#But it has to be done in a way that doesn't feel forced

[lovemepartly]

yandere!salesman ✩ headcanons

warnings: mild smut? sugar daddy vibes. stalking, obsessive, possessive, toxic.

a/n: i had so much fun writing these… also i just finished watching kpdh and oh my god i’m literally obsessed??

 ˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊ 

yandere!salesman, who approached you at the subway. he'd been following you for some time and had become infatuated with you from afar. he was going to play ddakji with you but the thought of slapping your pretty face was something he knew he couldn't do. so instead, he approached you with a deal. an arrangement. he could take care of you.

yandere!salesman, who gives you everything you could possibly need. he makes you move into his penthouse almost immediately. "why do you want to waste money on rent?" he'll ask. he showers you with the most expensive gifts: designer clothes, pure gold jewellery, real diamonds glittering over your wrist and neck, louboutin heels, and the valentino born in roma donna perfume— his favorite. he buys you all the necessities, a new phone, etc. he claims it's because he wants you to have the best everything, smiling down at you with a look that makes your heart flutter, but it's really just so that he can have full control of everything you own.

yandere!salesman, who doesn't expect much in return. just your devout loyalty to him— because he wants you to be all his. he’s not interested in forcing affection. he prefers loyalty, quiet and unquestioning. the kind that makes you stay even if you’re mad. the kind that makes you trust him no matter what.

yandere!salesman, who pays off yours and your family's debt without a word, an envelope with a one billion won check appearing at their front step. the money is more than enough to cover their debt and ensure that they have enough to take care of themselves in the future. but he doesn't want a thank you, he wants you to never see them again.

yandere!salesman, who lets you leave if you want to. but you find your phone locked. your bank account locked. the key to your family's apartment changed. and when you finally come home after a day, he's sitting in the living room, a glass of whiskey in his hand. the fact that you couldn't even last a day without him makes him smile. you might apologize or you might curse him out in anger for cutting you off. either way, he just sits silently on the couch, swirling the dark gold liquid in his glass, an unwavering smirk on his face. when you're done yelling at him, he speaks simply, his tone even.

"i hate it when you make me the bad guy, sweetheart."

yandere!salesman, who makes you try everything outfit on in front of him. of course it's important to him that you like it, but he also has to like it. "i don't like the color of that dress, nae sarang. try on the red one." he's picky with the clothes, picky with what he wants a woman to wear. sometimes, he wants you pretty and innocent, all dolled up for him. other times, it might be a silky, sensual black dress that he really likes.

yandere!salesman, who will ignore you as a punishment. maybe you tried to sneak out at night to go out with your friends. he noticed— of course he did. but he let you leave, because his lack of attention is punishment enough. and when you sneak back home, he's already left for work and the locks to his penthouse has been changed. you sit outside the door, waiting for him to come home from work, feeling incredibly uncomfortable at every strange look that passerby's give you. when he finally comes home from work, a smile appears on his face when he sees you waiting for him. he'll lean down to ruffle your hair, murmuring, "pretty baby, were you waiting for me?" it's a couple of weeks until you get the new keys and gifts again.

yandere!salesman, who told you what he did for a living, only because you wouldn't stop pushing. he tried to hold it off as long as he could, claiming he was a regular businessman, but when you asked for the third time, he sat down on the couch, pulling you onto his lap, your legs draping over him. when he told you, he kept a straight face, tracing patterns on your legs, like he was telling you about the most mundane thing. but every wince on your face and crinkled nose from hearing about the violence and sadistic nature of the game, he had to hold back a smirk. because he loves the idea of ruining you. he’ll reassure you that as long as you stay with him and let him provide for you, you won’t ever have to worry about joining the games. you’re still not sure what he meant by that.

yandere!salesman, who needs to know where you are at all times. if he has to leave the city for a couple of days, he'll get you a new necklace, mumbling a small apology about having to be gone, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. you think the necklace is an apology for the business trip, but really, it has a tracker in it.

yandere!salesman, who asks you questions he already knows the answer to just to see if you're lying to him. he'll ask you if you went out today, already seeing on the tracker in your necklace that you left to the supermarket at 11:00am. when you're honest with him, he'll just murmur a small "good," a small smirk creeping up on his face.

yandere!salesman, who takes you to a michelin star restaurant but spends the whole time whispering what he wants to do to you when you get home in your ear. on the car ride home, he'll drive with a possessive hand on your thigh that slowly starts inching higher until it reaches your clothed core. his thumb rubs you through the thin fabric of the panties you're wearing, and every small whimper makes him smile slightly. "already so needy for me, baby, and i haven't even touched you properly yet."

yandere!salesman, who remembers every single thing you’ve ever said you liked and fills your apartment with it. whether it’s your favorite flowers, your favorite makeup brand, or just a book covered that you looked at for a second longer than you normally do— he wants you to own it. he never wants you wanting more because he knows he can give you everything you need.

yandere!salesman, who kisses your hand like a gentleman and then traces your wrist with his thumb like he’s measuring where a bracelet— or handcuffs— might go. he has a red silk-lined drawer in his room, filled with every toy you can imagine. handcuffs, vibrators, blindfolds, and more.

yandere!salesman, who sends you flowers from anonymous addresses and pretends he’s jealous when you get flustered. but the main reason why he does it? to see if you suspect any people. because if there’s any other person who you think would send you flowers, he has to do something about it.

[oztri]

hear me out on oscar + overstimulation. whether he uses his fingers, mouth or cock it doesn't matter. he isn't stopping until he sees tears, even better if he can get you to squirt 😋😋

now. NOW. >{€}*[!, HEY!!!!

i’m a firm believer in the pussy drunk!oscar agenda. i know for a fact that he’s the type to keep going till your eyes are rolling back and you’re pushing him away. especially if it’s with his mouth and hands. he doesn’t strike me as a multiple orgasms for himself kinda guy so he saves fucking you for last. but that stamina goes absolutely insane.

he’s such a fucking tease about it all, too.

he starts with you in his lap, rolling your hips down onto him, tugging you close and making sure you can feel how hard he is through his boxers. it’s all slow kisses and tender touches. he wants to work you up till you’re begging for it. gets you right to the edge, just from a little dry humping and then he’s laying you out on the bed just to hear you whine. he wants you begging for it, because then it gives him a reason to tease you more.

when he gets your shorts off, it’s all soft touches and reverent kisses to your thighs and your belly. this is the fun part for him, seeing the way your thighs try to close and twitch from him brushing his thumb against your clit. “mm? sensitive, love?” he’ll whisper, laughing where he’s kissing behind your knee.

he forces you through two orgasms—one from him rubbing your clit, then another when he finally slides his fingers inside, curling them just where you like them.

the smile on his face is a little evil, cooing down at you from where he’s sat up onto his knees. the angle’s a bit awkward at first, but once he’s straddled your thigh and tweaked his wrist, it has you gasping and shoving at him. the muscles in his forearm stretch and flex beautifully, fingers moving quickly.

he makes it his personal mission to make you squirt. he’s competitive like that. he knows he can do it, he’s done it before.

“c’mon baby. give it to me. y’know what i want, c’mon… good girl, oh, there it fucking is…”

i’m also a firm believer that oscar is way better with his hands than he is with his mouth, but for what he lacks in technique, he makes up in sheer enthusiasm.

he’s sloppy and drooling, spitting onto your pussy, lapping a little too overeagerly. again, he gets fucking drunk off of it. once his mouth is on you, it’s not coming off until you’re sobbing and pushing his head away, heels digging into his back and shoulders.

he’s got three fingers inside you when he picks his head up and rasps, “oh, but you were just begging me so nicely to let you come. now you want me to stop? c’mon, angel. make up your mind.”

[four-toast]

Is Nessa aware of Evan and Barty's background (Death Eaters)? If so, how does she react?

She sees their Dark Marks all the time growing up, but because she's so young, she kind of just thinks that it's another one of Barty and Evan's matching tattoos. She knows that Regulus has one too, but she doesn't ever really question it until she starts asking them what they were like at school/growing up/before she was born/etc.

It all kind of comes crashing down when she finds some old newspapers and stuff from the war. She sees pictures of the Mark over destroyed Muggle homes. She sees the death rolls and names of people killed. She reads about the trials after Voldemort fell. But most importantly, she finds Evan and Barty's testimonies.

She immediately goes to them, demanding answers. At first, she thinks that they were forced into it because there's absolutely no way that the men who raised her would have willingly joined the Death Eaters. But they're completely honest and open with her and explain everything.

It's definitely an uncomfortable conversation, but it's something they need to talk about. Barty and Evan don't give her all the details, but she's aware of the types of things they did during Voldemort's reign. They don't give any excuses and are completely transparent with her.

She's absolutely disgusted. How could her parents, who have been nothing but kind, supportive, encouraging, inclusive, and just all-around great people, have willingly done what they did? She locks herself in her room for days, only coming out to use the bathroom and sneak into the kitchen for food, and Barty and Evan apologise profusely.

They swear up and down that they've changed and they're remorseful for their actions, but she's still hurt. Both Evan and Barty served time in Azkaban (I'm still working out some of the timeline details, but will probably share that at a later date), and when they got out, they had to go through reeducation/rehabilitation programs at the Ministry, they were put on a number of watch lists and the Ministry keeps tabs on all former Death Eaters, and they have to meet periodically with a member of Magical Law Enforcement (kind of like a long term parole officer).

Forgiveness is slow. The trust doesn't snap back in place immediately, but she starts to ask more and more questions. Eventually, she comes out of her room, raw and confused. She wants to know more, and so they talk for hours and hours. They don't try to deflect, justify, or deny anything. All three of them are in tears and Barty and Evan tell her they don't expect forgiveness.

She slowly begins letting them back in and begins therapy (this not only helps her cope with this realisation, but also with the effects of Barty's mental illness). The trust slowly starts to rebuild, but it takes time.

Eventually though, she realises that her dads feel an immense amount of guilt and want to be held accountable. She sees that they weren't hiding the truth from her because they wanted to avoid shame; they were trying to protect her innocence for as long as possible. Both of them knew she'd find out eventually and they'd already had talks about what they'd do when she asked.

After some time, she realises that people aren't defined by who they were, they're defined by what they became. She never forgets about their past, but she chooses to understand because despite everything, she loves them.

Thanks for the ask!! This one really made me think. I feel like I have to drop some fluff now to make up for all the angst I've dropped in the past few days lol

[zepskies]

Haha yeah I realized belatedly that Blake is actually the perfect "Ken" to go with that lyric!! 😂

I'm sure they think they are trying to help by setting up dates, but they really should respect the fact that it isn't what she wants. And if you are going to try and set someone up be upfront about it, don't be sneaky with it.

BIG YEP. They're trying to "help" her move on (and not be the sad friend), but they're not actually supporting her here 💔

Really?!! After what Rachel did they are still talking to her!! She needs better friends.

Right? I might explore it in future one-shots, but in my head Rachel has been able to manipulate and lie her way back into the group, like claiming to have been drunk as well when it "happened with Mark," etc.

Beautiful heartbreaking imagery 💔

Aww thank you! 🥹 Poor girl went through it fr!

Oh no. That is definitely not the way you want to run into your ex for the first time after the breakup.

Right? Poor girl feeling like a gremlin while Mark's all handsome and cheerful. 😭 She just doesn't realize that it's a coping mechanism for everything he's hiding inside.

Poor girl. As if it's not bad enough running into Mark like that, she sees him with Oliveras and assumes something is going on there (with someone else she knows). No wonder she needed to get out of there quickly. Uh-oh

Ughh I know, it was hard to write that scene from the reader's POV since I ship Mark x Amber in canon loll 🥲

Seriously what is wrong with some guys?! Take the hint!!

Oof, unfortunately this guy had taking advantage of her on his mind. 😓 But luckily Mark stepped in!

I hadn't heard this song before, but I love how this bit fits, linking that line from the song with the story.

Oh yeah that part of the song is so gutting, I had to try and have that represented here 💙

Ok, love this. I read it hearing him say it in my head.

ahaha I'm so glad to hear that because I did too when I was writing it! Love getting that confirmation 🤣

Oh, I'm guessing this has the potential to cause some issues/ conflict between her and Meachum with his work on the task force.

This was 100% my thought when we found out about Meachum and his fiancée in the show. My first thought was that he did that to end it so she wasn't 'stuck' with a dying man.

BIG YEP. That was my thought too! I still hope he didn't actually sleep with Rachel in canon either. 😭

OMG, she has no shame!!! Why does she think this is ok? Imagine if the roles had been reversed and Mark had done what she has, he would find himself in serious trouble.

Rachel is the absolute wooooorst! 100% if the roles had been reversed, a man could be arrested in this situation. But bc she's a woman, it's just seen as "asshole behavior." Sometimes the double-standard is really rough

OMG... she needs help. That is not normal behaviour Rachel!! I hope she gets a few home truths told to her.

Oooh don't worry, she will in the next story to follow this 😏

Love the shift here fits perfectly with the fact they still clearly love each other.

Aww thank you, as gutting as it is, this really is the moment where you see both of them never stopped loving each other.

Her being his 'peaceful spot' is beautiful. That man definitely needs it after what has happened so far on that task force.

From what I've seen so far, Mark seems to be really alone and having to cope with all this stress at work, which would be enough to deal with on its own, let alone everything else he's going to. 😭

Thanks so much for reading, friend! So glad you enjoyed it 🥰💕

CATASTROPHIC BLUES

Pairing: Mark Meachum x F. Reader

Summary: Nine months isn’t as long as it sounds. When you run into your ex-fiancé at a bar, he finds out what you've become. You find out the truth.

AN: Okay, so this was only supposed to be a 1K drabble sequel to DOWNGRADE for my lovely friend, @waynes-multiverse, but of course it snowballed on me lol. (And there’s a little more to come!) This is set during early season 1, let’s say between 1x02 and 1x03.

Song Inspo: “Hits Different” by Taylor Swift (YT)

Word Count: 6.3K

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only. Angst, drunkenness, skeevy men, Mark doing his best with an angry, hungover reader (bit of grumpy x sunshine), talk of cheating, what really happened, and other truths revealed…

Nine months. It should’ve meant something.

You should be able to go out with your friends to the club. You should be able to feel confident in one of your favorite dresses and the tallest pair of heels you could almost walk in.

You should be able to let loose on the dance floor, letting the closest attractive guy grind on your ass.

He later offered to get you a drink, his hot breath in your ear. An uncomfortable chill ran down your spine. But you know what? Fuck it.

You went back with him to the bar, taking the chance to rest your achy feet. He tried to make small talk with you, despite you being stiff and awkward now that you couldn’t distract yourself with the vibes of the music running through your body. Now the thump thump thump of the bass was too much, too distracting for a normal conversation.

Blake was an oxymoron—he dressed like a wealthy hipster and talked like a frat bro. He had the skinny jeans and a silky patterned shirt, a thin gold chain around his neck, an obnoxious gold pinky ring, and a trendy cropped haircut. You regretted letting him buy you a drink, but then again, you never wasted good vodka.

You also started to get suspicious when one of your friends “casually” came up on his other side.

“Ask her about her job,” Sarah whispered. You just barely caught it.

“Oh, yeah. So, uh, what do you do?” Blake asked you. You were pretty sure he was more interested in your cleavage than your job.

“I’m an assistant to the Head District Attorney of California,” you said blandly.

The guy blinked. “…Oh. Cool.”

“And what do you do, Blake?”

“Well, my dad owns an advertisement company, so I do some stuff for him every now and then. But mostly I’m a competitive gamer. Like, uh, League of Legends, Counter Strike, Mortal Kombat. What about you? You a gamer?”

Blinking slow, then sighing, you leaned over and locked eyes with Sarah, one of your best friends and a well-known esthetician in L.A.

“Where’d you find the trust fund baby?” you asked. “He one of your clients? Let me guess. He likes his asshole bleached the same shade as his hair.”

Sarah bit her lip in embarrassment. Blake coughed and spluttered into his scotch. You didn’t stick around for the predictable denial and slid off the bar stool. You gave him $15 for your drink, downed the rest of it in one long gulp, and savored the rush of it tingling through your head on your way out of the club.

“Wait!” Sarah called after you. Your other two friends just rolled their eyes and stayed behind to keep drinking and dancing. They were used to your antics by now, just like you were used to theirs. They'd been trying to set you up on dates for a couple of months now. This one was the sneakiest by far.

Sarah, for her part, never let you walk out alone.

“Next time you try to set me up with someone, can you please just tell me,” you said tiredly, “instead of pretending you want to hang out with me?”

Sarah deflated. “Look, we’re just trying to help.”

“I know,” you said, holding yourself against the chill in the air. “I know, okay? I know you guys want me to move on, because I’m a fucking bummer. I know I’m…I’m not handling all this as well as I should be. And I know they still talk to Rachel.”

Tears stung in your eyes, but you sucked in a subtle breath. Sarah’s blue eyes were sad and glassy with guilt, even if it was just by association.

“Go back inside,” you said eventually. “I’ll just take an Uber home.”

But you didn’t.

Instead, you ended up at a bar down the street. You barely ever went clubbing anymore, but you hadn’t stepped foot into a real bar in nine months.

“Come on, sweetheart. You really want to do this here?”

“You’re one to fucking talk! But you know what? Far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing left to say. I just…I don’t know how you could do this to me.”

“Please,” he said. The green of his eyes were desperate. It was the first time you ever heard him beg. “Just let me explain.”

You wouldn’t let him touch you, let alone try to hold you. The thought alone made you sick.

“I saw you, Mark. I saw the goddamn pictures. And my sister told me all about how your last night of ‘freedom’ went. But you know what? You’re fucking free.”

You put the ring in the palm of his hand. He stared down at it, jaw clenched. Meanwhile, hot tears streamed down your face.

You walked away first—out of the seaside bar in beautiful Venice, California, with every piece of your heart bleeding out into the street.

Another vodka cranberry at the end of the bar turned into shots you couldn’t name or count. You rebuffed men who tried to talk to you. You ignored the voice in your head that sounded a lot like your dad.

Sweet girl, what the hell’re you doin’?

You stopped trying to answer that question a long time ago. Just like your friends had stopped trying to get you out of the house after work. No more wine tastings or Sunday brunches. No more weekends at the beach. The coarse grains of sun-bleached sand would only remind you of Santa Cruz—a sweltering summer, a perfect day, now fractured and wrong in your mind’s eye.

A fucking lie.

Another empty glass hitting the bar counter drowned out the salty crash of ocean waves, but you finally had to stop when your stomach churned with alcoholic slosh. Your brain reeled when you tried to blink. Your eyes felt dry, irritated, and glassy at the same time.

You got up from your seat and used the wall like an anchor on your way to the bathroom. You checked yourself in the mirror there. Your black dress, your hair, and your makeup were still intact, so you supposed you still looked good, if absent in the eyes. Again, you blinked too hard. Fuck.

On your way back out, new noise was filling the bar. A whole group of four or five people came in and grabbed seats at the bar, laughing, ordering drinks, giving each other shit. They sounded like cops. You knew, because you’d grown up around them your entire life.

“All right, Oliveras. What’re you drinking?”

You stopped short at the voice, deep and rich like aged whiskey. In fact, you needed the back of an empty chair to hold you steady.

“What, you're buying?” she shot back.

Amber. You recognized her profile and the litheness of her frame. You two were old friends, since you roomed together back in college. You hadn’t heard from her in months though. She had called to give her condolences when your almost-marriage fell apart.

And now, your ex-fiancé had an arm draped casually behind her chair. His smile was effortless, charming, the crows’ feet around his eyes crinkled with amusement.

“Well, within reason,” he replied, inclining his head. “I think I’m in the mood for some good fuckin’ whiskey—”

You stumbled in your stupid heels. You nearly took a whole table with you, but two chairs broke your fall. Almost all the cops in the group looked your way, their heads swiveling with a trained response to sudden sounds. Your name fell from Amber’s lips, a small, shocked breath.

Mark’s mouth fell open, his eyes widening when you looked up at him on reflex. You were forced to take him in, his green eyes, the new haircut, the well-trimmed beard, the jeans and dark blue jacket. He had no fucking business looking that good.

But you were like two shocked deers not expecting to meet in a forest—neither one willing to move or speak, or even blink…

Until you stumbled again. Your weight on the unstable chair began to give way.

“Shit.”

He and Amber both jolted to help you. Mark’s hand reached for you first, but you firmly ignored it and somehow straightened onto your shaky feet. You smoothed down the dress and fixed the little straps the best you could, even though one was hanging down your shoulder.

Your arm got tangled in the thin chain of your purse, but you slung that over your other shoulder with all the grace of a toddler. Then you affected a “polite” smile that just came off looking like a grimace.

“Uh, hey. Of all the gin joints in the world and stuff, right?” You made sure to enunciate, hoping your hand wave was casual and not insane. “I’ve gotta go.”

You pointed toward the door before you made it your mission to actually get there. Your heart pounded loud in your ears. The rush of cool and quieter air was a balm to your frayed mind, but it wasn’t enough.

The way he looked at her…

The turning of your stomach became a violent roil. You closed your eyes against the movie reel torturing you in your mind. You imagined how their night would go, drinking, laughing, touching, stumbling back into his house at 2:00 a.m. Maybe he’d end up actually loving her, someone more like him. More than he claimed to have loved you.

The liquid contents of your stomach rebelled, and you threw up right on the edge of the street. You clung to a utility pole as you coughed and cried involuntary tears. You heaved and gasped for breath when you couldn’t stop.

“Hey, you okay, sweetheart?”

Alarm trilled in the back of your mind. You had enough awareness to look behind you. Finally, you noticed the guy. He’d approached you in the bar earlier, but you’d turned down his advances. You couldn’t remember what you said to him. He clearly remembered you, though. 

You waved him off, not even able to speak as you tried to stay upright against the utility pole.

He didn’t take the hint. He drew closer, wrapping the pretense of a helping hand around your arm. He fingered the edge of your leather jacket.

“You need a ride? I’ll get you an Uber or something,” he said, with the facsimile of concern. “Where do you live?”

“Hey,” a voice cut in, deep and with authority.

You tilted your head, and Mark’s stern face came into view along with the rest of him. Him and those damn bowed legs.

“Take a walk, pal. I’ve got her,” Mark said. He flashed his LAPD badge for good measure.

That made it even easier to knock away the foreign hands off your body and angle himself in between. His arm came around your shoulders, supportive and safe.

Half of you was grateful, the other half resentful, but all you could do was glare at him. He shot you a quirking smile.

The other man backed off, trying to hide his annoyance. He continued down the street with his hands in his pockets. Mark itched to do more than just scare him off. A familiar protective anger had burned in his blood, raising his hackles, but he had to focus on you.

He led you back to the front of the bar. He went slow enough for you in those red stilettos (ridiculous, he thought, no matter how sexy they were).

“Late night, huh?” he said.

“What d'you think you’re doing?” you said. Your tone would be more snippy, if you had any energy left. Your inner world was reeling, unfocused and barely conscious. You had no choice but to lean on him as you gripped his jacket, the dark blue denim rough between your fingers.

“Well, I’m thinking I could call one of your friends, have ‘em take you home. You came out alone?” he asked. He was trying to be civil, retaining his sense of humor, but there was no masking the concern in his eyes. Not completely.

“No,” you admitted, “but ‘m alone now. Obviously.” You snorted.

Mark’s lips twitched upward. He heaved a small sigh. “All right. Well, who do you want me to call? Sarah? Yesenia? Lauren?” 

After a moment, you shook your head, even though that just made it swim. Fuck.

“I can’t…don’t want them to see me like this,” you said. The confession provoked a sniffle, a tremble of your lips. This time, you couldn’t stop the sting of tears from flooding over. You covered your face, as if that could stop your embarrassment, your overwhelming emotions from clogging in your throat in a painful lump.

“Okay, it’s okay,” Mark said. His tone pitched deep and gentle. It was an easy reflex for him to give into as he soothed a hand over your hair to try and calm you down.

You didn’t know it, but there was a gaping ache in his chest that had never really faded away. Seeing you again, let alone like this, made it sharp and splintering.

He led you to his car, and he took you home.

For a moment, you saw it so clearly.

Tracing his brows, the line of his nose, and the cut of his chin while he slept. What his hair felt like between your fingers, loose and soft, or gripped tight with need.

The sound of his voice reaching deep into your bones. The way his arms allowed you to reclaim safety whenever he came back to you…

Worrying for your dad on his twenty-five-year beat in Homicide had transitioned into worrying for Mark. He was always quick to reassure you though, to downplay with his ridiculous sense of humor and good sex. The best, actually.

But it was the in between moments you missed the most.

The distant sound of a lock turning in the door had you waking, slowly, a silent struggle in your bed. Your eyes cracked open.

Were you okay now? Was that him? Was he home? Had the past year just been a cruel invention of your mind to torture you?

…No. Your throat momentarily closed up as you realized. This really was just your shitty reality.

You groaned as you picked your head off the pillow, pushing your body up until you were sitting on the edge of your bed. Your bare legs hung off the side. You still wore your wrinkled black dress from last night, but your heels were strewn forgotten on the floor. You didn’t remember taking them off. You didn’t remember getting back to your apartment, let alone to your bed.

However, it all started coming back to you when the door shut again. Fresh coffee wafted in from the living room, along with something sweeter.

Your bedroom door creaked open, and there he was. Mark fucking Meachum.

He held a tray with two hot coffees and a greasy brown bag from your favorite bakery. Your gaze crept up to meet his, though yours was decidedly grumpy.

“Well, good morning, Sleeping Beauty,” he said with a smile. “It’s already almost noon, but I figured we can’t start the day without coffee.”

“Did you stay here all night?” you croaked in disbelief.

“Yeah, just, uh, took the couch out there,” he said, pointing in the direction of the living room. “Could use a couple of extra throw pillows though. Think I got another notch in my spine…”

At your persisting glare, his expression sobered.

“Just wanted to make sure you were okay, that’s all,” he said.

“Well, mission accomplished,” you snarked. “You can go now.”

Mark watched you try and fail to stand. You sunk back down to a seat on the edge of the bed, closing your eyes for a second while you attempted to stop your head from swimming.

He sighed and set down the coffee and pastries on your desk nearby.

“Have you been making this a habit?” he asked.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but last night was the first bar I’ve been to in exactly nine months and...fifteen days,” you replied. You swept your fingers over your cheeks, grimacing when you found remains of your mascara. You probably looked like a gremlin. This wasn’t exactly the way you wanted to look when you next saw your ex.

Except you’d never planned to see this man again.

“All right,” Mark said. He grabbed your purse off your desk, where he’d set it last night. He popped it open, your private goddamn property.

“Excuse me,” you protested angrily.

He retrieved a whole pack of cigarettes. “How about these?”

He tossed you the pack, and you barely caught it. Your irritation grew and grew, along with the sting of shame. The worst part was, he knew he didn’t have to say anything.

The unfiltered nicotine in your hand was the reason your father died. He’d been the Captain of Mark’s precinct for ten years—the exact number of years since your dad had quit smoking. It hadn’t mattered much in the end.

Still, you resented that raised brow of judgment on Mark’s face.

You leaned over and grabbed a lighter from your nightstand. You fished out a cigarette from the pack, and you took your time lighting it up. You were being an asshole, you realized, but you couldn’t stop yourself.

You made a show of holding the cancer stick between two fingers. You looked up at Mark, right in his eyes, and tried to channel Audrey Hepburn when you brought it to your lips for a long drag.

And you immediately coughed it up. Fuck.

Smoke polluted the air above your head while Mark nodded in vindication.

“Yeah. How’d that feel, Smokey?” he asked (all too high-and-mighty, in your opinion). He crossed the distance and took the cigarette from your hand while you kept coughing. He went into the bathroom to get rid of it.

Meanwhile, you held a hand to your chest and groaned. Damn him, he was right. Your stomach roiled at just the taste of that shit in your mouth, let alone first thing in the morning.

“Why don’t you get cleaned up?” he suggested, sweeping a hand toward your adjoining bathroom when he came back out. “A little coffee and sustenance will be waiting when you’re done.”

“Seriously, you can go. You don’t need to wait up for me,” you rasped, but the man still helped you to your feet with a supportive hand on your arm and your lower back.

“Yeah, and what if you lose your balance and crack your head on the bathroom tile? Nope, not on my watch.”

“Jesus Christ,” you muttered.

“He ain’t gonna help if you take his name in vain like that,” Mark couldn’t help but tease, fully expecting your glare. That was something your mom used to say.

You groaned, annoyed and still nauseous.

“Would you just shut up?”

“Nope, pretty sure I’m physically incapable.”

You snorted. “Clearly.”

He made sure you were steady on your feet before he left you in the bathroom. You avoided his gaze when he closed the door. His heart gave a painful pulse.

What the fuck am I doing? he thought.

Brushing your teeth and taking a hot shower had its innumerable benefits—making you feel alive and close to normal again, for example. But the one thing it didn’t do was get Mark out of your apartment.

You sat together on your couch while the TV played at a low volume. You saw the remnants of Mark’s night in your favorite throw blanket tossed over one of the armrests. The pillow he'd used for his head was caved in and smelling like his cologne, a rich, woody scent of sandalwood, spice, and musk.

You tried to ignore it while you finished eating a blueberry muffin. He polished off his third donut and washed it down with some more coffee.

“So,” you said. “Amber Oliveras.”

Mark blinked in confusion. “What?”

“Last night. You two were out together, seemed to be having a good time. Sorry I crashed your date,” you said, trying not to seem as bitter you sounded in your head.

Mark’s brows furrowed. “We’re, uh, not together. Not like that. We’re just working a case.”

“A case?” you said dubiously. “She’s DEA. You’re Homicide. What kind of case would you be working on together?”

He hesitated, brushing some pastry crumbs from his mouth. “Sorry, I can’t get into the specifics. You know the drill.”

Yes, you knew his cases were supposed to be confidential, but that hadn’t stopped him from telling you details before, especially because you were D.A. Valwell’s Executive Assistant. You had a higher clearance than the average civilian anyway.

But you let it go. It truly wasn’t your business, after all.

It was Mark’s turn to look your way. Morbid curiosity was eating him alive. Or maybe that was just the pull of being with you again, seeing your face, hearing your voice…even if you hated him.

He did think you were torturing him a bit too. You smelled nice, like floral soap and minty freshness. You were wearing an oversized shirt from your college days that was already threadbare from how many times you ran it through the wash. It slipped off one shoulder and barely went halfway down your thighs, brushing the edge of some little shorts. He had to stop his eyes from following the path of your bare legs.

“So, uh, how’ve you been?” he asked.

You paused. You even set down your muffin and chuckled, giving him a long look.

“How does it look like I’ve been?”

A grim silence fell between you two, thick and tense.

“All right," he said. "How long’ve you been smoking?”

You shook your head, lips pursing at his audacity. “You really don’t have any right to judge me. You know that, right?”

Mark rubbed a hand over his mouth and chin, an anxious, frustrated tick you knew well. “Look, what happened back then—”

You rose a hand to stop him. “Please, for the love of God. We don’t have to go through this shit again.”

You got up from the couch, intending to throw away the coffee cups and garbage if it meant gaining some space from this man.

But he followed you, stopped you with an imploring grip on your arm.

“It wasn’t what it looked like,” he said. He met your gaze, firm, earnest. “It didn’t go down the way she said.”

Your instinct was to jerk your arm out of his grasp, but he just held you in place, gently, but insistent. 

“Are you gonna let me explain this time? If you do, then just let me get it out. And afterward I’ll screw. I’ll walk the fuck outta here, and I promise you, you’ll never have to see me again.”

You stared up at him, close to seething, but there was something in his eyes that stilled you, gripped you more than his hands. A sliver of doubt began to creep in.

Your sister apparently hated you enough to fuck your fiancé. Had she been vindictive enough to lie about it?

You had realized, all too late, that you couldn’t put anything past her. Mark could be stubborn, but he wouldn’t dig his heels in on this without a reason.

So you relented, with a small nod.

Breathing a subtle exhale of relief, Mark guided you back down to the couch. You turned off the TV and sat facing him with your arms crossed. You gave him an expectant look.

Mark steeled himself. Where to fucking start?

A beat to think, and then he knew.

He had to give you everything.

Nine Months Ago...

One late night. One fifth of whiskey at the hotel bar turned into numbers Mark stopped counting—until the Captain reminded him. Your father reminded him beyond the grave, with words Mark never forgot.

You’ve got someone waiting for you. Don’t take that for granted.

He needed to find you.

Somehow, he made it to the elevator by himself. Third floor. Room 304, 305, 306. Fuck. Was it 309?

The door opened, and his addled fucking brain thought it was you at first. She almost had your eyes, if just half the sincerity of your smile.

Rachel welcomed him in and shut the door. He stumbled at the threshold, and she stopped him from falling completely onto the floral-patterned carpet.

“Oh my God, Mark. You okay?”

No. And he knew he wasn’t ever gonna be okay.

But her hands were warm, carving sensuous paths under his leather jacket without him realizing.

“Don’t worry. I’ve got you,” she said, guiding him further into her hotel room. With slurring words, Mark asked her to go find you. He needed to talk to you.

“Shit, think I left my phone downstairs too. Needa get it,” he muttered.

“You’re a mess. I think you need to lay down first,” she said, huffing as she supported his weight over to her bed. She helped him lay down. A subtle smile tugged at her lips as she began to open up his jacket. He resisted at first, giving her a look of confusion.

“You should get comfortable. I doubt we’re gonna be able to move you from here.” She giggled.

He guessed he could see the sense in that. He let her help him shrug the black leather jacket off. You helped him pick it out a couple of weeks ago while you were planning for this trip.

Rachel tossed his jacket to the foot of the bed, and she sat close to him on the edge of it. Her bare thigh brushed against his arm as the skirt of her dress rode up. It looked like she’d been about to take a shower after a night out with you and your friends. He instinctively moved his arm, crossing it with the other over his chest.

“You know, I never got a chance to thank you,” she said.

Mark’s brows furrowed. It was taking all of his concentration just to keep her face in focus.

“For what?”

“You were really there for me when Dad passed. You were like our rock, coming by with food, checking in on me when you visited. It really meant a lot to me,” she said. Her words said one thing, but her eyes were beginning to lead him somewhere.

“Your dad was a good man,” he said tiredly. “You guys went through a lot. You, your mom, your sister. It uh, hit her pretty hard.”

Rachel’s lips pressed together. “Yeah… She was his favorite, you know.”

Mark blinked. “What, he said that?”

“He didn’t have to,” she said, glancing away. She began to drum her fingers against his arm. He noticed it, but he was also trying to concentrate on what she was saying. “He always talked to her more, trusted her more, even when he was harping on her. She got that government job, probably thanks to him. But he was proud of her.”

“’M sure he was proud of you too,” Mark said.

“No, I don’t think so. I just don’t know why,” she said, sniffling as tears welled up in her eyes.

Mark frowned in sympathy. “Aw, hey.”

He didn’t know how to make her feel better, but he didn’t like to see her cry either. He sat up the best he could in the bed. She met him halfway, burying her face in his chest and sliding her arms around his middle for a hug. He gave her that comfort, patting her on the back.

Only, she didn’t stop there. She shimmied a bit higher and buried her face in his neck, where she pressed a little kiss. An alarm bell rang in Mark’s mind, but his body was too slow to respond. She turned her head and laid another kiss on his cheek, and then his lips.

He finally jerked back, holding her at arm’s length.

“Hey. What the hell’re you doing?” he demanded. His tone was sharp without a filter.

Rachel’s tearful eyes met his as she bit her lip. Her hand tentatively drew down his chest, warm over his shirt.

“I just…I finally had to tell you how much you mean to me,” she said. “And I think she takes you for granted.”

His brows furrowing, Mark grabbed her wrist.

“Rach, I love you. I really do, but you’re like a lil' sister to me. I love your sister. I wanna marry her.”

The thought alone struck a sharp jolt of pain through his skull, and through his chest. He did want a life with you. But is that fucking fair?

Could he really shackle you to a dying man?

Sure, he didn’t know how long he had, but that could be a cruel waiting game, one you'd just gone through with your father for three months. Mark didn’t want to put you through that all over again.

“Look, just...go tell her 'm here. Please,” he said. The fight was draining out of him. His energy was waning, his eyes blinking slow.

Rachel nodded, wiping at her tears. She left him in a huff, but she went to lock herself up in the bathroom first. The sink faucet turned on.

Mark sighed. Fine, let her clean up and pull herself together, but she’d better go get you. He doubted he could make it, even if he crawled. But if he had to, he would…

Slowly, the ticking seconds turned longer. His eyes grew heavier, until he was unable to pry them open again. He fell asleep.

He woke to a streaming sun in his eyes, and a pounding ache between them.

Shit. He groaned, covering his eyes. Maybe getting drunk wasn’t good for an already fucked head after all.

“Hmm, good morning, sleepyhead.”

Mark frowned. He looked over and found Rachel leaning on his arm. She was lying naked under the thinnest sheet. He knew, not only because of her bare shoulders, but her nipples poking through the fabric.

“Jesus Christ,” he grunted, immediately turning over to climb out of the bed. He was very fucking relieved to see he still had his jeans and underwear on, but his shirt was missing. He found it strewn on the floor.

“You actually did that yourself,” Rachel remarked. “Think you got a bit hot last night.”

There was a playful note in her voice. Mark grit his teeth. He was fucking pissed.

“You’re over the fucking line, you hear me?” he snapped.

“What, are you really gonna tell her?” she taunted. “It’s not like we did anything. I just prefer to sleep naked.”

He snorted. Sure. And what happened to the part where she was supposed to go find you and tell you where he was? No, the girl saw an opportunity, and she took it.

Mark hesitated though, because she raised a good point. Goddamn it, what was he going to tell you?

His jaw clenched, and he angrily finished getting dressed. He got up and stormed out of the hotel room, but not before Rachel got of out bed and let the sheet fall away from her slender form. She walked in confidence and feminine sway over to the bathroom, smiling in amusement when he quickly turned away before he saw anything.

The door slammed shut.

Her smile slowly fell. Tears of embarrassment stung in her eyes. Not really because he was mad at her, but because he’d rejected her too.

She knew it was wrong. Yeah, she was pretty sure it was the worst thing she’d ever done. Part of her even hated herself for it. You were her older sister, after all. You, who always looked out for her when you two were kids—better than Mom did. You, who got the most attention from Dad, and the quiet reliance of Mom.

Yeah, Rachel did love you...but she also kind of hated you too.

After she got dressed, she went back to find her phone. She cycled through the pictures she took, every angle that made it seem like your fiancé had spent the night in her arms after the hot and steamy bits.

It was a joke. A cruel prank. But maybe after this, you wouldn’t open your mouth to criticize her ever again. Maybe you’d think twice next time, because in the back of your mind, you’d remember that she could’ve had your man.

Now...

Mark finished telling you the story from his perspective. He gave you as many details as he could remember: what she said and did, and what he said and did.

Understandably, you were getting more upset by the moment. That pendulum swung between shock, and anger, and upset again. It all culminated in hot tears as you crossed your arms, holding a hand over your mouth.

“How do I know that’s true?” you asked, wiping vainly at your cheeks.

The problem was, you wanted to believe him. Of course, you also wanted to believe your sister wasn’t quite as screwed up and hateful as you thought she was, but even this was insane. You'd only ever tried to look out for her. Maybe along the way you had been a little critical, a little too judgmental. But had you really deserved this?

Could you even let yourself hope it was all a lie?

Mark met your gaze head on. “Look me in the eyes and tell me I’m lying.”

You sighed in frustration. “Mark, you’re a professional fucking liar. I’m not a human polygraph.”

“But you know me.”

“I thought I did,” you said, rubbing at your eyes with shaking hands. Eventually, you were able to look at him again. “If what you said is true, why the hell didn’t you just tell me that?”

“You wouldn’t let me! You made up your mind before I could get a word in edgewise.”

“I was angry!"

God, what an understatement. You'd been so furious and hurt, you'd seriously debated taking one of your dad's old golf clubs and knocking out every window, headlight, and tail light in Mark's precious car.

"So you're saying you didn’t even fight for me. You just let me think the worst of you all this time? For what?!” You sunk your hands into your hair and pulled hard on the strands. You shook your head. “And you know what, why did you get so drunk in the first place? Your friends told me you went back to the hotel early, by yourself. It had to be for a reason.”

Mark nodded slowly.

That was when he knew, he really did have to give you everything.

“You, uh…remember those headaches I’d been getting?” he said. “Started about a month after your dad passed.”

Your brows wrinkled with a hint of confusion, but you nodded as the memory resurfaced.

“Yeah, you were going through entire bottles of Advil. But what does that—”

“I went to the doctor.” Mark rubbed a clammy palm over his jeans. He could stare down murderers, drug lords, and terrorists with steel in his veins, but coming clean with you was going to be one of the hardest things he’d ever done. He knew it in his bones, just like he knew why he needed to do it.

“Turns out… I’m sick, baby.”

Your expression changed, almost instantly. Traces of anger and doubt fell away, but so did some of the color in your face.

Mark took the chance to get a little closer on the couch. He laid a hand over yours on your thigh, but your whole body was locked up, sitting very still.

“W-What do you mean?” you asked.

“I mean,” he sighed, “I’ve got a mass in my brain the size of Nevada. I don't know how much time I got exactly, but..."

Your eyes widened. Your hands clenched into the fabric of your shirt, until your nails bit into your palms. As you processed those words and began to understand the weight of them, it sunk inky claws into your mind, into every shady corner.

You shook your head in denial, lips trembling. Mark just held your gaze, a silent confirmation that he said nothing but the truth.

"I found out a few days before the trip to Venice. I was trying to figure out how to tell you, but obviously I didn’t handle that part very well," he said.

Anger, stubbornness, suspicion, pretending you didn't care what he had to say—all of that faded. It drained out of your muscles, out of your pores. You began to fall apart.

You turned your hand under his and squeezed, hard. It was a while before you could speak, but Mark was patient. He held your hand and stroked his thumb back and forth across your skin while you tried and failed to hold onto your tears. Then your soul-wracking sobs.

Finally, he couldn’t help himself. He brought you closer, soothing a hand over your hair and pressing a kiss to your temple. You rested your forehead against his shoulder.

“I’m so sorry,” you said, a coarse whisper. “God, Mark. Why the fuck would you let me think you cheated on me, with my sister?”

He gave a wry huff. “I guess I thought I was being noble. I thought I’d rather have you hate me, than try to stay with me. Watch me break down, bit by bit, for God knows how fucking long. Now I know I’m just selfish. I don’t want you to see me like that… Hell, I don’t wanna see me like that.”

You pulled back on him. Devastation filled your bleary eyes, but you caressed his cheek with a shaking hand.

“Have you gotten treatment?” you asked.

“Doc says it’s not worth it.”

The divot between your brows deepened. “What about a second opinion?”

He hesitated.

“Have you seen another oncologist?” you pressed.

“No. Guess I didn’t see the point. I saw the scans myself. I don’t know how you’d confuse a big fucking tumor for anything else.”

“Mark.” You shook your head and wordlessly guided him closer. You framed his face with both hands, while his own found purchase on the soft curve of your waist.

It was nice to feel your touch again…but at what cost? All that stubborn fire in your eyes, all that pain, it was everything he’d been trying to avoid. 

Still, you were gentle, sliding your fingers up into his hair. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath.

After all this time, you were still his peaceful spot. If you only knew the amount of death he’d seen in just the past couple of weeks on Blythe’s taskforce, the chaos, the stress of near-misses, being on the sweet razor edge of getting killed, saving his own body the trouble. That thrill took its toll.

Before that, those nine months undercover had been a divorce from his reality, pretending that he hadn’t left you broken along with whatever heart there was left in him.

He never imagined that he’d be here with you again. He never thought you’d forgive him, let alone touch him like you still loved him.

When he opened his eyes, you were still there. Tears clung wet to your lashes. You led him closer, where you tenderly rested your forehead against his.

He let you do it too. You were the only one he’d soften up for like this.

He smiled. “Hmmm. What now, sweetheart?”

You bit your lip, but you slowly pulled back and opened your eyes. You didn’t go far though.

You guided him into an even more familiar path to your lips. It was more bittersweet than he remembered, but worth it all the same.

He was home.

AN: So, you guys forgive me? 😘💙 I know it's not the happiest ending ever, but it felt like a good place to pause for these two. Rachel was more complex than she seemed, and so was Mark's side of the story!

I have at least one more actual drabble in mind for these two, coming soon! 😂 Please let me know what you thought of this one 💜

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[s-brant]

A Son for a Son

King Viserys is dead, Aegon has taken the Iron Throne, and Lucerys Velaryon has been killed. In the days following the Battle of Shipbreaker Bay, Aemond and his wife are not on speaking terms. Having banished him from their chambers, Y/N finds comfort in Helaena as she grieves the loss of her younger brother and the complications that come with it.

12k (18+)

Warnings: very graphic violence, targcest, strong language, jacaerysxreader crumbs, arguments, angst, and death.

The room falls into an oppressive silence, the weight of Aemond's confession hanging heavily in the air around them. Y/N feels as though the ground beneath her is crumbling away, leaving her suspended in a void of disbelief. In a world where her nightmares have melded with reality.

She releases his shoulders, her hands trembling as they fall to her sides, and takes a step back.

"How?" she breathes, her voice hardly a whisper. It's a question that is laden with desperation. "How could this happen?"

Aemond's eye, usually so fierce and unwavering, flickers with a mixture of guilt and regret. He opens his mouth, but the words seem to evade him the second he tries to speak. The silence stretches painfully, and Y/N's heart races as she searches his face for something—anything—that may resemble an explanation.

Aegon shifts in his seat, glancing between his brother and sister-in-law, clearly unsure of how to intervene. Still, he tries his best to aid his younger brother in the only way he can think of. Knowing Aemond is not keen on displaying too much of his emotion in front of others, he decides to offer him the gift of solitude.

"Stop."

He pushes himself into a standing position with his hands flat on the table. The sudden movement draws everyone's eyes to him, so he takes advantage of it and speaks before his brother is forced to endure a deadly martial spat with the entirety of the council watching.

"Clear the room. We shall reconvene tomorrow to address this as a council," he says. When they do not move, either acting like they have been frozen to their seats or trying to object, he bangs a fist on the table. "Out! Your King commands you!"

At this time, Y/N doesn't even have the capacity to appreciate the gesture Aegon offers his brother, and therefore her as his wife. No, there is nothing left within her but a starving hatred that will sees no need for logic or reason. Aemond, however, in a time of great vulnerability, finds himself stunned by the act of compassion. For as far back as he can remember, Aegon was his worst bully—the one who his mother allowed to treat him badly so long as it happened behind closed doors. To see him doing something kind without standing to gain much from it...It doesn't make sense. He must be doing this to avoid trouble, to go back to sleep and deal with it when morning comes.

One by one, every person walks out of the room.

Only Alicent stops to cast another look over her shoulder at the princess. Even though the younger woman does not notice her gaze, she cannot help but stare at her with a sorrowful expression. It isn't until Ser Criston Cole gently touches her shoulder that she snaps out of it and follows him out of the room.

The doors close.

Y/N feels a heavy weight settle within her chest as the last echoes of footsteps fade away, leaving her and Aemond in a suffocating silence. The flickering candlelight casts shadows across his face, illuminating the turmoil in his eye, but Y/N cannot bring herself to meet his gaze.

"What have you done?" she finally asks, her voice raw and trembling. The question hangs in the air, filled with a depth of hurt that she struggles to contain. "You were sent to arrange a marriage, not murder my little brother!"

Aemond's face falls, his mask shattering under the weight of her pain. With Aegon's act of kindness, he is permitted the privacy to express his true feelings in the presence of the only person he has ever trusted.

"Vhagar—" he says with desperation lacing his voice, then stops. "I did not mean to—“

"You did not want it to happen?" she echoes. In her voice, an edge of incredulity cuts through her grief. "This is what you have always wanted, and I was foolish to think otherwise! Luke is dead!"

His face pales further, and he takes a step toward her, hands outstretched in a plea for understanding. A plea she smacks away.

"Arrax attacked," he explains calmly. "I was commanding Vhagar to stop. I said no."

"And why was it that Arrax attacked?" Y/N interrupts. "Surely it was not without reason! What did you do?"

The desperation in his gaze cuts her as deeply as his betrayal has, and he cannot say anything but the truth. It is the only thing he has to offer her at this point. To deny her of it would be to twist the knife he has sunken into her back. To deny her of it would mean he never truly cared for her the way she thought he had.

"I...I cannot say I did not provoke them—"

"Gods, they were all right about you! And I was an imbecile! A stupid little girl with her head in the clouds, too busy wanting for your love to see past what everyone else could see plainly before them!"

Y/N shakes her head, her heart aching, but her resolve remaining firm as she turns from him. Her heart is unable to take any more strain than it already has. If she looks at him one more time, she may vomit her dinner up onto the floor from the image of him riding Vhagar into battle against an adolescent dragon dwarfed by her size.

"Don't walk away from me!" he shouts.

Anger flashes across her face—a face that, mere hours ago, looked at him with only love and adoration. She walks up to him the way one would approach an enemy. Worse, she walks up to him the way one approaches someone they do not fear or respect, and when she speaks, it is not with a raised voice.

"I heed no commands. Not of you or of any man, and you are a traitor, not only to the realm but to me. To your daughter, Aemond..." she trails off, unable to help how her voice wavers at the mention of their girl. "Not only have you denied her claim, you have killed her uncle. She may grow to loathe you for this, and I daresay I hope she does."

This reignites the same rage that caused him to mount his dragon and chase Luke through the stormy skies. Before, it was the outrage of injustice. Now, it is the outrage of her disapproval and the insinuation that he does not care for his own daughter. His body and mind stand on alert, threatened by the idea that something that belongs to him—his child—will be taken away. Her previous threat to take her away on dragonback lives in the forefront of his mind, and it is enough to make him lose control.

He walks forward, and with every step he advances, she retreats to evade him. It isn't until she hits the wall and finds herself trapped against him that he speaks at last.

"If I could kill your bitch of a mother myself, I would," he spits. "To strike down your father would be a feat unlike any other. Know that the only things I value in this life are you and our child, but I do not fear you. I do not fear anyone."

The silence that follows feels deafening, a chasm opening between them that may be impossible to bridge. Her eyes shine with the promise of tears as she stares up at him. Feeling his chest pressing against hers, holding her captive against the wall of the council room, sparks a sense of outrage that is too powerful to ignore. It swells inside of her chest until it feels as though it is going to explode, so she decides to do something. To act. If he is fool enough not to fear her, let it be his undoing.

Her hands plant themselves against his chest and shove with all of her strength.

Seeing that she caught him off guard, this sends him stumbling back enough to free her from the prison of his making. Once he steadies himself, he lifts his face to look at her in surprise, but she punches him straight in the jaw. Much like her brother's punch at dinner so long ago, it hurts him, but it does not do much else to subdue him.

"You are a monster! As ugly on the inside as everyone thinks you are on the outside!"

Those hands, so soft and sweet in their touch previously, aim to harm him. To land blows wherever they can. And so, he lets her. He lets her scratch, hit, and kick him anywhere she wants. He lets her scream as she pounds at his chest like a child having a tantrum, leaving behind bright red marks beneath his clothing that will surely bruise in the coming days. She is much stronger than most would assume, but not strong enough to incapacitate him while he tries to stand still. To her fury, he does not move an inch.

He grits his teeth together, feeling the sting of her blows on his skin and the ache in his chest from the pain in her voice. This woman, who carried his child and possesses his very heart, is in agony before him, but he does not know how to help her this time. Not when he is the cause of her strife.

"You promised me!" she screams as he holds her wrists to keep her from hitting him any more. It only makes her fight harder, bucking like a stallion in his grasp to free herself. "You swore to me you would not hurt them!"

He mutters, "I know."

"You have ruined everything!"

"I have."

His grip on her wrists tightens.

"You said you loved me—"

"I do," Aemond asserts, his voice breaking with the words. The hands that holds her wrists squeeze tightly enough for her to wince, but he refuses to let go. Selfishly, he holds her close and looks into her eyes as he says the words. "I do love you.”

The intensity of his gaze pierces through her outrage and tugs at her fragile emotions, even after everything that he has done to hurt her. When he spoke, when he pleaded, her body stilled. The tone of his voice was broken. His violet eyes were flooded with tears, shining as one spilled over and ran down his cheek. For the first time in their marriage, she finds herself paralyzed by his show of true vulnerability. For a moment, the world around them fades, leaving only the two of them locked in this tumultuous struggle. But the weight of his confession does little to ease the fire surging within her.

"Love will not absolve you of your sins," she replies, shaking her head slowly. "You've shattered the trust between us. I do not know if it will return. Not now, not ever."

"Wait—"

Ignoring his protests, she turns to leave, her heart heavy with the decision she has made, but she pauses at threshold with one hand on the door. Her back faces him, and with her face now shielded from his sight, she allows the ugly cries to flow free.

"Sleep elsewhere. I'd sooner cut my own throat than have you in my bed."

With that, she steps through the doorway, the heavy door closing behind her with a finality that echoes in the stillness of the council chamber.

Aemond is left standing alone, and, in this moment, he realizes the true cost of his actions, the irrevocable change they have wrought in both their lives. Whatever progress they made, whatever love that grew between them since the day since she discovered she was with child, is now ruined as a result of his unrelenting pride and lust for vengeance.

Whether he is ready to or not, he must live with the consequences.

-

Her head is pounding from crying for the past six days.

The curtains are drawn and shut out the light of day while she sits in bed with the old letters from her family strewn out on the sheets. Between Rhaenyra, Daemon, and Jacaerys, there are at least fifty pieces of parchment sitting before her.  Unable to help herself, she reaches for one of the few letters she received from Jace in the time since she left Dragonstone. He wrote on behalf of Luke most times, who adored her but often forgot to write his older sister.

A heavy sigh escapes her at the sight of her brother's familiar penmanship. Never before had he dared to announce his feelings for her, not until the last letter he sent before everything she knew was forever changed. This is the only letter she never left out for fear of her husband finding it. All the others she has received, she has left out for him to possibly see and read as a gesture of trust—to chip away little by little at the division that has separated their families for years. This one, however, would remain a secret. Her husband's history with her brothers already put them on unsteady ground, hanging precariously on the line between peace and wanton bloodshed every day of their lives. A thin line of which Aemond finally crossed when he met the late Prince Lucerys at Storm's End.

Her heart sinks at the thought of him drowning in her dream. Perhaps if she left this letter out for her husband to find, his ire would have shifted toward Jacaerys instead. Is this entire cursed situation is her fault?

She leans her head back on the pillow with a sigh. With the babe asleep in her cradle, there is naught to do but wallow in her misery and hate herself for how much she still loves the man who betrayed her. In spite of it all—her poor brother, the hatred festering, and the yawning void of grief within her—she cannot help but wonder where Aemond is and how he fares.

The sound of someone opening the door causes her to jump out of bed with one hand on the dagger she keeps hidden under her pillow.

"Please, it is only me," Nyla says softly. "I have come to check on you."

The knife slips from her grasp as soon as she realizes who is here to see her, and she sits back down on the bed with the ever-present threat of tears stinging in her eyes. For what feels like the millionth time today, she begins to cry. As it does every time, the act possesses her body and soul. Her shoulders jerk with the intensity of her sobs as she buries her face in her hands and wishes against reason that reality were a nightmare she'll soon wake from.

Although she can hear the soft sound of footfalls against the floor, she does not raise her face from her hands until she feels a hand touching her shoulder. When Y/N's head whips around to meet Nyla's gaze, the servant girl withdraws as though she has been struck, and the regret that flashes across her features is clear to see.

"Forgive me, Your Grace. I should not have presumed that you wanted me to—"

Her words are cut off by the feeling of the princess's arms suddenly closing around her small frame, pulling Nyla in so she can bury her tear-stained face into the apron tied around her waist.

"It is all my fault!" Y/N cries, pulling her arms tighter around the young girl. "I could have done something! I could have—"

"My lady, please, there is nothing you could have done!"

Nyla cradles her head in one hand while rubbing her back with the other. Although the princess is a year or two older, the comforting touch is almost...motherly. For a second, as she squeezes her eyes shut and hides her face in her stomach, she can pretend it is her mother holding and shushing her like one would a crying babe. This, however, only makes her sob harder at the thought of her dear, devoted mother. She must be mad with grief by now—both for her dead son and her daughter being held prisoner by the enemy.

"You know, I think it may help you to leave your chambers, Your Grace."

Y/N pulls away from her enough to meet her gaze and shake her head.

"I do not wish to see him."

"You do not need to. He is meeting with the small council now, and then he is due to train in the yard with Ser Criston. Come along. I have an idea."

-

Queen Helaena is the best company she could ask for at a time such as this. She is quiet, and gentle, and understanding. Silence does not trouble her the way it does others. If anything, her strange aunt revels in it.

Y/N sits on the floor behind Jaehaerys, humming a tune her mother used to sing while braiding her hair as a girl. Already having done his twin sister's hair, she takes her time with the boy and weaves an intricate design onto his head. And, of course, Nyla is here to tend to the babe while she spends time with the Queen and her children. Under no circumstances would she leave Daenaera with anyone other than her most trusted handmaiden.

"They quite like you," Helaena says seemingly out of nowhere.

This causes her eyes to snap up from where they were focused on carefully braiding soft locks of silver hair. Yet even while she looks away, her fingers move in muscle memory without a single error. What Helaena said brings a smile to her face, and she feels a small fluttering of joy within her for the first time in nearly a week.

"I am glad you think so, sister," she says. "They are such lovely children."

"As is your sweet babe. My brother should be so proud to have you both."

Her heart might as well have dropped out of her body and splattered onto the floor at the casual mention of her husband. Kinslayer, they now call him. What a disgrace he has become to her and their daughter. His very existence makes a mockery of her to the smallfolk. Oh, how they pity the poor, naive princess and say that she should have seen this coming from the day she was married to the one-eyed monster. What they did not see, she thinks with a sorrow that could knock a strong swordsman clean off his feet, are all of the moments during which he treated her with care. Moments in which he adored her, placing her on a pedestal higher than the gods his mother worships so fanatically. They did not see the love in his eye when he looked upon his child for the first time. She was covered in a fresh mixture of her mother's blood and other bodily fluids that he could not have cared less about as he took her into his arms.

No matter what those people liked to believe, Aemond was never a heartless man. Least of all when it came to his wife.

She takes a deep breath to steady herself, then says, "If it is alright, I'd prefer to not discuss my lord husband right now."

To this, Helaena nods right away. It's a swift, almost neurotic gesture.

"Yes, of course," she says, trailing off at the end into a silence that lasts uncomfortably long. "Tis not easy to have a husband. Especially if they are anything like my brothers. Targaryen princes can be so...insatiable. My son will not be, though. I know it."

Y/N cannot help but grin a little.

"No, he will not. He's a good boy." She pauses, then tilts her head to look at the young prince. "Aren't you, Jaehaerys?"

Seeing that she is still holding tightly to his hair as she braids it, all he can do is nod in response and utter a soft, "Yes," while he plays with his wooden horse figurine.

Helaena hums in quiet agreement, a small, distant smile playing at her lips. She watches her son with a look of fondness tinged with something sadder, something heavier. Y/N does not press her on it. Instead, she focuses on the warmth of the room, the weight of Jaehaerys's hair between her fingers, and the soft babbling of Daenaera from Nyla's arms. It is a fragile kind of peace, and she clings to it as best she can.

For the past week, her world has crumbled around her. Aemond's actions have cast a long shadow over her, their daughter, and everything she once thought was unbreakable. The court whispers, and the smallfolk curse his name, and yet, even now, she cannot bring herself to hate him.

How could she?

The man she knows—her husband—he is fire and fury, yes, but he is also the soft press of his lips against her temple when she cannot sleep. He is the gentle, awestruck way he traces the delicate curve of their daughter's cheek in the dim candlelight of their chambers. He is defined by every good thing he has ever done just as much as he is the bad, and it infuriates her beyond reason that she cannot hate him the way she wishes to. It would be so much easier, would it not?

"You braid well," Helaena murmurs after a moment.

"My mother taught me."

Silence stretches again, but this time it is not uncomfortable. The two women enjoy each other's company, as well as the company of their children, without so much as a word for the next fifteen or so minutes. After she finishes braiding Jaehaerys's hair, Y/N stands up and dusts off the skirts of her dress before joining her sister-in-law on the couch.

Just when she sits down , Helaena speaks, her voice barely above a whisper.

"He will return to you."

Y/N freezes.

Her hand clutches the arm of the couch for stability and her breath hitches in her throat as she turns her gaze to Helaena. The Queen is staring at the fire blazing in the hearth, her expression unreadable, and her fingers twist at the fabric of her skirts as though in discomfort.

"What?"

Helaena blinks slowly, as if waking from a distant dream. "My brother," she says simply. "Bonded by bloodshed, torn between crowns—he will come back to you and you to him."

A shiver runs down Y/N's spine. It is not the first time Helaena has spoken in riddles—she has heard the whispers of the Queen's dreams, of the strange foresight that lurks in her blood, and, on the day of Aegon's coronation, she witnessed it herself. There is a beast beneath the boards. That was what she said at dinner two nights before, as well as in the carriage on their way to the Dragonpit. Then, just as she predicted, Meleys broke the floor of the pit with Rhaenys strapped to her back.

She wants to ask more, to press, to demand what she means and reject the notion of him somehow returning to her so soon. But before she can, Daenaera lets out a sudden wail, breaking the moment like glass shattering against stone.

Helaena says nothing more. Instead, she goes right back to her needlework with a blank, contented look on her face.

-

The library should be safe at this hour according to Nyla. Much like the other day, when she visited the Queen in her chambers, Aemond is reportedly occupied with various meetings and duties that have doubled since his brother was crowned King.

Y/N moves through the dimly lit halls with careful steps, her heart a steady drumbeat in her chest. The weight of Helaena's words lingers as a ghostly presence at the back of her mind, refusing to be ignored. He will return to you. A memory of seeing the Dragonpit clouded with debris after Meleys ripped through the floor as though it was nothing flashes before her eyes. He will return to you. She cannot help but think back to all of the times her aunt has uttered seemingly meaningless words that later turned true. He will return to you.

She does not know whether to fear it or hope for it.

The library doors creak faintly as she pushes them open, stepping into the room of parchment and ink that has served as her sanctuary since she was old enough to spell her name. The scent of old books and candle wax envelops her, familiar and comforting. Here, at least, she can think without the relentless hum of court gossip pressing in from all sides. Nyla was right—there is no one here. A monumental relief. Considering how fond her husband is of reading, this is a risky place to visit if she does not want to see him.

She moves deeper into the room, trailing her fingers along the spines of the tomes lining the shelves in hopes of losing herself to one of them. The histories, the epics, and the poetry. With a weary sigh, she selects a book—something dull and distracting—and stands by the hearth for warmth. The fire crackles, its marigold glow casting shadows that dance frantically across the stone floor. She forces her eyes to the pages, but the words blur together, her traitorous mind refusing to be tamed into submission for even a moment.

Bonded by bloodshed, torn between crowns.

Y/N stiffens at the sound of someone walking on the other end of the room with heavy, familiar footsteps. And, somehow, she just knows. Her fingers tighten around the edges of the book as she listens with bated breath and looks out around the corner of the shelf.

Then, for the first time, since she banished him from seeing her or their daughter, she sees him.

Aemond, half-shrouded in shadow, stands at the far end of the aisle she peeks out of. His tunic is dark, disheveled, and his hair is styled the same way it was when he left for Storm's End. Although, when she looks closer, the braid tying half of it up is slightly crooked, sloppy, and she knows without having to inquire that he has been redoing it himself since that day. The sight of him steals the air from her lungs and makes her chest muscles tighten up due to an intoxicating mixture of excitement and fear. Then, of course, there is anger. Anger at him for what he has done, but, more importantly, anger at herself for still reacting this way to him after everything that's happened.

In her solitude, she grew to loathe him entirely.

She fantasized about telling him off the next time she saw him in the flesh, hurting him as truly and deeply as he has hurt her, but that is not what happens. It feels as though she has been struck when she catches sight of him. There is nothing she can do except stand there, frozen, and watch him scour the shelves for the book he seeks. Her fingers curl around the edge of the shelf, squeezing until the tips of them turn white and the edges of her nails dig into the wood.

How dare he come here?

It matters little to her that this is one of his most frequently visited places in the Keep, nor does it matter that he is still her husband and she cannot evade him forever. No matter how unhealthy it may be, she longs to trap herself in this state of isolation. If she has no one and nothing to depend on, to care for, then she has nothing to lose. The biggest mistake of all was letting him into her heart in the first place, because now that he has made a home inside, there is no way of forcing him out. Not permanently.

She shifts in place as she watches him, readjusting herself into a more comfortable stance. But when she moves her arm back down to her side, a book is sent flying to the ground from her elbow bumping into it, and she mutters a string of curses under her breath before she can catch herself.

Aemond's head snaps up to look down the aisle in search of the source to the sound, and when that intense stare finds her, her knees nearly buckle. There is only a split-second that she maintains eye contact with him, frozen like a fawn cornered by a group of hunting men, then flees behind the shelf. More accurately, she ducks behind it like a scared little girl hiding beneath the covers of her bed from a monster.

She hugs the book to her heaving chest and prays that he somehow didn't see her even though she knows he did. And, as expected, those familiar footsteps start to make their way down the aisle toward her. Somehow, she tries to convince herself that this isn't happening and he'll turn at the last second to walk away, but he doesn't not. And she knows he won't. She knows her husband far too well to mistake him for the type of man that accepts defeat easily, especially when it comes to her.

When he gets so close that she can hear him breathing, she stands up for the sake of not looking as pathetic as she feels. And there he is. Her love, her life, and her greatest villain all in one. An indiscernible expression flickers across his sharp features as he looks down at her, and, try as she might, she cannot bring herself to look away from him. Even when the sight of him makes her sick to her stomach, her attention is solely focused on him.

She opens her mouth to speak only to stop short when she sees the title on the spine of the book he carries. A Caution for Young Girls....the very same book he found her reading beneath the Weirwood tree days after they were betrothed. He does not like that book, she thinks to herself. Tears begin to flood her eyes at the thought of him picking up a book he hates solely because he misses her. Memories plague her. In hazy flashes, she can recall how he mocked her description of the story and chuckled to himself as though it was the most ridiculous premise imaginable.

Aemond, on the other hand, could not move from his place in front of her even if he wanted to. It has been days, and the last time he saw her, she was furious. No. Beyond furious. She was heartbroken. And rightfully so. Even now, he has yet to wrap his head around the gravity of what he did—not to Luke, but to her.

"What are you doing here?" The question she spits is laced with aggression and a twinge of sorrow. Unable to help herself, she then mutters bitterly, "You do not like that book."

For a moment, he just stares at her with an inability to say anything. Every word he's imagined saying to her, ranging from apologies to frustrated arguments, vanish into thin air the second they lock eyes.

He says, "You know I frequently visit the library. Should I not be the one asking that question?"

If not for the way her heart clenches at the sight of the book in his hands, she may have shoved him and ran off for what he just said. Instead, she just continues to stare up at him as the perfect storm of emotion brews within her and prepares to send her back to the confinement of her chambers. Seeing him again...it had an impact that no amount of bracing could ever prepare a person for.

"I should go," she whispers.

His response is immediate—instinctual.

"No."

He doesn't shout or yell the word. In fact, it comes out as more of a pathetic whimper. That typically sharp purple eye softens a little as he looks at her, one hand holding onto her forearm to keep her in place, and she wishes it didn't make her heart melt for a second before she remembers what he did. Loving a man like him isn't an easy thing to do, but she does. She thinks she'll love him for the rest of her life, and that is what truly scares her. Although she wants to bash his face in and ignore him for the next couple of years, she finds it troubling that not even the outright murder of her little brother could destroy the feelings she has for him. What does that say about her as a person?

Her eyes well up with tears when she look at his face and tries to make herself hate him. But it's all for naught. No, it seems that there is nothing in this world that can get in the way of her loving him. She can't help but wonder, though, if his love for her is anywhere near as resilient and everlasting.

She shakes her head, not to him but to herself. This little interaction has gone on long enough.

"I do not wish to see you," Y/N whispers, her tone harsh and cold. A far cry from how she spoke to him as they soaked in the tub together before he left for Storm's End that fateful day. "If you will not leave, then I will."

As she turns to go, his hand gently, ever so gently, catches her arm. She didn't know Aemond had it in him to be so tender. It must be a conscious effort on his part, she thinks, to keep himself from upsetting her further. It's as though he knows without having to talk about it aloud that this is the only problem they cannot solve through yelling, ignoring, and fucking. Truth be told, he isn't quite sure this is a problem they can solve at all.

Aemond says softly, "Ñuha jorrāelagon..." My love. "Gaomagon daor henujagon ziry bisa ñuhoso." Do not leave it this way.

Sniffling and wiping the tear that slides down her cheek aside, she is quick to counter.

"Emā vēttan ziry bisa ñuhoso." You have made it this way. Then, she speaks in the common tongue, not caring if anyone else overhears anymore, "Please, just leave me alone. I am not ready. I do not know if I ever will be."

With that, she pulls her arm from his grasp and takes a step back, looking up at him with teary eyes, and tries to remain resolute in her decision to take more time to process what happened by herself. Deep down, she knows it's the right decision. It's what she needs, but when she sees him looking at her like that...She is certain that she is the only person Aemond has ever cried in front of, at least since he was a small child, and, right now, she can see his eye shining the way most people's do before they cry.

"Aemond," she says softly, wavering for a second.

As soon as he hears his name falling from her lips, his face lights up almost imperceptibly with hope. Anyone else would have missed it, but how could she? She sees right through him. He said it himself the night Viserys passed in his sleep.

Ultimately, she stops herself from saying anything more. Anything other than—

"You may see Daenaera on the morrow. In spite of this...challenge...I have no intention of keeping her from a father who loves her," Y/N speaks softly, calmly, even though the emotions churning within her are anything but. "You may come visit her once we're both dressed for the day. After your training in the morning."

Then, in what feels like an instant, she is gone. Hurrying down the aisle between bookshelves, she makes for the library doors and doesn't look back at him. Even as he internally wills her to do so, to turn around and run back to him, she disappears into the hallway beyond, leaving him completely alone.

That emptiness he felt in his heart his entire childhood leading up to when he claimed Vhagar and later married her comes back swinging its fists. His own mother is disgusted by him and refuses to look at him as a consequence of what he did to Lucerys. Yet, more importantly to him, he has been isolated entirely from his wife and daughter for the past week or so. He hadn't realized how accustomed he became to her presence until this moment. In the time since they were married, he never had to worry about being alone like he had as a child. Every morning, he would roll over in bed and find the warmth of her body beside his. Every night, she would wait for him to join her before the fire for them to read their books together in silence.

Even in the silence and stillness of night, Aemond could feel her presence and know that, for the first time in his life, he wasn't alone. Now, whatever composure he mustered on the flight home from Storm's Ene and wore like a mask in front of everyone else shatters into a million pieces.

With his back against the bookshelf, hiding from anyone who may come in, Aemond wipes a lone tear on his cheek away with his jaw clenched in a strange mixture of anger and sadness. Thoughts race through his head too fast for him to process, and he holds the book she loves so much with a white-knuckled grip. One look at the cover springs him into action, rushing for the library doors and in the direction of his old chambers from before he was wed.

It is there that he finds Cole sitting, waiting to talk of war and strategy. He, of course, entertains this conversation despite his mind being far away, but it doesn't last long. After his grandsire, Otto, comes in to admonish them for plotting without the permission of their king, Aemond pulls a cloak over himself and pockets a small bag of coin.

With his heart still aching in his chest and his wife's favorite book open on his bed, he makes his way to the Street of Silk.

-

By the time Y/N finished crying in her room and eating the meal Nyla brought to her as she has every night since Aemond was banished from their chambers, the sun had fallen below the horizon through her window. The curtains billow in the wind as rain begins to pitter-patter against the walls of the keep, and she has nothing to do but pace the room as the babe lays on her stomach on the bed.

Seeing him again...just being in his presence was overwhelming. As strong as she willed herself to be, there's still a part of her that instinctively cares for him, and it drives her mad. If it were anyone else who killed her little brother, her sweet Luke, it would be so easy to damn them to a fate of eternal hatred. Aemond, however, is equally as easy for her to love as he is to hate. That was how it had always been between them. The lines between the two strong emotions blurred until they became one, and that was how she found herself entangled with him so.

Sighing, she walks across the room and plucks her robe from where it is draped over one of the chairs, wrapping it tightly around her waist to conceal her plain nightgown from view. Should she bump into anyone on her walk through the corridors at such a late hour, she wouldn't want them to see her in a state of undress.

"I wish to see Helaena and the twins before bed," she says to Nyla as she picks the babe up and cradles her against her chest. "Please, tell them I requested they give you a good cup of wine tonight. You have done so much for me since the babe was born, and you deserve a night to yourself."

The young lady's face flushes with color at the praise given to her by the princess, shaking her head.

"Thank you, my lady. Tis only my job."

This makes Y/N's lips twitch with the urge to smile—a rarity these days. Ever since she was informed of Luke's death, she has hardly smiled or even laughed.

"My appreciation remains," she says as she approaches the door, then looks back over her shoulder. "Goodnight. I will see you in the morning."

Nyla dips her head in a gesture of respect, saying, "Yes, your grace."

The corridors are barren of life.

Rain pummels the ground below as she maneuvers around Maegor's Holdfast, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of Daenera's head. Little wisps of hair tickle her cheek as she does it, and she cannot help but smile. All she can think of when she sees her, in spite of all that has happened recently, is how wonderfully hers and Aemond's features have combined to make her. Even when she is this small, she is somehow breathtakingly beautiful, although her mother is quite biased.

"Ñuha dōna zaldrītsos, issa jēda naejot ūndegon aōha dubāzma." My sweet little dragon. It is time to see your cousins.

As she crosses the threshold of the room, a smile wide on her face, her eyes search the room for her aunt. Yet, the second she catches sight of her, her mouth falls open in a scream. There's a man holding Helaena captive in his arms, with a knife to her neck as he tugs her head back with a fistful of her long hair pulled taut. Those typically soft, kind eyes are stricken with fear as they watch the other princess get snatched up by the companion of the person threatening her life. The man behind Helaena is shorter, a mustache growing above his lip with an unkempt beard, and he grins at the sight of Y/N.

"Shhh," a man, Y/N guesses based on the large figure that presses into her from behind, urges her to remain silent with one of his hands clasped over her gaping mouth. "Just keep quiet, or we'll cut that pretty throat and bleed ya dry. We don't want nothing but Prince Aemond's head."

Y/N's eyes turn wide at what he says, and, even though she knows the consequence of disobeying them, she starts to buck against the one holding her and squeals into the palm of his big, dirt-stained hand. Suddenly, all of the hate that flowed through her in the aftermath of him confessing to her brother's murder disintegrates into nothing. All she knows is that she still loves him, and if he dies, the heartache will only compound into something far more tragic than it already is if he is gone.

"Don't scream!" he whisper-yells into her ear, pressing the blade in just enough to break the creamy smooth skin of her neck.

To this, she forces herself to regain whatever scraps of composure that remain within her and nods. Slowly, cautiously, the assassins remove their hands from both of the princess's mouths, but they do not lower their knives. Should either of them try to call for help, they will be silenced in a matter of seconds.

With her newfound freedom, Y/N pleads, making sure to keep her voice down, "I do not know where my husband is, but I am here. If it is him you are searching for, take me instead!"

The babe starts to squirm in her embrace, whining as she wakes to a room filled with fear and despair. After a few seconds, her whines progress into full-on cries that can be heard from the hallway beyond. Y/N tries her best to calm her, rocking her in her arms as much as the man restraining her will allow, but it is useless. This is one of the many times Daenaera is searching for the comfort of one person alone.

That makes three of them who seek Aemond tonight.

"Shut that kid up!" the one holding Helaena spits.

Her captor, however, remains focused on the job they were sent to complete.

"We aren't 'ere for either of you women. We're 'ere for the Kinslayer. Aemond One-Eye."

The shorter man pulls his knife away from Helaena's neck to point in the direction of Y/N–no, she realizes as her heart drops into her stomach–Daenaera.

"What about the babe? That's Prince Aemond's only child, that is. If we're to collect his debt, she will do just fine."

Y/N's face turns red at the mere mention of them taking and hurting her daughter, pulling her tighter until she is flush with her mother's body. If they want to take her, they will have to kill her and kill her quickly. She was trained with the sword by her father, Prince Daemon, and if she manages to steal a knife, it'll be plunged into their hearts one after the next. But with Helaena and the children at the mercy of these depraved people, she doesn't want to risk being the reason for all of their deaths. Her aunt would eventually forgive her for it, but how could she ever forgive herself?

"No," she starts to speak, her voice wavering, "No, you can't–"

The big man is eager to interrupt her begging for her daughter's life with his own plea.

"A son for a son, he said. Does either of them look like a fucking son? If we do this wrong, we don't get paid."

It is only now that it clicks. Why they're here and who must have sent them. A son for a son...a debt to collect...

This could not have been Rhaenyra's orders. Her mother is nothing if not sympathetic to the suffering of other noble women, especially mothers. Having lost her own child in the birthing bed, then Lucerys at Shipbreaker Bay, she would not demand the head of a babe. The instructions would have been clear if they came from her. It would have been to strike down Aemond. Only him.

Tears stream down Y/N's cheeks while they casually debate whose life to end as if none of them matter at all. As if they are choosing which pig to slaughter for the dinner feast. She watches on in horror as the shorter one then points his knife at the other side of the room from which he stands. When she and Helaena look at where he points, her knees almost buckle and send her to the floor. If not for the babe, she likely would have fallen.

He asks his partner, "What about them two?"

All of the eyes in the room turn their attention to the small pair of beds that Aegon and Helaena's twins sleep in. Silence descends over the room like a heavy fog, the deadly kind that only precedes the most horrific moments in life. The twins sleep deeply, unaware of the danger lying in wait in the form of the two men standing a few feet from the ends of their beds.

Y/N's heart hammers against her ribs as she stares at the tiny, rising chests of the children–Jaehaera and Jaehaerys–tangled in their linen sheets with their pale hair spread out like halos on their pillows.

"Which is the boy?" the big one asks. "Tell us!"

Helaena, terrified that her movements will set them off if they're too abrupt, slowly reaches up to unclasp the necklace she is wearing with a dangling gemstone pendant.

"I have a necklace...it's of great value..."

In one swift motion, the bigger man rips the necklace from her heaving chest, pocketing it without a second thought. To answer the pleading look in her eyes, he just shakes his head. There isn't a price high enough to force them to abandon their mission, not when they've already come this far and let the princesses see their faces.

"S'not a son. Which is it?"

The shorter man holds his knife up at Y/N, allowing her to back up until she reaches her aunt's side. Her free hand, the one not clutching her month-old daughter to her chest like a lifeline, reaches for Helaena's hand. Much like the day of Aegon's coronation, she does not smack it away, but it is likely because she is too overwhelmed with the situation at hand to care. It's clear to see how quickly she is forced to process the decision of whether or not to sentence one of her sweet babes to death. A tear slips down her cheek as she shakes her head, not wanting to accept the reality she is living in, and looks between the two men holding their knives out at them. If she does not choose, they will kill them all...they said so themselves that they would bleed the lot of them if she disobeyed when they first entered the room.

"These are children," Y/N says. "Innocents! You mustn't hurt t–"

"Shut that mouth or I will kill every last one of ya!" the bigger one whispers. "Including the little babe in yer arms."

If the knives held out to threaten them weren't enough, that is all it takes for Y/N to shut her mouth and step back to see the situation for what it is. Coming to the very same realization Helaena came to seconds ago, her breaths come in shallower and her stomach churns with the unmistakable feeling of dread. Someone is dying tonight—a son, to be specific—and there is only one son in this bedroom.

The smaller man with the mustache–a rat-catcher, she recognizes from around the Keep–keeps his knife pointed at them.

"Which?"

Y/N's mind races with all the possibilities of how tonight could have happened differently. What if she did not send Aemond away to wherever it is he is right now? What if they had a son instead? If they found her husband like they intended to, would Helaena's children be safe from having to pay the price of his misdeeds? In the end, she can only blame herself for not doing enough and Aemond for killing Lucerys in the first place. As much as she loves him, she would rather Aemond fight these men off than have the children put in harm's way. At least he would stand a chance.

Finally, she is brought out of her haze of self-hatred and regret by the sight of Helaena pointing toward one of the beds.

The bigger man takes a step, then stops.

"Wait, it's the other one. She's not gonna give up the king's heir that easy."

But the rat-catcher stares into Helaena's eyes and shakes his head. Her finger is still pointing to where Jaehaerys sleeps, and Y/N knows it's him. She can see him sleeping with one of the braids she styled for him this morning in his hair.

"No," he says, "she's telling true."

Like a switch was flipped, the men stalk toward the young prince's bed with their weapons at the ready, leaving the two of them standing in a state of utter shock.

Unable to do anything else, Helaena walks to Jaehaera and picks her up from her bed, eyes wide as she watches the men holding her son down with one of their hands flattened over his mouth. Y/N is still frozen as she waits for Helaena to get her daughter, and she has to look away from where the assassins start to slice open the little boy's throat. The only thing she saw before squeezing her eyes shut and turning her head was the sharp side of the blade breaking open his skin. Blood bloomed over the side of the steel fast, far too fast, and she did not care to watch any more.

The sound of the serrated knife sawing at his bone, as well as the spurting of blood, is loud enough to make her collapse to her knees. Her face is pale, her stomach sick, and it takes everything in her not to spill her guts on the floor from having to hear them behead Jaehaerys. Unable to do anything else, she holds Daenaera and turns her back to the two men, curling forward to use her body as a shield to protect her daughter. Even though she knows they got what they came for, she still does it. If she dies, their daughter will be able to cope. Daughters lose their mothers all the time. It's a natural part of life. But a mother losing her daughter is something that should never happen.

That is precisely the reason why her heart aches for her aunt. Not only has she lost her only son, she witnessed it firsthand.

Now, with the men having sprinted out of the room with the young prince's head in a sack, Helaena sees the headless corpse of her baby son and begins to scream.

-

For the next two hours, as servants come in and out of the bedchamber, Y/N remained on the floor with Daenaera clutched in her arms.

Shortly after letting out a bloodcurdling scream, Helaena ran out of the room. To where she went, Y/N does not know, but a flurry of guards came rushing in moments later. Still, she couldn't move. Even as the infant in her arms cried, then later fell asleep, she sat on her knees in the middle of the woven rug and stared at the wall ahead of her. When faced with danger, people either find it in themselves to fight, flee, or freeze. Having been raised the way she was—on the beaches of Dragonstone sparring with her father and brothers at sunrise each morning—she always expected herself to put up a fight. Yet tonight, when it mattered most, she froze.

The servant girl who ran out with the bloodstained sheets in hand came back sometime later and knelt on the ground next to her.

"Princess," she spoke softly, not daring to touch her. "Princess, you must get to bed."

It wasn't until the Queen Dowager came to check on Helaena, fresh from speaking privately with her father, that she managed to get herself off the floor. A soft hand brushed her shoulder, and her head spun around to see who it was. Despite the tenderness of the touch, her mind conjured images of the mysterious men who came in the night for her husband's head and left with that of a little boy's.

It was Alicent.

"Let us go to your chambers, sweetling. Ser Criston Cole has ordered a knight to take the night's watch at your door, and your handmaiden is there to help with the babe while you rest."

She shook her head.

There was a slight pause, understanding the reluctance to function at a time so tragic, then—

"I will see to it that the Grand Maester himself brings something to help you sleep...Come now, please."

It felt like ages that they walked around corridor after corridor until they found their way to the chambers she shared with Aemond up until recently. A fresh fire was lit in the hearth, and Nyla was waiting to take the babe, but she couldn't say a thing to her. Wordlessly, she handed Daenaera off and sat down on the edge of her bed with a faraway, dazed look in her eyes.

When the doors shut behind Alicent, she lifted her head to find Nyla watching her from across the room. Suddenly, she felt so unclean. One of those strange men had touched her, held her to his body in a way no man but her husband has before, and held a blade to her throat with the intent to kill should she have put up a fight. Even though none of Jaehaerys' blood sprayed onto her, she could feel it there coating her skin all the same. Most of all, she felt it on her palms.

"I"—she stammered for a moment and looked into Nyla's kind eyes—"I would like to bathe, please."

"At once, Your Grace," the handmaiden said and went to the door to fetch another couple of servants to help.

The copper bathing tub took the better half of the hour to fill with steaming water, yet they heard no complaints from the princess. Some of them watched her like most people would a wild, dangerous animal. She could feel their eyes on her when she wasn't looking but didn't utter a word. She simply stood from the bed and walked to the tub, shedding her clothes as she went until she was as naked as the day she was born. The fabric fell into a heaping pile that was quickly scooped up a servant the second it hit the floor. Hopefully they would burn them.

The heat doesn't bother her now as she sinks into the deep bathing tub.

If anything it helps as she begins to scrub her hands with the sponge given to her by the additional servants. Slowly, tears begin to well up in eyes. The pressure she puts on the sponge grows harsher with every swipe she makes over her palm. Her shoulders start to tremble, the tears coming faster, and, before she knows it, she is fully sobbing. Every time she closes her eyes, she sees the first slice the blade made into the child's neck, so she keeps them open. Blurred with tears, she keeps them open for the sake of whatever is left of her sanity.

It's all too much.

If she didn't have a daughter, she could've leapt from her window to silence the screaming within her head. Mayhaps if it was, indeed, her daughter that they murdered, she would've taken her own knife to her wrists and ended it all. But that isn't an option. As long as her little girl draws breath, she will do what she can to endure. For her, only her, Y/N would fight those urges.

At the very same time his wife soaks in the tub, Aemond returns to find the Red Keep in a state of disarray. As he walks through the front gates, Criston stops him in his tracks for the sake of asking questions. Did he see anything suspicious? Where was he when the attack occurred? Did he hear what happened tonight?

"Your Nephew, Jaehaerys was slain," says the Lord Commander. "It happened in front of the Queen and Princess Y/N. Two men invaded the walls of the Keep to take his head. The city gates are to remain closed until the villains are caught."

His heart begins to pound the second he hears his wife's name. The rest of the information given to him is shocking, a tragedy to put it lightly, but his concern is mostly focused on her. She may be a strong woman, but to see a child killed right in front of her is something he knows could break her. Before he can open his mouth to ask where she is, Cole is speaking again.

"They threatened to kill your daughter, my Prince...Your wife couldn't be moved from the room for hours. It was only when the Queen Dowager came to see her that she returned to her chambers." There is a solemn pause. "I am expected in a small council meeting in a few moments, though, so do with that information what you will. I will see you on the morrow, Your Grace."

The Lord Commander turns on his heel and walks away after the last word escapes his lips, his hand on the pommel of his sword as he walks in the direction of the council chamber. In Aemond's lifetime and that of his father's before him, no one has ever breached the castle and harmed a member of the royal family. Nothing could have prepared him to receive news like that. For the time it takes for Cole disappears from his view, he stands stock-still in the middle of the open doors and tries to process everything that was just said to him.

Then, he's walking.

For the first time since he told her about what he did to Lucerys, Aemond is taking the familiar route leading toward the chambers they shared together since they were wed. With every step, he is moving faster and faster. The mental images he concocts of his wife and daughter tormented at the hands of those two men haunt him the whole way there. Despite being told by Ser Criston Cole that Jaehaerys was the one slain, he needs to see them. Even if she screams at him to leave and shuns him again, he will feel better having seen that the two of them are alright with his own eye.

The knight standing in front of the door to their chambers steps aside at the sight of Prince Aemond approaching. His gait is sure and confident from the outside looking in and his stare as lethal as ever, but it is all a means to conceal the uncertainty within.

Y/N jolts in surprise at the sound of the door opening. Through her teary eyes, she can only make out the outline of a man walking into the room. The thought of a strange man coming into her bedchamber sends her into a harder fit of sobs, but when she sees Nyla standing beside the babe's cradle with a calm expression, her fear is quickly assuaged. The man keeps walking, coming closer and closer until she can make out his long silver hair and the patch covering his scarred eye socket.

"Aemond!"

Hearing her cry out his name like that—the way she used to—makes him rush across the rest of the space between them and bend down to lift her into his arms. Water drips over the floors and soaks his clothes, but he cares little and less about making a mess when his wife needs him so. His strong arms hoist her from the tub and pull her legs closed around his waist. She clings to his body like it's the only thing left to tether her to the ground, her arms squeezing tight where they wrap around his shoulders.

"They came for you," she whispers through cries that make her whole body shake. "They were sent to kill you, but they couldn't find you." The sounds of her wails reverberate off walls of the sprawling room. "They threatened to kill our girl, then they killed Jaehaerys!"

"Nyke gīmigon, ñuha jorrāelagon, nyke gīmigon," he says softly, brushing her wet hair away from her face. I know, my love, I know. "Iksan kesīr sir. Kesan daor henujagon ēva ao mazverdagon nyke. Iksā ȳgha, ābrazȳrys. Kesan mīsagon īlva lentor." I am here now. I will not leave until you make me. You are safe, wife. I will protect our family.

The sound of his lilting accent when speaking the language of their ancestors brings a sense of relief to her. It's how they have communicated from the beginning of their relationship. Every time they want privacy, or to say something they are too scared to voice in the common tongue, they speak in Valyrian. Hearing him speak it now calms her far more than she anticipated, especially since the death of her brother and the loneliness it caused. It doesn't matter now what has happened. Whatever reprieve she can find from the suffering right now, she takes gratefully.

"You," he says to Nyla as he lowers his wife back into the bath. "Take the babe into the other room for the night."

Y/N grabs his wrists and shakes her head repeatedly, looking up at him with pleading eyes.

"No, please, I don't want her to be alone! I'm—"

"Shhh," he shushes her softly and reaches down to cup her cheek. "She will only be in the adjoining room. Nyla will be with her. There is a knight at the door, and you have me here with you." His eye stares deeply into hers as he forces her to look at him. Just at him. "It'll be okay."

Despite everything that has driven a wedge between them recently, when he says this to her, she believes him. If there is anything Aemond could be counted upon for, it would be his fiercely protective nature regarding what he sees as belonging to him. Within the span of a moment, Nyla is moving the cradle into the other room and shutting the door behind her, leaving her and Aemond by themselves.

Sighing, he kneels down on the wet floor, getting his pant legs soaked, to help her clean herself. The pitcher sitting beside the tub is empty, so he dips it into the water and lifts it up to wet her hair. Those gut wrenching sobs have died down to stifled cries and sniffles.

"Tilt your head," he says.

She does as he asks, leaning her head back so the warm water can soak through her hair. Aemond places the pitcher to the side and reaches over towards the ledge where all the different soaps and oils are placed. There, he finds her favorite one, the one that Daemon sent a gift when she was younger, then returns to her side. The familiar lemon and lavender scent threatens to bring tears to his eyes. After all of the time they spent apart, he almost forgot how much he loved the smell of that soap—of her. With the rain lashing at him from all directions as he watched Lucerys and his dragon fall into the sea in pieces, he could smell her precious soap on his hair. The whole way back to King's Landing, he was tormented by it.

He starts off with her hair, rinses it, then moves on to wash her body. Those rough hands lather the soap on her back, massaging with enough strength to loosen the tight knots in her shoulders but not to hurt.

Strangely, he feels like this is the most intimate moment he's ever shared with a person before. When they bathed together before he left for Storm's End, it had been different. They were both undressed and vulnerable. Equal. Now, he cares for her in a way he never has before. He kneels before her as though he is swearing his fealty, and he helps her bathe much like the servants helped him as a child. There is no ego. No titles. Just a husband and his wife. There is something he quite enjoys about it, though he isn't certain what. Mayhaps it is simply the fact that she needs him. That she finally isn't shunning him as every other woman in his life has.

"I thought about trying to steal one of their knives and killing them," Y/N says suddenly, drawing his mind out from the clouds it floated into. "But I froze...."

Her brows furrow enough for a line to appear between them as she tries to take deep breaths and keep at bay the urge to sob again. Aemond gives her a chance to continue, washing her feet now with a gentleness even she didn't realize he possessed, but she doesn't.

He hums in acknowledgment of what she said, then speaks quietly.

"If it weren't Jaehaerys, it would have been our girl."

This opens the floodgates and unleashes a string of breathless cries from her. Her shoulders jerk with the intensity of it, and she tries to wipe away the tears with her fingers but they keep coming. To think of what happened to that sweet boy happening to her babe, who is but six weeks old, makes her sick to her stomach. Still, she wonders if it makes any difference which child was killed in the grand scheme of things. The loss is infinite to those who loved him, and it will be a death noted in the histories that will outlive them all.

She turns her head to look at him for the first time since Nyla left the room. Her eyes display a sort of pain that his have ever since that day at Driftmark. She was always the happier of the two of them—lighter, almost—but now when he looks at her, he sees his own reflection.

"I begged them to take me in your stead." She chuckles wryly through her tears. "How stupid of me. You murdered my brother, and I tried so hard to hate you. Part of me still does hate you. Part of me will always loathe you, Aemond, but when it truly came down to it, I could not stand the thought of living in a world without you."

To say that this stuns him to silence would be a drastic understatement.

Aemond has spent the days since she banished him from presence in agony. Torn between the guilt he felt for what happened with Luke and the pride that caused him to pretend it had been a purposeful killing to everyone but her, he spent his sleepless nights rereading her favorite book just to feel close to her again. It wasn't until he encountered her at the library earlier this day that it sunk in. That he realized he had lost her. Every day before this one, he held out hope that she would somehow come back to him, but then she pushed him away. That was the only reason he went out into the city when the two assassins came to murder him in his bed.

With everything he knows about himself, about the dark and ugliest facets of his character, he struggles to see how she could ever want to die for him. It doesn't make sense. Yet, nothing never does with them, does it?

He slowly reaches for the hand she holds the rim of the bathtub with. It's a cautious move on his part. Should she smack his hand away, he will retract it and apologize like he was raised to do. But she doesn't. In fact, she lets him rest his hand atop her own. Then, he simply nods. Whether it is to her or his own thoughts, she isn't sure.

His hand squeezes hers tightly.

"Come loathe me at a closer distance, then."

A/N: finally! let me know what you think in the comments if you want to :)

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[minusfivepixiedust]

tips on how to get out of eating

TW: block do not report if this is triggering!

my parents like to force me to eat, or shove food in my face to get me to eat, so i've found some good ways to get out of it that doesn't include purging.

ask to eat in your room. if you're able, bring your food upstairs and flush it down the toilet. wait a while before bringing the plate downstairs.

if you're at a family dinner, smoosh around the food and take one or two bites of the higher cal things (meats, grains) and then eat as much as you can of the lower cal things. say you're not feeling super hungry, and "store the rest for later."

finish as much homework as soon as you can right when you get home, then crawl into bed and sleep or pretend to sleep before dinner comes around. if they try to wake you, say you're exhausted from school and that you'll eat later. this has worked every time i've done it.

stay out of the house during dinner and when you come home say that you ate when you were out. you could say you picked something up or you ate at a friends house.

say you're feeling really nauseous, so nauseous that you can't eat or you'll be sick. this has been pretty successful for me. you just have to exaggerate a lot.

if you have any tips pls comment them <3

[yaekiss]

cupid jordan

cupid jordan in all white. pretty white lace veil that protects that hair that flows down their back to the ground (if they ever stood on it), white robes or a matching top/bottom that flow together seamlessly, modest and graceful. i think they'd have large white wings, reminiscent of a typical angel. simple silver accessories, if at all, maybe those sleeves where it attaches to a ring on the middle finger.

cupid jordan who silently reads over your shoulder, hands sliding down from your shoulder to your chest when they whisper into your ear that it's best if you go to rest now, my mortal one, words honeyed with care they don't show their other assigned humans. cupid jordan who is but a tender one in their love, sweeter than most: kisses to your forehead and temple (REFERENCE!), gaze always so full of love and warmth that it's both hard to look away and hard to look at.

cupid jordan who will lay with you when the days are long and hum you hymns until you peacefully rest, who will shield you with his wings from rain when you forget your umbrella, who will press a kiss to each knuckle and fingertip on the days you can't look in the mirror as he lists every thing he finds beautiful about you (and it's everything about you). cupid jordan who will press a kiss and utter a... seemingly sincere apology even as his arrow pierces through and a warmth fills your heart like nothing before, all consuming. now you love him just as much; surely you understand why he had to take you.

cupid sydney

cupid sydney who is a bit more worldly than his fellow brother-in-arms: clothes that hug their figure more, shorter hem lines, and small fluffy white wings that fit a painting’s depiction of a cupid. they have a casual grasp on the world, listening to this boring couple and that out of proportion fight that leads to a makeout and fuck, but hey, they get the job done. they dress to impress, to fit in, to be the best cupid he can be when he wants to be.

cupid sydney who's just a cupid, really, so who can really say anything against them when you catch their eye. cupids aren't held as high to a standard as guardian angels nor the warriors above them, so cupid sydney doesn't worry when he feels a growing liking for a human so... seemingly uninterested in their matches. well, not that cupid sydney made much of an effort to give you your lover. the moment cupid sydney laid their divine eyes on you was the moment they knew you'd have to be theirs; they can't leave you with these blundering mortals and risk your heart broken!

cupid sydney who has no qualms showing themselves in the human world in your benefit and to get your attention. they'll do whatever it takes, after all. they have eternity for your soul.

cupid sydney who may be your new neighbor after getting rid of the old one and brings you flowers and cookies because it's the polite thing to do as a new neighbor. cupid sydney who may be the new librarian with thick-rimmed glasses and strawberry blond hair down so they fit in better with your fantasies with every little stutter and purposely worded sentence that may hint for them wanting to come to the back with them. cupid sydney who may be the new cafe worker at your favorite playe after hypnotizing the manager so they can learn the skills quicker and shuts down the other businesses just to flirt with you on every cup and have a reason to chat you up every day. cupid sydney who just wants to be in your life, who will force their way in no matter the cost to their own divinity, just as long as they can have you.

cupid kaveh

you can't deny that cupid kaveh really did try when it came to you. he had always been a bit of an overachiever with his goals, and he didn't want you to be his only exception...

but you are!!!

the fact hangs over cupid kaveh's head in a way heavier than any halo or crown imaginable— and cupid alhaitham's teasing doesn't help cupid kaveh one bit.

but he really did try! he's no perfect angel, but he does what he's assigned to do. he dresses practically yet beautifully, would be a model had he not have to constantly account for his own small wings and having to move and fly so much... which usually ends up in him in robes and the most flowy of skirts and bottoms with matching, usually layered tops (it gets cold up there!).

all that's to say, you put him to shame. he should be dressed up to lounge in the heavens, not chase after you! cupids shouldn't be jealous of not having your eyes on them, and cupid kaveh should definitely not be happy when the cramped library means the bastard at your same section ducks down just in time to grab some dropped nonsense for his arrow to miss, nor when the heavy rain means you can't go out to meet some guy in your company's other department, and especially not happy when when your situationship happens to not look at you when his arrow hits. it's not cupid kaveh's fault you're impossible for him!

eventually, he resorts to being more... hands on. he's obsessed, really, with your case, enough that he forgets he can be seen with how he focuses on making the perfect meetcute with the guy with the piercings you thought was cute on the bus or the waiter at the restaurant who gave you his number. that's fine. cupid kaveh isn't upset at all. not even the slightest bit bothered. him changing the table you are assigned to next time you eat there just so you're not in the waiter's section is unrelated. so is when cupid kaveh makes a bit of a scene by using a bit too much love on his arrow to get the waiter fired (and the waiter lives a bit too far to grab a job so close in this city... a bonus for cupid kaveh— no, you! you, he swears). you start seeing him... more, actually. he's cute, blending in with the couples and those dressed up as a caricature of his job, walking around the library you were in or places you frequented. the short skirts this early in the year is questionable, but nothing you will question every time he drops an arrow, always bending down while standing right in front of you (on purpose?) to where it goes up and reveals more than enough to drool over in bed. (it's not cupid kaveh's fault underwear isn't popular in heaven; no need for much modesty). you see him more and more, still dressed in his whites and creams and pastels and butter yellows with green, and it's almost like he's following you, and your only constant nowadays. he's waiting for you with an umbrella when it's raining, he drives you home because you haven't heard from your close friend in a while and you need a ride, and cupid kaveh's adorable when defending you from anyone who so much as glances your way...

it looks like he still got the job done.

cupid welt

in his senior age, cupid welt isn't about the thrill of chasing the hormonal human youth anymore. his wings are large but tired, needing a bit more care and less of the tension flying brings his aching muscles, his clothes are more suited for lounging than anything, and he has no real need to do this job anymore...

but he likes the tranquility of you being his last assigned human. a breath of fresh air for cupid welt. he lays on your bed and watches you type on your computer, listens to your vidoes and music or watches the essays and series you put on. it's a comfortable life and assignment that he prefers, so he's in no rush with any arrows in sight, but he still cares deeply for you. you awake to a hot drink in the morning to wake you up, come out of the bathroom with your bed done, and your documents saved on your computer.

cupid welt is a comfortable presence for you when he shows himself inadvertently: he's fallen asleep a few times on your bed with your blanket or his wing draped over him to keep him a bit warmer, his occasional whispers to tell you the words you've forgotten about or what you were planning to write down that day, even his chuckles when something amusing happens in something you watch. you swear that if you're haunted, you like this ghost, but you're lucky to see only cupid welt there enjoying himself.

cupid welt who holds good, long conversations and doesn't judge you for your pasttimes and hobbies. it's statistically much safer for you to be writing fanfiction in your home and drinking tea than partying out on a friday downing shots. cupid welt who will stay up with you in times of insomnia, will listen to your troubles and provide timeless advice (and some a bit aged, perhaps a few centuries off on occasion). he's well-meaning and inviting, comforting. it's cupid welt's last assignment, so his focus is solely on you...

...and you're grateful (you're into older men).

𝑳𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝑺𝒉𝒐𝒕

꩜ Room Content: GN! Reader x Yan! Cupid! GN! Jordan, Yan! Cupid! GN! Sydney, Yan! Cupid! Kaveh, Yan! Cupid! Welt (separate), no gendered terms for reader, unhealthy and obsessive relationship from the characters, lmk if I missed out anything! ꩜ A/N: PULPIEEEEEE I'M SMOOCHING YOU ON THE MOUTH I drooooool reading your writing sigh......... I feel like I still have cupid thoughts but can't get them on paper (screen in this case) >< I ammmmmm thinking about a cupid!reader with a yan!ren but I need to play more 14dwy first before I can actually write something I'll be happy with orz

🏷️𝑹𝒐𝒐𝒎 𝟎𝟎𝟎𝟐: 𝑱𝒐𝒓𝒅𝒂𝒏 ꒷꒦ Human!Reader x Yan!Cupid!Jordan ꒦꒷

I already wrote for cupid Jordan in a previous post but could you imagine the aftermath of the arrow?

Jordan finally has you in their lap, your eyes don't stray elsewhere, and you're reciprocating all their touches with even more heated ones. It's pure indulgence, rich and sinful with every kiss and hickey you lavish on them.

But something nags at the back of their mind. Your matchmaking case file collects dust on some tabletop somewhere, or maybe Jordan's already hid it somewhere, rotting and forgotten in a drawer. It's only when you're asleep next to them, in the quietness of the night where all they can hear is the soft thumps of your heartbeat, that these thought fester.

Without the arrow, would you still love them like this? Still come back home and kiss them on the cheek as you stroll through the door alone?

Or would your case have inevitably been transferred onto another cupid? One more mechanical and heartlessly-efficient in their matchmaking, where you're simply another case file to be completed and shelved away?

Closing their eyes and tucking their face into the crook of your neck, they can't really find it in themselves to feel the least bit guilty.

🏷️𝑹𝒐𝒐𝒎 𝟎𝟎𝟎𝟏: 𝑺𝒚𝒅𝒏𝒆𝒚 ꒷꒦ Human!Reader x Yan!Cupid!Sydney ꒦꒷

Sydney, as a cupid, has never really wanted for anything particularly. Sure, they want for boring cases to be over, they want for a more interesting matchmaking target the next time around. But apart from these more minor wants, Sydney thinks to be above wanting. It makes sense for a cupid to skew more towards giving rather than wanting.

So imagine their surprise when they begin to feel your case tugging on their heartstrings. You were meant to just be another matchmaking case file, just a simple mortal who'll end up in the archives after their job is done. Just how did you end up occupying all of Sydney's thoughts?

As the days pass on, they become more and more reluctant to match you with yet another failed target. Partly because you always seem so uninterested in the list of people selected for you on your case file, but mainly because Sydney can't help but picture your perfect match being them. Slotting themselves next to you in their fantasies, thinking of embracing you, your body warm against theirs. It's all too easy to give in.

It's not unheard of for cupids to personally go down into the human realm to matchmake in disguise. Although typically reserved for tougher cases, Sydney supposes that yours manages to qualify as a more difficult one. (And definitely not because they've ceased firing their arrows a lot earlier on.)

Soon, you begin to see the same strawberry blond popping up in the various locations that you frequent. If they're not your new neighbour who somehow manages to leave their house the same time as you do every day, then they're the new librarian who just so happens to have the same taste in books as you do. Or maybe they're the new barista at your favourite cafe who always pushes a cup of your beverage of choice into your hands, saying, "I messed up another order again, I don't want it to go to waste, it's still tasty, I promise! ><"

However, despite all this, you would have to be the one to make the first move. Deep down, Sydney can want and want and want but if you don't reciprocate, the both of you would just be stuck in some sort of strange courting flirting stalemate. The second that you show mutual desire towards them though? Something clicks in Sydney. [- - Sydney's Purity]

The more that you indulge Sydney in their advances, brushing a stray crumb from the corner of their mouth, a swipe of your tongue against their lower lip, sneaky makeout sessions in a secluded corner somewhere, the more obsessed they become over you. They'd make sure that the last one on your list of potential matches says their name.

You'd take responsibility if a cupid is kicked out of heaven and has to stay with you forever, right?

🏷️𝑹𝒐𝒐𝒎 𝟎𝟕𝟎𝟗: 𝑲𝒂𝒗𝒆𝒉 ꒷꒦ Human!Reader x Yan!Cupid!Kaveh ꒦꒷

With a glorious 100% success matchmaking streak so far, cupid Kaveh is not about to let your case be the one to end it! He's already employed all his usual foolproof methods that he uses for more stubborn cases and yet, nothing seems to be working.

He slouches and sighs as Alhaitham, his fellow cupid, slings an arm over his shoulders. There's that irritating smug look on his face again when he opens his mouth to ask, "Still stuck on this same case, Kaveh? I could take them off of you, you know."

To which, Kaveh just grumbles out, "Same answer again, no. I have to complete this case myself if it's the last thing I do!"

When yet another surefire arrow misses its mark yet again, Kaveh decides that he's had enough. You've pushed him to his last resort and left him with no choice but to venture down to the human realm for the first time in his cupid lifetime.

While Kaveh grapples with blending into the human crowd, you on the other hand, are having one of the strangest few months of your life. There seems to be no shortage of attractive people around you but all of them kind of end up going... nowhere? Not that you're particularly upset by it, most of them were just fleeting aesthetical attractions after all. However, there is a certain pretty blond hanging around you no matter where you go that always catches your eye.

"Are you part of some archery club?" Your voice from behind scares Kaveh a little. How did you manage to corner him in the library aisle while his back was turned? "I mean, I always see you carrying around your bow parts and arrows. So I assumed..."

Kaveh spins quickly to face you, his short skirt swishing slightly in the process. (His eyes don't miss how your gaze drops down to his creamy thighs for a split second. For some reason, he doesn't mind it.)

"Uh, something like that," he starts up, internally cursing that you've managed to catch him in his cupid act. The silence that follows is a little too awkward for Kaveh's liking so he clears his throat before continuing, "Ah, I'm new around here but I think I see you around quite a bit too? If you don't mind me asking, what's your name?"

You're a soothing presence to be around, Kaveh realises now that he's seeing you for you and not just another case to be cleared to continue his matchmaking streak. And maybe that's why he hasn't been able to succeed so far. None of those previous potential matches deserve you in the slightest. What's more worrying is that, he fears that no human deserves you after all.

When you rest your head against his shoulder in a cozy cafe as the heavy rain falls outside, his heart speeds up at the innocent contact. It's not hard for a genius cupid like Kaveh to understand what he must do.

If no other human deserves you, then someone more divine has to do the trick.

🏷️𝑹𝒐𝒐𝒎 𝟎𝟎𝟎𝟕: 𝑾𝒆𝒍𝒕 𝒀. ꒷꒦ Human!Reader x Yan!Cupid!Welt ꒦꒷

Welt is a cupid who puts his all into each and every one of his assigned matchmaking cases. However, he can't really say the same for your case. Not that he's putting in less effort for you, heavens no, but because he's putting in... more effort than usual?

He's not too sure why himself but there's just something so calming about you. How fitting that you should be his last and final assigned case, every time he whispers the song title or answer that's just on the tip of your tongue, he's greeted by your charming smile, as if it's thanks for his help. Welt feels appreciated, and he's slowly growing increasingly attached towards you.

Since you can't see him just yet, the domesticity is a little one-sided. It's not until you stumble into the kitchen too early one day and see him preparing your morning beverage with his large folded wings out in plain sight.

Learning about the existence of cupids was jarring at first, but you take it with as much grace as a reader/writer of fanfic can. But after some time, Welt manages to settle into your daily routine, a steadfast anchor that you can come back to in your home.

Despite all this, he's not fully out of the whole cupid business yet. He knows he's being overprotective and yet, he can't help it but be a little snappish when the higher ups ask if he wants to skip out on his final case since it's taking so long.

"You've long earned your rest, Welt," they chuckle amongst themselves but he can't any semblance of relief when he hears their plans of transferring you to another cupid. How could he hand you off to some other rookie cupid after he's decided to spend the rest of his eternity with you? It just simply won't do.

He readies up his final shot as he makes sure that your eyes are focused solely on him alone.

Thanks for reading! Consider supporting me on kofi if you enjoyed this or check out my other works hehe ♡

If you'd like to request a full fic of your own, do consider checking out my event post!

[thisredwine]

@drdemonprince i hope it's ok that i include your tags in my reblog bc @yusiyomogi made a great point with the og post and your tags are a great addition. i think the key to making his character work in s3 is to "tone down" some of the cartoonishness/chaoticness of his depiction from s1-s2 while keeping that larger-than-life, unpredictable vibe intact so he doesn't feel like an entirely different person. they need to ground him, and i think the one present day scene from the s2 finale- the only scene where we see lestat from a 100% "objective" pov- indicates how the show could accomplish that. lestat's meant to be in a really bleak place here so we know he isn't gonna act this way thru all of s3- but he has a more muted presence compared to his frenetic energy in the flashbacks, but still maintains some of his campy flourishes-

and the above moment is great acting-wise bc you get that it's supposed to be really performative and sarcastic in-universe- you're supposed to see right past his attempt at playing smug and grandiose and see he's pitiful and just tryna put up a front. and that's another way they could play his persona in s3- have lestat in his rockstar era go bigger and more cartoony than he's ever gone before but intentionally lean on the fact that it's an act, and he's putting it on to avoid confronting some hard truths about himself, his past, what others have done to him and what he's done to louis and claudia. the facade v reality-

this could be an interesting twist for louis' arc too bc for most of s2 he was dealing with a partner who was constantly putting on a facade that louis didn't really know was a facade, but in s3 louis could know from jump that lestat's really putting on an act and spiraling and his reactions could shift based on that. and that's why i think louis needs to be a heavy, consistent presence thru the present day plot of s3, more than anyone anticipates just based on the source material- the show needs louis as a grounding force for the chemistry of the new interview/documentary/etc to work bc lestat- even a more "real"/toned down lestat- and daniel are both super snarky, sharp, performative characters and based on daniel's "mid life crisis at 69" vibe in the s2 finale they'd rather do cocaine-infused blood jello shots or whatever instead of confronting their feelings if they had a 1-1 interview. just like daniel in s1-s2 cut thru louis and armand's serious, lyrical, introspective narration and acted as the "this is how the average cynical older white cis man watching cable would react to this show" commentary to ease the general audience into the gothic melodrama, louis needs to balance out lestat and daniel's energy and be the audience's tether to the first 2 seasons thru this massive tonal shift. like yusiyomogi said above, i don't think s3 is gonna be about "vindicating" lestat wrt louis and claudia's recollections of him or continuing to go "i told you so!!" in louis' face- and if it did that it'd be awful not just from a writing pov but from a survivor-forward writing pov- but having lestat truly confront some things about the harm he's done to his husband and child without discrediting the fact that lestat himself is a survivor and has been abused by other characters.

like it's really loud that lestat was still like "what does your companion think of that??" "i gave you to armand" in the s2 finale- he still talks about companionship, and louis, in terms of possession, and that mixed with the "he doesn't say sorry yet" yusiyomogi mentioned makes me hopeful that they'll be doing interesting things with his arc. i think some folks have this idea of s3 that's like, lestat metaphorically going "take that!! i was the biggest most sympathetic woobie all along and i did nothing wrong ever (unironic)" to the viewers who currently hate him between musical numbers, but that's not really a story

what i like about iwtv series is that so far writers had a very strong vision and understanding of the themes they wanted to convey. the writing wasn’t just a plot for plot's sake or some deep observations to make the story look smarter than it was. what made those 2 seasons great was the narrative, how cohesive and fully realized it was with no time wasted.

that makes me believe (or rather, hope) that season 3 will be better than what people expect from it. idk, it always feels like what people wanna see is the events, not the meaning behind them. like. louis's story was very interesting to watch, but the most important part was the layer right under the plot. him looking back at the events of his life, making sense of them and realizing how his multilayered trauma and self-denial led him to repeated cycles of unhealthy behavior and unwise decisions that hurt him and his loved ones (the lack of security and control leads to aggressive response leads to self-hate leads to harmful passivity etc).

and i feel strongly that season 3 is gonna do the same thing for lestat. him looking back at the events of his life not to say "see i was also hurt" or rub it into louis's face or something, but to process his trauma and fully realize how his own unhealthy cycles and ignorance hurt his family (and i mean louis and claudia ofc). i think as remorseful and genuine as he was in the end of season 2, his stance was unfortunately just a part of that cycle still, the one where he feels very guilty and cries and just says whatever people wanna hear to get a small bit of their love back. but he truly wasn't ready to apologize and the fact that writers didn't let him "yet" is why i have hopes for that story.

[yellowwwcrayon]

I love the idea of In-ho having tu recruit people for the games because he lost a bet.

Like, imagine him, the Recruiter and the Masked Officer, all hanging out in Captain Park's boat. Just chilling, fishing and drinking before this year's game season begins. They're all slightly drunk, except for the Masked Officers, who's a beer away from an alcoholic coma (he really can't stand their bullshit sober).

And then the Recruiter starts to openly complain about how hard it has been to recruit new people lately, and In-ho scoffs hard because, how hard can it be? The country is full of desperate people willing to do anything for money. You just have to know where to look.

Seok-woo, talking with a slightly slurring speech: Oh, oh, so you think my job is easy? You think you could do it better than me?

In-ho: Well, yes.

Seok-woo: Okay. So how about this: I bet that I can recruit 228 players faster than you can.

In-ho, not sober enough to know what he's betting on and just wanting to prove him wrong: Fine.

Seok-woo, to the Masked Officer: Good, you are our witness to our bet.

The Masked Officer doesn't answer him because he's too busy focusing in not throwing back.

A couple of week passes and one Monday, Seok-woo sends In-ho a text message: I'm starting recruiting now. I will tell you when I'm done with the 228th.

And In-ho is all like "???? What's this whore talking about now?" So when he consults the Masked Officer about it and finds out what they bet that day on their little fishing trip (judging by what the Masked Officer remembers, that is actually a 23% of that day) he's like "Well, shit." He can't not do it, that arrogant bastard will never shut up if he doesn't even try it. So he decides he's doing it.

it took Seok-woo two weeks to recruit all the 228, meaning he has to do it in 13 days, tops.

The next Monday, he puts on a very elegant designer suit and some black leather gloves (basically LBH's look in Red 2 🫦) and starts his work.

It goes well, at least at first. But the time limit is getting close and he only has 227. He has only a couple of hours before the day number 13 ends, so he needs to find someone and he needs to find them now.

So he decides to try the subway again one last time. He looks around and around, but no one looks desperate enough.

And then he finds him.

A middle age man wearing poor quality clothes and everything about him screams that he has just lost all his will to keep going. He looks so depressed. Also, he has bruises on his face and dried blood near his nose.

In-ho immediately knows that he's the perfect man he has been looking for.

And then you can imagine what happens 🤭 But imagine that after having played with Gi-hun and finding him fascinating, now there are two wolfs inside In-ho. One that says that he should give Gi-hun the card and win the bet, and the other that says that he should lose the bet on purpose, let the arrogant bastard have his two minutes of glory and take Gi-hun to the nearest love motel. He didn't miss the way Gi-hun flushed slightly when he mentioned that he could pay with his body if he didn't have money enough, or the way his eyes were fixed on his leather gloves for a while before he took them so he could sleep him.

The cackle I let out when I read "What's this whore talking about now?" They would be so bitchy with one another. Men are capable of extremely toxic relationships/friendships lol.

Also, I feel like Inho would actually not be very good at recruiting. Like Inho has resting bitch face and Recruiter has better EQ and looks flirtier than our awkward little dad joke cracking taxidermy collecting freak. Inho probably still carries himself like law enforcement, too. Force of habit and the homeless/debt avoiders have a sixth sense for these types of people, so they scatter when they make eye contact like cockroaches when you flip on the light and that makes him progressively madder and madder, which makes the law enforcement aura worse...lol

anyway, I freaking love this so much. @everwhovian more for you to chew on from an awesome anon 💖

Like this man is a lot more suave than our murder kitten Hwang Inho. They’re both insane freaks on the inside but he hides it better I feel.

[f-liner]

For as much as I love chocogummy, I feel like making Hanto die basically everytime the episode is ending is kind of becoming repetitive.

I like that they showcase how he is still a human, even with the Granute organ and kamen rider powers, he still is the weakest, which ends up making him the one who loses the most.

But at the same time he always faints in the same dramatic way, with Shouma screaming his name. It's kind of funny because of how often it happens.

Like, can you imagine the staff meeting with the actors? "So at the end you-" "I faint while Chinen screams my name? " "yeah, and then-" "and then next episode he cradles my dead body while I sleep on his lap? " "..."

Still I hope he realizes this and that it will be plot relevant in the future. Like whatever upgrade he will have will actually make him stronger.

[ur-local-multishipper]

This is actually really interesting to think about, but I think I found a pretty good answer to this question.

Throughout the series it's been hinted at (or more like revealed at this point) that Tsukasa is Hanako's Yorishiro. And that kid has done some INSANE stuff. He killed the previous No.3 in his own Boundary. Correct me if I'm wrong but weren't we previously told (by Hanako himself nonetheless) that Mysteries are practically invincible in their own Boundary. So, either the previous No.3 was weaker than he seemed (which is unlikely from what little we have seen of him he doesn't seem like a shabby supernatural at all) or Tsukasa is an absolute freak of nature. I'm betting my money on the latter. And are we forgetting the fact that he was that good at manipulating people that one of the times he did he:

Caused the school's time to stop

Broke the Clock Keeper's Yorishiro effectively making them lose their spot as a School Mystery

Toyed around with Hanako, who yeah is his brother but who is also the Leader of the School Mysteries

Was so good he forced the Clock Keepers to have to go back in time to stop him

Also, I know we're talking about the original timeline, but even in the alternate time he's still as creepy and powerful as in the original one. (Okay, maybe not as powerful but he hasn't lost his touch.)

So basically, I what I was trying to say by going on that whole Tsukasa Glazing Campaign is that Tsukasa is just Hanako's Yorishiro. If that's Tsukasa can do, imagine what Hanako could if he went off the rails like his twin did. Or imagine what an unsealed Hanako could do.

But then again Yorshiros aren't reflections of their owner's power. However, my point still stands since they're twins. So, I present to you Exhibit B.

Kou mentioned that it took all his grandma's strength to seal Hanako, and from what we've seen of his brother, Teru, the Minamoto's are no slouch when it comes to exorcism. It's literally the family business. Also, (again correct me if I'm wrong but) didn't Hanako say, after he almost got exorcised by Teru, that he played up his pain so Kou would feel bad and try to defend him. Of course, he could play up his pain because he was in pain but I'm not sure if Teru can exorcise him.

You mentioned that out of all the obviously more competent Mysteries they still decided to choose him to be the leader. I don't think that's the case. Because remember:

The Clock Keepers have chosen to maintain their distance ever since he made the pervy comment (with Akane stating he hates him).

Yako also hates him.

Mitsuba fears him but he doesn't count because he wasn't around when Hanako became a Mystery.

By this logic, Shijima doesn't really count either since you stated in your post that she seems younger than him in terms of time as a supernatural which makes sense. She hates him though.

Tsuchigomori seems both exasperated and fond of him in a way.

Hakubo is indifferent to him (at least from what I can remember).

I don't think they would go out of their way to vote for him, especially when there are better options. So, the only logical way he could have become the leader is if he was simply too powerful to be challenged.

The Seven Mysteries

(Yes I know Hanako-kun is technically really stronk or whatever)

The 4PM Bookstacks can allow you to see in the future, the Hell of Mirrors could decimate anybody with any sort of dangerous fear, the Clockeepers can alter the very fabric of the universe, Shijima-san of the Art Room can create fictional worlds at will, No. 6 has power over life and death itself, the Misaki Stairs can turn people into dolls and trap them in a pocket dimension outside of the school....

And they chose a thirteen year old child (no matter how you slice it he's at least the 2nd youngest by time as a supernatural, Shijima might be younger since she had access to modern medicine) "living" in the bathroom with a knife as their leader????

[team5ds]

the worst part is i can't even say he's wrong. they certainly did figure out how to contribute the city by joining the wrgp. but like. this is one of those things where it literally does not make sense. this is insane levels of logic. "we're not sure how to contribute to the city. we think entering a magic the gathering tournament will help." like. imagine saying that fr when your parents ask what you're going to do after you graduate college. "idk. thought i'd play card games and figure it out, man"

[pickaropoprocks]

Day 93!! Happy Pride!!

[twilight-deviant]

I've seen some people impatient for Fisk in his white suit again. (Probably? gonna happen in the next episode?) But I would like to point out a subtle wardrobe middle-ground to his "past self" of the original series.

Since Born Again started, Fisk has been wearing two-piece suits. (Something very apparent to me as I always admired his three-piece ensembles from Daredevil.) But then I noticed he had on vests again. This transition to his prior self even occurs midway through 1x06, specifically the scenes where he goes hard on Muse/vigilantes and then kills Adam.

Episodes 1 - 6.5 versus 6.5 - 7

The changeover happened literally from one back-to-back scene (bottom-left to top-right) to the next. (With him learning of Muse's most recent victims in between.) What's interesting is they're still dark three-piece suits like his S1 self, when he was convinced he was doing necessary evil for the greater good.

It's subtle, but it's a nice touch.

[isolatednights]

"loves it," she confirms, giggling at a memory that pops into her thoughts, "but he's horrible at it. hides in plain sight - behind curtains with his feet sticking out the bottom." an ache forms in her chest, longing for that again. heavily lidded eyes blink up at the man seated beside her, digits momentarily tightening around his. "reading. he's really smart - always wanted another story. and lions. we packed his stuffed lion. he wanted his namesake to protect us when we got where we're going." and now, they wouldn't get there. and there was a chance she'd never relive any of these memories. it ought to have made her weepy, yet aiyla drunkenly sighed. "'m gonna wake him."

easy as breathing. how perfectly put, she thinks. "i'll communicate." she promises quietly. it's a step-up from the avoidance she'd demonstrated to date, too overwhelmed with her feelings. but hearing what he'd gone through? a repeat seemed unwarranted and the last thing she wanted was to have any resemblance to the woman always making him try to fix something he'd not even broken to begin with. "don't wanna fight. just... wanna be happy. breath easy. can we do that?"

she was beautiful when she laughed this freely, and not for the first time, silas wished he had some sort of artistic talent to try and capture the moment. "ahh and i got her to laugh. i'll consider that my triumph of the day." he'd spend any piece of free time working to ensure all rooms he had access to were open to them all... and perhaps in the future, he could invite eris along to discover what they might find. barking out a laugh, he flashed her a grin. "you have to promise to pause the movie then. otherwise i'll yap your ear off and ask a million questions once i return."

it's a nice thought, forming some sort of routine. whether it was just the two of them or the entire group. he's so wrapped up in thinking up additional suggestions that silas doesn't initially catch her correction. it's only once she's beginning to try to get up that he realizes what's going on - fingers reaching out to curl around her wrist. "no, no - not a stupid idea at all." his grip loosens and releases her - not wanting to seem like he's forcing her into something. "i was just thinking of something way cheesier as an additional option. before bed, at night? stargazing, was done back on earth, right? we could toss some mattresses and blankets on a floor, lay with our heads against the glass of one of the windows. point out and name constellations we pass."

bubbly pink was certainly a little brighter than the monotone gray that currently painted most of the ship. asher has to stop himself from speaking immediately - knowing that if he's too careless with his words, she might only imagine bits and pieces of their conversation once she wakens, leaving a high potential for everything to be interpreted poorly. "then you'll have to find your courage. 's not like we're going to be capable of avoiding one another while we're on the ship."

he wanted to believe her - that it was that easy. having someone else to help shoulder the burden alongside him - but asher had grown familiar with the weight of the world and giving even a portion of it to someone else was sure to set him off balance. "think this is the sort of thing we ought to be discussing when you're back in your right mind. it's not a small commitment." and she knew next to nothing about him. chuckling when she parroted his words about being good, the man leaned back within his seat once the iv was in. at least she's no longer pressing for him to be in the smaller than hell cot. "go to sleep, sweetheart."

"does he? what other thinks does he love? what are his favourite things?" he asked about aslan because he wanted her to drift off with happy thoughts, thoughts and memories of her boy happy with things he enjoyed. he hoped it might work, and a slight part of him simply adored hearing her speak about something precious to her, how soft she sounded when she did.

he let out a breath he wasn't sure why he'd held. "it wasn't love at first sight with her, how it was before was..." again his face scrunched, the answers weren't easy and they didn't sound great either. "it was a lot of fightin' in the end, to make it work.. and it didn't always work, we didn't want the same things all the time, she didn't even want to do this whole thing. think she only chose it 'coz the alternative wasn't givin' anyone much time left and, i don't know.... she was always angry at me for somethin' i'd done and i never knew what that somethin' was, but i always tried to fix it. it don't feel like that with you, at all. feels as easy as breathin' with you."

"right okay." she laughed though, shaking her head. "yeah, that was smooth i'll give you that one." eris shuffled, arm moving to rest around her knees. she really did seem more at peace in here. she wasn't half as guarded and part of her questioned herself, with how easy talking to him felt. it didn't feel like a chore or a challenge. "i think i'd like that." in a way it sounded like a space for her to cool down, to be away from all the rest of this ship. "...silas i will not stop you from peeing."

"we should like, make this a thing. hot chocolate and time in here where it feels like.. not space, you know like on an ight, before bed and after like all the shit we have to do on this ship and stuff." it was a passing thought, one she voiced and then it was like she snapped into realisation, that it'd be a terrible thing for her to want that. "that was a really stupid idea, yeah you don't.." she turned her head away, went to get up. heaven forbid eris want people near, but at what point would he realise exactly why she was on this ship? security... people that'd be able to lay down the trouble, that would've been protectors if they had issues, executioners. that's the word they'd used when she had been applying. an executioner. she had no idea what that tablet told him, she simply assumed he'd want nothing to do with her if he knew. "you don't have to do that, that was stupid."

"it'd just seem a little brighter." and she missed it, her apartment had been all pastel colours but regardless, it wasn't monotone.. the gray, endless gray, it just made her feel like she was in a prison. "what if i'm too shy around you sober? the words don't leave my mouth the right way." like they were now? the amount of alcohol was the only thing that'd removed that filter of nerves. "i get so nervous around you i just... i want to be close, i don't know you just... you make me feel safe."

she got a little laugh from him, her own smile warm and giggly. smitten, really. "well what if you don't have to just look after yourself now? i can look after you too, even your little sister even though i... that.." she pulled her brows, her sympathy for it was... she felt it deeply, it upset her and eden carried so much guilt for it. her eyes moved back to him, focus on him... oh she could do that, she was... her eyes just on him, nowhere else. she didn't feel a thing, but she ended up lookking so comfortable, her hand resting on his forearm, her head snuggling down into a pillow. "i am good." she mumbled, uncovered by a blanket but.. comfortable, with him and once that iv was done, her hand slid to hold around his hand. "i'll take care of you too."

[ask-nikolaorsinov]

{ it had never before been bothered before by the odd textures and sensations of the other circus members, but her nerves practically scream at the sensation of the Angler's squeeze, the hair on the back of her neck raising as her entire body tries to recoil from the abject wrongness of the touch. } { she bites back the reaction, blinking, only to tense once more as its mind tilted, just so, with a gentle click, before releasing a long breath as it settles }

{ there's a tightness in her chest, hands clenching into fists as its' gaze ends up locked upon the Angler } { in its space, in her theatre, old and powerful and intruding with too many limbs and hands and stranger danger the Angler is her only choice but there is no trust and it is intruding and there are people above, a building above a stage that should be hers just like this stage is hers, it misses performing it needs to perform it needs to take the stage, to chase off those that would take it from her those that would take her title her role her- } { its strange to feel territorial when much of the past century was spent carrying little and sharing frequently, going from place to place to place with no set 'home' } { but here it is, hands twitching for a moment before she gripped the arms of her chair to keep them occupied, thumbs rubbing against the wood } { she still has her knives- } { it needs to calm down it had just calmed down it can't go spiralling again it feels restless, aching for a distraction, to get up and run and- and do *something } { but the angler speaks, leaning past her shoulder and it listens, focus snapping to it and tunnel visioning once more- close, so close, intruding- }

"'Something'?" { awfully vague } "I don't suppose you could be a bit more specific than that?" { it doesn't want to end up trapped like this it doesn't want to remain stuck it can't lose its' position it can't- there is a stranger in her space, is she truly going to help? } { She feels small- weak, vulnerable, prey, it- }

{ it gasps, startled out of its' thoughts as its restrained in just a single movement, resisting in an initial panic before it can force itself to ease- the Angler is her only chance its' her only chance, her best chance this needs to happen- } { its hard to simply relax, but it tries. Tries to ignore the racing pulse and shaky breaths, sweat- eurgh- rolling down its' forehead. }

{ it had been the most excrutiating pain Nikola had ever experienced, that initial recreation. More than any of her bumps and falls and collisions and even the time it had shot its' own foot during practice- but the end result had made it all worth it } { Gregor had only been cautious in that he had never done such a thing before and didn't want to recklessly turn her to mush. Beyond that- he was careless, rough, pulling her apart in a way that was simultaneously distant whilst also being personally excited for the end result of his work. } { Maybe it was inexperience, or even that he enjoyed the sounds of her screams but when she first came-to after the event it had been afraid it must've lost all ability of speech entirely, given how hoarse and raw her voicebox was, not even a single squeak escaping her for weeks } { its' limbs already ache, as though trying to get a headstart before the Angler began pulling out tendons and tearing off muscles }

{ idly, its' curious how the experience will differ. } { Angler was a far cry from Gregor, after all. Not just holding more experience in the field of this recreation, but also a… softer personality, almost, less rigid. } { Nikola knows better than to underestimate it, however } { it hadn't the option to watch the procedure last time, no mirror at all, but its' not sure it's wise to watch the proceedings, as interesting as it would be- but it struggles to close its' eyes, unable to look away from the reflection } { it grips the arms of the chair tighter, knuckles turning white as it pushed down the unease coiling within her gut, gritting her teeth together as she prepared for the pain } { Her voice trembles }

"Go ahead."

- oh....Nicola. Since when did.....you decide to use human....bodies instead of mannequins?

[Angler's, as usuall, a bit mechanical voice comes from the behind the scene, moving towards Nicola. But this time there is a little confusion is heard]

@anglercigarett

{ it startles- of all times for the Angler to drop by, now?!- the makeup palette it had been holding clatters against the vanity. }

"I didn't- not- do- maybe!" { it flounders, struggling for a response, hands clenching and unclenching before she slams one against the desk surface- grimacing slightly at just how much sensation there was. It forgot how much plastic had dulled its' sense of touch. }

{ a sigh, heavy and laden. She clasps her hands together, voice a little higher as it speaks past clenched teeth and oh it forgot how those tended to muffle the sounds, how much of a burdain a mouth truly was. }

"A… situation. Happened upon me."

{ any attempt at maintaining control and composure is easily shattered by taking one look at it's real-permanent-identifiable-solid-unchaning-known-exposed face, covered in a myriad of colours and shapes, some half-wiped away and repainted over. } { This sort of makeup frenzy is rare. And typically a sign she's not doing particularly well. } { It pauses, turning to the mirror once more and harshly scrubbing at a cheek, as though perhaps if it cleaned hard enough it could remove the skin entirely to reveal the plastic that was meant to be underneath, as though all this skin and meat was just clay and prosthetics after all } { it just leaves the spot feeling red and raw. } { maybe purple would make it look better- a rhombus? } { it needs to remake itself it needs to be remade, remade, the paint usually helps, a change of appearance allowing a change in mood and change in mind and- } { it needs to remake itself properly, with plastic and sawdust but that's a tall task and it's not even sure if it would- } { focus, focus, just focus on the small things. It needed to calm down (of course it was calm why wouldn't it be calm a monster doesn't panic a monster rips and tears and- and Nikola is a monster Nikola is still a monster even bound in flesh and blood and fat and muscle and it is not vulnerable nor is it weak or scared it is a star it is- } { just a human body in a small room with a large beast. }

{ the paint isn't enough, the flesh betrays her, it feels a furrow in her brow and downturn of her lips and she feels all too easy to read, a stranger that isn't a stranger at all }

"Not to worry, though- I'll have it sorted before you know it!"

{ the ringmaster must have everything under control } { a flaw, a weakness, a failure- it'd risk losing more circus members, risk somebody else, somebody more monstrous, more capable, tearing her apart to take the title just as she did her own predecessor. }

{ it was transparent, the Angler would see right through, the Angler would- } { maybe it could try changing the subject?? }

"What brought you here anyways- oh, need a little help with something, did you? Why- have a question for me, did you?"