost of school and the limits of your own finances. who doesn't mention it until you're both in the waiting room, sitting with one chair between you as usual (he's a big guy, he likes the space to spread his legs. he pretends he hasn't seen your glances).

"going back to school, then?" he asks, quiet and gruff as always.

you wrinkle your nose at the reminder of your current stresses. "yeah," you say, staring down at the carpet. "dunno if i can afford it, though. rent's already so high, and groceries, and then this..." you gesture vaguely, but he knows you mean whatever condition it is you're here for is bleeding you dry.

"shame," he says, and leaves it at that.

"what do you do?" you ask after a long moment of silence. a muscle in his thigh twitches.

"military," he says, meeting your eye when you finally look at him.

you nod, a puzzle piece sliding into place about why he must be here in this office with you. "ah."

"benefits aren't bad," he says, quietly. "medical's paying for all o' this." he nods around the room, a much more leisurely mirror of your earlier hand gesture.

"i should hope so, considering they probably put you where you got whatever it is you're here for." the corner of your mouth lifts in a wry smile.

the conversation stops there when one of you is called in to your appointment. simon doesn't bring it up again, not until something changes.

you run into each other at a bar.

simon's got a beer in hand, something cold and refreshing while he catches up with soap and gaz in the corner. they're on a brief leave and stopped by to visit for an evening before fucking off for a week to wherever it is they have plans to be. simon won't ever say it in as many words, not right now, but he's glad to see them, happy to listen to whatever story they're telling him, until he sees you.

he downs the beer for an excuse to go get another, waving off the two men who offer to go get it when he says "need to stretch my legs," eyes fixed on you the whole time.

"celebratin'?" he asks when he slides into an empty space beside you at the counter, catching the bartender's attention for a refill with a lazy raise of his empty bottle.

"simon," you greet in surprise. he nods at your drink and your slight smile slides away. "not really," you reply to his question. "more like drowning my sorrows. i don't think school's gonna happen this time."

simon frowns, eyes scanning you up and down. your drooped, sad shoulders, the sad, slightly bitter smile that doesn't reach your eyes.

"you know," he says, slowly, as if hesitant. normally wouldn't even dare to think it if he hadn't had just enough to drink. "there's plenty scholarships for military spouses."

it's a wonder he can keep a straight face at the shocked raise of your eyebrows.

[simplyholl]

The Newlywed Game

Summary: You’re forced to play The Newlywed Game with your ex situationship.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x F. Reader

Warnings: Angst. Smuttish, but not my usual descriptive smut. 18+ Only. Minors DNI.

See my Masterlist here

“I can’t.” That’s all the explanation you got when Bucky ended your situationship. You were friends with benefits for almost a year. The only rule he had was don’t fall in love. He had too much baggage and he never wanted a family. He didn’t want anyone to depend on him.

You couldn’t blame him, he was traumatized by Hydra. Trapped inside his own body for decades, he was afraid it could happen again. You jumped in head first with him anyways. You were in his bed after every mission, every meeting, every day. You basically lived in his room, not that he would ever admit that. Then one rainy afternoon, you knocked on his door like always. Except this time, he didn’t pull you into his warm embrace.

He moved out of the way so you could come in, and immediately you knew something was wrong. You reached for him, ready to console him, desperate for his touch. He had just finished a mission with Sam and he’d been gone for two weeks. You missed him, and he was usually so excited to see you.

When you placed your hand on his cheek, rubbing the scruff that had grown while he was gone, he wrapped his fingers around your wrist removing it. “I can’t do this anymore.” His voice was so low you could barely understand. Your eyes narrowed at his words. “Have I done something wrong?”

“This has gone on for longer than it should have. I can’t let it anymore.” Your throat tightens, but you refuse to cry in front of him. You walked out and your relationship with him was never the same. You didn’t hang out anymore.

When you were alone, he would leave. He didn’t sit beside you during the Friday night movie. He didn’t choose you for his partner on game night. The other Avengers didn’t know for sure that you were hooking up. You hid it pretty well. They had their suspicions, but neither of you ever confirmed it.

Tony called everyone to the back yard. “What’s all this?” Steve asks, pointing to the stage he had set up. “It’s my anniversary tomorrow and Pepper said she always wanted to play the Newlywed Game. So I had this built so we could play.”

“That’s great, Tony. But who are you all going to play with? There’s four set up’s and only two couples.” Steve gestures to Wanda and Vision. “Thought about that and Cap, you and Natasha are going to play and….” He looks at the whole team, everyone looking in different directions trying not to make eye contact. Except for Sharon, who hung around a lot lately. She was getting closer to Bucky, obviously wanting Tony to choose them. You roll your eyes. “Barnes and Y/N. There now we have all our couples. I’m going to go get Pep, you guys take your spots.”

You look at Bucky,but he’s busy talking to Steve about how ridiculous it is. You hear Sharon agree that he should have chosen someone else. When Pepper comes in, she excitedly claps her hands together. She points to the other teams, “You’re going down!” She laughs, but you can’t help but protest, “This is rigged! You guys and Wanda and Vision are the only real couples!! How is anyone else supposed to win?”

Tony shoots you a death glare but answers, “Cap and Natasha have definitely bumped uglies before. And you and Barnes are close friends. I thought that would make it more fair. But, I do expect to win.” You cross your arms, but accept his answer. Bucky finally looks at you, but it’s not friendly.

Sam comes out, wearing a suit Tony made him wear to host. “I’ll explain the rules. You all have a whiteboard, marker, and eraser. I will ask a question and you will write your answer on your boards. If your answer matches your partner’s you get a point. I’ll eliminate one couple each round until the final tie breaker.”

You take a deep breath. This is hell. But you do know Bucky better than anyone, so as long as he didn’t ask any crazy questions, you would be fine. “First question. Where is the craziest place you and your partner have had sex?” You freeze. Of course Stark had these wild questions. If you both answered the same, everyone would know that you had hooked up.

You think about lying, but decide the ball should be in Bucky’s court. You’ll answer correctly, and if he doesn’t you’ll know he doesn’t want anyone to know. You quickly scribble your answer, waiting on Sam to call on you. Tony’s answer is Steve’s room and Pepper’s matched. Everyone laughed while Steve said Tony has to pay for his room to be deep cleaned.

Wanda and Vision both answer “in the air.” Natasha and Steve said a table in the meeting room. You turn your board to reveal your answer and Bucky shows his. You look and see that he has answered correctly. “The quinjet?! Damn y’all are nasty!” Sam laughs.

You’re taken back to that moment. You, Bucky, and Bruce were on your way back from a mission. Bruce was driving the quinjet, but activated the mode Tony installed for breaks. As soon as he started snoring, Bucky led you to the bathroom. He took you against the wall, metal hand across your mouth to stifle your moans. It was one of the hottest things you’d ever done. Your suit clung to you in the worst ways after that. His cum dripping down your legs, it was nearly impossible to take off.

The others look at each other in surprise. Scott yells “I told you they were hooking up. No one believed me!” Sharon looks at Bucky so harshly that if looks could kill, he’d be dead. He just shrugs his shoulders. Of course, he would be hooking up with her. Why wouldn’t he? She was pretty and it had been three months since he ended things with you.

The next question was “Who hogs the covers more?” Everyone got it right except for Steve and Natasha. She said that wasn’t a fair question because they never actually slept when they were together. The round continued with four more questions. At the end, Steve and Natasha were eliminated because they had the least amount of points. The rest of you were tied.

“What is your partner’s pet name for you?” Sam asks. That’s easy, “doll”, you write. When you reveal your answers, Sharon looks furious. That must be what he calls her too. It stings, thinking of them together. You don’t have time to dwell on it before Sam asks the next question. “What is the highest number of orgasms your partner has given you in one night?” Your eyes widen, you know the answer, but you don’t know if he will remember.

Tony and Pepper answer three, Tony grins like the cocky asshole he is. Vision and Wanda answer two. Bucky raises his board, “Six?!” Sam shouts, “How were you guys fucking this much and nobody knew?” He laughs. The round surprisingly ends with Wanda and Vision getting eliminated.

But you’re busy thinking about that night. Bucky’s head between your thighs for hours. He barely came up for breath. You were sure he would smother, but he insisted. He didn’t stop until the sheets were soaked, your legs were shaking so hard, you’d immediately fall if you tried to stand up.

He had you screaming his name all night. When he finally started fucking you, he took his time, pulling another orgasm out of you before going back down for another taste. He finally came with you on top. He had to lift your limp body on him, using you like a sex doll. You couldn’t move if you needed too. It was the best sex you’d ever had.

“It’s time for the tie breaker question. Answers don’t have to match, the crowd will vote on the most romantic answers.” Sam states. “When did you know you were in love?” Tony and Pepper immediately begin writing. You’re certain you’re going to lose this one. Bucky was never in love with you. You write your answer, deciding to answer truthfully.

Tony and Pepper’s answers make you tear up, they are so in love. You can only hope you’ll find that one day. You and Bucky reveal your boards at the same time. You glance at his, his answer knocks the breath out of your lungs because it matches yours. The Avenger’s Barbecue. You lock eyes, his gaze softens as he reads your answer.

You’ll never forget such a pivotal moment in your life. All of the Avengers and Shield agents’ friends and family were invited to play games, eat, and have a good time. Emily, who helped coordinate your missions brought her husband and three young children. A baby girl, a two year old boy, and a five year old girl. The children were drawn to Bucky. The two older children swung from his metal arm while he held the baby with his other one.

The image made your ovaries explode. You couldn’t help imagining how he would be if you had kids. He laughed as they asked him a thousand questions, playing on him like a jungle gym. You knew without a doubt, you were in love.

Bucky took a deep breath when he read your answer. Why was it the same as his? Did you know? Was it a prank you were playing on him? Emily’s children were entranced with you from the moment they met you. He couldn’t blame them, he felt the same. They had played with him for an hour before the food was ready. When Tony told everyone to make a plate, you offered to watch the kids while she and her husband got their food.

Bucky watched as you comforted the crying infant. The two older children sat beside you while you read from a book the girl got from their bag. Bucky knew he was screwed. He could see a life like this so clearly. Your belly round with his baby, while you tended to your other children. He didn’t want to admit how badly he wanted that. The realization hit him like a ton of bricks. He was in love with you.

That night he made love to you, it was softer, slower than the other times he touched you. He knew you could tell the difference too. He placed one last kiss to your lips, willing himself to let you go. The next morning, he left for his two week mission with Sam. He convinced himself that it was for the best if he ended things. He didn’t want to hurt you. You might be okay with it now, but years later you would regret it.

You’d realize having the Winter Soldier for a husband wasn’t worth everything you would have to go through. Then Sharon started flirting with him after Steve rejected her. He hadn’t so much as hugged her, but she acted like she was entitled to him.

Everyone voted for Tony and Pepper to win. They were the real couple and it was their anniversary tomorrow. Tony was going to treat everyone to dinner for being such good sports. You got out of there as soon as it was over. You needed a nap before going to dinner. It was all too much for you. How the hell did you and Bucky make it so far in the game? Why did he have the same answer for the last question? You convince yourself that he knew how you felt.

That night changed everything. The sex was different. If you didn’t know better, you’d swear he was making love to you. He had to be messing with your head. Somehow you manage to fall asleep even with your thoughts racing.

You wake up two hours later, just enough time to get ready for dinner. You put on the little black dress Bucky loved. If he wants to play games, bring it on. You apply your perfume when a light knock sounds on your door. You would recognize the knock anywhere. “Come in” you call. Bucky walks in, his tight black t-shirt hugging him in the best ways.

“Hey doll, we need to talk.” You put your earrings in, anger surging through you. “Talk about what? How you were trying to humiliate me up there? How you’re banging Sharon now? There’s nothing to talk about. You should just go.”

“Humiliate you? What about me? How did you know the answer to the last question?” He demands, charging toward you. “I answered it truthfully, James. How did you know my answer?” You ask, hands on your hips. “I answered honestly too.” He confesses, his blue eyes sweeping over the swell of your breasts.

“Stop lying! I don’t see what the point is. We have been over for three months. Why are you doing this?” He shakes his head, “I was telling the truth. I realized I was in love with you when all those kids were sitting in your lap. I could see our life together. And I wanted it, the kids, the white picket fence, the big house, you.”

“Bucky, I wanted all that with you too. Seeing you playing with those kids made me realize it too.” You sigh, feeling relieved to finally get it off your chest. His lips crash into yours, hands moving at lightning speed to remove all of your clothing. You’re under him in seconds, panting against his lips as he rubs himself against you.

Bucky moans as he sinks into you. He’s always known deep down you were made for him, now he has no choice but to accept it. “I’m so in love with you.” He tells you between thrusts. You claw at his back, his confession almost sends you over the edge. “I am so in love with you, Buck.” You kiss him gently. “Say it again.” He smiles, as you get lost in each other.

Tags

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[ryescapades]

*ੈ‧₊༺ "SHE LOOKS JUST LIKE A DREAM,"

⤷ submission for @pixelcafe-network 's Secret Santa event !

— vice-captain hoshina seems to frequent the infirmary lately... perhaps it has something to do with the division's beloved medic.

characters: hoshina soshiro (kn8) x medic!reader contents: fluff, some injuries and blood, one(1) suggestive line but it’s for the plot, smooching, kind of getting together, slight spoilers for b side manga, inaccurate manga timeline wc ~ 1.8k

a/n: @purpleqilinwrites happy holidays from me, your secret santa ! 🎄 not christmas-themed but i hope you can still enjoy this humble gift i’ve prepared for you (see the end of this for more messages) <3

Remembering and differentiating people’s faces is usually something that comes naturally to people.

Be it your distant, distant relative, or a newly appointed work colleague, or even a fellow customer at a cafe you love. It’s easy enough to memorise each and every one of them, given that you’ve seen them a few times consecutively, of course.

Then again, it comes with the job to have a good memory anyway. Lots of scientific and biological names to be remembered, health conditions and symptoms to be identified, patients you constantly need to keep your eyes on. You have them all etched inside your mind.

There’s also that other circumstance, where forgetting someone’s face is as easy as brushing away a speck of dust from your clothes. People come, and people go. Not everyone that you’ve come across will stay in your life, and not every one of them will become a significant part of it either.

There is one thing, however, that you have stumbled upon, not knowing that it will become both of those things. Or rather, one person.

The first time you saw him was at the hospital right after the kaiju emergence at Ome city back when you were still a measly apprentice to a senior medic from the Third Division. Tasked to do one of his checkups, you’d overheard his conversation with your captain right before she left the ward.

His reaction baffled you, to say the least. Who in the world would reject a position offered by the Captain Ashiro Mina herself? After a thorough yet uneventful inspection on his condition, he was deemed to be discharged from the hospital a few days after, and along with that his presence from your mind.

Or so you thought.

The second time you saw him was a bit more coincidental. Months after that, when you were freshly appointed as one of the Third Division’s operational medics, you had accidentally crossed paths with him on the way to Captain Ashiro’s office, unaware that you were in the face of your soon-to-be Vice-Captain.

You didn’t know how, or why, but for some astronomical reason you’d remembered who he was. There were lots of people you’d bumped into in the past, people you’d medically treated, and people with even worse haircut (in your defense, that was only a mere observation on your part); you had no trouble putting them to the rear end of your mind as you knew they were nothing more than encounters by chance.

Aside from the fact that he’d rejected your captain’s offer, you’d wondered if there was something else about him from that first time that had rewired the very foundation of your brain chemistry to make you remember him as clearly and easily as memorizing the back of your own hand, even when you’d only seen him once before in your entire lifetime.

Unbeknownst to you, Hoshina Soshiro thought the same thing about you.

What is it about you, Hoshina had once mused. What made you so… unforgettable? Your presence had been lingering in the back of his mind from the moment you first laid your hand on him. After you’d left his ward months ago, the image of you has been foggy and indistinctive, almost haunting for him to deal with. And now that he had you in front of his eyes again, he was more than determined to know more about you.

The two of you hit it off then. One friendly conversation turned two, turned weekly, turned daily. Lingering touches, longing gazes, secret smiles, flirty quips. And the most unambiguous of all; the time spent together in the medic bay at any hour of the day.

It’s becoming a routine at this point for the Third Division members to see their second-in-command walking through the doorway of the infirmary with an injury or the other, some of them severe and some were barely considered a prick. The officers have suspected something, of course. But none of them are bold enough (yet) to confront nor pull the topic out in the open.

And so do you and Hoshina himself.

Though you’re totally aware it’s only a matter of time before one of you finally breaches the blurring line between platonic and romantic. Ironically enough, Hoshina with all his foxy eyed glory, seems to be the one to (not so) blindly step over the said line, all too keen on wiping it off like a silly drawing on a sandy shore.

“Hey there. Ya seem happy to see me,”

You grit your teeth at the cheery greeting, irritation piling over the concern and worry, overstacked by the fear wrecking through your body. Taking a deep breath to gather yourself, you step to the side to let the officers carry the battered body of the Vice-Captain to sit on a nearby bed. Soon enough, they walk themselves out with a respective nod to their superiors, leaving you in the still silence of the infirmary.

In your peripheral, Captain Ashiro stands beside the door with her arms crossed, a calculated look stuck on her youthful face before she straightens up, calling out to your name. “I’m leaving them in your care. I’ll be back in a few though,” Confused, you’re about to ask about what she meant when a mass of white fur enters your vision.

Bakko is staying here for a while then, you realize just as the Captain, too, makes her exit to the door. You let the feline kaiju make himself at home in the infirmary as you return to the task at hand; treating Hoshina.

Your next course of action proceeds swiftly and methodically; assembling the medical supplies and equipment, assessing the injuries, disinfecting the wounds and dressing them accordingly. All the while trying not to squirm under his obnoxious gaze.

“You were never this quiet before,” Hoshina breaks the silence, grimacing slightly as you’re currently treating one of his more severe wounds, one that requires stitching.

Your forehead creases slightly, “What do you want me to say?” You question, both in exasperation and incredulity. The swordsman lifts his good shoulder in a little shrug. “I dunno. Anythin’,”

“You’re stupid,”

Hoshina’s lips twitch slightly, “Mhm,”

“And reckless,”

A small smile tugs on his face next, “Yeah?” Slowly, and breathily.

“And - and… you weren’t being careful enough,” Your bloody hand shakes, the scissors you’re holding barely cutting away the remaining thread after you’d successfully managed to stitch his wound up. “Okonogi already said it was a daikaiju and you still insisted on fighting it alone. Who the hell does that?” You seethe.

One of his hands moves to hold yours, halting you just as you'd turned back from putting your equipment away. “You mad at me, sweetheart?” His nonchalant drawl causes you to snap. “I thought you were going to die, Soshiro. Of course I was mad!”

Suddenly there’s a quiet growl rumbling from the corner of the room, and the both of you immediately go silent. You look to the side to see Bakko with his mouth pulled into a menacing snarl, eyeing the other slumbering patients as if to remind you that you’re not the only ones in the room.

You huff, slightly embarrassed at being chastised in your own work space. By a kaiju, of all things.

Hoshina gruffly snickers before glancing at the feline, “He’s not Captain Ashiro’s companion for nothin’, huh? Think he can help around in the infirmary?” He jests.

You chuckle weakly, nodding a little at his injuries. “What, do you want him to lick it all better?”

It was supposed to be a joke, a casual inquiry made to lighten the mood, but Hoshina seems to think otherwise. With his bleary eyes, he murmurs, “I want you to lick it all better,”

Your breath stutters, the heart in your chest skipping a beat or two. Or maybe three? You can’t really seem to figure it out when all you know is that the blood pumping in your veins feels like you’re running a goddamn marathon around the division base.

Your body heats up at the way Hoshina’s gaze remains focused on you, those irises seeping with such intensity and passion, finely rich like wine and sangria. There’s a pull so magnetic, the minimal space where you’re starting to share breaths with him is charged with the tension between the two of you.

Your eyes drift down to his mouth for one quick second. A mere glance, shy and timid. And the next thing you know, you and Hoshina become a clashing of lips, wandering hands and blissful sighs.

Like a collision between two worlds; the connection feels intensely mind-blowing, like a surge of adrenaline that has you forgetting about everything else aside from feeling him, tasting him, consuming him. Your fingertips tingle from where you’re cradling his face in your hands, and electric zaps up your spine from where his hands are gripping you by your hips.

Your lips slide against his in a feverish dance, his tongue diving in to explore each and every crevice of your mouth. Another pleased sigh escapes from you when he nips at your bottom lip, soothing the skin with a gentle suck right after. Hoshina hums against your mouth, pulling you to stand even closer between his legs but a pained groan from him then makes you draw back, the desire to continue ravishing each other now replaced with a budding sense of concern.

“You’re pulling on the stitches,” you mutter, fingers lightly prodding at his medically patched skin. Hoshina shakes his head slightly and drops it to rest on your shoulder as he grunts under his breath, “You have no idea how long I've wanted to do that.”

You falter, a furious blush creeping up to your cheeks at his statement. ‘Why didn’t you do it sooner, then?’ You’d wanted to ask but just as he raises his head, you catch sight of the bloody handprints on both of his cheeks. You gasp in surprise, “Soshiro, you’re—”

You reach up to hold his face, though when you see your own hands stained with the blood from his wounds, a small laugh of realisation comes out of you. Hoshina snorts a little when he deduces the same thing, the room now filled with your combined giggles.

“All the more reason to stay here longer and get myself cleaned up, hm?” He smirks and leans back with his arms perched on the bed. You gnaw at the bottom of your lip, staring not-so-subtly at his slacked figure.

More work for you to do… not like you’re complaining anyway because he does not have any business looking so sinfully good with all those muscles and bare skin all roughed up and bloodied like that.

You inwardly shake your head to disperse the thought. Throwing him an eye roll, you scold him for moving around too much in case his injuries get worse, and that he should know better than to stay out of commission for longer than necessary considering his importance in the division.

Deep down, though, you’re glad that Hoshina Soshiro is there with you in more ways than one, holding your hand as you trudge through this new relationship blossoming between you two.

He stays, and he is significant. Forever will be in your lovesick little heart.

taglist open!

bakko is just there like 👁️👄👁️

💌 ; kaija my dear i’m so happy that i get to know you through the cafe network <3 really enjoyed all the convos we’ve had in the kn8 channel and i appreciate u sm !! you’re so sweet and so delightful to talk to and i thought that you are just the perfect person to be soshiro’s favorite doctor / nurse ^^ you seem like the type who'd be good at taking care of people, especially your loved ones. bet he goes to the infirmary a lot just to see u hehe (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶) anyway, i hope 2024 has been nice to you. i wish you all the good things in the world, and that 2025 will be a better and sweeter year for you, love 💜

©🅁🅈🄴🅂🄲🄰🄿🄰🄳🄴🅂. do not steal, translate or repost my work anywhere else !

[purple-plum-petals]

Hello!! I see your requests for Homicipher are open and I got giddy :D (starving for more content) May I request fluff drabble for Mr Silviar? Maybe his s/o teaching him how to say "I love you" in human language? Thank you!

⊱ Those Three Words ⊰ || Mr. Silvair X Reader

╭─━━━━━━━━━━━━─╮   Character(s): Mr. Silvair (Homicipher/文字化化) Reader Type: Human (Gender-Neutral Pronouns) Warning(s): Spoilers for Homicipher (specifically Route End: Mr. Silver Hair 1), Canon-typical Mentions of Violence (and Horror-Elements), Cultural Barriers (Mr. Silvair Doesn’t Fully Comprehend Certain Emotions). Anything spoken in the other world’s language will be bolded. Genre: Drabble, Fluff, Slight Angst, Pre-Established Romantic Relationship (It’s Complicated, honestly). Word Count: ~3,280 Request: “Hello!! I see your requests for Homicipher are open and I got giddy :D (starving for more content) May I request fluff drabble for Mr Silviar? Maybe his s/o teaching him how to say "I love you" in human language? Thank you!” Author’s Note: Mr. Silvair!!! He’s genuinely so pretty, y’all – it’s not fair. 😔 I find his overall character to be quite fascinating, and a part of me is really hoping the game gets a DLC or something to further expand on each of the character’s lore (and more moments with the MC, of course). Like game, what do you mean that some of the monsters may have been humans while others probably never were?? I desperately need more food… I headcanon that Mr. Silvair was either 1. never human, or 2. has been in the other world for a very long time, resulting in the loss of his memory as a human which could be why he’s so interested in researching them/maintaining the MC’s humanity. 🤔 But that’s just a theory – a game theory! Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

→ If you enjoyed my work, please reblog it if you can! Exposure on Tumblr is based on reblogging content rather than liking it, so your support would be much appreciated!  ♡ ╰─━━━━━━━━━━━━─╯

Even after everything that had happened between you and this world’s resident human-enjoyer, you surprisingly still felt at ease with Mr. Silvair. That comfortability, though, made you think hard about your sanity. After all, it probably wasn’t normal to be comfortable around someone who enjoyed taking you apart and watching your body put itself back together over and over again. Yet, you did, and you didn’t mind your current arrangement as much as you probably would have in the past. 

Mr. Silvair’s home was destroyed in a fiery explosion (courtesy of himself), so you had offered to help him find a new one. You managed to locate a large room, one that he deemed satisfactory enough to call his base, and you had been staying with him indefinitely since then. As long as you had a comfy bed to lay in and someone else to keep you company, you were happy. 

Your other friends(?) frequently stopped by as well to say hello, the most common ones being Mr. Crawling and Mr. Chopped. While you were occasionally hit with a feeling of loneliness, it was hard to feel that way with so many friendly faces around. Well… maybe their faces weren’t that friendly, but they were kind and gentle with you, and that’s what truly mattered. 

You hear the sound of Mr. Silvair moving around in the room adjacent to the one you typically stayed in, and you wonder to yourself what his plans for today are. The tall, long-haired man spent most of his time engaged in research. You didn’t see him as frequently as one would expect despite the fact you two were practically roommates. All you could do was hope he wasn’t messing around with and subsequently angering any more terrifying, violent ghosts. You enjoyed your current home, and going out to look for another one wasn’t very high on your list of things to do. 

The Rubik’s Cube in your hand was still as scattered as ever, and it seemed like, no matter how long you spent trying to solve it, you were only able to successfully complete one side. Mr. Masque was kind enough to give it to you (he apparently had a whole stash of the things somewhere), and his gift was something you were immensely grateful for. Attempting to figure out the puzzle helped you pass the time wherever you were alone (and it most likely helped you keep your head on straight). 

You’re currently lying flat on your back atop the plush bed in the relatively empty living space, looking up at the gray concrete ceiling with a blank stare. Once you decide you’ve loafed around for long enough, you stand up slowly from the bed, placing the cube gently on the covers of the cot. You stretch your arms above your head, a strangled noise coming from your throat at the movement of your stiff muscles, and you begin to make your way to the other room where your… 

What even was Mr. Silvair to you? While yes, you were fond of him – hell, you’d go as far as to say you loved him – you knew he didn’t feel the same. You remember the moment he told you “I not understand like”, and that he didn’t want to save you from your condition, no… he found you entertaining to keep around, and that’s why he did what he did. 

It was complicated, you thought, trying to have a relationship with a being who didn’t grasp what the concept of love was. Deep down, though, you knew you wouldn’t change it for the world. He enjoyed your presence, and that was all you could ask for. 

You walk over to the metal door and knock, waiting for a response. After a moment, you hear Mr. Silvair’s voice echo, “Enter.”

The door opens with a slight creak as you twist the knob, peeking your head inside the somewhat grimy space. The room, still fairly new, didn’t have as much blood or gore as his old one did. There were fresh stains on the floor and wall, you noted, and you couldn’t help but wonder who or what they were from exactly. It didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things, though, so you didn’t bother asking. 

You grin up at the taller man and give him a small wave, saying softly, “Hello. I not bother?”

He returns your smile, placing the scalpel in his hand on the stainless steel tray that held a variety of medical tools. It looked like he was in the process of cleaning the many, typically blood-stained, pieces of equipment. Mr. Silvair turns to face you and replies gently, “Hello. You not bother. Enter.”

Tilting his head to one side, his long, silver locks move when he does, cascading down his head and slipping off his shoulder at the movement. His smile drops slightly before he asks, “Feeling unwell? Injured? Need cure?”

“No, no cure.” You quickly say, not quite in the mood to be dissected or taken apart right now (honestly, though, you never really were, even if you did understand why it needed to be done). You pause by the door before finally shutting it behind you, the both of you now alone in the private and secluded space. 

Ugh – why was it so hard to say what was on your mind??

After taking a moment to build up your confidence, you tell Mr. Silvair while fidgeting with the rubber of the clear raincoat you wore, “I want see you. Communicate.”

He hums and smiles at your admission, walking over to you before placing a calloused hand on your face. Your eyes close on instinct, and your breathing shutters when he rubs his thumb across your cheek. A part of you wanted to be annoyed with him since he had to be aware of the effect he had on you, yet you didn’t want to run the risk of him removing his cool palm from your skin, so you kept your mouth shut. 

It had taken quite some time for Mr. Silvair to get to this point of physical affection with you (something he began doing more often after he saw how much you enjoyed getting head-pats from Mr. Crawling), so you didn’t want to ruin any progress you two had made in your complicated and unconventional relationship. 

“Okay,” Mr. Silvar starts, removing his hand from your face as he gestures to one of the two chairs in the room. He smiles down at you before saying, “Sit. We communicate.”

You do as you’re told without speaking another word, your hands folded in your lap after you sit down, watching Mr. Silvair take a seat on the chair across from you. You talk with him for quite some time, doing your best to update him on your current progress with the puzzle since that was pretty much the only thing you had going on in your life. While it wasn’t satisfying to speak in the other world’s language because it tended to miss most of the nuances of speech, it was the only way the two of you could communicate. 

Mr. Silvair seemed to pick up on your frustration, seeing you were growing annoyed at the lack of words in your arsenal – the term you were looking for wasn't coming to mind. In response, he tilts his head to the side and asks you, “You upset. Why?”

“Not right words.” You reply, brows furrowed when you look up at him, your gaze landing on the bloody bandages wrapped around his eyes. You turn your head to look down at the floor, the somewhat fresh pool of blood perfectly matching the color of the Rubik’s Cube. You point to the puddle and turn to ask Mr. Silvair, “What’s this called in your language? Can you tell me how to say this color?”

“Blood.” Mr. Silvair responds, not understanding what you wanted him to explain. 

“No, no.” You quickly reply, shaking your head. You continue to glance between him and the blood, enunciating your words even though he didn’t understand your language the same way you were able to understand his. You didn’t back down or give up, though, saying again, “The color – I want to know what color blood is.”

He pauses, one hand under his chin as he seemingly takes a moment to figure out what you are asking him. After a few beats, Mr. Silvair replies with a word you haven’t heard anyone speak before, “???”

You visibly brighten at the new word, and the expression on your face causes Mr. Silvair to let out a light chuckle before he crosses one of his legs over the other. You take a breath before telling him, “Okay. Thank you.” 

After another pause, you continue to speak, “So… One part object done, red part. Other parts hard – not finish.”

Mr. Silvair had been leaning forward in his chair, his elbow digging into his knee while his hand rested under his chin, holding his head up as he stared at you with an unwavering gaze. He always listened to you with rapt interest, and you would be lying if you said the constant attention didn’t make your heart stutter in your chest. However, he suddenly speaks, pointing to the pool of blood you had been gesturing toward moments before, “What you call that?”

“Huh?” You ask, pausing your story to look at him. Mr. Silvair doesn’t say anything else, though, giving you a moment to comprehend what he has asked you. You perk up when your brain finally registers what Mr. Silvair had said, replying to him happily, “Oh, that’s the color red. So, blood is typically red – blood red.” 

“R-ehd?” He echos, and the sound of his voice speaking a word that you were able to understand without having to flip through your mental dictionary had your breath hitching. It sounded so strange but so nice coming from his lips. 

“Yeah, red! Blood is red!” You say, sounding excited and oh-so happy. Mr. Silvair would be lying to himself if he said he didn’t find the look on your face and the tone of your voice endearing. Then, your expression shifts slightly as you lean forward in your chair, saying enthusiastically, “Oh my god – I just got an idea! Me teach you me language!”

“...You language?” Mr. Silvair asks after a moment, shifting in his seat slightly. 

“Yes! Me teach you!” You reply, gesturing to both him and you with your hands. Your mind remembers the way Mr. Silvair and Mr. Chopped helped you shortly after you first arrived, teaching you directions to walk, facial expressions, and more. They had helped you expand your knowledge of this world’s language, and they were probably responsible for your survival in so many of those early interactions. So, you smile at him as you say, “We same.”

He returns a smile, nodding his head and replying with a simple, “Okay.”

“Alright, so, let me think here…” You hum to yourself, leaning back in your chair and closing your eyes while you consider what you should start with. Body parts seemed to be the first thing that popped into your head, so that’s eventually what you decided to start with. Sitting up in the chair, you point toward your hand with the other, tapping a finger to your palm as you speak, “Okay, so, this is my hand – hand. Can you say hand?”

It was kind of cute, strangely enough, seeing Mr. Slivair take the time to repeat the word you spoke over and over in his mind, trying to match the movement of your mouth with his own. Your languages were quite different in sounds, syllables, and the like, so he was practicing what to say before actually speaking. After a few moments of contemplation, he replies, “...H-ah-nd.”

“Hey, that was pretty good! Not bad for your first try, Mr. Silvair, even if the pronunciation is a bit off.” You say with a wide smile, clapping your hands together as you applaud him on his efforts. He chuckles again, finding your way of teaching to be… sweet. 

Then, you speak again, once again grabbing his attention. You tap the pad of your finger under the skin of your eye, asking him, “Do you remember what this is called? I think I’ve told you before.”

Mr. Silvair is quicker in his response this time, having heard you ask him about his own eyes before as he smoothly says, “Eye.” 

“Yes! Good job!” You praise once more, giving him a thumbs up in response. Then, he stands up from his seat, walking over to you while his once-white lab coat flows behind him. You crane your head back to look up at him from where you were still sitting, a simple and stupid, “...Huh?” leaving your mouth. 

Mr. Silvair reaches a hand to your face, cupping your chin gently in his hand. You feel his thumb resting on your bottom lip, and he begins to move his finger back and forth along the slightly chapped flesh, tugging at it slightly. He tilts his head to the side, asking you seriously, “What this called?”

“Oh, uh…” You know your face is probably flushed beyond belief at this point if the heat cascading through your head is anything to go by, and your mind and heart are completely caught off-guard by his sudden touch and question. You avert your gaze to the side, swallowing harshly before you finally reply, “They’re my lips – they’re, umm… similar to mouth. Lips, mouth, same.”

“...Lips?” Mr. Silvair asks again for clarification, his voice having an almost husky tone to it that has a shiver travel down your spine. 

You nod in response, muttering a barely audible, “Yes…” 

Mr. Silvair hums at your response, a small smile gracing his lips. He leans down, face so close to yours, before he inquires with an almost teasing tone to his voice, “You want touch?”

“Y-Yes.” You answer at an almost embarrassingly fast speed. 

The man who you had grown so fond of chuckles at your enthusiasm before leaning forward, pressing his lips softly to yours while he holds your face between his palms. Kisses weren’t a common thing between the two of you, and they were really only something Mr. Silvair initiated when he felt like it. You could feel the intensity at which your heart was beasting due to his sudden affections, and there was a part of you that was worried it would burst out of your chest right then and there. 

Your eyes flutter shut and you tilt your head to the side, your hands coming up to rest atop his – his hands that were holding your cheeks so, so gently. It was almost sickening the way he was holding you like you could break at any moment. 

Then, almost as quickly as it began, the kiss ended before you even realized it did. Mr. Silvair’s forehead was now pressed against yours, and he doesn’t make any move to remove his hands from your face. Your lips were no longer touching, and yet he still lingered.  

Mr. Silvair didn’t play fair, you thought, yet you couldn’t help but wonder why he wanted to kiss you so suddenly, so randomly. You close your eyes and your brows furrow at the tightening in your throat, an aching sensation slowly spreading throughout your chest like a disease before you whisper, “...I love you.”

There’s a silence, a stretch of nothingness before Mr. Silvair suddenly asks you, his voice just as soft as yours had been, “Repeat?”

“...No,” Your response is nearly immediate, and you shake your head before repeating once more, “Nothing.”

“...I love you.” The sound of those three words leaving his lips nearly causes your mind to implode. It sounded so sweet, yet it also felt worse than any suffering you had experienced before. The searing and excruciating pain, the feeling of a blade digging itself into the flesh of your torso couldn’t compare to the deep-seated torment you felt right now.

Mr. Silvair hums, tilting his head to the side as his thumbs continue to caress your cheeks, “What mean?”

You knew there was no point, no reason to try and explain your feelings again, but you do. You still do, even though you know it’s pointless to try. You can’t bring yourself to look at him as you speak, finding the concrete floor more interesting, “Mean… mean me like you. Lot like.”

There’s a pause, a moment of contemplation before Mr. Silvair says, “...Not understand.”

“I know.” You reply, nodding your head once in response. 

“You know?” He asks you, sounding somewhat confused, a tone you very rarely heard from the man. Had he forgotten that moment that you couldn’t seem to forget, the memory that you continuously found replaying in your mind like a broken record? It wasn’t fair, you thought, that only you were forced to hold onto such a painful memory. 

“You communicate before.” You clarify, finally willing yourself to look at his face. Mr. Silvair’s expression was tight, his lips drawn into a flat line. 

You needed to get away, to just run from this moment in the hopes he would forget the whole exchange just as he apparently did the last one. You take your hands and grab his wrists, removing his palms from your face before you stand up from the chair. You refuse to look at him as you turn, heading to the door as you utter, “...I’m going to go for a walk, so I’ll be back later. Goodbye.”

Then, you feel something tug at the sleeve of your raincoat. It wasn’t strong, nothing that would actually stop you from moving, but your legs proceeded to hault at the small action. Mr. Silvair says, his tone not demanding in the slightest – if anything, it sounded like a plea as he speaks, “No exit.”

You take a deep breath and turn around to face him, asking in such a small voice that it even caught yourself off-guard, “...Why?”

“I want you here.” Mr. Silvair responds quickly, so quickly it seems to have taken both of you by surprise. The two of you stare at each other for a moment before he asks, finally releasing the material of your jacket from in between his fingers, “Stay… Will you stay?”

You once again find yourself wondering if Mr. Silvair was aware of the effect he had on you as a sigh leaves your mouth. You nod your head lightly and reply, “I will stay.”

“Good.” He says in response, a gentle smile on his face as he says for the second time, “I love you.”

You frown at him and shake your head, saying with a slight edge of frustration in your voice, “No speak. Not true.” 

“True… Believe true.” He says quickly, reaching out to once again place a hand against your cheek. You don’t move, don’t flinch away from his touch – you still relish the way he’s holding you like a fragile piece of glass. Mr. Silvair’s brows are furrowed ever so slightly as he mutters, “Confused.”

“You’re telling me… How do you think I feel?” You say with a huff, your hand holding into his as you find yourself nuzzling your nose into his palm. The painful feeling in your chest was still present, but it wasn’t nearly as excruciating as it had been now. You find it in yourself to smile, gazing up at him as you speak, “...but we’ll get through it together – we together. Right?”

“To-geh-ther…” He repeats, leaning down to press his forehead to yours once more as he says softly, “Yes.”

[mrsbarnesblog]

I trust you

masterlist ko-fi ao3

Summary: when Bucky comes back from a mission with a knife wound there is only one person who can convince him to get help.

Words count: 3.5k

Warnings: angst and fluff, injury, wounds, low self-esteem, bucky has trust issues and needs a hug, touch starved bucky,

Author’s note: ugh just let me hold my baby and kiss his cute sad face omggg... anyways, idk why I rarely write angsty things, I really wanna do something new, so if you have any ideas let me know! 💘

It was almost eight o'clock in the evening when FRIDAY reported that the guys' quinjet should arrive at the compound within an hour.

Steve, Sam, and Bucky went on another mission to destroy HYDRA almost two weeks ago. As usual, none of you could get any news from them because they couldn't risk giving away their whereabouts.

It was foolish to assume that you weren't worried about them. Especially for one person. Bucky.

You and the former Winter Soldier met about six months ago when Steve and Sam first brought him to the tower. Steve was really worried about his old best friend, so before bringing Bucky to the tower, he talked with the team and asked all of you to give Bucky space.

Of course, you knew who he was from the day Steve found out that Bucky was alive. You have seen hundreds of reports and photographs on TV and on the Internet about The Winter Soldier, a ruthless killer who was always invisible but too damn good at his missions. He is the man who was turned into a weapon against his will.

When Steve introduced him, the whole team just nodded and shared awkward smiles, and Bucky himself kept his eyes on the ground. The whole situation was too intense, and no one, not even the funny and sarcastic Tony Stark, knew what to do or say. You actually thought that it might be rude to just stand there and look at him, as if he was a wild animal. Looking at this shy and uncomfortable-looking man before you, you knew that the smallest thing you could get him was to show that he was welcomed in this tower and that everyone was on his side. So, pushing away your own shyness and nerves, you stepped forward, holding out your right hand.

"Hi, my name is Y/N.  It's nice to meet you. I hope you’ll feel comfortable around here." You offered your warmest and most sincere smile, trying not to show nervousness.

Bucky slowly raised his head, genuinely surprised that anyone else had actually spoken to him besides Steve. It's nice to meet you. When had he heard those words for the last time?

Your eyes met, and you could have sworn all the air was out of your lungs. His eyes were even more beautiful than in those rare, high-quality photographs. He looked truly beautiful, with long hair and blue eyes, even though you could see that he was tired—physically and even more emotionally. You stood for what seemed like an eternity, looking at each other's faces, until Bucky got a little nudge from Steve on the arm.

Only then did his gaze move to your still outstretched arm. He hesitated a bit, unsure if he wanted to be touched or feel someone’s warm skin. It’s been too long since another person wanted to touch him without causing any harm. Even Steve gave him minimal physical contact. Always through the gloves or thick jacket, and Bucky didn’t know the true reason for this—whether it was because Steve cared about his feelings or he just didn't want to do that. But then Bucky looked at you again, and he already knew that you would be his death.

You were so beautiful. Probably the most attractive person he has ever seen. It was still morning, and he assumed that you planned to have a day for yourself because you had no makeup, your hair was a little bit messy, and you looked really comfy in a big sweater and a pair of black leggings. Oh, and he definitely noticed your cute, fluffy pink socks. Your eyes were full of friendliness and comfort, so it made him want to trust you. Your lips curled into a warm smile, and he had no doubt that you wanted to make him feel comfortable on the team.

Bucky lifted the corners of his lips slightly, meeting your eyes again, and held out his right hand to you, still feeling awkward. Especially when the whole team around you watches your interaction too closely.

 "Hi."

When the Quinjet landed on the territory, you couldn't calm your pounding heart. Natasha, who was standing a couple of steps away from you, of course, noticed your condition but didn’t say anything and just sent you a reassuring smile. She knew you'd calm down when Bucky was by your side.

Sam got out first. He looked tired, had a couple of scratches and bruises, but was generally fine.

"Sam!  God, I'm glad you're okay." You said, running closer to him. "How is Bucky? And Steve? Are they okay?" Your worried eyes ran across his face, trying to find answers, but he only pursed his lips and lowered his eyes to the ground.

"Steve’s fine, and Bucky, um... I think you should see it yourself. And I think you need to have a serious talk with this idiot because he doesn't listen to us." Your brows furrowed, but before you could ask anything else, footsteps and stifled moans were heard behind Sam.

It felt like your heart stopped as soon as you saw him. Blood flowed from his temple and lip, and an already darkening bruise adorned his right cheekbone. Your eyes rushed down, trying to find all the damage, and then you saw it. Bucky kept his right hand on his left side. His entire palm was scarlet red as the blood passed through his thick suit and soaked through his fingers. Your mouth opened involuntarily, and your eyes instantly filled with tears.

Of course, this was not his first mission, but he always returned almost without any injuries or with something that quickly healed because of his supersoldier serum. It has never been so bad.

Before you knew it, you were already standing next to him. Tears flowed freely down your face, and you raised your hands up, wanting to touch him, but they froze in the air.

 "Bucky…" You sobbed, looking straight into his eyes.

 "Hello, doll" He smiled reassuringly at you, but you saw how he pressed his teeth together to ease the pain. He didn’t want to scare you.

"Bucky, God, wh-what happened? You need to go to the hospital wing. You’re losing a lot of blood!" You gently took his metal hand, but before you could lead him away, he removed it and moved away a little.

"It's all right, doll.  Nothing that I can't handle on my own. Trust me, I’ve experienced worse."

"Buck, Y/N is right." You notice Steve for the first time because all your attention has been focused on Bucky since he appeared. "That punk cut you pretty deep; it needs to be stitched up."

"You know, I never go to the hospital wing." He purses his lips awkwardly, looking down.

Of course. Of course you knew it. Everyone in the tower knew that the Winter Soldier didn't like being touched or visiting doctors, and he had never asked for any kind of help. He always limited himself to a short handshake or a pat on the back from his best friend.

But you also knew that Bucky couldn't take off his clothes in front of anyone. Too many scars from bullets, knives, and other things that HYDRA used to torture him He confessed this to you one evening when you were sitting in the dark in the common room after his nightmare.

In those six months, you got close enough to him that he trusted you to sit with him in the stillness of the night and share his fears. But he still avoided touching and, of course, did not want to show his body to anyone. Even you. Especially to you.

You were one of the few good things in his life. Someone who genuinely wanted to spend time with him, who wasn’t afraid of him, and who was always kind and supportive. Bucky didn't want to lose you. And he knew that if you ever saw him with those ugly marks all over his body, you would run away without looking back. Because who would like it?

The hand that took hundreds of lives. The hand that was forever connected to his body left a big reminder that he was, in fact, just an experiment that went too well. He often looked at his shoulder in the mirror with anger and despair, wanting to get rid of this mixture of scars and torn skin. Obviously, when HYDRA put that prosthetic on him, they didn't care much about looks or pain, so they just hooked it on the way they did.

"Bucky, please listen to me." You sobbed, moving closer to him again. "I know you're afraid to go there, but please, you have to do it, otherwise, you'll lose too much blood or just get an infection." You hugged yourself with your hands as your body began to tremble with concern for the person in front of you. "It can leave a big scar." You whispered and saw that Bucky’s jaw clenched again. You didn’t want him to think that there was something wrong with having scars, but you knew that it was emotionally too hard for him to deal with them.

"I'm sorry, doll, but I can't," he pursed his lips, shaking his head, "you know I can't do it."

"Bucky…" you whispered as more tears started flooding your face. You were so focused on Bucky that you didn't even pay attention to your friends, who stood aside and pretended not to eavesdrop on your conversation.

"Don't cry because of me, doll, please, you don't have to cry." Bucky's voice lowered to a whisper as he worked up the courage to use his thumb to wipe a tear from your right cheek with a metal finger.

You took advantage of the opportunity, grabbing his metal wrist and pressing his hand closer against your cheek.

 "Please, Bucky. Then let's go to your room. I can help you if you don't want to undress there.

"I don't think it's a good idea either, doll.  You don't need to see it."

"James," you focused on his eyes, rubbing small circles with your thumb into his wrist, "it'll be alright, I promise. I'm not afraid of you. I won’t leave. I'll take care of you. Please do it for me."

You were hurt by his gaze. You've seen a thousand thoughts go through that head. Doubt, fear, uncertainty, and pain. He couldn't lose you. Couldn't lose what you had. Even if he wanted so much more, he was content just being around you. He couldn't lose you to a damn ugly piece of metal attached to him.

But you looked at him like your life depended on it. Tears were still running down your cheeks. You were hurt because of him. But you refused to give up and let his self-doubt win this fight. You continued to gently massage his metal wrist as you placed a light kiss on it. And he could no longer resist you.

"Fine."

"It's better if we do this in the bathroom," you said as you closed the door to Bucky's room behind you. You quickly walked past him, going into the bathroom and pulling out the first aid kit you knew was in the bottom drawer. You felt comfortable being a little bit bossy here, and Bucky didn’t mind it.

He quietly followed you, watching you with an unsure face. His blood was still soaking through his arm, but that didn't bother him as much as the fact that he'd have to undress in front of you and that at some point you would touch him.

Once all the necessary things were ready, you turned to face Bucky, already preparing to help him out. But as soon as your hands went up to help him unbuckle his suit, he staggered back, and you froze with your hands in the air. For a few seconds, you silently looked into each other's eyes, then you moved, trying to understand his reaction, and what you saw made your heart ache.

His brows were slightly furrowed, and the corners of his lips were turned down. His eyes always told you everything that he tried to hide, and right now they told you how scared and insecure Bucky actually was.

"I don't think I can do it." Bucky whispered softly, casting his eyes down in shame.

"Hey James, look at me," you said, taking his face in your hands. "I'm your friend, you know? I won't hurt you. I won’t judge you. I won't do anything against your will. But I need to help you because I can see how much pain you're in," you sighed, running your fingers over his cheekbones. "I know it's hard. And I know you're scared or shy, but I'm here for you. None of this scares me, and I'll be as gentle with you as I can, okay? You can tell me if it becomes too much, and I'll stop. I promise."  You could see the tears forming in his eyes, and you couldn't help feeling the pain that this beautiful man in front of you had been without care and affection for so long.

Bucky nodded slightly, giving you permission to continue.

"I’ll clean up your wound on the ribs, and then we can take care of your face." You carefully removed your hands from his, now placing them on the clasps of his suit. You opened them one by one, and when you finally got to the last one, you helped Bucky carefully remove that piece of clothing. Next on the way was a stretchy long-sleeve shirt, and by glancing at the wound, you could see that all the tissue around it was completely covered in blood.

"So, now I'm going to carefully lift up the shirt so you can take it off and not bother your wound too much, okay?" you asked, running your eyes over Bucky's face to understand his emotions. He took a deep breath, as if preparing for the worst, but nodded anyway.

You started to slowly lift up his shirt, helping Bucky pull his hands out one by one, and then tossed that no longer needed rag into the bathtub.

"Oh god," you muttered softly, looking at the wound that seemed to be even bigger now.

Bucky thought that you said it about his appearance in general, so he lifted his head up to the ceiling to stop angry tears from falling.

Come on, Buck, we need to sew this up so it doesn't leave a scar. Do you think you can sit on the counter next to the sink?" You looked at Bucky, but you couldn't meet his eyes. You knew that he was at the edge, his body trembled a little bit, but he still listened to you and silently jumped up on the free space near the sink.

"Bucky," you said quietly, trying to be as gentle as you could. "I see you right now, and I’m not going anywhere, you hear me?" You put your hand back on his face, making him meet your eyes. Before you could think, you placed your right hand on his chest, causing his eyes to instantly widen in surprise. His skin was very warm and silky, even though there were a lot of scars from different conditions. You gently moved your hand, showing Bucky that you’re not afraid, that you’re not a threat, and that he can trust you. "You're doing well, it’s okay," you said as you started rubbing soothing circles on his shoulder.

You backed off a little, finally picking up all the necessary things, and began to sanitize and then stitch up the wound. Every time you needed to put your hand on your skin, you felt Bucky instantly tense under your touch, but you tried to send him quiet words of encouragement and praise. Bucky was very quiet, not making a sound even when the needle pierced his skin. His face wasn’t in bad condition, and Super Soldier serum almost healed them, so you decided to only sanitize and clean his skin.

"Well, you did a great job, James. I'm proud of you." About twenty minutes later, you finally tied the bandage and began to put everything back in the drawer, but then felt a touch on your arm.

You looked back at Bucky, only to meet tear-filled eyes.

"No one has ever taken care of me in a long time, Y/N." You stepped closer to Bucky again, unconsciously placing your hands on his shoulders. "I feel ashamed of my body. Of that arm. I didn't want you to see those ugly scars. God, this is so pathetic—"

"Don't say that," you interrupted him. "That's not pathetic. I understand how you feel. That you have so many negative thoughts about yourself. But Bucky… God, I don't know how to properly say it." You paused for a moment, considering the words. "You're one of the most amazing people I know. And even if many people in the tower are scared or intimidated by you, for me, you are the sweetest, most caring, and most generous person. You remember every little thing I say, make me coffee and food when I'm too busy, pretend to like those shitty movies that I make you watch with me. I'm so sorry that so many bad things happened to such a good person that you feel unworthy of good things."

Suddenly, strong arms surrounded you, and you realized that Bucky was hugging you with arms wrapping around your waist. He nuzzled up to your neck, and you could feel light sobs. Gently, you entangled your fingers in his hair, massaging the scalp with calming movements.

"I don't deserve you, doll." Bucky pulled back a little, still keeping his hands on your waist. "I wish I could be normal for you. Be who I was back in the 40s. I would’ve asked you out and given you everything that you deserved. But that person is not here any more, and I'm not worthy of you."

He wanted to ask you out on a date?  Your heart stopped as soon as the words left his mouth, and you stared at Bucky in surprise. "Bucky—"

"I know…fuck—I shouldn't have said that. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I'm sorry, doll. I didn't mean to mess anything up between us, I promise. I know you don't feel the same— it's okay, really. Just forget about—"

You didn't let Bucky finish by leaning forward and brushing your lips against his. His flesh automatically tangled in the hair at the back of your neck as the metal one tightened his grip on your waist. For the first few seconds, Bucky was in shock, not kissing you back, but just as you wanted to pull away, his lips began to move, taking over you immediately.

It was the best kiss you ever had. He was gentle yet so passionate. There were a lot of unsaid feelings that Bucky kept to himself for too long. All thoughts seemed to have left your head as the feeling of him filled your whole body.

When there was not enough air, you moved away from each other, touching your foreheads with your eyes closed.

"Fuck" was the first thing he said.

"Yeah," you laughed, finally meeting Bucky's eyes. He looked at you with such adoration that you felt butterflies in your stomach. You just noticed how much skin-to-skin contact you had. "Are you okay with that? Doesn't that make you uncomfortable?" You tilted your head as your hands squeezed his shoulders.

"That's... that's weird. I'm not used to that kind of contact," Bucky said, studying your face. "But I trust you, doll. You are the only person I trust completely." You felt him begin to gently run his hand along your back. "I'd like to ask you out on a date. I mean, if you want to. If not, I totally understand—"

You interrupted him again, leaving a quick kiss on his lips. "I'd like to go on a date with you, James. You know, you’re so cute when you’re shy?"

You've never seen his face so lit up with happiness, with a little bit of pink on his cheeks. Butterflies began to beat in your stomach again, and you realized that it was you who made him feel that way.

"Do you want to go to bed, put on some shitty comedy, and grab some food? I still have to watch over your injury."

"Sounds like a perfect plan, doll." Bucky kissed you on the forehead, interlacing his fingers with you, and led you to his room.

Even if it still required a lot of work, cuddling with Bucky, you knew it was the best place you could be.

[kaciebello]

Offspring garden

Masterlist Luke Castellan x Demetre! reader (fem) Summary: Luke and the reader are the unofficial parents of the camp, whether they like it or not. Warning: Non, no use of y/n author note: English is not my first language so I am sorry for any mistakes beforehand. Proofread by me and me only (Ｔ▽Ｔ ) Requested! word count: 1.2k

“LUKE CASTELLAN” A yell could be heard throughout the whole camp. The boy in question lifts his head from his sword to look for the source of the noise. Only to see a familiar girl with an angry scold on her face. He stands up when he sees her, dragging two familiar boys behind her. He just signs and makes his way to them.

“Hello, honey.” He says, hoping to de-escalate the situation. She just huffs and points a finger at him before turning to the two boys who were now looking at the floor in shame.

“Don't you even dare to sweet talk me, Luke?” To him this was comical. The Stroll brothers often did something they shouldn't, they however did not get caught that much. No, seeing them being scolded by a girl who’s just a few years older was funny. She resembled a mom giving a lecture to her children She turned to him again.

“Keep your siblings in check, because if I catch them again in my garden-”

“You're gonna what?” Luke says, coking his head to the side with a smile.  Her eyes narrow at him as she steps closer. The boys yelp out a little ‘ sorry, mom’ teasing tone in their voice, as everybody noticed some of the younger kids calling her that by accident during the campfire last night. She ignores them and takes our step to Luke. He secretly waves his arm at the boys and they scatter away as quietly as they can, although few giggles leave them anyway.

“Don't try me today Luke, we have so much to do and I don't have the time or the patience for this. And you, you are- Luke where have they gone?” She says her eyes flipping between him and the place where the boys were standing a minute ago. Luke just shrugs and smiles. The girl sighs placing her shaking her head.

“You can’t just let them go, I brought them here for a reason.” She says kicking a stone with her foot. Luke took her hands in his, wrapping them around his neck. Now that he had her undivided attention he rocked them back and forth.

“They're just kids.”

“Cheeky, that's what they are.” Luke just laughs. Leaning in, their noses brush on each other. Before Luke could continue, a pair of giggles were heard before the water fell on them from the top of the Hermes cabin. In shock, the pair steps away from each other and look up. There they were, the Stroll brothers, with two buckets of water having the time of their life.

“LUKE!” He's not sure he can get them out of this one.

—

Being the counselor of their cabin did give them an advantage. Granted, it was more work than the normal ‘training to be a hero ‘ thing. The older campers however did not mind, because it meant they got to call light out. Now the Demeter cabin went to sleep almost as soon as the sun set, not fans of the dark. The Hermise cabin, however, is quite the opposite. If they had to pick they would switch the whole camp to night one. 

However, it was not unusual to see the Demetre cabin counselor at the Hermes cabin after she called light out on her own. Not that Luke was having a problem with his cabin, no. Well kinda, it's always hard for the new kids, and he and his siblings are more mischief than anything else. The friendly face of the Demetre kids makes them calm down and fall asleep despite the noise.

He was leaning on the doorframe, his eyes glued to the girl reading kids' stories. He was supposed to keep an eye on his siblings. That was their deal. But he only started to pay attention to them when a shirt was thrown in his face. Taking it down and looking up to try and find a culprit, he finds Chris with a smirk on his face. Luke just rolls his eyes and throws it back. Making his was the girl who was tucking in the last camper. His hand lands on the small of her back as she straightens.

“ All done?” He whispers although it is useless when he hears his sibling laugh at full volume. The girl looks up at him and nods. Turning and making her way to the cabin door. Luke follows her very close by.

“Will you walk me back?” She asks, playing with his bracelets. 

“Why? Scared of the dark?” He cocks his head to the side. Only receiving a glare from the girl. Before she can answer one of the Hermes girls pipes in.

“You have the same conversation every night, You are boring as an old married couple with kids.” She says before letting her head hit the pillow. Both Luke and the girl look at her. The Demeter girl shakes it off before he does. Letting off his hand and clearing her throat.

“Alright, that is enghou, lights out!” She said, making sure everyone could hear her. Some kids listened right away and some hesitated before laying down too.

“But you not our-”

“I SAID LIGHTS OUT.” The light switch was flipped to the end she said. All that could be heard was the cabin door opening and closing, indicating that the two counsellors had left on their adventure.

—

They were both sitting on the floor. Her back was pressed to his chest as she sat between his legs. Watching Annabeth, Percy and Grover fool around the arena. Luke insisted they needed training, although he was not teaching them anything. The girl opted to read her book, as this is as quiet as it gets around the busy camp.

“What do you say we go on an adventure next summer,” Luke says catching her attention enough to listen but not enough to put away her book.

“Chiron is not letting us go on a quest Luke.” She says nonchalantly. Luke just shakes his head and his hand goes to play with the corner of the book.

“No, I meant like, go and have a trip, Europe maybe.” He finishes and the girl chuckles. Turning over a page before finishing her chapter. Make sure she places a bookmark before closing the book and putting it aside. She leans even further onto him before answering.

“ As if Mr. D is gonna let us leave. We basically run the camp for him.” She says and Luke laughs. His arm now resting across her chest, both watching the trio who were playing some kind of game. It looks like a twisted version of Marko Pollo as Annabeth kept going invisible to confuse Percy even more. Luke leans down and kisses the girl on the forehead. She looks up at him with a smile before reaching to pat his head and tug at the base of his curls.

In bliss they sat, soaking in the sun. A quiet day where they get to be teenagers. All, however, comes to an end when someone yells out ‘Mom’ and all heads turn to her. The girl can just groan before getting up and following the sound. Flowers blooming in her hair out of frustration. Luke does not stay that far behind

[zorobraun]

ex husband ghost at your kiddo’s football game

“love, i’ll find us a seat while you wait for simon.” your boyfriend says in the most calm and mature way possible, making you nod with a little smile. you hate when he calls you ‘love’ — memories of when you and your ex husband were together start filling up your mind. you quickly shake it off, though, clearing your throat as you wait for simon’s arrival. your son grabs your hand, looking up at you with a smile.

“mom, where’s dad?” theo sounds excited to see his father, as if it was rare to see him. simon, however, is a very involved dad in your child’s life, he’s never absent; which is obviously, a very good thing. as for your relationship with him… the two of you still get along together. but at the same time, you still put up a fight with simon every now and then, just because you can’t really let go of your resentment for him — you’re not proud of it, though.

“i guess he’s here, baby.” you answer in a playful tone as you smile at simon from afar. he’s walking awkwardly towards the two of you, all alone. simon sighs quietly as he approaches theo with a big smile. “hey there, champion.” he greets his son with a messy stroke on his hair, before crouching in front of him. “you ready to win?” simon grins as the kid nod with a happy smile. “that’s my guy!” he chuckles, picking theo up as they hug tightly. you just stand there with a genuine soft smile on your lips.

“let me say hi to mom, right?” simon says to theo in a playful soft manner as he turns his gaze at you. “hi, simon.” you say with a friendly smile, staring at him. simon hugs you with his free arm, while the other is busy holding theo. he strokes your back gently, kissing your cheek. your heart misses a beat for some reason, you hate that simon has always been too touchy for your liking. “what’s up?” he grins.

“where’s your girlfriend? we were expecting her.” you say with a sincere smile, since his girlfriend is a lovely woman that treats your son very well, just like your boyfriend. “we broke up.” simon chuckles, shrugging. he doesn’t seem to care at all. “what? why? just like that?” you frown, curious. theo alternates his gaze between his mom and dad. “it didn’t work out.” he mutters in a tired tone. what he wanted to say was: if it isn’t with you, it won’t be with anyone. “i… i think i’m better off alone.” simon adds with a half hearted smile. you swallow hard, nodding softly. you sure can’t keep talking about this subject with him.

“let’s go, then. it’s time, huh?” you say with a happy smile while you stroke theo’s cheek. he kisses your cheek before wrapping his tiny arms around simon’s neck. you chuckle quietly as the three of you head to the football field, since the game’s about to start. simon puts theo on the ground with a smile. “good luck, buddy. you’re a champion either way, don’t forget that. you make me the proudest dad in the entire world. i’m sure mommy is the proudest mom in the entire world too.” simon smiles sweetly as he strokes theo’s hair. “i truly am. don’t be nervous, baby. just do what you do best.” you smile too, kissing his cheek. “i love you, dad. i love you, mom.” he replies with a chuckle before waving at the two of you as he runs into the field with the team.

“where’s your man?” simon looks at you with a side smirk, mockingly. you roll your eyes, chuckling. you both keep walking to the bleachers to meet with your boyfriend. “he’s… there.” you point at your boyfriend with a chuckle. he’s on his phone, waiting for the two of you. “of course he is.” simon mutters with an annoyed chuckle, more to himself than to you. however, you hear it anyway. you sigh heavily, ignoring his words. “hey, simon!” your boyfriend greets him with a smile and a shake of hands. “here, i saved a place for us.” he adds. simon nods with a smile as the two of you sit next to each other. you’re in the middle. and you want to die.

“i bought a bottle of water for you, love.” your boyfriend says as he caresses your thigh. you smile nervously as you grab the bottle, swallowing hard. “thanks, babe.” you mutter, drinking it instantly. simon briefly looks at your boyfriend’s hand on your thigh and he sighs quietly, licking his lips. he looks at the ground, wondering why the hell he’s still sitting next to you, when he could be sitting anywhere else. simon tries to be mature when it comes to you, but he can’t, because he knows that you were the one who asked for a divorce, when all he wanted was to be by your side and try to make things right again.

the game finally starts, making simon clear his throat and shake these awful thoughts off his mind. he focus on theo. you focus on simon’s knee touching yours. god, you feel so bad, so guilty. why are you even paying attention to simon’s knee when your boyfriend’s hand is caressing your thigh? or when your son is on the field, during an important game? you’ve never changed. it has always been about simon. it’s all for him. all you ever do, all you ever think about. you sigh heavily, but you regret doing so when both of them stare at you.

“you good, love?” your boyfriend asks with concern in his voice. simon almost passes out when he hears this stupid man calling you ‘love’ again. he sounds pathetic. simon clears his throat while looking away, trying to focus on theo’s game. “y-yeah.” you reply silently, touching your boyfriend’s thigh in a reassuring way. god, simon just wants to take your hand away from this asshole’s thigh and hold it to himself. he can’t keep doing this anymore. “i think i’ll watch the game from the grid, i can’t see theo from up here.” simon says as he avoid your eyes.

“you’re lying, but whatever.” you mutter with a dry chuckle, as you both still don’t look at each other. your boyfriend gets tense. “don’t even start, y/n.” simon replies in an annoyed tone, shaking his head impatiently. “you’re such an asshole, i swear. you just can’t have a good time in family.” you roll your eyes, you just realize now that you’re standing next to him as you two start a fight again. “oh, so he’s family now?” simon frowns in disbelief as he looks at your boyfriend briefly before looking back at you.

“i came here because i love my son and i’ll always be an example of father figure in his life. so don’t you say to me that i can’t have a good time in family. and by family, i mean us. you, me and theo, only.” simon explains with anger in his voice, even though his tone is low, he hates to make a scene in public. you sigh impatiently as you close your eyes for a second. you grab simon’s arm and lead him out of the bleachers so the two of you can argue in private. “your boyfriend will never be a part of the family, whether you like it or not.” simon pulls away from your touch just to grab your arm and push you against the wall in a very subtle, gentle way.

your face are inches away from his as you swallow hard, trying to control your breathing. it’s been months since the last time you’ve been this close to him. “you’re too close, simon.” you remind him in an annoyed whisper. he stares at your lips before locking eyes with you. “i’m sorry.” he swallows hard before pulling away. you finally can breathe normally. “listen, i understand that my boyfriend will never be a part of our family, but he’s my family too, whether you like it or not.” you say in a firm tone. simon just seems even worse now.

“you can’t be serious.” he chuckles dryly as he stares at you from a certain distance. “are you, by any chance, willing to marry him?” he frowns, crossing his arms in disbelief. “what if i am?” you bite back, crossing your arms in annoyance. “then you’re dumber than i thought.” he mocks at you with a dry smile. “you know what, y/n? just marry him, get it over with. it would save me from a lot of stress.” simon licks his lips nervously as he sighs. “we can’t keep fighting every time we see each other, simon.” you sigh defeatedly, stepping in his personal space.

“no, we can’t keep seeing each other.” he replies in a low tone, looking into your eyes. “or else… you might be my downfall.” simon adds in a sad mocking tone. “just go back to your boyfriend, y/n. he’s waiting for you.” he points at your boyfriend with his head, feeling defeated, for some reason. you look at your boyfriend’s worried face. suddenly, you get angry. it’s not his right to watch you and the father of your child argue about important stuff. or not so important.

simon gives you one last look before walking away. he regrets putting up a fight with you this time, for stupid reasons. for his jealousy. maybe he should accept the fact that you’re over him, even though he’s right where you left him. simon stares at the field with empty eyes, watching theo score a goal. he can’t help but smile, a sad one, but still. theo is what keeps him going. you watch simon from afar as your boyfriend hugs you tightly.

the game ends and you walk towards the field to see theo. you told your boyfriend to stay away from it, because you don’t want simon to lose it again. theo sees you and simon from afar and starts running towards his parents. you both crouch to give him a family hug. “i told you!” simon chuckles with a huge smile as theo keeps squeezing the both of you. “congratulations, baby.” you kiss theo’s forehead. “i saw that goal, little one. you’re a professional.” simon adds with a caring playful tone in his voice. “you and mom, together… was my motivation.” theo says with a lovely expression, sweat running down his forehead.

the statement makes simon’s smile fade away, just like yours. you both look at each other, then at theo. “we’ll always be there for you.” you say with a soft smile, caressing his cheek. “always.” simon adds, smiling weakly. you both stand up, avoiding each other’s eyes. “mom, can i sleep at dad’s house tonight?” theo looks up at you with a smile. simon chuckles quietly, squeezing theo’s hand gently. “of course, my love.” you reply with a smile, looking at simon briefly.

“i’ll miss you, though.” you say in a playful tone, caressing his hair. “i’ll bring him home tomorrow night, if that’s okay with you.” simon looks at you with an empty expression. you nod in silence. you’re both staring at each other with so much resentment. simon seems to constantly swallow all of the things he wants to say to you, just like your words keep getting stuck in your throat. “i’m sorry for earlier.” simon breaks the silence, still staring at you. theo frowns slightly. you press your lips together, holding back a cry or something among those lines.

“you know that i’ll always care for you. i’ll always want to see you happy, even without me being a part of your happiness. i’ll always love you, you’ll always be the second most important person in my life, because the first is our child.” simon adds with a sad smile as he caress your cheek softly. “s-simon, stop.” you mutter in a tremble voice as you smile sadly. “you know that i feel the same. you’ll always be a part of my life. of me. so please, let’s just… work together. let’s stop arguing over the stupidest things.” you’re tearing up and you think it’s embarassing.

“don’t cry, love.” he says in a firm but soft tone, you and theo can notice all of his love for you. when simon calls you ‘love’, it feels right. his hand is still on your face, caressing your soft cheek. “shh, it’s okay…” simon pulls you into a tight hug, stroking your back gently. theo is confused but he hates to see his mom cry, so he hugs your legs as well. “i’ve got you.” he mutters with a mournful voice as he places a sweet kiss on your forehead. you pull slightly away with a little smile as you nod weakly. simon wipes your tears with both of his thumbs as you caress his arm.

“drive safe.” you say as you look into his eyes, squeezing his arm gently. “of course. we’re gonna have a lot of fun, right?” simon looks at theo with a small smile, picking him up. “yes, mom. don’t worry.” theo reassures you with a kiss on your cheek. “stop being sad, mom. it’s okay.” he adds with a concerned look, but he has a weak smile on his lips. you chuckle quietly, pouting. “you’re just the sweetest, huh? just like your father.” you cup theo’s face, kissing his nose. simon’s heart misses a beat with your words.

“i’ll see you tomorrow. take care.” simon looks at you, smiling half heartedly. you nod, smiling back. “you too. i love you guys.” you sigh quietly, pulling your hands away from theo. simon starts walking away as they both wave playfully at you. “love you, mommy!” theo yells, making you laugh quietly. “love you more!” you yell back, blowing him a kiss. your boyfriend appears next to you after a few seconds, making you smile at him.

“dad, why didn’t you tell mom that you love her too?” theo says next to simon’s ear, since they’re already in the car. “because she knows it, buddy.” simon chuckles softly as he stares at his son with a raised eyebrow. “but… if she loves you and you love her back, why aren’t you together?” theo frowns, touching simon’s face. “because… she loves me as a friend. mommy’s in love with someone else, now.” simon tries to put it in a simple way, theo seems surprised, but he ends up nodding. “then who is your love, dad?” theo scratches the back of his neck.

“still your mom.” simon chuckles sadly. “but don’t tell her that, kiddo. it’s our secret.” he says in a playful tone as he tickles theo.

[sagaduwyrm]

DCxDP Idea - Tucker x Tim Soulmate AU:

Now on AO3

So the Justice League believes the Fentons and the GIW. Not completely, but enough. That’s the bad news. The worse news is that they have Danny, and are apparently planning to use him in some kind of spell to banish all the ghosts from the living plane. Which, okay, sure, not the worst idea, except that trying to banish a Liminal is a great way to kill them instead, and guess what everyone in Amity Park is? Not to mention what powering such a ritual could do to Danny.

Tucker is not having a panic attack. He might have one later, but right now he has a job to do.

So the thing about the Justice League is that they’re powerful and together they cover each other’s weaknesses, but individually they are, if not manageable, then at least survivable. They can’t take on the entire league, but Ghosts and their ilk have fangs for a reason, and every predator knows how to divide and conquer.

Technus and Skulker are using Lex Luthor’s tech to deal with the Supers. Jazz has got emotional manipulation and FrightKnight’s sword to take down the Flashes. Desiree agreed to start a mage’s duel with the Justice League Dark. Sam, Ember, Johnny, and Kitty hopefully have the watchtower in hand, with Walker playing backup to get Danny free.

Tucker has two jobs. One, work with Technus to take down the Justice League communications without making it look like anything is up. Two, for the love of the Ancients, do not let the Bats realize something is wrong.

And you know what? He’s got this. Duul Aman was the most feared sorcerer of his time. Tucker isn’t him, not really, but he’s no slouch in the magic department. Egyptian magic, the way Duul Aman knew it, was almost like code. Relearning it was as easy as breathing, but the real reason Tucker’s job is to deal with the bats is because he took it further than his last life ever could. Sure, he’s a dab hand at illusions, his curses are almost as nasty as Sam’s, and instant sandstorms are never not useful, but where he really thrives is with tech. Afterall, if ectoplasm can be combined with computers, why can’t magic?

Tucker is the world's first technomage and he’s goddamn proud of it.

It’s his saving grace now. Infiltrating Oracle’s system took weeks, and he still wasn’t able to look at or do anything important, but it was enough of an opening for his magic. He wormed his illusion through every single piece of bat-tech he could reach, whispering in their ear, Gotham needs you. The Justice League is fine. Gotham is where the problems are. 

Weeks of work and sleepless nights, and he still doubts he’ll be able to keep them from noticing anything for more than a few hours. Luckily, by that time Danny will be free and Tucker will be long gone from Gotham.

This confidence lasts until he brushes hands with another guy in the cafe. He can feel the bond snap into place, a soulmark crawling across his body. Tim Drake stares at him, eyes wide but sharp. 

Tim Drake.

Red Robin.

Shit.

Time to see whether fighting ghosts extends to fighting humans, because he is not letting this asshole mess up Danny’s rescue.

+++

The first thing Tim notices when he meets his soulmate is the rage in the man’s eyes.

They’re really pretty eyes. A bright, glowing gold, lined in kohl. Almost certainly a sign of magic. 

They look at him like the man wants to turn him inside out and burn the remains. Tim’s a little offended, beneath the shock and awe.

“Fuck,” the man hisses. Tim’s offense is starting to supersede his surprise. He’s a catch, thank you very much.

He says as much. The man laughs, and it’s almost friendly.  The cafe is empty. The people of Gotham have good instincts, and there’s something in the air around this man that puts Tim’s hackles up.

“You know, I think that’d be more believable if you hadn’t started this.”

Tim’s brow wrinkled. He felt like he’d remember starting something with his soulmate though? What was he supposed to have started, anyway? Saying ‘this’ wasn’t very specific. 

He rolled and dodged to avoid the sudden lash of golden sand. Ah. A fight. He could do that. Figure out why his soulmate was angry later, defeat him now.

He reached up to call for backup and only got static.

Shit.

He was on his own. Time to show this bastard why underestimating a bat was a bad idea.

[raphael-angele]

Meeting Regulus

Set on Sirius' 4th year, Regulus' 3rd. First year back since his transition, Regulus sits with Sirius in their train car cuz he's not ready to face the Skittles yet.

Regulus: ...you sure your friends wont mind me sitting here?

Sirius: 'course not.

---Remus, The Casual One---

Remus, entering: Hi, Sirius.

Sirius: Hey, Remus.

Remus, noticing Regulus: Oh, hi... *recognizes him* Reg-

Sirius: Regulus, this is Remus. Remus, this is my brother, Regulus.

Remus: Brother?

Sirius: Yeah. Sorry, you two haven't offically met yet, have you? Three years in Hogwarts and I never introduced you two to each other.

Remus:

Regulus: Uhm, we've met actually.

Sirius: You have?

Remus: We have?

Regulus: Yeah. The library? You helped me get the books from the higher shelves?

Remus: ...Oh, right! Wow. You've grown much taller since.

Sirius: He has. He's almost taller than me.

Remus: Well, in case you don't know yet, I'm also your brother's friend and the one responsible with keeping him out of trouble

Sirius: HEY!

---Peter, The Friendly One---

Peter, entering: Hey, guys.

Remus: Hey, Pete

Sirius: Hey, mate.

Peter: *notices Regulus* Oh, hello. Who's he?

Sirius: Peter, this is Regulus. He's my brother.

Peter: I didn't know you had a brother.

Sirius: What are you talking about? He's been going here for three years. And I always talk about him

Peter: ...You do?

Sirius: Yeah.

Peter: ...Really?

Regulus: Well, you're in 4th year, I'm in 3rd so, we probably don't see each other often.

Peter, recognizing him: Oh, wait, I do see you around. Aw, now I feel bad. I didn't know you were Sirius' brother.

Sirius: Well, now you do!

Peter: Yeah, now that I look at you, you kinda do look like Sirius. Almost like carbon copies.

Sirius: Well, he got his looks from me

Regulus:

---James, The Dumbass---

James, entering: Gentlemen! Your 2nd best form of entertainment has arrived!

Remus: 2nd best?

James: Sirius already called dibs on being the first.

Remus:

James: Anyways, I am here, and I- *sees Regulus*

Regulus, watching out the window: *turns to look at James*

James' Perspective: flowers floating around, a halo floating on Regulus' head, light shining down just right, everything in slow motion, "Take my breath away" playing in the background

Sirius: James?

James: Peter, move *shoves Peter to the side and sits next to Regulus*

Everyone:

James: And who is this charming young prince sitting with us today?

Everyone:

Sirius: This is Regulus.

James: Regulus. A star that shines so brightly in the night sky. *takes Regulus' hand* And a fitting name for one who is undoubtedly *kisses his hand* a king.

Everyone:

Regulus: ...Siri...

Sirius: James. Let. Go. Of. My. Brother's. Hand

James, looks at Sirius then back at Regulus: To be continued. *kisses his hand*

Regulus: *pulls his hand away*

Train Attendant: Any of you fancy a snack, dears?

Peter: Oh! Fizzing whizzbees, please.

Remus: 2 Chocolate frogs, please.

Sirius: I'll take a pack of Exploding Bonbons. Reg, you want anything?

Regulus: Do they have Peppermint Toads?

Sirius: And a pack of-

James: We'll take the lot!

Everyone:

James, to Regulus: You can have all the Peppermint Toads you want and more, my prince.

Everyone:

[clovers-housetree]

Activities for Regressors Without Caregivers! (or just fun regression activties!)

(Although you're always welcome here if you'd like any form of comfort anyway! ^w^)

This one's kind of a long one, after the few tips I list, I've mentioned an app I use called Finch, which will be talked about below the cut.

Since that's the case, I'll put my little ending message here instead:

Knowing how to take care of yourself can take a lot of work and practice, but I believe it's worth the effort, because then you'll be a happier and healthier you! Especially if you can find ways to make it fun!

I'm more than happy to be here for you and offer my support in any way I can, anyhow! I'm proud of you for doing what you can, I know it can be very hard.

I myself don't have a caregiver for when I regress, so most of the time I end up taking care of myself! Here are some fun activities and things I do when I regress to keep myself calm and happy! ^w^

Paci mentions/pics not long after the first section for those of you who'd rather not see 'em.

♥ Arts and crafts! I absolutely LOVE coloring and making bracelets with beads, something not too complicated for little hands, but also something fun!

With coloring, you can buy coloring books, or draw something of your own to color in- even printing out a page you find online, coloring digitally, or tracing over something to color in could work! I prefer coloring more than drawing personally because I don't draw all the time, but I bet I could learn a little thing or two from the artists around here!

For bracelets (and other jewelry), strings can be hard to knot with little hands (at least they aren't those small, slippery clasps!!), but the beads shouldn't be too hard to handle if you're careful! Even just planning out patterns is fun!

Here are some My Little Pony bracelets I made, and the decorations I did for my pacis!

♥ Making playlists! Dancing is fun, and a good way to get the zoomies out, but you can just make playlists for any occasion! I have playlists that help me pet-regress, songs with sounds I like, adventure playlists... (Well- a lot of these are still in progress, but- you get the point!)

I also love those playlist videos on YouTube! Animal Crossing, Super Mario Galaxy, Minecraft and music box music are typically my go-to to help me settle or just make for comfy background music! Here's one of my favorites, shadowatnoon has lovely Nintendo music mixes!

♥ Playing with your plushies! You can take them on adventures, or make your own!

Like Toby, climbing The Great Pillow Mountain!

(This is Toby by the way, he's one of my best friends and a VERY good hugger!)

You can play games with them, too! Toby's REALLY good at hide and seek... Maybe you can find him for me? :0

♥ Finding shows to watch! I really like Paw Patrol and Rise of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles at the moment. Plus, you can look at agere content and fics from shows you like! People make really cool stimboards and moodboards, for example, and I like reading through all the fun stories people write!

Here's a silly picture of Rocky I found! :3

Finch

Finch is a self-care app where you take care of your very own little bird friend by taking care of yourself!

You can set daily goals, or for each day (or more specific ones as well I think.). By completing these goals, you give your bird energy to go on adventures! They usually come back with a funny little story or silly questions, because they're learning, too!

Through completing these goals (or daily, at least), you can get Rainbow Stones, which you can use to buy clothes for your bird, make them different colors, or give them furniture for their house!

They're also LGBTQ+ and disability-friendly!! :3

This is my little bird, Honeydew! You're welcome to friend me as well if you'd like, my code is: Z3E2T7VRK6

It's helped me learn a lot about taking care of myself and keeping track of my goals, and I get little rewards for it! I've used the app for several months now, and it's helped me out a lot!

"Fluttershy protects this blog! SFW interaction only, please and thank you! ^w^"

"Wouldn't show a kid? Doesn't belong here!"

[pucksandpower]

Hey Natalia, hope you’re doing good ❤️ Please could I request enemies to lovers with Max. You’re constantly at each other’s throats in front of everyone and Christian has had enough of your shit and demands to see you in the office. But when you continue to fight, he’s like nah I don’t wanna be involved, sort your shit out together and leaves. And you end up fucking on his desk and after you’re suddenly super friendly around eachother. Thank you lovely! xxx

Whiplash

Max Verstappen x Red Bull driver!Reader

Summary: You and Max discover that there is a thin line between lust and hate

Warnings: 18+ content

You storm into Christian’s office, scowling as Max follows right behind you. He slams the door shut and you both take a seat across from Christian, refusing to even look at each other.

“I’m sure you both know why I called you in here,” Christian says sternly. “The tension between you two has gone too far. It’s affecting the team and we can’t have that.”

You scoff and cross your arms. “Why don’t you talk to him about it then? I’m not the problem here.”

Max scowls. “Oh please, don’t pretend like you’re so innocent. You’ve been nothing but hostile towards me since the start of the season.”

“Only because you did the same!” You retort. “I was nothing but nice when I first joined the team. You’re the one with the attitude problem.”

“Enough!” Christian shouts, silencing you both. “I don’t care who started it. I’m ending it. We’re in the middle of a championship fight and I need my drivers to work together, not against each other.”

You sink lower in your chair, still refusing to look at Max. The animosity radiates off of him in waves.

“Now you’re going to stay in here until you work this out,” Christian says firmly. “I don’t care if it takes all night. Fix this mess or both of your seats are on the line.”

He heads for the door and you spring up from your chair. “You can’t be serious!”

“Deadly,” Christian replies before shutting the door. You hear the lock click into place from the outside.

You jiggle the handle and pound on the door. “Let us out!”

No response.

He’s really done it, that bastard. Locked you in a room alone with your most hated rival.

You take a deep breath before turning around. Max sits there glaring at you, jaw clenched. “This is ridiculous,” he mutters.

“For once we agree on something,” you snap.

His glare hardens. “Don’t pretend you’re blameless. You’ve been nasty since you got here.”

You storm over to him. “Because you decided to hate me from day one! I tried to be nice but you were so damn hostile. What’s your problem with me anyway?”

Max stands up abruptly, getting in your face. “My problem is you waltzing in here like you own the place when I’m the number one driver.”

You shove him in the chest. “Get over yourself! I earned my spot here.”

He shoves you back. “You don’t deserve to be here.”

Your blood boils as you stare him down. God he’s infuriating. And stubborn as hell. You doubt you’ll ever get him to admit any fault in this situation.

“Well I’m not going anywhere so I guess you’ll just have to get used to it,” you snap.

Max steps even closer, eyes blazing. Your noses nearly touch from how close he stands. “Is that so?” His voice comes out low, almost husky.

A shiver runs down your spine but you keep glaring at him. “Yeah, that’s so.”

You expect him to shoot back some nasty retort. Instead his eyes flick down to your lips for just a moment before meeting your heated gaze again.

Suddenly the energy shifts between you. The anger and tension remains but it transforms into something more primal. More dangerous.

Your breaths come heavier as electricity crackles in the nonexistent space left between you. Max’s pupils are blown wide, his chest rising and falling as rapidly as your own.

“I ...” Your voice comes out hoarse. “We should ...”

But neither of you make any move to step away. Without thinking your tongue darts out to wet your dry lips. Max tracks the movement with his intense stare.

“Fuck it,” he growls before crashing his mouth onto yours.

You gasp into the kiss and he takes advantage, deepening it. His hands grasp your hips roughly as he walks you backwards until your back hits the wall.

You barely process what’s happening. One second you were at each other’s throats, the next his body is pressing urgently against yours.

A moan escapes you when his lips move to your neck. He nips at the sensitive skin there and you thread your fingers into his hair.

“This is insane,” you pant out even as you tug him closer.

“I know,” Max breathes against your neck. His hands skim up your sides, pushing up your shirt. “I hate you.”

“I hate you more.” You crash your lips together again, tasting blood when you nip at him.

Max groans into your mouth as your tongues slide together. He hitches one of your legs around his hip, grinding against you.

You break the kiss to tip your head back, moaning at the feeling. Fuck, you despise this man, but right now you need him more than anything.

His hips keep up that delicious friction as he mouths at your collarbone. “I’m still going to beat you,” he rasps out.

You smirk, nails digging into his shoulders. “In your dreams.”

Max’s eyes darken at your taunt. Without warning, he grips your thighs and lifts you onto Christian’s desk. You gasp as he pushes between your legs, his growing arousal obvious.

“Careful what you wish for,” he murmurs before crushing his mouth to yours once more.

You moan into the frenzied kiss, tongues tangling as you tug at his hair. His hands slide up your thighs, fumbling with the button of your jeans to push them down around your ankles. You wrap your legs around him, pulling him against your heated core.

Even through the layers of clothing you can feel how hard he is. You rock your hips, desperate for more friction. Max groans and moves his lips to your neck, nipping down to your collarbone.

Your head tips back as his fingers dance up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts. “God, I hate you so much,” you moan.

“I know.” His voice comes out rough, filled with lust.

Impatient, you reach for the hem of his shirt and pull it over his head, tossing it aside. Your eyes rake over his muscular chest and arms. Unable to resist, you lean in and scrape your teeth over his nipple.

Max hisses in a breath, hands clenching on your hips. “Fuck ...”

You grin, laving your tongue over the sensitive nub as your fingers move to his belt buckle. With shaky hands you get it open and reach into his boxers, fingers wrapping around his thick length.

He shudders against you. “Shit, Y/N ...”

You stroke him firmly, reveling in the moans and curses falling from his lips. His own hands move under your shirt, palming your breasts through your bra.

It’s not enough. You strip off your shirt and reach back to unclasp your bra. Max wastes no time dipping his head to capture one of your nipples between his lips.

“Oh god ...” you gasp, back arching into him. His teeth and tongue work over your sensitive peaks until you’re writhing beneath him.

The sound of voices outside the door makes you both freeze. Fuck. The race weekend is still going on around you. Anyone could walk by and hear what’s happening.

You meet Max’s heated gaze. “We should stop,” you pant out half-heartedly.

His eyes blaze with defiance and lust. “No fucking way.”

Before you can react he drops to his knees, grasping your hips to pull you towards the edge of the desk.

Max tugs strongly on your lacy underwear until it gives way at the seams, baring you to him. He pauses to appreciate the view, eyes roaming hungrily over your glistening folds.

“I’m still going to beat you tomorrow,” he rasps.

You tug on his hair impatiently. “Just get on with it before we get caught.”

With a wicked grin he dives in, mouth latching onto your throbbing clit. You cry out, quickly slapping a hand over your own mouth.

You fumble with his belt, desperate to feel him. Max groans as you wrap your hand around his length.

“Fuck, just like that,” he groans against your skin, increasing the rhythm of his tongue in response. The desk rocks dangerously beneath you but neither of you slow your ministrations.

You whimper his name, pleasure building steadily under his expert touch. The fingers of one hand twist in his hair while you keep your other hand moving up and down in measured strokes as you near the edge.

“Look at me,” Max commands raggedly. You open your eyes to meet his wild gaze. The connection between you crackles.

“Max ...” you gasp as your climax crashes over you. You slap a hand over your lips, muffling your cries.

As you float back down, Max withdraws his mouth. You keen at the loss but then he’s lining himself up at your entrance. Gripping your hip tightly, he pushes inside in one smooth motion.

You cling to his shoulders, nails digging in as you adjust around him. Max trembles with restraint, giving you a moment before he starts to move.

Then he sets a relentless pace, the desk slamming against the wall with each powerful snap of his hips. You wrap your legs around him, spurring him even deeper.

Max pounds into you relentlessly, wrenching desperate moans from your lips. You’re vaguely aware of picture frames and papers tumbling to the floor around you but the chaos only adds to the thrill.

You’re close, the pressure building deep inside. With a few more well-angled thrusts you topple over the edge, coming hard around him. Your breasts bounce as your back arches sharply off the desk.

“There you go, princess,” Max rasps. He continues driving into your spasming center until his rhythm turns choppy and erratic.

“Fuck, I’m close,” Max grits out. You clench around him, greedy for his release. His hips stutter and then he spills inside you with a guttural groan. The sensation pushes you over the edge again, your vision whiting out from the intensity.

Breathing raggedly, Max collapses on top of you, pinning you to the desk. You’re both slick with sweat and utterly spent, your heart rates slowly returning to normal. You run your fingers through his damp waves soothingly.

The room is silent save for your heavy breathing. As the haze of lust clears, the ramifications of what just happened settle over you.

You just slept with your sworn rival on your team principal’s desk.

After a long moment Max pulls out of you and steps back, tucking himself away. On shaky legs you slide off the desk, stumbling slightly as you find your feet, and rush to put on your clothes.

Max grabs his shirt off the floor and shrugs back into it. His hair is mussed wildly and his lips are kiss-swollen. You’re sure you look much the same.

You and Max spring apart at the sound of the lock clicking open. Christian strides back into his office, oblivious to the disheveled state that both of his drivers are in.

“Well, have you two worked out your differences?” He looks between you expectantly.

You smooth down your rumpled shirt and attempt to tuck your wild hair back into place. Your cheeks flame as you meet Christian’s gaze.

“I think we’ve come to an ... understanding,” Max says evenly, though you notice a hint of color in his cheeks as well.

Christian surveys his office, taking in the askew trophies and books scattered across the floor. You hold your breath, certain he’s going to put two and two together.

“It seems you had a disagreement about reorganizing my office during your chat,” Christian says wryly.

You nearly choke in surprise. Does he really not realize what just transpired on his desk? You chance a glance at Max and have to suppress a hysterical giggle at the disbelief on his face.

“I apologize for the mess, we got a bit ... heated,” you say, biting your lip to keep from laughing at the double meaning.

“Yes, clearly things escalated between you two.” Christian frowns at a photo of him and Dietrich Mateschitz now lying cracked on the floor. You resist the urge to shrink under his disappointed dad stare.

“However, the important thing is you’ve worked through this animosity once and for all, correct?” He looks between you expectantly.

You and Max nod in unison. “Water under the bridge,” Max assures him. You’re impressed by how steady he manages to keep his voice even as you can see the barely contained mirth dancing in his eyes.

“Excellent. I’ll inform the team that tensions are resolved and they can stop walking on eggshells around the both of you.” Christian claps his hands together, apparently satisfied. “Now get out of here and get ready for free practice.”

You and Max don’t need telling twice. As soon as the door shuts behind you, the laughter you’ve been holding in bubbles out.

“I can’t believe he actually bought that,” Max says between chuckles.

“We literally destroyed his office and he thinks we just had a minor spat,” you giggle, shaking your head incredulously.

Your laughter trails off as the reality of what happened sinks in. You just had crazy hot sex with Max Verstappen. Where do you go from here?

Before you can overthink it, Max presses a soft kiss to your lips. “Meet me at the hotel tonight? We should continue this conversation somewhere more private,” he murmurs suggestively.

You bite your lip but find yourself nodding. As complicated and ill-advised as this may be, you can’t find it in yourself to deny your attraction to Max now that you’ve given in to it.

“It’s a date,” you whisper back.

Max grins and steals another quick kiss before you part ways to get changed.

[ennabear]

loser abby.. i beg and plead

ʕ ꈍᴥꈍʔ 100% projecting here again because i am VERY experienced in being a loser lesbian… heh… i think loser!abby is more awkward instead of shy (it’s actually canon) so i’m sorry if this gives you a little bit of secondhand embarrassment…. (i swear hope it’s not too bad)

loser!abby who you first meet in the stadium library. you’ve had your eyes on her for a while, sure, but she never talked to anyone. you’ve heard through the grapevine that apparently she was single, but for someone who looks that good? you didn’t buy it.

you try striking up a conversation with her, just some small talk, but she completely dodges all of your questions about her personal life. instead, she talks your ear off for about an hour about the stadium’s dogs.

it’s almost painful, the way you nod and smile like you know what she’s talking about. like the epic time when alice ripped a chunk out of this big guys bicep, or when bear did a backflip for the first time during training. she doesn’t even notice that you’ve stopped paying attention, completely ignores every flirtatious remark with a “thanks! you’re too sweet.”

she stands up and leaves, saying “anyways, i’d better check on manny. catch ya later!” you sit and stare off into space for a few minutes. what the hell was that? she won’t answer questions about her workout routines or patrol routes, but she’ll sit and jabber about fucking dogs? and “catch ya later”? who the fuck says that anymore?

loser!abby who you see later that night sitting at a cafeteria table laughing and chatting with her friends. her hair is down for once, wet and slightly darkened from her shower. she looks like a fucking goddess like this. she could have any girl in this whole base on their knees in a second, if only she’d act like it.

you take a seat next to her, deliberately running your hands over her heavily muscled biceps. “hi!” she lights up. “i was just thinking about you.” this almost flusters you. almost. but you know she didn’t mean it in a flirtatious way.

abby’s friends are actually super sweet. they fill you in on any inside jokes you haven’t picked up on yet, gossip about stadium drama, laugh at cheesy puns, etc.

you’re having a great time until abby tells one of her own jokes. she’s laughing so hard she can barely get the words out, and what she manages to say is stupid and nonsensical. you look around at everyone in the group to see if maybe you’re the only one who doesn’t get it, but they have the same confused-but-pleasantly-humored look on their faces.

a few more months of this awful one-sided craving continues. well, technically it’s two-sided, but abby never shows it. how were you supposed to know?

she does countless more things to embarrass herself in front of you. some less embarrassing than others, like when she spilled an entire ammo box full to the brim with 1,000 bullets. and some more embarrassing, like when she got so drunk that she couldn’t walk straight, and it took 5 people to pick her up and haul her squirming body back to bed. in front of you.

but it’s all so adorable to you. the sweet pink blush that spreads over her cheeks when she realizes that she just ruined the mood for everyone. or the nervous way she twiddles her thumbs before each patrol, fearing she’ll slip up and never come home.

loser!abby who is completely taken aback when you cut the shit and admit that you like her. it goes something like this…

“o…kay? i like you too, that’s why we’re friends.”

“no, cmon, abby. you know what i meant.”

“you like me? like that? i don’t understand why.”

“because! haven’t you noticed me flirting with you for the past eight months? you think it’s normal for me to tell you that i’m in love with you? do your other friends do that?”

“well, no. but i thought you were just being friendly. and don’t you think i’m kind of an idiot? why would you wanna be with a loser like me when you could find someone cooler?”

“i don’t want someone cooler, abby, i want you.” and you smash your lips against hers before she can respond. she doesn’t really know what to do, she just leans in and let’s you take the lead.

when you pull away, she’s beet red. her eyes are huge and— is that a tear? your heart swells at this, grabbing her tightly and pulling her into a bear hug.

“i like you, too.” she says. “what does this make us?”

you smile and place a small peck on the tip of her nose. “will you be my girlfriend? or is that too friendly for you…”