#Embroidery Places near me

[globosoft123]

At Designtex, we place emphasis on quality materials and superior craftsmanship to cater to the needs of the readymade uniform sector. We cater our services to all industries. We are corporate T-shirt manufactures, wholesale scrub uniform suppliers and online uniform suppliers in Dubai, offering a custom-made uniform design and manufacturing service in Dubai, Abu Dhabi and Ajman. Our experienced uniform makers and highly skilled tailors provide a made-to-measure service for corporate requirements, including custom printed T- shirts in Dubai, ensuring the work uniforms and garments are made to fit your staff.

[gyuuberryy]

prince charming's mismatch

pairing: prince!heeseung x princess!reader

synopsis: you and prince heeseung have been rivals for as long as you can remember. what began as childhood clashes has grown into a deep-seated animosity over the years. but when your sister runs away on her wedding day, you're forced to take her place and marry heeseung—the last person you ever wanted to call your husband.

now bound in an unwanted marriage, you’re faced with navigating the tension between your unresolved hatred and an unexpected attraction. as palace intrigue and looming threats surround you both, you must confront the truth of your feelings. will the bitterness between you tear you apart, or will it ignite something far more powerful?

genre: enemies to lovers, forced proximity, arranged marriage au

warnings: highly suggestive content!!! kissing, hee and reader are mean at first, insecurities, jealous!hee

note: i've been meaning to write this plot for an year now, im happy with how it turned out! e2l with hee is always soo fun to write. enjoyy

word count: 11.5k

royally yours masterlist | next: jay

if you liked it please reblog or comment to give me your feedback! <3

the first time you met prince heeseung, it was at a grand summer garden party hosted by your parents in the palace’s sprawling grounds. you were barely six years old, and he wasn’t much older, yet even then, the air between you crackled with something akin to competition. your governess had dressed you in your finest lace frock, with your hair tied in perfect ribbons, but none of that mattered. you were too busy building a grand sandcastle near the fountain, your little fingers carefully patting the turrets into shape.

that was when heeseung appeared, his shadow falling over your castle like a storm cloud. he crouched beside you without so much as a polite greeting, his royal title apparently excusing his lack of manners. his eyes, sharp for a child, surveyed your handiwork critically.

“that’s not right,” he declared, reaching out to touch one of your towers. “the walls need to be thicker, or it’ll fall.”

you frowned, already bristling at the unsolicited advice. “it’s my castle. i know what i’m doing.”

he smirked, a small, superior thing that made your blood simmer even at that tender age. without asking, he began "fixing" it, his hands too rough as he demolished what you had so carefully crafted.

“stop!” you cried, shoving him back with all the strength your little body could muster. heeseung stumbled, landing awkwardly on the grass, but instead of being chastened, he merely laughed.

“see?” he said, gesturing at the collapsed sandcastle. “i told you it would fall.”

tears of frustration welled in your eyes as you glared at him. “you ruined it! i didn’t ask for your help!”

heeseung stood, dusting off his fine clothes, a boyish smirk still plastered on his face. “you should thank me. i was doing you a favour.”

from that day forward, any time your families met, it was as if an unspoken rule had been established—whenever you were in the same room, you and heeseung would find something to argue about. it didn’t matter if it was who deserved the biggest slice of cake or who could recite their latin conjugations faster; the two of you were constantly at odds.

as the years passed, your mutual disdain only deepened. by the time you were ten, heeseung had already earned a reputation as the golden boy of his kingdom, a future king who excelled in everything he touched. your own accomplishments were always impressive—your parents had ensured you were well-versed in languages, history, and the fine arts—but whenever heeseung was around, it felt as though all your achievements paled in comparison.

“did you hear?” one of your tutors asked one morning as you sat in the drawing room, diligently practising your embroidery. “prince heeseung has been awarded top marks in his studies again. he’s to receive a commendation from the royal academy.”

you didn’t look up, but your needle paused for the briefest of moments. “how wonderful for him,” you muttered, the words heavy with sarcasm.

that evening, at another royal banquet, you couldn’t help but bring up your own accomplishments, eager for even a crumb of recognition.

“i’ve been practising my archery,” you said proudly to the gathered guests, though your eyes couldn’t help but flick toward heeseung, who lounged nearby, looking as regal and aloof as ever. “i managed to hit the bullseye several times this week.”

heeseung glanced up lazily, catching your eye with that familiar, insufferable smirk. “impressive,” he said in a bored tone, “though archery isn’t quite the same as, say, fencing. that requires real skill.”

your fists clenched under the table, your pride wounded by his casual dismissal. but this was the way it always went. no matter what you did, heeseung always found a way to make it seem insignificant, as though he were the sun and you were merely a star dimmed by his brilliance.

by the time you were both teenagers, the animosity between you had grown more complicated, though no less intense. you found yourselves at the same royal gatherings, balls, and court functions, and each time, it was as if the entire room held its breath, waiting to see what you and heeseung would clash over next.

at one particularly grand ball, you had been feeling proud of your debut. you wore a gown of the finest silk, and you’d received more than a few admiring glances from the eligible noblemen in attendance. you were certain this was your night to shine—until heeseung approached.

“you look well enough,” he said, his voice smooth but with an edge that set your teeth on edge. “though i hope you don’t trip during the quadrille like last time.”

your cheeks flushed, remembering all too well the minor misstep you’d taken at a previous ball. “i won’t,” you snapped, glaring at him. “and even if i did, it’s better than fencing yourself into a corner like you did at the tournament last month.”

his smile faltered for just a second, but that was enough to make you feel victorious.

yet, despite the constant barbs, there was something else simmering beneath the surface now—a tension you refused to name. you hated the way your heart raced whenever heeseung was near, the way his presence seemed to fill every corner of a room. and, though you’d never admit it, you hated even more that part of you missed the old days when your squabbles were simple, childish things.

it all changed the day your sister’s engagement to heeseung was announced. the prince who had been your lifelong nemesis was now to become your sister’s husband, the future king of your kingdom. it was a match made for political alliance, but it felt like a betrayal. you had expected more from him—well, not more kindness, but certainly more rebellion. yet, heeseung accepted the engagement with the same cool composure he did everything else.

for the first time in years, he stopped seeking you out, stopped picking those fights you had come to expect. he no longer bothered with sharp remarks or smug smiles. instead, he kept his distance, as though you were beneath his notice.

you told yourself it didn’t matter. after all, what did you care if heeseung ignored you now? he was going to be your brother-in-law, and that was enough reason to keep things civil. and yet, a strange, hollow feeling settled in your chest whenever you saw him and your sister together. he was colder now, more mature, but somehow more distant than ever.

little did you know, your rivalry with prince heeseung was far from over. if anything, it was only just beginning.

the night your world fell apart, it started with a simple knock on your chamber door. the palace had been abuzz with preparations—florists arranging garlands, tailors hemming gowns, and courtiers whispering about the grand union that would strengthen two kingdoms. you had spent the evening rehearsing your duties as maid of honour, biting back any remnants of bitterness that still clung to your feelings about the match. it didn’t matter that you had spent your entire life despising heeseung; your sister loved him, or at least, she was supposed to.

you were preparing to retire, brushing your hair by the dim glow of candlelight, when your sister slipped into the room, her face pale and eyes wide with fear. you’d never seen her look so frantic. your heart sank before she even said a word.

“i’m not going to marry him,” she whispered, wringing her hands in the folds of her silk nightgown. her voice trembled, but it was steady enough for you to know she wasn’t joking.

your heart lurched. “what are you talking about? the wedding is tomorrow!”

her wide eyes darted to the door as if she feared someone might overhear. she leaned in closer, gripping your wrist with trembling fingers. “i can’t marry heeseung,” she said urgently. “i don’t love him. i’m leaving tonight.”

the words hit you like a physical blow. “you’re what?”

“i’m eloping,” she said, her voice firmer now, as if saying it out loud gave her courage. “with lucien.”

lucien. you barely knew the man, a minor noble from another court, but he had charmed your sister quickly. he was handsome and witty, but far beneath her station. you stared at her, disbelief mixing with fury.

“lucien? are you mad? you can’t just abandon your duty for—”

“for love?” she interrupted, her voice rising in defiance. “yes, i can. i won’t be trapped in a loveless marriage with a man who cares nothing for me.”

you swallowed hard, your mind racing. heeseung, distant and cold as he had been with you, had shown no signs of affection for your sister either, but this was bigger than personal feelings. the marriage was political, a union meant to secure alliances, peace, and power. your sister fleeing would bring nothing but chaos.

“you’ll ruin everything,” you whispered, your voice thick with the weight of the consequences. “our families, the kingdoms—this is bigger than you.”

her eyes softened with a mix of guilt and determination. “i know. but i can’t live my life for duty, not like this.” she stood, gathering a small satchel you hadn’t noticed before, already packed and ready for her escape.

“you won’t stop me, will you?” she asked, her gaze pleading.

you wanted to scream, to shake her out of this madness, but your throat tightened. she was your sister. you loved her. and you knew, deep down, that nothing you said would change her mind.

“i should,” you said, your voice quiet, brittle. “but no. i won’t.”

your sister smiled, a fragile, relieved thing, before pulling you into a tight embrace. the hug felt final, like the end of something neither of you could come back from. when she finally let go, you stood frozen in the middle of her room as she slipped out the window and into the night, her footsteps fading into the shadows.

the palace remained blissfully unaware of the catastrophe until morning, when your mother’s scream shattered the early dawn peace.

the palace was in chaos the next morning. servants rushed through the halls, panic etched on their faces as whispers spread like wildfire—the bride had run away. you stayed in your chambers as long as possible, trying to gather your thoughts, your emotions, trying to prepare for the inevitable fallout.

when the summons came from your father, it felt like a death knell. the walk to the throne room felt endless, each step heavier than the last. the moment you stepped through the grand doors, you saw heeseung standing beside your parents. his face was a mask of icy calm, but his eyes…his eyes were darker than you’d ever seen them, cold and unforgiving.

he didn’t even glance at you as your father spoke.

“your sister has disgraced this family,” your father’s voice boomed, his tone laced with anger and disappointment. “but the marriage cannot be abandoned. the alliance with heeseung’s kingdom is too important.”

you stood still, your stomach churning as you braced for what was coming.

“therefore,” your father continued, his gaze hard as stone, “you will take her place.”

for a moment, the words didn’t register. you couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. you? marry heeseung? no, it wasn’t possible. you had spent your entire life in a silent war with him. the idea of marrying the man who had been your nemesis since childhood was unthinkable.

your mother’s voice, soft but firm, broke the silence. “the arrangements have already been made. the wedding will proceed as planned. you will become heeseung’s bride.”

“no.” the word slipped from your lips before you could stop it, your heart racing. “i can’t.”

your father’s eyes narrowed, and your mother’s expression hardened with disappointment. “you will do your duty,” your father said coldly. “this is not up for discussion.”

duty. it always came down to that. your entire life, you had been prepared for moments like this, but not this moment. not like this.

finally, you turned to heeseung, desperate for any sign of protest, for him to say something—anything—that would stop this madness. but he was silent. his face remained expressionless, as though none of this affected him. he looked at you as if you were just a piece of the puzzle, another part of the kingdom’s grand design.

“is that all i am to you?” you asked, your voice shaking. “just a replacement? a stand-in for the bride who ran away?”

for the first time, heeseung’s gaze met yours, and for a brief moment, something flickered in his eyes—something unreadable, buried deep beneath the coldness. but his words cut through you like ice.

“you’re a princess,” he said, his voice quiet but sharp. “your role is to serve your kingdom. that’s all that matters.”

a bitter laugh escaped your throat. “you’ve hated me for years, heeseung. and now you expect me to just—what? pretend none of that matters?”

his jaw tightened, but he didn’t respond. instead, he turned away, his indifference stinging more than any of the insults you had traded over the years.

your father spoke again, his tone final. “the marriage will happen. prepare yourself.”

the grand hall was suffused with the glow of flickering candles and soft sunlight filtering through stained glass windows. the scent of fresh roses—your sister’s favourite, not yours—hung heavily in the air, mocking the gravity of the moment. you stood at the entrance of the hall, your hands clenched so tightly around the bouquet that your knuckles were white. the murmurs of the courtiers echoed around you, a constant hum of speculation and judgement. no matter how well you carried yourself today, the whispers wouldn’t stop.

the switch of the bride was the scandal of the century, and you were at the centre of it.

ahead of you, heeseung stood tall, his face as unreadable as stone. the same detachment was in his eyes, his expression cool and composed as if this marriage was merely another political manoeuvre for him, another step toward the throne. he didn’t look at you with warmth, or even a hint of care. to him, you weren’t his wife—you were the replacement for the woman who had run away.

you walked down the aisle, every step heavier than the last, the reality of your situation crushing you. heeseung’s gaze was steady as you approached, but it wasn’t the gaze of a man looking at his bride. it was a look of cold calculation, a man who had resigned himself to duty.

when you finally reached him, your heart thudding loudly in your chest, you barely registered the priest's words. the vows—sacred, binding—felt hollow, like a cruel twist of fate. how could you stand here, repeating the words meant for your sister? they weren't meant for you. you were never supposed to be the bride.

heeseung took your hand, and the warmth of his skin was a sharp contrast to the chill that ran down your spine. his grip was firm, not gentle, but not cruel either—just dutiful. he spoke his vows with a steady voice, each word sounding rehearsed, as though they meant nothing to him beyond their formality.

and then it was your turn. you hesitated, the weight of the kingdom on your shoulders, your pulse quickening. your voice trembled slightly as you repeated the vows, feeling the eyes of everyone in the hall on you—expecting you to fulfil your role, to be the perfect princess. you could barely choke out the words, but somehow, you managed. and with every word, you felt the invisible chains of your new life tightening around you.

when the priest finally pronounced you husband and wife, heeseung’s lips brushed yours in the briefest of kisses—so cold and devoid of feeling that it felt more like a business transaction than the union of two people. the cheers of the court erupted around you, but in that moment, the applause sounded like the closing of a cage. you were trapped, bound to him, to this life.

as you turned to leave the altar, heeseung offered his arm, the tension between you palpable. his eyes flickered to yours for a brief moment, but there was no warmth there. just that cold, resigned look you had grown accustomed to. you were both playing your roles, just as you had been trained to do your whole lives.

but this wasn’t a game. this was your future, and it felt like a noose tightening around your neck.

the wedding feast had been a blur—a cacophony of forced smiles, hollow congratulations, and polite toasts that masked the underlying tension. you had barely spoken a word to heeseung throughout the entire affair. he hadn’t made any attempt to speak to you either, remaining as distant and composed as ever.

now, as you stood alone in the chambers that were to be yours and heeseung’s, the reality of your new life settled heavily on your chest. the palace chambers were far too quiet, the air thick with the tension that had been building between you and heeseung for years. as you stood in the centre of the room, staring at the enormous bed draped in rich fabrics, it felt like the walls were closing in. the room was elegantly decorated—ornate tapestries hung on the walls, and the grand four-poster bed was fit for a queen. but none of it mattered. the splendour felt like a mockery of the situation you found yourself in. tonight, this room was not a sanctuary but a gilded cage.

your breath caught in your throat as the door creaked open. heeseung entered, his presence commanding even in the subdued candlelight. the tension between you was palpable, stretching like a thin, fragile thread that could snap at any moment. his gaze flicked toward you briefly, but he didn’t speak, and the silence that followed was suffocating.

heeseung moved with practised grace, his movements calm and deliberate. he began undoing the buttons on his ceremonial jacket, the fine fabric sliding off his shoulders and landing in a careless heap on the chair by the vanity. you stood frozen, unsure of what to say, what to do. this wasn’t how you had imagined a wedding night would feel—though you had never dreamed this night would be with heeseung, of all people.

his back was to you now, his broad shoulders tense, though he did nothing to betray any emotion. you could feel the distance between you both, even though he was just across the room. heeseung had always been composed, guarded, but tonight, his coldness cut even deeper than usual.

he finally broke the silence, his voice low but steady. “it’s late. you should rest.” there was no affection in his tone, just the same sense of duty that had hung over the entire day. you weren’t his bride by choice, and he wasn’t your husband by desire.

you bit back a bitter laugh. rest? as if you could simply close your eyes and pretend this was normal. pretend that this marriage was something other than a trap. “is that it, then?” you asked, your voice sharper than intended. “we go to bed and pretend everything is fine?”

heeseung turned to face you, his expression as unreadable as ever. he didn’t answer right away, as if weighing his response carefully. “what do you want me to say?” his tone was measured, but there was an edge to it, a hint of frustration that matched your own.

“i don’t know,” you admitted, your voice trembling with the weight of your emotions. “this wasn’t supposed to happen. i wasn’t supposed to marry you.”

something flickered in heeseung’s eyes, though it disappeared as quickly as it came. he regarded you for a moment, his gaze unreadable, before he spoke again. “do you think i wanted this?” his words were quiet but laced with a bitterness that surprised you. “i didn’t ask for this any more than you did.”

you swallowed, feeling a lump rise in your throat. you hadn’t expected this admission from him, hadn’t expected him to show any vulnerability. “then what are we supposed to do?” your voice was softer now, the anger ebbing away, replaced by uncertainty. “how are we supposed to live like this?”

heeseung sighed, running a hand through his hair, a rare moment of frustration breaking through his calm facade. “we do what’s expected of us,” he said, though there was a heaviness to his words, as if he was trying to convince himself as much as you. “we fulfill our duties. that’s all we can do.”

“duties.” the word tasted bitter on your tongue. it had always come down to that, hadn’t it? duty to the crown, to the kingdom, to your family. and now, duty to heeseung.

the silence stretched on, thick and uncomfortable. heeseung turned away, moving toward the window where the heavy drapes framed the view of the darkened palace gardens. his silhouette was stark against the faint glow of moonlight, his posture stiff, almost defensive.

after a long moment, he spoke again, his voice softer this time. “i’ll sleep over there.” he gestured to the chaise near the window, a fine piece of furniture that now seemed woefully out of place in this awkward, tension-filled room. “you can have the bed.”

you blinked, surprised by his offer. it was the last thing you expected from him, but it was a relief nonetheless. “you don’t have to—”

“i’m not doing this for you,” he interrupted, his voice firm, but not unkind. “i just don’t want to make this any more difficult than it already is.”

with that, he moved toward the chaise, gathering a pillow and blanket from the wardrobe. his actions were efficient, almost mechanical, as if he had already resigned himself to this fate. he didn’t look at you as he arranged the blanket over the chaise.

you stood there, feeling a strange mix of emotions—relief, awkwardness, and something else, something heavier that you couldn’t quite place. this was your wedding night, but it was nothing like you had ever imagined. there was no closeness, no warmth—just two people bound together by obligation and circumstance.

finally, you moved toward the bed, the thick carpets muffling your steps. the soft fabric of your gown felt heavy as you climbed beneath the covers, though they provided no comfort. you lay there, staring up at the intricate canopy above, your mind racing. this bed, this room—none of it felt like yours.

heeseung settled on the chaise, his back to you, the distance between you both feeling vast despite the small room. the silence was oppressive, each second dragging on longer than the last. you wondered if he was as uneasy as you were, or if he had already steeled himself to this new reality.

for a long while, neither of you spoke, the only sound in the room the faint rustling of fabric as you shifted beneath the covers. the weight of the day, of the vows, of your new title, pressed down on you, making it hard to breathe.

finally, you couldn’t stand the silence any longer. “heeseung,” you whispered, unsure if you even wanted him to respond.

he didn’t turn, but his voice was low and steady when he answered. “what?”

you hesitated, searching for the right words. “do you think... do you think this will ever get easier?”

there was a long pause before he responded, his voice quiet, almost resigned. “i don’t know.”

and with that, the conversation ended. heeseung remained silent, his back still turned to you, and you knew there was nothing more to say. you turned onto your side, pulling the blankets tighter around you, though they offered little warmth. the room felt too big, too empty, despite his presence.

eventually, exhaustion crept in, dulling the sharp edges of your thoughts. but even as sleep began to claim you, a cold, sinking feeling settled in your chest. this was your life now—bound to a man you barely knew, a man who had been your enemy for years, and yet, somehow, your husband.

and as you drifted off into uneasy sleep, the last thought that crossed your mind was how strange it felt to be lying just feet away from heeseung, yet feeling as though he was a world away.

the morning after the wedding dawned cold and gray, mirroring the lingering tension between you and heeseung. you woke up in the large, empty bed, the space next to you untouched, a stark reminder of the distance that had been established on your wedding night. the air in the room felt thick, suffocating, as if the very walls were pressing in on you, reminding you of your new reality.

as you sat up, the unfamiliarity of your surroundings only worsened the tightness in your chest. this was your new life. not just this bed, but this room, this palace—heeseung’s palace—and you would share it with a man who barely spoke to you, who looked at you with that same cold distance he had always shown.

you dressed quickly, your movements mechanical, trying not to think too much. the maids moved around you silently, well-trained and efficient, but you could feel their eyes on you. it was impossible to escape the fact that everyone knew. the entire kingdom knew the story—the princess who had run away, and her sister forced to take her place. the whispers would never stop.

when you finally made your way downstairs to the grand dining room, heeseung was already seated at the long table, a plate of food in front of him. he didn’t look up when you entered, simply continued cutting into his meal with precise, practised movements. you hesitated for a moment, then took your seat across from him.

the silence was unbearable.

you picked at your food, barely tasting it, glancing at heeseung from time to time. his expression was as unreadable as ever, his attention focused on the papers beside his plate—likely matters of the kingdom that required his attention. he was already immersed in his duties, the weight of his impending kingship pressing down on him just as heavily as your new role as his wife weighed on you.

finally, you couldn’t stand it any longer. “do you plan to ignore me for the rest of our lives?” you asked, your voice sharper than you intended.

heeseung didn’t look up immediately, taking his time to finish his bite and set down his utensils with deliberate care. when he finally met your gaze, his expression was cool, detached. “i’m not ignoring you.”

you scoffed, unable to hide your frustration. “you’ve barely spoken to me since the wedding.”

he raised an eyebrow, his tone as calm as ever. “what would you like me to say?”

the question took you off guard. you hadn’t expected him to be so blunt. you opened your mouth, then closed it again, unsure of how to respond. what did you want him to say? that he regretted everything as much as you did? that he hated this arrangement, too? or perhaps you wanted him to acknowledge the years of bitterness between you, to admit that this marriage was a farce.

instead, you said, “we’re married now, heeseung. we have to live together. we can’t keep pretending the other doesn’t exist.”

his jaw tightened ever so slightly, but his voice remained calm. “i’m aware of that.”

you waited for him to say more, but he didn’t. the silence stretched on once again, thicker than before, suffocating in its awkwardness. you pushed your plate away, no longer interested in eating. “fine,” you muttered under your breath, standing abruptly. “i suppose i’ll just get used to it, then.”

you turned to leave, but his voice stopped you. “you don’t have to like this any more than i do, but we have responsibilities now.”

you paused, your back to him, your hands clenched at your sides. “responsibilities,” you repeated, your voice barely above a whisper. it seemed like that was all your life had ever been reduced to—duty, obligation, and responsibilities.

without another word, you left the dining room, the heavy doors closing behind you with a soft thud. you could feel the weight of the situation bearing down on you even more as you walked through the halls of the palace, each step echoing in the vast emptiness. you weren’t just trapped in this marriage—you were trapped in this life.

days passed, and though you and heeseung were forced to share the same space, your interactions remained minimal, stilted. in the mornings, you would find him already at the breakfast table, poring over documents and barely acknowledging your presence. he would spend his days attending council meetings and handling matters of state, leaving you to navigate the palace on your own, feeling more like a guest in your own home than its mistress.

at night, he would retire to the chambers late, often when you were already lying in bed, pretending to sleep. he would quietly take his place on the chaise near the window, far enough away to avoid any awkwardness, but close enough that his presence was a constant reminder of the divide between you.

it was during these nights that the loneliness settled in most heavily. the silence of the room, broken only by the occasional rustling of fabric or the soft crackle of the fireplace, was suffocating. you had grown accustomed to sleeping alone, but now, knowing heeseung was just a few feet away, the distance between you felt almost unbearable. there was an unspoken understanding that neither of you wanted to bridge the gap.

one evening, after yet another day of awkward meals and tense silences, you found yourself in the library, one of the few places in the palace where you felt at peace. the vast room was filled with shelves upon shelves of books, their spines worn and familiar. you had always loved to read, finding solace in the stories and histories of others when your own life felt too overwhelming.

you were seated by the window, the late afternoon sun casting a soft glow over the pages of your book, when the door creaked open. you looked up, surprised to see heeseung standing in the doorway. he paused for a moment, as if uncertain whether to enter or leave, his eyes scanning the room before they settled on you.

“may i join you?” he asked, his voice unusually soft.

you blinked, caught off guard by his request. this was the first time he had sought you out since the wedding, and the suddenness of it left you momentarily speechless. you nodded, unsure of what else to do. “of course.”

heeseung crossed the room, moving with his usual grace, and took a seat in the armchair opposite you. for a moment, neither of you spoke, the quiet of the library enveloping you both. he seemed content to sit in silence, his gaze wandering to the bookshelves that lined the walls.

finally, after what felt like an eternity, he spoke. “this is... one of the quieter rooms.”

you raised an eyebrow, a small, incredulous smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “it’s a library, heeseung. of course it’s quiet.”

to your surprise, he chuckled softly, though it was a dry, humourless sound. “fair enough.”

silence fell again, but this time it wasn’t as suffocating. there was something almost... peaceful about it, the weight of your shared presence not as unbearable as it had been before. you watched him out of the corner of your eye, noticing how tired he looked. the weight of his responsibilities was evident in the slight furrow of his brow, the way his shoulders sagged ever so slightly.

after a while, you set your book down on your lap, deciding to break the silence. “it must be difficult,” you said quietly. “taking on so much.”

heeseung didn’t answer right away, his gaze still focused on the shelves, but eventually, he nodded. “it is.”

you hesitated for a moment, then spoke again, softer this time. “you don’t have to carry it all alone, you know.”

he turned to look at you then, his expression unreadable, but there was something in his eyes—something softer than the cold indifference you had grown accustomed to.

“and what would you suggest?” he asked, his voice quiet but not unkind.

“i don’t know,” you admitted. “but we’re in this together, whether we like it or not.”

heeseung’s gaze lingered on you for a moment longer, and then he nodded, a small, almost imperceptible movement. it wasn’t much, but it was the first step—however small—toward something more than just forced cohabitation.

the shift in your relationship came faster than you expected. it started with a challenge—a reckless, unspoken dare that neither of you could resist.

it had been a clear, crisp day, the first after several weeks of rain. you were restless, tired of the palace walls and the constant burden of your new role. you had gone to the stables, hoping to take one of the horses out for a ride, needing to feel the wind in your hair and the ground beneath you. but when you arrived, heeseung was already there, adjusting the reins of his own horse.

you paused in the doorway, surprised to see him. “you ride?”

he glanced up, one eyebrow raised. “you sound surprised.”

“i am,” you admitted. “i’ve never seen you ride before.”

he chuckled softly, his eyes glinting with amusement. “there’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

the challenge in his voice was unmistakable, and you couldn’t resist rising to it. “care to prove it?” you asked, moving toward your own horse.

heeseung’s smirk widened. “what do you have in mind?”

you mounted your horse swiftly, the thrill of the challenge already coursing through your veins. “a race.”

heeseung raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “you think you can beat me?”

“i know i can,” you shot back, turning your horse toward the open field beyond the stables.

without another word, you spurred your horse into motion, not waiting for his response. behind you, you heard heeseung’s laughter, low and rich, before the sound of hooves thundering against the ground told you he had accepted the challenge.

you raced through the fields, the wind whipping through your hair, the thrill of the chase making your heart race. heeseung was right behind you, and you could feel the tension building, the competitive edge between you sparking like fire. it was like being children again, challenging each other at every turn, pushing each other to the limit.

but this time, it was different. the stakes were higher, the tension thicker, and the way heeseung looked at you when he finally caught up to you sent a shiver down your spine.

when he finally pulled his horse beside yours, you were both breathless, your faces flushed with adrenaline. you glanced over at him, and the look in his eyes—intense, dark, heated—made your pulse quicken.

“not bad,” he said, his voice low, rough around the edges.

you smirked, trying to ignore the way your heart was pounding. “you almost kept up.”

heeseung leaned in just slightly, his gaze locking with yours. “almost?” he murmured, his voice sending a jolt through you.

you swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. the space between you was too close, the air charged with something you weren’t quite ready to name. his eyes lingered on your lips for just a moment too long, and you could feel the heat of his presence, the tension that had always existed between you now manifesting in a way that was far more dangerous.

before either of you could say anything, heeseung pulled back, his smirk returning as if nothing had happened. “we’ll call it a draw,” he said, though there was a teasing edge to his voice.

you let out a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding, shaking your head with a laugh. “you wish.”

but as you rode back to the palace, the tension between you remained, simmering beneath the surface. it was no longer the resentment of old enemies, but something far more complex, far more dangerous. and for the first time, you found yourself wondering what would happen if that tension ever boiled over.

later that night, the air was thick with the remnants of the day’s energy. you couldn’t sleep, your mind still racing from the ride and the way heeseung had looked at you—how close he had come, how your heart had nearly betrayed you in that moment of suspended anticipation.

you wandered the halls of the palace aimlessly, your footsteps soft against the marble floors. the palace at night was a different place, quiet and still, the shadows long and heavy. it felt like a place where secrets lingered in every corner, where the walls whispered of things that could never be said aloud.

as you passed by the study, you noticed the faint glow of light beneath the door. curiosity piqued, you pushed the door open just enough to peek inside. heeseung was there, seated at the desk, bathed in the warm glow of candlelight. he was reading, his brow furrowed in concentration, his lips slightly parted as he focused on the page in front of him.

you hesitated, but before you could turn away, he looked up, catching sight of you. for a moment, neither of you spoke, the silence between you heavy with unspoken words. then, without breaking eye contact, heeseung set the book aside.

“couldn’t sleep?” he asked, his voice low, intimate in the quiet of the room.

you shook your head, stepping into the room. “no. you?”

heeseung’s gaze flicked over you, his eyes lingering on you in a way that made your skin heat under his scrutiny. “i’ve been thinking,” he said, his tone soft but laced with that same dangerous tension that had been building all day.

“about what?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper as you moved closer, drawn to him in a way you couldn’t quite explain.

heeseung’s eyes met yours, and for a moment, the world seemed to stop. “about you,” he said quietly. “about us.”

the weight of his words settled in the space between you, thick and intoxicating. about you. about us. it echoed in your mind, stirring something deep within you that you had tried to ignore for far too long. you weren’t sure if it was the late hour, the dim candlelight, or the fact that you had been dancing around each other for weeks now, but something inside you snapped.

your breath hitched as you looked at him, his eyes dark and full of something you couldn’t quite name. but it was there—undeniable, pulsing in the space between you. and now that it had been spoken into existence, you couldn’t unsee it.

“what about us?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. it wasn’t just curiosity anymore. it was a challenge.

heeseung’s gaze flicked to your lips, and the tension in the room intensified, coiling tighter and tighter until it felt like the air itself might shatter from the pressure. he stood slowly, his movements deliberate, and took a step toward you, closing the already-small distance between you.

“there’s always been something between us,” he said, his voice low, rough. his eyes never left yours, burning with intensity. “even when we hated each other.”

your heart was pounding now, so loud you were sure he could hear it. you wanted to deny it, to tell him that he was wrong, that it had always been pure hatred. but that would’ve been a lie. you knew it as well as he did—whatever had always been there between you, it had never been simple.

“and what is it now?” you asked, forcing yourself to meet his gaze even though every instinct told you to look away. to run.

heeseung took another step closer, his hand reaching up slowly, as though giving you the chance to pull away. but you didn’t. you couldn’t. his fingers brushed against your cheek, the touch so light it sent a shiver down your spine. his hand lingered there, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw.

“maybe we’ve been fighting the wrong battle,” he murmured, his voice softer now, almost tender. the warmth of his breath ghosted over your skin, and you felt your pulse quicken.

your throat tightened. every word he said felt like a dangerous line, one that you were teetering on the edge of crossing. the tension between you had always been a fire—burning too hot, too fast. and now, it felt like it was about to consume you both.

heeseung’s thumb brushed over your bottom lip, and your breath caught in your throat. his touch was tentative, as though he wasn’t quite sure if this was real or if you would pull away at any moment.

but you didn’t.

instead, you took a step closer, closing the gap completely. the air between you was charged, thick with unspoken desire and the weight of all the years you had spent fighting against each other. your body was betraying you, leaning into him, drawn by a force you had denied for too long.

heeseung’s eyes darkened as he leaned in, his lips barely an inch from yours, the heat between you almost unbearable now. you could feel the tension in every muscle, the way his hand trembled slightly as it cupped your cheek, the way your own body was responding without your permission.

then, in a breathless moment that felt like it stretched on forever, he closed the distance.

his lips pressed against yours—soft at first, testing, as though he wasn’t sure you would let him. but the moment your lips met his, something ignited between you. the kiss deepened, filled with all the pent-up frustration and longing that had been building for so long. it was a clash of emotions—anger, desire, need—all colliding in that single moment.

you responded instantly, your hands reaching up to tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, needing more. the kiss was rough, almost desperate, as though you were both trying to make up for years of missed chances in that single moment.

his hands slid down to your waist, pulling you flush against him, and you gasped against his lips at the feeling of his body pressed so close to yours. the intensity of it was overwhelming, but you didn’t want it to stop. you didn’t want to think. you just wanted to feel.

but then, as quickly as it started, heeseung pulled back, his breathing ragged, his forehead resting against yours. his hands still gripped your waist, holding you in place as though he couldn’t quite let go yet.

“this isn’t... what i expected,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. his breath was warm against your skin, and his eyes searched yours, as though he was looking for an answer in your gaze.

you swallowed hard, trying to steady your breathing, trying to make sense of what had just happened. “what did you expect?” you asked softly, your fingers still tangled in his hair.

heeseung’s grip on your waist tightened for a moment, his eyes darkening once again. “i didn’t expect you to feel this way.” his voice was low, almost a growl, filled with the same intensity that had been building between you all night.

you opened your mouth to respond, but the words wouldn’t come. you had no idea what to say, no idea how to explain the maelstrom of emotions swirling inside you. all you knew was that everything had changed in that kiss.

“i don’t know what i feel,” you admitted quietly, your voice barely audible in the heavy silence of the room.

heeseung’s lips twitched into a small, almost sad smile. “neither do i.” he stepped back, finally breaking the physical contact between you, and you immediately missed the warmth of his body against yours.

“but whatever this is... it’s dangerous,” he continued, his eyes locked on yours, as though warning you. “we’ve always been enemies. we don’t know how to be anything else.”

you felt a lump form in your throat at his words, because deep down, you knew he was right. but that didn’t stop the ache in your chest, the desire for something more—for the possibility of what could be.

“i don’t want to be your enemy anymore,” you said softly, the confession surprising even you.

heeseung’s eyes widened slightly at your words, his expression unreadable. for a moment, you thought he might say something—might admit that he didn’t want to be your enemy either. but then, he shook his head, the walls between you coming back up, brick by brick.

“this doesn’t change anything,” he said quietly, but the look in his eyes said otherwise.

and with that, he turned and left the room, leaving you standing there in the soft glow of candlelight, your heart pounding and your mind reeling from the kiss that had shifted the entire balance between you.

as the door closed softly behind him, you exhaled a shaky breath, your fingers brushing your lips where his had been moments before.

everything had changed.

the royal court was buzzing with tension, and for once, the tension wasn’t between you and heeseung. the kingdom was on edge, not from war or rebellion, but from something far more insidious—political manoeuvring. rival noble houses were plotting against heeseung’s rule, questioning his right to ascend to the throne, especially after the sudden marriage to you. the whispers had grown louder over the past few weeks, the courtiers’ gazes sharper, waiting for the first misstep.

you had known court life would be full of power plays and alliances, but this was different. it was personal. every snide comment, every hushed conversation behind closed doors, felt like an attack on your marriage, on your family’s legacy. and worst of all, it felt like an attack on you.

one afternoon, as you made your way through the palace corridors, you overheard a group of nobles—close to your family—voicing their displeasure over your sudden marriage to heeseung. it was the same old song—how your sister should have been the bride, how you were never meant for this role, how heeseung marrying you was a strategic disaster.

you felt your blood run cold, but you kept walking, your head held high. you had grown used to these remarks, but today, they stung deeper. not because they questioned your worth, but because they reflected the deep-seated insecurity you had always carried.

that night, you found yourself alone in the study, staring out the window at the darkening sky. the weight of the court’s judgement, the impossible standards, the constant comparisons to your sister—they were suffocating. and then there was heeseung, whose coldness had thawed just enough to show you glimpses of something deeper, something real. but he was still heeseung—your husband, your childhood rival, and now the man who held your future in his hands.

the door creaked open behind you, and you didn’t need to turn to know it was him. you had grown attuned to his presence, the way the air shifted whenever he entered a room.

“what’s wrong?” his voice was quieter than usual, but still carrying that edge of command. he always knew when something was off, as if he could sense the turmoil swirling inside you.

you didn’t answer immediately, your gaze fixed on the stars outside. “they’re saying we’re not suited for each other,” you murmured, finally turning to face him. “that i’m not fit to be queen. that you made a mistake.”

heeseung’s jaw clenched, a muscle ticking in his cheek. he stepped closer, his eyes narrowing in that familiar way, but this time, it wasn’t directed at you.

“let them talk,” he said flatly. “they’re just waiting for us to fail.”

“and what if they’re right?” the words slipped out before you could stop them, the fear and doubt bubbling to the surface. “i was never meant to marry you. this isn’t the life i was prepared for.”

heeseung stared at you for a moment, his expression unreadable. then, to your surprise, he closed the distance between you, his hands gripping your shoulders firmly, forcing you to meet his gaze.

“i didn’t choose you because you were an easy choice,” he said, his voice low but intense. “i chose you because you’re stronger than you realise.”

you blinked, taken aback by the conviction in his words. heeseung wasn’t one to offer praise lightly, and hearing it now, in this moment, felt more intimate than anything he had ever said to you before.

“there are plenty of people who want to see us fail,” he continued, his grip tightening slightly. “but they don’t matter. what matters is that we don’t give them the satisfaction. we fight together.”

the intensity in his eyes sent a shiver down your spine, and for the first time, you saw beyond the cold exterior he had always shown you. there was something deeper there, something raw and unspoken. a partnership.

but the closeness also brought something else—a heat that had always been there between you, simmering beneath the surface. his hands lingered on your shoulders, his thumbs brushing the bare skin just above your collarbone, and suddenly the room felt smaller, the air thicker.

“you think i’m strong?” you asked, your voice quieter now, tinged with something more vulnerable. something real.

heeseung’s gaze flicked down to your lips, just for a moment, before returning to your eyes. his voice was rough when he spoke, low and filled with an unspoken promise. “i’ve always known.”

the charged air between you was impossible to ignore now. his fingers slid from your shoulders to your arms, the touch sending a jolt of warmth through you. it wasn’t just the weight of responsibility pressing down on you—it was him, his closeness, the undeniable pull you had both been dancing around for weeks.

you could feel the tension in every inch of your body, your heart racing as heeseung’s hands rested on your waist, pulling you closer, but still leaving just enough space for doubt. he hesitated, as if waiting for you to push him away, to remind him of the enmity that had defined your relationship for so long.

but you didn’t. instead, you leaned into him, your hands tentatively reaching up to rest on his chest. the fabric of his shirt was soft under your fingers, but beneath it, you could feel the steady beat of his heart, as rapid as your own.

“maybe i’ve been wrong about you,” you whispered, your breath hitching as the tension between you reached a breaking point.

heeseung’s eyes darkened at your words, his lips hovering just inches from yours. “maybe you have,” he murmured, his voice low and dangerous. but there was something softer there too, something almost tender.

before you could talk yourself out of it, you closed the distance between you and kissed him.

the kiss was like nothing you had ever experienced—fierce, desperate, and full of the years of unresolved tension between you. it was as if all the walls you had built around yourselves were crumbling in an instant, leaving nothing but the raw, undeniable attraction that had always simmered beneath the surface.

heeseung responded instantly, his hands tightening on your waist, pulling you closer as the kiss deepened. his lips moved against yours with a hunger that matched your own, and you could feel the heat radiating off him, his body pressing against yours as if he couldn’t bear to let you go.

it was overwhelming, the intensity of the moment, the way your bodies seemed to fit perfectly together, the way every touch sent a shockwave of desire coursing through you. you had spent so long fighting him, fighting this, and now, as his hands slid up your back, holding you close, you wondered why you had ever resisted.

when you finally pulled back, both of you were breathless, your foreheads resting against each other. heeseung’s grip on your waist didn’t loosen, and you could feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest, his heartbeat as wild as your own.

“we can’t keep pretending,” you whispered, your voice shaky, your lips still tingling from the kiss.

heeseung’s eyes met yours, the vulnerability and uncertainty in his gaze mirroring your own. “no, we can’t,” he agreed, his voice rough with emotion.

for a moment, the world hung in the balance. you had crossed a line, and there was no going back. everything between you had shifted, and the question now wasn’t whether you would move forward—it was how.

heeseung’s thumb brushed gently against your cheek, his touch so tender it nearly broke you. “we’re in this together,” he said softly, the weight of his words heavy with meaning.

this time, there was no need to say anything more. you both understood what had changed between you, even if neither of you was ready to fully admit it. and though the path ahead was uncertain, you knew one thing for sure: you weren’t facing it alone anymore.

weeks passed, and with each passing day, things between you and heeseung slowly shifted. the cold, sharp walls that had once kept you apart were crumbling, revealing a warmth and understanding that neither of you had anticipated. where there had once been biting words and icy glares, there was now laughter, quiet conversations, and small gestures of affection.

the palace felt different. it was lighter now, with the growing sense of partnership between you and heeseung. your bickering had been replaced with genuine care, and though the wounds of the past hadn't fully healed, you were both learning to forgive. but it wasn’t just the emotional connection that was shifting—there was something deeper brewing beneath the surface. unspoken feelings, simmering tension.

it wasn’t until a grand banquet in honour of a visiting prince from a neighbouring kingdom that these feelings came to a head. you stood at the centre of the ballroom, dressed in a gown that glimmered under the candlelight. it hugged your figure perfectly, catching the attention of more than just heeseung. the prince—prince seojun—had been particularly charming throughout the evening, his eyes lingering on you a little too long, his compliments a little too bold.

“you are by far the most captivating presence in this room, your highness,” seojun murmured, his voice low as he leaned in slightly, a smirk playing on his lips. “if i had known such beauty awaited me here, i would have visited sooner.”

you laughed politely, glancing over your shoulder, searching for heeseung in the crowd. he was across the room, deep in conversation with some nobles, but even from the distance, you could feel his gaze on you, sharp and intense.

seojun continued, his hand brushing lightly against your arm as he leaned closer. “perhaps we could steal a moment away from the crowd? i would love to know more about the woman behind such an enchanting smile.”

before you could respond, a sudden shift in the air caught your attention. heeseung appeared at your side, his posture tense, his expression a mix of barely contained irritation and something else—something more possessive.

“princess,” heeseung’s voice was smooth, but there was a dangerous edge to it. his hand slid around your waist, pulling you firmly against his side. the claim was unmistakable. “i believe your dance card is full for the evening.”

seojun’s smirk faltered slightly as he glanced between the two of you, sensing the tension. heeseung’s eyes never left the prince, cold and unyielding.

“of course,” seojun replied, raising his hands in mock surrender. “i wouldn’t dream of overstepping. after all,” his gaze flickered to you, then back to heeseung, “she’s your wife.”

the words hung in the air for a moment, charged with unspoken meaning. seojun bowed slightly, a smirk still playing on his lips, before taking his leave. but even as he walked away, you could feel the lingering weight of his gaze.

you turned to heeseung, about to make a light-hearted remark about the interaction, but the look on his face stopped you. his eyes were dark, his jaw clenched, and his grip on your waist was firm—almost possessive.

“did he touch you?” heeseung asked, his voice low and tight.

you raised an eyebrow, surprised by his tone. “barely,” you replied, trying to play it off with a soft laugh. “why? are you jealous?”

his eyes flickered with something dangerous as he leaned down, his breath warm against your ear. “you’re my wife. i don’t like other men thinking they can take what’s mine.”

your heart skipped a beat at his words. the possessiveness in his tone, the way his body pressed protectively against yours—it was unlike anything you had ever experienced with heeseung. you had always seen him as cold, distant, but this... this was different. there was fire in his eyes, and you could feel it burning between you, a tension that neither of you had acknowledged until now.

“and what if i enjoy a little attention now and then?” you teased, testing the boundaries, wanting to see how far he would go.

heeseung’s eyes darkened even more, and in one swift motion, he pulled you even closer, his hand cupping the back of your neck as he leaned in, his lips barely grazing the shell of your ear. “i don’t care how many men look at you, but remember this—” his voice dropped, sending shivers down your spine, “you belong to me and i belong to you.”

a thrill ran through you at his words, and for a moment, you were speechless, your mind spinning from the intensity of his claim. the ballroom, the crowd, even prince seojun—all of it faded away as heeseung’s gaze held you captive. you could feel the heat of his body against yours, the possessiveness in his touch, and for the first time, you realised that this wasn’t just some marriage of convenience anymore.

heeseung cared—more than he was willing to admit.

your breath hitched as you looked up at him, your eyes searching his, trying to read the emotions flickering behind them. “and what about you, heeseung?” you asked softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “do you want me to be yours?”

his eyes softened for just a moment, a flicker of vulnerability crossing his features before he leaned in, his lips brushing lightly against your temple. “you already are,” he murmured, his voice rough with emotion. “and i’m not letting you forget it.”

the banquet had left the air between you and heeseung charged with an intensity that neither of you could ignore. his possessiveness, the fierce look in his eyes when he claimed you as his wife in front of prince seojun, had stirred something inside you—something that had been simmering for far too long.

as the last of the guests departed and the palace quieted down for the night, the tension remained, lingering like an unspoken promise. heeseung walked beside you in silence as you both made your way through the dimly lit corridors toward your chambers. though no words passed between you, the air was thick with anticipation, the unspoken pull between you stronger than ever.

when you reached your shared chambers, heeseung opened the door for you, his gaze never leaving you as you stepped inside. you could feel his eyes on you, burning with a need that matched your own. the soft glow of the candlelight cast long shadows across the room, but all you could focus on was the man standing behind you, his presence overwhelming.

you moved toward the vanity, fingers trembling slightly as you began to remove your jewellery. you were acutely aware of heeseung standing behind you, the weight of his gaze almost tangible as he watched your every movement. his silence spoke volumes, filled with desire and unspoken emotions that neither of you had fully confronted until now.

the tension was unbearable. finally, unable to stand the silence any longer, you glanced at him through the reflection in the mirror, your voice soft but steady. “you’ve been quiet,” you murmured, meeting his intense gaze. “what’s on your mind?”

he didn’t answer immediately. instead, he stepped closer, his hand reaching out to brush against the bare skin of your shoulder. the touch was light, tentative, but it sent a shiver down your spine. his fingers lingered, tracing the delicate curve of your shoulder before he leaned in, his breath warm against your neck.

“i didn’t like how he looked at you,” heeseung finally admitted, his voice low and rough with suppressed emotion. his eyes met yours in the mirror, dark with jealousy and something more—something deeper. “or the way he made you laugh.”

your heart raced at the possessiveness in his tone. you turned to face him, taking in the tension in his jaw, the way his eyes blazed with something primal. his emotions were raw, laid bare before you in a way that heeseung had never allowed himself to show before.

“it was harmless,” you replied, stepping closer to him, your voice softening. “but i can’t say i minded the way you stepped in.”

his gaze darkened, his hand moving to your waist, pulling you flush against him. you could feel the heat of his body seeping into yours, the hard lines of his frame pressing against your softness. his eyes locked onto yours, filled with unspoken desire, but also with something more—something tender.

“i’m not the kind of man who likes to share,” he said, his voice a low growl as he leaned in, his lips hovering just above yours. “especially not when it comes to you.”

your breath hitched at his words, your pulse quickening as the fire between you flared even hotter. you couldn’t deny the thrill that ran through you at his possessive tone, the way his hands gripped you as though he couldn’t bear to let you go.

“and what are you going to do about it?” you whispered, your voice daring, testing the boundaries as your lips brushed his, teasingly close but not quite touching.

heeseung’s response was immediate. his lips crashed against yours, fierce and hungry, as if he had been holding back for far too long. the kiss was searing, filled with all the emotions you had both kept hidden. his hands roamed over your body, possessive yet tender, as though he was staking his claim but also worshipping every inch of you.

you responded just as fiercely, your hands tangling in his hair as you pulled him closer, needing to feel every part of him against you. the tension between you, the unspoken desire, it all poured out in that kiss, in the way his body pressed against yours with a need that matched your own.

heeseung’s hands slid down to your thighs, lifting you effortlessly as he carried you toward the bed. the air between you was electric, charged with desire and the intensity of emotions that neither of you had allowed to surface until now. he laid you down gently, his eyes never leaving yours, his gaze dark and filled with a hunger that made your heart race.

for a moment, he paused, his fingers brushing over your cheek with a tenderness that contrasted sharply with the intensity of what had just passed between you. his eyes softened, and for the first time, you saw the vulnerability behind them—the raw emotion that he had been hiding behind his cold exterior for so long.

“are you sure?” he asked, his voice husky but laced with care, as if he was giving you one last chance to pull away, to stop this before it went too far.

you gazed up at him, your heart swelling with the overwhelming emotions coursing through you. heeseung, the man you had once considered your rival, your enemy, was now looking at you with a tenderness that took your breath away. you reached up, cupping his face in your hands, your thumb brushing softly over his cheek.

“i’m sure,” you whispered, pulling him down into another kiss, softer this time, but no less filled with the emotions swirling between you.

what followed was slow, deliberate, and filled with a tenderness that you had never expected from heeseung. his hands moved over your body with care, as though he was savouring every touch, every breath. the fierceness from earlier softened into something more intimate, more meaningful, as he explored you with reverence, his lips following the path of his hands.

your name fell from his lips like a prayer, whispered against your skin in the quiet moments between kisses. heeseung’s touch was both possessive and gentle, as though he was claiming you but also offering himself to you in return. the intensity of the moment was overwhelming, but it was the tenderness in his gaze, the softness of his touch, that made your heart ache with something deeper than mere desire.

and as the night stretched on, your bodies moving together in perfect harmony, you realised that this wasn’t just about passion—it was about the connection you had been fighting against for so long. the rivalry, the bickering, the walls you had both built between you—it all crumbled away, leaving only the raw truth of what you felt for one another.

when it was over, you lay beside each other, your breathing heavy, your bodies tangled in the sheets. the room was quiet now, the only sound was the soft rustle of the fabric and the faint crackle of the dying fire in the hearth.

heeseung turned to you, his hand reaching out to gently brush a strand of hair from your face. his eyes, once so cold and guarded, were warm now, filled with an emotion that made your heart skip a beat. he pulled you closer, wrapping his arms around you and holding you against his chest as though he couldn’t bear to let you go.

you rested your head on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. it was comforting, grounding you in the quiet aftermath of everything that had just passed between you. his fingers traced lazy patterns on your back, soothing and gentle, as he pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head.

neither of you spoke, but words weren’t necessary. the silence was filled with a sense of peace, of contentment that neither of you had known before. heeseung’s touch was soft now, filled with care as he held you close, his body warm and protective against yours.

and in that quiet, intimate moment, you realised something: this was more than just passion, more than just desire. it was something real, something lasting.

heeseung’s hand continued to trace gentle patterns on your back, his lips brushing your temple as he whispered softly, “are you alright?”

you smiled against his chest, your heart swelling with warmth at the tenderness in his voice. “more than alright,” you murmured, snuggling closer to him.

heeseung let out a soft sigh, his arms tightening around you as if he never wanted to let go. and as you drifted off to sleep in his arms, the weight of the past finally lifted, leaving only the warmth of the present and the promise of a future you were both ready to embrace.

the next morning, you woke to find heeseung already up, standing by the window of your shared chambers, his silhouette framed by the soft glow of the early morning light. he looked deep in thought, his expression pensive as he gazed out over the kingdom.

quietly, you approached him, wrapping your arms around his waist from behind. he stiffened for a moment at the contact but quickly relaxed, his hands covering yours as he let out a soft sigh.

“you’re up early,” you murmured, resting your cheek against his back.

“i couldn’t sleep,” he replied, his voice thoughtful. “i was thinking about everything that’s changed.”

you smiled, pressing a soft kiss to his shoulder. “a lot has changed, hasn’t it?”

heeseung turned in your arms, his expression soft as he looked down at you. “i never thought this would work,” he admitted, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “but i’m glad i was wrong.”

you gazed up at him, your heart swelling with warmth. the man standing before you was the same heeseung you had known all your life, but now, you saw him for who he truly was—not your enemy, not your rival, but your partner. your husband.

“i’m glad too,” you whispered, reaching up to cup his cheek. he leaned into your touch, his eyes closing for a moment, a small smile playing on his lips.

and in that moment, you knew that this was your new beginning. the past, with all its bitterness and tension, was behind you. what lay ahead was a future you hadn’t expected but one you were ready to embrace—together.

as heeseung pulled you into a gentle kiss, the warmth of the morning sun streaming through the window, you knew that this was the start of something beautiful. your marriage, once forged out of obligation and resentment, had grown into something real, something lasting.

and as you stood there, wrapped in each other’s arms, you realised that sometimes, the best love stories were the ones you never saw coming.

𝗰𝗼𝗽𝘆𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 ©𝗴𝘆𝘂𝘂𝗯𝗲𝗿𝗿𝘆𝘆 on Tumblr

˚ · .𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁𝘀 𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗲𝗿𝘃𝗲𝗱

taglist: @punchbug9-blog @firstclassjaylee @capri-cuntz @addictedtohobi @jaysfavoritegirl

[marzipanandminutiae]

I hate how doing any kind of yarn craft basically means you can only produce plastic clothes or it's going to be 300$ in yarn minimum. Every yarn has some acrylic and the natural stuff is so wildly expensive. I would love to use 100% natural fibers but the options are limited

God, yeah. The price of natural-fiber materials is insane.

My average budget for like a full silk gown, trim and notions included, is around $200- and that's ONLY because I live near a discount fabric store that gets bolt-ends from big fashion houses and sells silk for like $10/yard. Wool is insane, for some reason- that place only has coating (heavyweight) and suiting (lighter but feels like plastic even though it's not), so making a dress or anything not outerwear from wool involves shopping online and some painful spending.

I just bought 6 yards of wool to make my Dream Dressing-Gown. It was $210 for JUST the wool- I still have to get lining fabric, possibly an embroidery machine pattern, embroidery thread (because my friend who's generously letting me use her machine only has polyester and rayon). Part of that was shipping from freaking Poland because finding a website that has non-stretch, dark green wool at any weight below "snow gear" in the States is nigh impossible.

(Or that actually discloses the weight in a meaningful way; that's another problem I've encountered. "Brushed wool!" Great, but how heavy is it? "It's wool!" Not helpful. It's like they can't fathom wanting to use wool for anything besides heavy outerwear. Which they probably can't, because that's all we're accustomed to seeing it as nowadays.)

Like I'm tempted to blame militant v*gans for the inaccessibility of silk and wool, but honestly, capitalism was probably just waiting for the excuse to turn all our clothes to crap. I doubt there's been enough outcry about them to push those fabrics out of reach, the way there has been for fur and leather (to clarify: pro-treating animals humanely, anti-plastic clothing, not opposed to the use of aforesaid materials if those animals are properly cared-for and humanely killed).

At least you can still find cotton and some linen things in stores- for now. They're still more expensive, though, and limited in what weaves are often seen. Cotton velvet, for example? Forget it.

It's so disturbing and frustrating.

[redcoralpot]

Tougher Than Nails - Mike Schmidt X M!Reader

Warnings/Details: NSFW content, implied substance abuse, alcohol, cowboy!reader, hankie/cowboy hat code.

Summary: Mike goes to a bar downtown in hopes of getting his mind off of court, but instead finds something much healthier.

A/N: Everyone should thank my boyfriend for this idea; he's always the one that reminds me that I am technically a 'cowboy'. He saves a horse very often.

Word Count: 1.8K

-

-

Bars weren’t really Mike’s thing. Any alcohol he’s ever had tasted like crap, and becoming an alcoholic would just be another check on Aunt Jane’s list to prove to the court that he wasn’t suitable for custody. Hell, he swore her perfume was still clinging onto his nose hairs, and all he wanted to do was escape her. Escape reality, too. Mike remembered when his father used to do just that after Garret disappeared, drowning himself in the bitter liquid at night, his speech slurred. That’s why he was here, at a bar in downtown Afton, while Maxine stayed with Abby. He was desperate.

The building was crowded, delightful chatter and jazz music filling the air. Lights were strung along the wooden walls, narrowly dodging the black and white photos hanging by themselves. More customers squeezed in behind him; Mike frantically searched for any open spot in the room. Hallelujah– a single stool was left vacant near the serving counter, and Mike shuffled into it, shoulders tense. The bartender seemed to notice his presence, as she leaned towards the man, still shaking another person’s drink. 

“You’re a new face,” she rattled, “may I see your license?”

Mike fumbled with his wallet, sliding the card for her to see, “Uh, sure.”

“Right, you’re all clear; would you like to open a tab?”

A man cut in before he could answer, and for the first time, Mike got a good look at the person sitting beside him, “Just add whatever he orders to mine, Molly.” 

She shrugged, the key hanging from her left pocket jingling, “Easier for me.”

You chuckled, the brim of your hat covering your eyes. It was decorated with embroidery and leather, complimenting your purple button up shirt, though that was partially hidden by a black vest. Two hankies hung out of your back, left pocket, similar to Molly’s keychain. One was rust colored, but the other was a complimentary gray; Mike thought it was an interesting stylistic choice. 

“I’ll just have a beer, thanks.”

As the bartender turned, scribbling in a notebook, you inquired, “So, what’s a fine boy like you doing ‘round these parts?”

Mike grabbed the foaming beer that was placed in front of him, “I live nearby.”

“That’s not the only reason, is it?”

He hesitated to answer, instead choosing to take a long sip of the beverage. It burned down his throat, the flavor making his lips curl and his head a little more dizzy. Somehow, it loosened his will, and he found his lips moving without his permission. Your energy was just hypnotizing; he felt himself being pulled in.

“Needed a break from stress,” Mike admitted, picking at the glass’ label.

You cocked your head to the side, your hat tipping upward, “Just ‘cause you’re in a hole, doesn’t mean you gotta keep digging. Alcohol isn’t the cure to what you’re feelin’.”

“What am I supposed to do? Not even my medicine works anymore.”

“I go here for stress relief too,” you assured, downing a shot, “but not necessarily for the drinks.”

Your hand hovered over the small of his back, looking at him for consent. When he didn’t move away, you settled your fingers there, feeling a shiver run through Mike’s body. Some of the previous tension released from his shoulders, and he almost leaned back in relief. Many of the customers in this bar were paired with the same sex, unlike most of the movies he’d seen that included the subject. So, he supposed it wouldn’t look too weird if he did.

You elaborated, “People can be cruel, can’t they, sweetheart? Comin’ to a place like this, where everyone’s like me in some way or another, is a damn good bonus.”

“Like you?”

“Y’know,” you gestured to your handkerchiefs, “queer and such.”

He paused, “Ah.”

“You didn’t know this was a boy bar?”

Mike replied, “I kinda just looked up the closest bar to my house.”

…

“Good to know.” Your hand fell away from his back.

He almost chased it. Mike liked the feeling, the weight of your fingers pressing into such an intimate spot. However, he wasn’t tipsy enough for that, and controlled himself. He watched as you spoke to Molly, the lady’s eyes flicking towards him and back, and you slipped her the money needed to cover the tab. You tipped your hat towards Mike, a respectful way to put distance between you, before disappearing into the suffocating crowd. Molly side eyed him, sweeping away his bottle, before leaving as well. Mike swallowed, pulling loose skin from his bottom lip with his teeth. It was now, or never– perhaps alcohol wasn’t the only way, after all. You were right. 

Mike could still see the very top of your hat swerving above the crowd, and he trailed after it to the best of his ability. A random girl almost elbowed him in the face, and he was sure his shins would be bruised after tonight. Your shadow was reflecting in the glass door, growing fainter and fainter as you walked further away, your hips swaying. Mike pushed it open, the vision dissolving, and cold air stung his cheeks. The moon reflected off of car hoods, the only way he was able to see where he was running. His hand reached out and grabbed your arm, as you flinched.

Mike’s ears were red, probably from the alcohol, and you stared at him, “What’re you doing?”

“I don’t know,” was the only answer you got before your collar was jerked forward.

Your lips crashed violently with his; your teeth clicking as he struggled to pull you closer. Mike was still fisting your shirt as you brought your hands to cup his jaw and the back of his neck, trying to gentle the kiss. 

You mumbled against his mouth, “Better not be some experiment of yours, pretty boy.”

“Nope,” he whispered, the aftertaste of whiskey on his tongue.

His back hit the side of your car, and his hands moved from your collar to swinging his arms around your neck. Your knee found its way in between Mike’s thighs, pressing against his crotch, and his groan was swallowed by your lips. Mike whined when you trailed down, aiming instead for his neck. Dark marks and bites soon decorated the pale flesh, his blood dripping a contrasting splash of color. 

Tugging on his earlobe, you challenged, “Gonna come back to my place?”

Mike doubted he ever agreed to something so quickly.

The drive was long, too long in his opinion. Though, it was most likely only fifteen minutes, at most. Mike didn’t even have to walk up the driveway to your cabin; his legs were locked around your hips as you carried him through the door and up the stairs. He ground his groin against you, searching for any possible friction. You tossed him onto your bed, unbuckling your belt, holding it taut. The man in front of you wiggled back and spread his legs to make room for you. You snickered at how willing Mike was, considering his hesitation when you first met.

You regularly kept lube on the bedside table, just to be prepared for when you brought men home from the bar. However, this one was different in a way you had trouble putting into words, other than positive. His thighs shook as you massaged the liquid into his hole, a hand covering his mouth to prevent you from hearing his noises. Ah, now that wouldn’t do, would it?

In response, you tugged his hand off of his mouth, “Lemme hear you.”

Such pretty sounds from a pretty mouth, it was truly a shame. When Mike immediately went back to covering them up, you slid your fingers out of him, instead reaching for your abandoned belt. His eyes trailed after your hands as they bound his wrists together in front of him, almost akin to handcuffs. Mike couldn’t see much of your expression after your head dipped down, only the shit-eating grin playing on your lips. Of course, that was before you took your hat off by the crown and placed it firmly on his head, though it was a tad too big for him.

“Why don’t you keep that safe for me, sweetheart?”

For a second, Mike was confused. Keep it safe? Just what were you planning on doing? He felt a grip on his waist, right before his world spun around him, and the positions were practically reversed. The guard was now sitting on top of you, or more so your crotch, his thighs caging in your hips. Mike’s hair was disheveled and the light on the ceiling created a sort of halo around him, and fuck, did you think he was pretty. Only a few select people had ever gotten to wear your hat, and you could confidently say that he was the most beautiful in it.

You unbuttoned your jeans, letting your cock slip through the opening, “You ready?”

“I’ve never done this before.”

You had a grip on his waist again, slowly guiding him down. You didn’t thrust, didn’t force him to go fast, and allowed him his proper time to adjust, “How’s that feelin’?”

“G-good,” he shuddered, precum leaking from his tip, “think ‘m ready.”

“You haven’t seen the brunt of it yet, boy!” You grunt, thrusting the rest of you inside, brushing against Mike’s prostate. 

The man on top of you moaned, and the sound was so uncharacteristically loud that even he seemed surprised by it. Mike leaned down, resting his tied fists on your chest in order to keep his balance. His sweat dampened your collarbones, his drool smearing on your neck, and the pathetic excuse of a guard tried leaving kisses over the areas he could reach. You soon found a rhythm to your thrusts; groans were punched out of your throat on their own.

Mike could feel heat rushing through his brain, bringing tears that stuck to his eyelashes, covering any thoughts or hesitance he may have had before. That wasn’t enough for it– it spread like wildfire down his body, down to where your fingers were leaving bruises, and down to his red, leaking dick. Something deep was brewing inside of him, nothing he’s felt since his hormonal teenage years. Hell, he didn’t even have time to process it when you kissed his cheek, whispering in his ear that he’s such a needy slut; it exploded.

When he finally came to, he could feel his thighs twitching and your heaving, sticky abs below him. His eyelids felt heavy, and all he wanted to do was stay there with you. You were rubbing circles into his back, attempting to pull out, but a grumble from Mike made you stop. In fact, you were saying things, but it sounded muffled and far away. He took great comfort in your voice, no matter what you were talking about. It was getting farther and farther away, yet still managed to follow him into his dreams. For the first time since the incident with Garret, he did not have a nightmare. 

-

Taglist: @cannabrisano @kai_beanz @fandomz-brainrot @slimemakermas

[lydiadeetzgf]

Invisible String

Oscar Tully x Blackwood!reader

summary: This is the story of Benjicot's younger sister and Oscar Tully. Some would say it was of coincidence, others would say it was fate.

word count: 1.4k

warning: fluff

Author’s note: please let me know what you think of this in the comments! I’m always open to feedback!

Green was the color of the grass Where I used to read at Centennial Park I used to think I would meet somebody there

Blackwood Vale consisted of Raventree Hall and the Godswoods, with a large green pasture in between. The lofty, old stone walls of Raventree are covered in moss. The gate is flanked by two enormous square towers, and there is a square tower at each corner of the wall. It is further protected by a stone-lined, deep moat. There is a large timber keep and a filthy outer ward inside the walls. The solar of Lord Blackwood in the keep is spacious and bright, with enormous dark oak beams. Its walls are covered in wool tapestries, and its latticework doors, which have yellow glass windows fashioned like diamonds, gaze out over Raventree Hall's godswood. It has a chair with a high back. There is a massive, ancient, dead weirwood within the godswood. Hundreds of ravens arrive every evening around sunset and spend the entire night roosting on the dead weirwood, just as they have done for countless years. There is a view of two of Raventree's gates from a height overlooking a stream close to the castle.

Her father had asked her that day to get her brother Benji from the grounds by the Godswoods as it was time for their supper. Just nine name days y/n walked down the green pasters with her black dress with ravens embraided on the bottom. As she walked closer, she saw her Benji, who was only two-name days older than her, training with his friends. The two boys were her brother’s age. One had curly hair, the other straight.

“Benji!” She shouted getting her brother and the boys’ attention, causing them to stop fighting.

“What?!” he shouted back rolling his eyes that his little sister was disturbing them.

“Father says it’s supper and that you need to come back.” y/n said coming closer to face him. 

“Fine.” Benji started to gather his things. Y/n could feel eyes watching her as she face her brother. Once Benji gathered his things he place his hand protectively on her back gently pushing her back to Raventree Hall.

“Are you going to introduce us to your sister Benji?” The boy with straight hair asked smirking, “It would be rude not to.”

Y/n glanced to see Benji rolled his eyes and slowly turned to face the boys. She too turned to see them. The boy with curly hair stared at the girl with admiration in his eyes causing her cheeks to turn red. 

“Y/n this is Kermit and Oscar Tully.” Benji gestured to both the Tullys, “Kermit and Oscar, this is Y/n my little sister.”

“Hello.” She shyly waved at the two.

Kermit bowed, “Pleasure to meet you.”

Oscar didn’t speak but softly waved hello back.

Time, curious time Gave me no compasses, gave me no signs Were there clues I didn't see?

By the age of ten and one y/n and Oscar had always seem to end up near each other. One time y/n was in the library reading a book on the Old Gods when she heard the doors smack open. To her surprise Oscar was standing there out of breath. He quickly shut the door and ran over to her. He grabbed her hand and dragged her under the table.

“What’s wrong?” She asked. “Why are we hiding?”

“Mine and your brothers are chase me. They wish to throw me in the river as a happy name day present.”

“It’s your name day?” She smiled at the boy as he nodded shyly, “Happy nameday.”

“Thank you.” The two spend the rest of the afternoon talking under that table.

At the age of ten and two y/n have perfected her embroidery skills, so much that she started to embroider on her dresses. Y/n had a plain dark blue dress in her wardrobe that she wish to dress up for fun. She spent a whole month embroidering the dress for a festival at Riverrun. When the festival came around her and her family arrived at Riverrun. Entering the great hall, y/n noticed Oscar coming over.

“You have fishes on your dress?” Oscar pointed out. Y/n’s plain dark blue dress had be transformed into a dress with fishes dancing with ravens on the bottom.

“Do you like it?” she asked smiling at the boy. “I did it myself. I thought it was fitting.”

“Yes, its very beautiful.” He smiled back blushing, “like you.” He held out his hand towards her, “would you like to dance?”

The girl smiled and took his hand.

Another time was when y/n was ten and three she was walking the riverbank. The Backwoods were in Riverrun as her father had business with Lord Grover. “Y/n!” She heard a voice shout out behind her. The girl turned to see Oscar stumbling along the riverbank behind her, causing her to smile.

“What are you doing here? I thought you would be with my brother and Kermit?” She asked the boy confusedly.

“But I would much rather be here with you.” He smiled brightly. The two continue walking the riverbank enjoying each other’s company.

And isn't it just so pretty to think All along there was some Invisible string Tying you to me?

It was a sunny day in Ravenvale. Y/n was in her chambers getting ready excitedly, as it was her ten and four name day. Her maids were putting on her favourite red empire silhouette dress with an ivy pattern on the long sleeves. As her maid, Anne did her hair there was a knock on her door.

“Come in.” She invited whoever was at the door. The door pushed open to reveal a muddy Oscar Tully. “Oscar!” Y/n smiled standing up and walking closer to him.

“Y/n.” The muddy boy said out of breath.

“Why are you covered in mud?” She looked at him confusedly tilting her head slightly.

“I was in the grounds getting you this…” He caught his breath and brought his arm from behind his back to reveal a bouquet of flowers, lavenders, sweet peas and hydrangeas. “Happy name day, y/n.”

The girl took the flowers gently from his hand and sniffed them, “thank you Os. I love them.” She smiled at the boy, who was grateful she like them. Y/n handed the flowers over to Anne and asked her to place them in a vase by her bed. Oscar then said goodbye and ran off to find his brother and Benji. Leaving y/n to her own thoughts.

She realised that she was nearing the age in which her father would marry her of to some lord in some old castle that did not care or love her and only would use her to produce heirs for himself. She wished to be loved and cared for by some who she would love and care for, she wished for someone to grow old with. The more she thought about it, the more she knew who she wished to marry. She wished for it to be Oscar Tully, the boy who had been by her side since she was nine and onwards. She wished for the boy with curly hair who gave her flowers.

One single thread of gold tied me to you

On a cold autumn afternoon y/n was summoned to the main hall by her father. As she walked the Hall’s corridors, she got more and more nervous. Had she done something bad? Had Benji blame her for something he did and now she had to cover for him again? Is she finally being married of to an old, dying lord? When she near the door to the main hall the guards opened the doors and announced her arrival.

There stood her father and brother along with Lord Grover and Oscar, smiling and laughing. She looked at the gathering in confusion, “you wanted to see me, father?” she asked.

Her father turned to see her standing there and smiled brightly at her, “y/n! come greet your betrothed and his grandsire!”

“Betrothed?” she looked at Oscar, who sheepishly smiled at her.

“Yes, Lord Oscar Tully is to be your husband.” Her father explained. “We just finalised the arrangement.”

“Really?” She smiled at him. Once her father nodded to confirm, y/n ran at Oscar and hugged him tightly almost knocking him to the ground. Oscar chuckled slightly and hugged back. “I’m glad it’s you.” She whispered.

Once y/n was ten and seven and Oscar was ten and nine they had their wedding. It was held at Riverrun and all the noble houses of the Riverlands attended. After the two had said their vows, Oscar passionately kiss her, and she kissed back. As everyone cheered, her brother and Kermit whooping at the two, the happy couple Oscar swept y/n off her feet and carried her down the aisle.

[jewishvitya]

hi riki! this is a bizarre question ngl, but im wondering if you could please tell me about why you are anti-Zionist? Since i have FRESHLY (last month!! Woohoo!!) become bat mitzvah, and I’m not going to beit Sefer every week now, I’m starting to realize that what I was told about Israel and zionism miiiight be innacurate. Please feel free not to, but I would personally feel more comfortable hearing about Antizionism from somebody who is for sure not hiding any antisemitic biases. Thanks and I hope it’s not a bother!

Mazal tov!

I was debating if I should reply to this and how. You're only one year older than my son and I never considered talking about this with a kid other than my own children. But if you're online reading and looking up information about this, I'll just answer the way I would for anyone. Like I said, I don't mind explaining. But I don't have the energy to collect sources for you. I'll do that later if you'd like. For now it'll be a bit of a rant.

Basically, if you ask different people what zionism is, you'll get different answers. Some people say that zionism is just the acknowledgement of our connection to this land. That's not what I'm going against. I'm not denying that this is our ancestral homeland. I've never known a different home, I grew up near Hebron. Our history means everything to me. So maybe you could create some definition of zionism that I wouldn't be against. But then I'll be against the use of the word because in practice, politically, the movement has been colonialist. And that reality is more important to me. So when I say I'm antizionist, I'm not talking about whatever pretty idea someone might have, I'm talking about things that to me are very concrete.

Zionism uses whatever political terminology is useful to it at the time. Currently, it tries to paint itself as a sort of landback movement, placing us as the indigenous population of this land. This is a distraction. If you mean "indigenous" as "this is where we originated" - both us and Palestinians are indigenous, which makes this term pointless to this situation. If you mean "indigenous" as "a local population facing colonization" - they're indigenous and we're the colonizers. That's the more politically useful distinction.

And the thing is, zionists knew they were colonizers. Ben Gurion was welcomed by the local population and expressed hope that they're nomadic and could be persuaded to leave. Ze'ev Jabotinsky argued that no land has been colonized with the consent of its natives, so we should just take what we want like other occupying forces did. They knew what they were doing. At the time, there wasn't the broad political pushback against colonialism that you see today, so they didn't really hide it. They saw themselves as the colonizing force and the Palestinians as the natives and this distinction had them placing themselves above the Palestinians.

When I was in school, I was made to believe that Palestine was never truly a country and the population here was never a cohesive nation. You might see questions like "Who were the Palestinian prime ministers and presidents? What was the Palestinian coin? What Palestinian wars were there before the creation of Israel?"

These questions tell you nothing other than the fact that Palestine has been under foreign occupation for a very long time. They try to lead you to believe that Palestine and the Palestinian identity are fictional constructs designed to deny us our place in this land.

But Palestinians have their own dialect of Arabic. They have their own varieties of Middle Eastern foods. They have their own clothing, their own embroidery patterns, their own dances. They have a very rich culture that wasn't just made up from nothing within the last century. I still have to battle against cognitive dissonance every time I find something of the sort, because Palestinian culture goes against everything I was taught.

The truth is, the British had no right to occupy Palestine, and they had no right to offer it to us. If we pretend there was no population that was wronged when we took Israel, we can be "the good guys" with Palestinians being a sinister plot to ruin us. This turns normal families, normal people, into a conspiracy made to hurt us. We're not fighting a military force - every Palestinian person is a threat to our legitimacy. Israelis don't even really use the term "Palestinians" - they're just Arabs, their individual identity is stripped from them. We pretend that they belong to other countries around us.

Israeli propaganda will tell you that we only ever act in self defense. It's in the name of our military, it's called a defense force. Israel boasts that it has the only ethical military in the world. The only defensive one. But like I said, we define threats very broadly. And we whitewash a lot of history. I was taught in school all our fighting was defensive - and then I spoke to an elderly man and he said "of course we killed whole villages, it was war, that's what you do." Only as an adult I found out about things like the Sabra and Shatila massacre and our involvement in it.

For the existence of Israel as an ethnostate, every Palestinian is a threat. A lot of people are all in favor of Israel, but against the government actions of ethnic cleansing. The truth is, the ethnostate is not sustainable without the ethnic cleansing. You can't accept one and expect it not to lead to the other. An ethnostate is never a justified goal, and that's always been the goal of zionism as a practical movement.

And I know why this exists. We've had two millennia of persecution. Antisemitism is one of the oldest forms of bigotry. And we just experienced an attempt to industrially exterminate us, we lost millions, including from my own family. We want shelter and safety and the ability to defend ourselves. I just can't see that as justification for what we did and continue to do.

You can look up our human rights abuses, but personally, there were moments that hit me. When I saw a whole warehouse of mail intended to reach Gaza, mail that's been kept from them for years, including items like wheelchairs, in such bad conditions that some envelopes got moldy. I still think of the people who spent all that money to get a wheelchair and were prevented mobility because we decided to hold their mail.

I watched the biggest apartment building in Gaza collapse under our bombs and I cried thinking about the people inside, and about the potential survivors and everything they lost.

I watched our people beat up the pallbearers at the funeral of Shireen Abu-Akleh, a Palestinian reporter. They almost dropped the casket from all those beatings. They were no threat. They just carried her. There was no reason to hurt them.

On the news, after Shireen Abu-Akleh died, the description of the Palestinian response to her death was that they're "חוגגים על המוות." The literal translation is that they're celebrating over the death, but that's not what it means. The meaning is that they're exaggerating their pain and their grief. They're acting, pretending, milking the injustice of it for show. And that's a common Israeli narrative, that Palestinians make a big deal out of things and pretend to suffer more just to make us look bad. We've dehumanized them to the point where we don't believe their grief.

And before all of this, growing up, I saw what the "us vs them" mentality caused in children. I grew up in Kiryat Arba and the population there is very strongly zionist. It's a settlement. It's largely Dati Leumi (national religious? I'm not sure how to translate, dati means religious and leumi means national). Over there I saw children as young as six cheerfully talk about joining the military and killing Arabs. I saw a kid throwing chocolate past the electric fence separating us from them, and laughing when a small Palestinian child went looking for that chocolate, calling her a pig. I saw my high school classmates questioning if they should help the family of a six-months-old baby, first demanding to know if the sick infant is Arab.

The Israeli left has a bit of a slogan. הכיבוש משחית. The occupation corrupts. It means that being an oppressive force changes what we are. It ruins us. And I truly believe that. It taints so much about us and our culture, about our compassion and our ability to have solidarity with other humans. Many principles that kept us safe in diaspora are used now to harm gentiles living under our control, and Palestinians suffer most of all.

So these are the reasons I'm antizionist. I hate what we do to Palestinians. I hate what it does to us. And more fundamentally, I'm against colonialism.

[threepandas]

Bad End, Hidden Heir: Part 2

Prev <-

A pounding headache and cave air, that's what I woke up too. The air was being choked, though, by familiar scents. All trying desperately to make the cold, wet, and softly echoing quiet, hospitable. It was nauseating in my current state. Weak and... drugged? Had I been drugged? I certainly hadn't been drunk.

So why did my head hurt so much?

Why did every motion, make my stomach want to rebel?

My limbs felt so WEAK. Heavy and useless. Barely budging when I try to lift them. To rub my head? Adjust the blanket? Sit up? I can't tell. Thinking... thinking is so hard past... the pounding in my head. The fog. I struggle to concentrate. God, that SMELL.

Like a perfume store combined with... with... ugh. Everything!

I could pick out individual scents I knew I liked, on their own, added to the nauseating chaos. My favorite potpourri was there. But so was the one I like for winter? Fall? That one I liked as a kid until I found Mrs. Tianna's blend...

And perfumes! Colognes! The clean products and scents I preferred the maids used. God it... it blended together like a trash heap. As though someone drove a carriage through a perfume shop at speed. Cloying and musk and spice and fruity and-!

I sucked air through my teeth, trying not to smell it, hoping to god I wouldn't TASTE it.

Finally I managed to pry my eyes open. Either hunger or thirst giving my the strength to push past the nauseating pain. I NEEDED to move. Find out what was happening. Survive.

My gaze... met the most elaborate embroidery I had ever seen. Tapestries had less art. Almost to the point of gaudiness. Possibly past it. It was...

It was everything I had ever said I liked.

Too anyone.

Puppies and flowers, history and art, books scenes and more. It kept GOING! Hideous and magnificent. Chaos. Unhinged. Flowing down from above me, along the rest of the curtains, for the canopy bed upon which I rest. So I would be surrounded by it all. Even the blanket... it was a sea of my favorite flowers, made eternal through string.

This wasn't something people just DID. Could just FIND. I could feel my panic under the muting pain and exhaustion. This was the work of YEARS. Obsessive, continuous, YEARS. Some of these threads cost more then certain house hold make in WEEKS! And for what? A secret canopy bed?!

I struggled, body barely able to obey me but trying desperately to assist. The blankets were heavy. The curtain around the bed equally so, thanks to all the embroidery. I.. I manage to roll. Squirm. Wriggle my way, undignified, to the edge. Flop over it and out from under the blanket. Too freedom.

The air is cold.

The scents WORSE out here. Now, I can see why.

It is a museum to all that I am. Every like carefully gathered in one place, every preference. Stacked and shoved together, with no regard for if they fit. Hoarded like a collection.

I can not even tell... if I am sitting, flopped down, on my favorite winter bedside carpet or just an exact copy. My entire life is shoved together and suddenly... suddenly I do not like any of these things at all. They feel dirty. Dangerous. Like they have betrayed me. I want to cry.

But I am nauseous. Hurting. Tired and thirsty. So very hungry dispite it all. I just... I just need to know what's going ON! This isn't... this isn't how the Game goes! Not for Protag-chan. Not for me! I know I changed my "character's" behavior... but...

I... I don't understand...

Try not to cry. It's... it's really hard.

I was right. I'm pretty sure this is the Caves of Spring in the northwest of the Duchy. The offical Heir has an estate near them. The stone looks like the cliffs I'd seen in passing.

Crawling is hard. My legs keep getting tangled in my fucking nightgown. My... my f.. favorite.. nightgown! I'm not gonna cry. Damn it. I'm NOT GONNA CRY. How dare he? How DARE he ruin even that? What did he DO to me!? When I was... was...

No, don't think about it!

Move.

A decanter. Needlessly pretty. I probably loved it as a girl, fresh into this world. Everything was so FANCY and I wasn't used to having money yet. Hadn't developed any real class or taste. It looks so fucking gaudy to me now. But God, it has water. Please... PLEASE let that be water!

I drag myself up on badly shaking limbs. Nothing wants to hold. Wrists buckling, knees giving, legs shaking like a new born lamb. My arms are so weak. But thirst... oh thirst is a powerful motivator.

I force myself to move.

The water is not enough. It is everything. Cold and perfect, I force myself to go slow. To not spill a single drop, as I collapse against the dresser it was placed upon. Letting my eyes explore my cage in the way my poor abused body can not.

There are thick bars buried deep into the bedrock, separating the "room" I'm in from the hall that leads away from it. And it IS a "room". Made in cruel mockery to resemble the luxury of the dukes estate. Perhaps even more aggressively decadent in certain aspects, though that isn't a good thing. It makes it border on a storage room, for how crowded with luxury it has become.

It is the reflection of an unwell mind.

And staring up at the portraits of myself I KNOW I never sat for? The countless sketches pinned up beyond the bars? I am in trouble. I... I should have run. Not sent Creep away. I should have been the one to run. Before it was too late.

I think... I think it might be too late.

Footsteps.

I want to escape. But where can I run? I am caged. I feel close and far away. My head hurts. My body hurts. Everything stinks and I am cold. Why? Why did you do this? The foot steps are calm and commanding. Even. They do not break stride.

I do not bother to watch my hunter approach me. The monster I can not escape.

I close my eyes to spare myself the pounding in my head. Drink more water.

He makes a softly dismayed sound, as though he was not the one to drug me, to leave me here. The door to my cage opens. Closes. Ah... such a heavy lock. Should I be flattered?

Crisp steps, the rustle of fabric.

"My lady, the floor is so dirty! You shouldn't be out of bed yet. I was just about to make you tea."

The AUDACITY.

Tea? TEA! Ha ha! After DRUGGING my tea? He actually expects me to accept a cup from him again?! He truely IS insane, isn't he?

I am scooped up without my consent, unable to so much a truely struggle. Placed gently on a plush chair, a tea table moved in front of me. A familiar cup. My favorite blend. Pretty little snacks laid out deftly on lovely little plates. I grit my teeth. Slowly tip my head up to glare.

He pauses when our eye meet... then shudders, some terrible look of pleasure dancing across his face.

"That's right... look at me~" he whispers, leaning entirely too close. "I'm all that you have now. So you'll HAVE too now! No more others. No more distractions. No more sending me away! People trying to get between us. Trying to take you away. I'm all that you need, My Lady. All you'll EVER need."

"Just look at ME, your loyal dog. And I'll take such good care of you. I promise~♡"

[lqveharrington]

Foolish One | C.G.

summary: you’ve been in love with Cardan since you were children and you’re not sure if he loves you back.

pairing: cardan greenbriar x fem!reader

includes: fluff, angst, kissing, jealously

a/n: soooo, it’s not my fault i keep writing one-shots

When you were born, your own father conjured up a deal with Elfhame’s King: that you were to be wed with their youngest son. As children, you and Cardan grew up with one another. You were never told you had to marry, but you both knew through the forced meet ups your parents would make you attend. You didn’t care as much. If you got to marry someone you knew since childhood, what was the harm? But Cardan seemingly didn’t care for it. Whenever the topic was brought up, he would shrug it off and change the subject before going any further.

However, the more time you spent with Cardan, the more you realized how much you actually wanted to be with him. From childhood to now, he still was by your side and protected you from the worst his so-called friends would do. He still hung out with you despite not being forced to do so. He still considered you his favorite in the entirety of Elfhame — which made you consider your own feelings.

You realized that you had fallen in love with such a cruel prince who had zero intentions of actually marrying you. Especially when you caught his attention slipping to one mortal girl.

Cardan’s head was in your lap as you rested underneath a willow tree near Balekin’s place. You both finished your lessons and Cardan decided to drag you away from the mess of his social group.

“Will you be attending this year’s summer tournament?” Cardan murmured softly as you ran your fingers through his hair, his tail wrapping around your arm loosely.

“I always do.” You quietly say back, listening to the rushing water nearby. Your eyes wandered over his face, admiring his structure whilst his eyes were shut.

He hummed, “Will you be cheering for any one in particular?”

You roll your eyes, “Yes, Cardan. I’ll be cheering for someone.” He opened his eyes and looked at you expectantly, blinking innocently. “What?”

“Who?”

“You.” You roll your eyes again, earning a pinch to your thigh. You always cheered for him, you didn’t see how this year was any different. “Ow, asshole.”

Cardan gave you a cheeky smirk as he smoothed his palm over your calf, trace small shapes and words you couldn’t identify. You shut your eyes for a split second, letting the moment wash over you before Cardan spoke again.

His voice was a little above a whisper when he spoke. “There’s a new person joining the tournament this year.”

You opened your eyes and looked down at him, raising an eyebrow as if you were asking a who? He met your eyes with a hint of intrigue and something else you couldn’t place.

“I heard the mortal begged her father to participate in the tournament. She said she was going to best me but I—“

As he kept talking about Jude Duarte, your mood continued to sour. You watched as his eyes look into your with so much excitement, making your heart clench at the sight. Just once you wished he would talk about you and look exactly like he did now… You needed to leave before you said something you regretted.

Luckily, your younger sister found you just in time.

“Hey!” She ran over to the both of you, her infectious giggles reaching you. “Mama’s looking for you!” She squealed when Cardan sat up and hugged her tightly, trying to pull away from him. “Cardan!”

You click your tongue and rescue your younger sister, pulling her in your arms instead. “Why does mama need me right now? And how did you get here?”

Her giggles still rang through the air as Cardan sent a teasing smile toward her. “Mama knew you were over here! She’s waiting nearby. And…” She tapped her chin and furrowed her eyebrows in thought, trying to figure out why she needed to get you so suddenly. “Oh! And mama said you have to come home to teach me embroidery while she makes dinner!”

“Right now? The sun just started to set.” Cardan furrows his brows and gives you a weird look.

You shrug and stand from your spot underneath the tree, dusting the dirt off your skirt. Your sister picked flowers from around you as Cardan followed suit and sent you a cheeky smile. He lowered himself and bowed right before you, making Arabella drop all her flowers in surprise.

“Cardan! Someone’s going to see you!” You speak through your teeth, pulling him up from his position. “Don’t do that.”

“Are you secretly a princess?” Your sister tugged at your dress, eyes blown wide in interest.

You shake your head and glare at Cardan who wore a smirk proudly. “I’m not. Cardan just wants to be rude.”

“I thought it was funny.” He shrugged and sent you a wink.

“Bye, Cardan.” You rolled your eyes and pulled your sister away from him, knowing she was going to want answers later.

“Can’t Cardan come too?” She pouted and crossed her arms, ready to throw a tantrum.

You sighed and rubbed your forehead. Of course she wanted Cardan to come with, he was her favorite from the royal family and you two were always together. You slowly turned around and beckoned Cardan to follow.

“Aw, you must be in love with me.” He teased you as he jogged to catch up.

Your sister separated from you and jumped into Cardan’s arms, who then proceeded to carry her on his back. You rolled your eyes at the both of them and continued walking down the path, ignoring the conversation that they were having and focusing on the dirt trail in front of you.

“She definitely likes you.” Arabella whispered into Cardan’s ear, giggling when he freezes in place and the only movement was his tail swishing back and forth, seemingly in excitement. “She talks about you all the time. It’s so annoying.”

“Does she? What does she talk about?” He adjusted her and continued the trek, eyes trained on you and you only.

“Everything.” She sighed, leaning her cheek on his back. “She talks about how you look, how you act, how you talk… Even how you look at her!”

Cardan raised his brows at the irony, “All good things?”

You sister shrugged and drew stars on his back, “Sometimes she gets annoyed, but she mainly talks about how interesting you are.”

“Interesting…”

Before Arabella could add anything else, you turned around squinted your eyes at the two of them. "You two are awfully quiet back there. What are you talking about?"

"We were talking about y—"

Cardan quickly covered your sister's mouth as she jumped off his back to tell you. You sent him an incredulous look as your sister puffed her cheeks up in frustration.

Cardan sent you a strained smile, "She just licked my hand."

"Oh, Arabella—!" You scolded, taking her by the shoulders and dusting dirt off her for lack of finding something to fuss with.

"I was going to say something and he interrupted me!" She huffed and glared at Cardan.

Cardan pursed his lips and looked back over to you, sending an apologetic look when your mother rounded over to you three.

“Oh, Prince Cardan! Will you bring joining us for dinner?” She dusted her hands off and sent him a soft smile.

He tilted his head before answering, “I’m sure my brother wouldn’t mind if I did.”

The trek to your house wasn't too bad. Arabella walked with your mother while you stayed back with Cardan. You and Cardan spoke in hush tones, causing your sister to look back every second. She wanted to join the teenagers too.

Subconsciously, Cardan's tail wrapped close to your hip. It wasn't uncommon for such to happen, but something felt different. You glanced up at him and tilted your head when he shrugged.

“Your sister says you talk about me a lot.”

You scrunch your nose and fiddle with your rings. “She talks a lot.”

Cardan hummed at your deflection. Because you were both Faerie, you were accustomed to looping your answers to avoid the truth itself. You stare into his black eyes, the gold shining from the setting sun. He squinted at your intense stare and stuck his tongue out at you.

You let out a soft chuckle before looking forward again. A smile tugged at the corner of your lips as you found yourself stepping closer to Cardan.

He tilted his chin down toward his chest to hide a faint smirk and cleared his throat when he saw your manor approaching.

“You promise you’re watching the tournament this year?” Cardan glanced over at you and grinned when you rolled your eyes.

He would never tire of you rolling your eyes at his quick remarks.

“Of course, I never miss it.” You nudge your arm into his. “And I’m sure you would be upset if I didn’t show up.”

“I won’t answer that.” He followed you inside the manor as the help began to bow at his presence. “But that means you’ll watch me beat the mortal in my own game.”

Your high finally deflated at the mention of Jude Duarte once more. You bit your tongue and slipped out of his hold, eyes now avoiding his gaze. Even just the slightest mention upset you.

Cardan noticed your behavior, of course. He sat on the arm chair of the living room as you plucked embroidery materials from the cabinets near by and ran his fingers through his hair when you didn’t even acknowledge him on your way out.

Just before you left, Cardan shot up from his seat and grasped your wrist, causing you to whip around in shock and confusion.

“Okay, what’s wrong?” He asked, eyes searching yours for some kind of answer. “You’ve been acting weird.”

“Cardan, I really have to—“ You try deflecting.

“Tell me.” He gently squeezed your wrist, shutting his eyes when you exhaled deeply.

Your frown deepened as you spoke, “It’s just… You always talk about Jude. What’s special about her? She’s a mortal.”

“I don’t always talk about her.” Cardan frowned in return and squeezed your wrist gently. “I barely talk about.”

In the moment, you believed he did speak about her all the time. In actuality, he rarely spoke about her fondly. All he did was ever complain about her. But you didn’t take it that way at all, causing issues such as these.

“Yes, you do.”

“No. I. Don’t.” Cardan emphasized each word with the same vigor, finally releasing you from his grip.

“Okay, you know what? I don’t want to talk about this right now.” You huff and turn to find Arabella before Cardan stopped you again. “What—?”

He tugged you closer and held your arms softly, eyes looking all across your face, almost in hesitation. You were about to question him before you caught what he was insinuating. Your mouth parted ever so slightly as they dried, meeting his blown eyes. You nodded ever so slightly, which was immediately followed by a quick smile and sudden wave of passion.

Cardan had kissed you. On. The Lips.

You thought it was a dream but after pinching yourself for several seconds, you knew it was true. His hand was placed delicately on your jaw when he parted, eyes lidded and lips twitching into a smirk at your expression.

“What was that for?” You cleared your throat and tilted your head to try and hide the rising heat to your cheeks.

“I love you, but sometimes you can be dense.” Cardan murmured as he thumbed your cheek.

His words clearly had an effect on you after you nearly collapsed on the spot from two surprises in under a minute. You cleared your throat again and meet his eyes for the first time in a hot second, noticing his amused expression.

“You love me?” You whispered, not caring that you had just shared your first kiss with the boy you loved since childhood. “You truly love me?”

“How can I not?” He wiped a smudge of dirt off your cheek before removing his hand, lacing it with yours instead.

By now, you knew your face was burning and you were totally giving it away. “You love me?”

Cardan gave you a look, squeezing your hand. “Yes, I do.”

You bite your bottom lip softly in excitement, “Really?”

“Yes.” He drawled and pulled you into a hug. “You really like hearing that.”

“I do.” You tilt your head up on his chest and smile. “But that’s only because I love you so much more.”

“Impossible.”

“I thought we only told the truth.” You grin before his lips met yours again in retaliation. Parting, you give a playful glare, “That’s unfair.”

“Never said it was.”

©lqveharrington - all rights reserved. do not copy, translate or share my work on other media platforms

[ficeacs]

Dragons Fight, Little Light (Chapter 1)

Pairings: Aemond Targaryen x Velaryon OFC Synopsis: Dragons love a chase. Warnings: Enemies to Lovers, Violence, Targcest, Begins with HOTD S1, Not Proofread Word Count: 5,330 Previous Chapter

Eraena found little sleep that night. Her mind wondered if her uncle was telling the truth or was trying to get a raise from her. Was she really thought of as the promiscuous princess of Dragonstone? Well, she knew that many knew of her ventures to the village near the keep in Dragonstone but she did no wrong other than sneaking out. Eraena lay and stared at the ceiling, trying to convince herself she had not done anything wrong. The realm already saw her as a bastard; she feared that they would also see her as a whore, even though her honor stayed intact. Eraena groaned and covered her head with a pillow. 

When morning came, Eraena was groggy from the lack of sleep, though the bath drew for her helped her wake. “What dress will it be today, princess?” Lyn asked, and Eraena thought for a moment. “That one,” she pointed to a dress of strong blue that fashioned her skills in embroidery once more. A chain of sapphires hung around her waist, a gift her father had given her. Eraena ventured into the halls of the keep with a box in her hands. She headed towards her Aunt’s apartments. 

“Princess Eraeana, your Highnesses.” The girl tried to hide her distaste when she saw Aemond. The prince had caused quite the commotion last night, why could he not let a wholesome family moment be? Eraena licked her lips and turned to Helaena with a small smile on her lips. “Good morning,” She greeted and headed towards the princess. “Oh, Eraena, so good of you to visit me,” the princess smiled. 

“Of course, and I came bearing gifts,” Eraena said, placing the box on a nearby table, which Helaena made her way to. “Open it,” she said and smiled at the look of giddiness Helaena was trying to surpass. “Oh my,” she whispered. I had the resident entomologist in Dragonstone curate a collection for you of rare insects that only inhabit the island,” Eraena explained and checked the box to see if everything was in order as she had instructed. The princess had figurines in her hands for the children, but her uncle still sat with them; she thought it better that she would give it to them later when he had left. 

Avoid him; do not engage. The girl reminded herself she could not afford to cause trouble once more, especially with her Mother in such a state. “Are those for the children?” Helaena asked softly, eyeing the three wood figurines that Eraena had practically forced Lucerys to make. Eraena had spent days meticulously painting a princess, a knight, and a dragon. “Oh, yes, Lucerys had carved them for the children,” Eraena said, and Helaena took her hands to inspect the toys. “He painted them too?” She asked, pale fingers tracing the figurines. “Well, no, I painted them.” She smiled. 

“Come, let me introduce you to my children,” She said with a ghost of a smile. Aemond was still seated on the floor with the twins, both Jaehaerys and Jaehaera, on his lap. Eraena avoided her eyes from the prince, fearing it would entice him to tease and torment her. Helaena crouched down, and Eraena cautiously did the same. Five purple eyes turned to the girl, “This is your cousin, Eraena,” Helaena said to the twins and if Eraena were to look at the elder prince, she would see him roll his lone eye. Eraena felt her lips twitch when the twins hurriedly left their uncle’s lap and made their way to her. The look of shock and annoyance that adorned the prince’s face amused the princess, but she quickly turned away and focused on the babes in front of her. 

Jaehaera clung quickly to the princess and Eraena let out a laugh on how the young princess found her way to sit on her lap like she did on her uncle earlier. “They like you already!” Helaena mussed and watched as her children switched from their uncle to their cousin. Eraena gave the princess figurine to little Jaehaera and the knight figurine to little Jaehaerys. “You have a third child, do you not?” Eraena asked and brushed the little blonde hairs away from the babe’s eyes. “Yes, Maelor, but he is still fast asleep.” Eraena nodded and returned her attention to the babes. 

She would expect Jaehaera’s attention would be on the new toy but Eraena saw purple eyes on the necklace on her neck. “I—I want,” Jaehaera mumbled and tried to grab the emerald pendant that was gifted to her on her most recent name day. Eraena’s eyes widened as Jahaera pulled on the necklace, making the elder princess jerk her head forward. “Jahaera, no!” Her mother said and came to Eraena’s aid. “I’m sorry, I—“ Eraena smiled, “It’s fine; my younger brother, Viserys, has the same habit.” She said and moved to unclasp the pendant so the young princess could inspect it more. When Jaehaera had the pendant in her hands, a toothy grin spread across her face, making Eraena laugh at the adorable face of the younger princess. She surpassed the urge to pinch the cherubic cheeks and turned to Jaehaerys, who now played with both figurines. 

It was then that Eraena remembered that there was another party amongst them. Her obsidian eyes found a lilac one. “Do you not have to train, brother?” Helaena asked. The prince’s eyes moved to his sister, and he silently shook his head. “Really? You are often in the tiltyard at this hour,” Helaena mumbled, “Yes, won’t Cole miss you terribly, uncle?” Eraena did not even realize the teasing words escaped her lips. Once she did, she felt her hands grow cold. Aemond was ready to throw yet another disparaging word to the girl but Helaena was quick to speak. “Tea!” She said, and the two turned to her. “Eraena, would… would you like to join me for tea?” She asked, and her invitation was quickly accepted. They handed the children to a nurse and made their way into the gardens. The emerald pendant was long forgotten. 

“Oh, I’ve missed you terribly. It became dreadfully lonely these past years,” Helaena said truthfully. The princess sensed melancholy in her eyes and tone. I know what you mean, especially when you are mostly surrounded by brothers. I was lucky to have Rhaena. No matter, I am here now,” Eraena smiled, took her hand, and gave it a gentle squeeze. 

“Sister, there you are!” Jacaerys’ voice intervened. “Oh, Jace, join us, will you?” Helaena asked softly, and Eraena's brother obliged, taking his seat across from his sister. There was an awkward silence that enveloped the group. The one-eyed prince had followed the two princesses and sat across from his sister. A knight arrived, and Eraena thought maybe he was there to call over the other prince and save the group from tension. “A letter from Dragonstone, princess,” Eraena was handed a scroll of parchment with a seal she knew all too well; the girl tried her best to hide the blooming smile on her lips, remembering her brother was seated across from her. 

“Dragonstone? Who writes to you from Dragonstone? We’re all here.” Jace asked with a raised brow as Helaena turned to Eraena with an intrigued look. “No one. None of importance,” Eraena says and hides the scroll from her brother’s view. “Hm,” she heard a hum coming from the left, making her turn to Aemond, whose eye had been on the scroll. Eraena prayed, prayed to the gods that her brother would not question the scroll once more, and prayed that the burning gaze of a lilac eye would stop. Eraena tried to ignore the man on her left and listen to the conversation between Helaena and Jacaerys. Avoid him; do not engage. She told herself once more. 

When tea had ended, Eraena found herself with her sisters. “How long are we still to stay here? The trial had already ended. I doubt anyone else would question Driftmark’s line of succession after yesterday’s events.” Eraena asked the two. “Itching to go back to Dragonstone now, are we?” Rhaena teased, and Eraena let a smirk slip on her lips. “As a matter of fact, yes! I miss my room, the beds in here are quite lumpy. The sun is too hot; I miss roaming around without being judged! And I miss my other dresses and—“ She was cut off by Baela. “And Arthur,” She snickered, and Eraena rolled her eyes. “No! Well… yes, but I mostly miss my other dresses and jewelry.” She sighed and traced the flower patterns of her gown. “He sent me a letter,” Eraena then said, which intrigued the two girls.  

Eraena looked around. They were still in the gardens, seated on a bench in a spot that not many passed. She took the scroll from her pocket and broke its seal. The two girls hovered over their sister's shoulder and read its contents. 

My, Dearest, Eraena.

How are you, my flower? It has only been two days since you left, yet the island already feels so desolate without your radiant presence. The sun's rays seem dimmer, and the vibrant colors of your flowers are starting to fade; they are missing your touch. How long are you to stay there? Have the people of Kingslanding fared nicely to you, my princess? 

I long for your return, yearning for the day when you shall grace us with your presence once more. It would seem that my heart longs to rest its gaze upon you. Come back soon to me.

Yours,

Arthur.

Baela and Rhaena smiled at the blush on Eraena’s cheeks. “My flower,” Rhaena teased, making Eraena roll her eyes. “Must be nice to be sent a letter with such… flowery words,” Baela said. “Jacaerys’ letters only contained about health and the weather, sometimes a story about his ventures with Vermax but never like…” Baela drifted. “Aye, Jacaerys was never one for words.” Eraena agreed and took her sister’s hand in hers, giving it a comforting squeeze. 

In the afternoon, Eraena changed into her riding leathers. A wheelhouse delivered her to the pits, where her dragon awaited her excitedly. “Alina,” Eraena sang and waited for her dragon to reveal herself. The princess’s voice echoed through the pits, and what emerged was not her dragon but her uncle instead. Aemond had a fiery stare in his eye, and the girl wondered why he was already in such a state. 

“Will you be quiet? You are disturbing the dragons with your grating voice.” Ice-cold words clashed with the fire in his eye. Eraena pursed her lips and rolled her eyes but nodded. Standing still, waiting for her dragon, she turned to her side, and Aemond stood alongside her. “Why are you here? Vhagar does not even fit here,” she asked and folded her arms across her chest. “Mind your own business, niece.” He spat. 

Alina has still not emerged and Eraena was growing weary. She turned to her uncle once more; he had a torch in his hand. She thought to ask for it, so she could get Alina herself, but her mouth could not move and ask. Instead, she walked into the dark pits. “Alina,” Eraena called once more. The princess squinted her eyes in the dark. Only now did she wonder, where were the keepers? Eraena chewed on her lip and waited for the whine of her dragon; she was only met with furious footsteps and the orange hue of a torch. “What are you doing?” Aemond asked and took hold of her arm. “Trying to find my dragon.” She said as if it were the most obvious thing. “You do not go into the pits,” 

“Hm, were you not the one who often got into trouble for constantly venturing here?” She asked innocently, remembering an instance from their childhood. The ground shook, and they turned to the she-dragon with pearly white scales that shimmered gold in the light. “Hello, my love!” Eraena said giddily and practically skipped toward her dragon. Alina bent her head toward the girl, who placed a kiss upon its snout. Eraena inspected the mighty beast, trailing her hand upon the scales. She checked the breastplate that secured her saddle, a breastplate made of gold and dragon glass.

Alina growled lowly as her obsidian eyes, eyes like her rider, landed upon the prince. “Lykiri. Lykiri, Alina.” Eraena murmured and stroked her dragon’s snout. “It would seem you agitate my dragon, uncle,” Eraena observed as she made her way to her saddle. She turned to the prince who seemed to have a contest of stares with the beast. “Do not mind the small man, Alina,” Eraena said in ancient tongue and stroked its neck. “If you would, uncle, please step aside. Would not want you to get trampled on, however tempting it is.” Eraena said. She watched as Aemond huffed and was certain that he mouthed the words ‘spoiled bastard’ under his breath, but Eraena could no longer find care; she was to fly!

Alina soared through the skies, and Eraena smiled widely, seeing Kingslanding grow farther and farther away. Alina ascended higher, and the familiar feeling of liquid in Eraena’s stomach returned, and she felt her heart pace faster. Alina liked to toy with her rider, flying as high as the heavens and then dropping back quickly to earth. “Alina!” Eraena shouted in glee as Alina flew downwards. Another roar of a dragon took Eraena’s attention, and she felt her stomach fill with dread as she saw Vhagar heading towards them. “Higher, Alina.” Eraena quickly commanded. Scared of the mighty beast her uncle rode. The princess turned back and still saw the dragon behind them. 

For what seemed like hours, Eraena tried to find ways to avoid the two beasts. Stirring Alina in every direction, she tried hard not to let her fear shine through, knowing her dragon would feel it through the bond. Eraena sighed and decided that maybe she should stop flying. The girl felt annoyance surge through her as she returned to the pits once more. She sullenly removed her riding gloves and entered the wheelhouse, wholly upset at Aemond for ruining her ride. 

When afternoon came, the princess found herself in the library scanning through the books she had read from childhood. Countless tales of princesses and knights, wizards and kings. Little Aegon’s name day was approaching, and Eraena thought it a good present that she made one of her favorite stories into an illustrated book for her younger brother. Little Aegon loved her paintings and illustrations, often sitting on her lap as she painted back in Dragonstone. She originally wanted to write the story herself, but it was quite a large undertaking to create a story that her brother would enjoy. Eraena stared at the stack of books before her, thinking hard as to what story she would use. 

“A book is to be opened and read, not stared at.” Eraena heard a cold voice cut through the stony silence of the room. Eraena turned her head to Aemond, who stood before her. The girl was still quite annoyed by his actions earlier. The princess crossed her arm across her chest once more and stared unamused at the prince. She watched as Aemond raised a blonde brow at her scowling face. “You look ghastly when you scowl,” it only made Eraena’s frown deepen as he said words that Jacaerys had said before. It made her believe that she did look ghastly with not just her brother’s testimony but as well as her uncle's. The girl started to unconsciously pout as she tried to remove the scowl on her face. 

“No word for your uncle, I see,” Aemond said and took a seat across the girl. “I have no words for foolish men who would use a dragon of war to chase other riders. Do you realize how dangerous that was?” Eraena asked and sat up straight. “It was simply a jape,” Aemond reasoned, and Eraena could not help but frown once more. Since when had he been one for japes and jests? 

“That is not a jape; that is how war starts, Aemond,” the girl sighed. “Do not be so dramatic, Eraena,” the prince rolled his lone eye. “I am not being dramatic! You do not use a war dragon for a simple chase! It only knows of conquest and blood!” She watched as the prince pursed his lips, thinking of a reply. “What are you even doing here?” she asked, letting annoyance seep into her tone. 

“To read,” He said as if it were the most obvious thing. “Why here?” Eraena asked, and Aemond only frowned. “Because this is the library, has your stay in Dragonstone turned you into a simpleton, Eraena?” He asked, lips twitching upwards as the frown returned to the princess’ forehead. “No, what I meant was, what are you doing here, sat upon where I had sat first. There are other places for you to read.” She said and pointed to an empty nearby table and chair. She watched as Aemond turned to the spot she had pointed to, and the prince shrugged. 

Eraena rolled her eyes in response and stood. Taking the stack of books and moved to the empty spot, not wanting to be near the prince. Aemond watched, amused, as the princess took a seat that had her back turned to him. He was not even sure as to why he was in the library, not quite certain as to why he was engaging with the girl. She obviously wanted to be left alone, but Aemond could not let her have what she wanted, not when her whims and wants were always met. 

Eraena tried to focus on her task once more, trying hard not to turn and glare at the prince whose gaze burnt in the back of her head. For just having one eye, he surely knew how to stare someone down, the girl thought. It was quite some time as the two sat separately in silence; Eraena was done for the day, already picked a story that she would draw illustrations of, but she did not want to be the first to leave. Somehow, her pride convinced her that she should not be the one to leave first the uncomfortable presence of the room; it would be seen that she was bothered by the prince’s presence, that Aemond had the capability to unnerve her. So, she just sat there, staring blankly at an open book, pretending to read, turning its pages as if she were actually consuming literature. 

“Eraena, there you are!” She heard Rheana’s voice, and the princess quickly looked up. She watched as her sister cautiously eyed the prince seated behind her. “Your… brother has been looking for you for the past hour.” She said, confused as to why it was just the two of them in the library. Eraena nodded and stood up, taking her chosen book in hand, and quickly rushed out of the room. Her pride cannot be wounded in this situation; she did not leave because of him; it was because her brother had asked for her presence!

“What were you doing alone, with Prince Aemond.” Eraena frowned at her sister’s query, “Do not word it as such! I was not alone with Aemond. I was… was simply in an empty common room… with him.” Eraena explained. “We saw you two in the skies earlier,” Rhaena said. “That idiot made his dragon chase me and Alina!” Eraena complained. “Really? It just looked like the two of you were flying around in circles; it looked quite fun.” Rhaena shrugged, and Eraena frowned; it certainly did not feel that way. “Why was Jacaerys searching for me?” Eraena asked; Rhaena shrugged. 

“Sister! There you are!” Jacaerys said from the end of the hall, walking briskly toward the two. “What is it?” Eraena asked. “There is to be a hunt two days from now,” Jacaerys said, his excitement obvious. Though Eraena was at a loss as to why he had concerned her with this. “So?” She asked. “You must teach Lucerys and me to shoot again. Luc is waiting for you in the tiltyard.” Eraena looked at her brother oddly. “What? Why me? Ask Ser Harold or even Father to teach you.” “I’ve asked them, and they told me to ask you instead,” Eraena shook her head, “No, I cannot; I will be under scrutiny from the court. They already frowned upon my venture in the gardens alone; what else if I be the one who had to teach my brothers to shoot an arrow?” 

“Who cares what they think? Come now, sister, you are the best archer here!” Jacaerys tried to persuade the girl. With a couple more compliments and flattery, Eraena reluctantly nodded. “Fine! But I shall only stand by the side and watch you two. I’ll make comments here and there, but I will not touch a bow or arrow.” She explained as they headed to the tiltyard. Eraena’s eyes enclosed on their younger brother who had failed to set the arrow free. Rhaena no longer followed them, not interested in watching as Eraena grew frustrated teaching the two boys. 

“Straighten your back,” Eraena instructed from the side. “Keep your shoulders lax. Lucerys feet apart,” she said. “Only use your dominant eye upon the target,” “We know Eraena!” Lucerys groaned. “Do you? You have missed every time, brother.” She said, her eyes going to the failed attempts of the two. Arrows started to pile up on the dirt ground. “You are lacking force, Lucerys; readjust your shoulders,” she said, and Luc nodded. She then turned to Jacaerys, “You do not have an aim. I fear for the others joining you in the hunt.” She said and saw as her brother rolled his eyes. “Release,” she instructed. 

Lucerys had not quite hit the center but at least his bow finally stuck to the target instead of just falling into the ground. Jacaerys’ arrow, however, flew to a pile of hay. “Good Luc!” Eraena said and smiled at her younger brother. “My, my, what do we have here? Training for the hunt boys?” Aegon’s voice sounded out making three dark eyes turn to the prince. “And what are you doing here, Eraena? I had never thought you were one to spend time in the tiltyard, or are you training once more on how to maim men.” Eraena tried to surpass the grin as she saw Aegon had a slight limp to him. “Just watching my brothers, uncle,” she replied. 

Aegon made his way to where the princess stood. “Then let me join you, dear niece.” The elder prince stood a bit too close to Eraena and the girl was quick to step away, putting. A hearty distance between them. Her brothers turned to her and she nodded, and the two set aim once more. Once again, Lucerys lacked force, and Jacaerys lacked aim. The girl wanted to groan, growing frustrated at the two. “Feet apart, Lucerys!” Eraena cracked, not caring that Aegon was there. She went to her brother and used her foot to indicate what the younger prince’s stance should be. “And you, Jacaerys, you must close your other eye! Your vision is being split!” She groaned and used her fingers to forcefully close her brother’s eyelid. “I can’t! I physically cannot just close one eyelid!” He said, and Eraena huffed. “Might you borrow one of my brother’s eyepatches?” Aegon mused a smirk on his lips as he watched the princess scold her brothers. 

Eraena turned to Aegon, considering his suggestion. She knew it to be a jest but it would solve Jacaerys’ lack of aim. “No!” Jacaerys said, seeing the look his sister held. “Well, you won’t do well in this hunt!” Eraena returned to her spot next to Aegon. “Again!” She instructed. “I must say, I never thought you to be such an authoritarian,” the elder prince said and inched closer to the princess, though it was futile as she was returning to her brother to show him the proper stance once more.

“Back straight, Lucerys, and your foot! I swear to the gods I will nail your foot if you do not keep them apart.” She warned. She now remembered why she had not been assigned to teach Joffery high Valyrian or teach anything for that matter. The girl was too impatient. “You're growing red, Eraena,” the younger prince mumbled, and his elder brother snickered. The princess threw her brother a glare. “I’ve had enough of this, I told you. You should have just asked Ser Harold,” Eraena grumbled and returned to stand next to Aegon on the side. “So impatient, little niece… Though, I think I like you better domineering.” The elder silver prince mused. Eraena turned to the prince with a disgusted look on her face, her round lips upturned, brows once again furrowed. Aegon only laughed at his niece’s face. “Do not fret, Eraena; I shall teach your brothers to shoot. Would not want to aggravate that pretty face of yours.” 

The prince made his way to take the bow from Lucerys, and the younger prince turned to his sister, who nodded. The two brown-haired princes watched as their uncle took his stance. Aegon had let go of the arrow and had impressed Eraena. He was not a terrible shot. She thought. It was slightly off-centered, but it was better than any shot her brothers had made. “Luc, look at Aegon’s footing,” She instructed, and her brother mimicked their uncle’s stance. Eraena walked closer to them, Aegon ready to let go of another bow. He felt fingers upon his upper back, “Straighten your spine, Aegon; do not hunch,” Eraena instructed. He did like her better when she was giving out orders, obviously growing annoyed. “As you wish, sweet Eraena,” he said and let go of the arrow, landing it upon the center. 

He turned to look at the girl, hoping to find a look of impressed on her pretty face, but she had moved her attention to her other brother. “What are you doing?” Jacaerys asked as Eraena wrapped her handkerchief around his head, covering one of his eyes. “Shoot,” Eraena instructed; her brother was hesitant but did as she told. Finally, a centered shot from Jacaerys! A look of achievement adorned her brother’s face. He made to shoot another, and a laugh escaped his lips. “This is easy!” He said, and Eraena rolled her eyes. “All right, don’t get cocky.” Eraena returned her attention to Luc. “Ready?” She asked and her younger brother gave a nod. “Release,” The bow was off-centered, but it was close enough. “Good,” Eraena said. “Just try to aim better, and do not forget your footing.” Aegon and her returned to the side, “Thank you,” she said lowly. If he had not intervened, she would have stomped off the tiltyard. Aegon nodded with a smirk on his lips, his eyes not turned to his niece but to the figure above, watching them with a burning eye. 

Another supper with the entire family was held. However, the girl could not fathom why they would think it was a great idea, especially after the events of the other night. As Eraena entered the dining hall, her seat in between Jacaerys and Aegon was gone, instead, the only empty seat was next to her other uncle. The gods really love to toy with me, don’t they? The girl thought. Dinner was started with prayer once more. It would seem appetite eluded Eraena, only pushing around the food on her plate. “I saw two dragons in the skies earlier, Vhagar and Alina. Did the two of you enjoy your ride?” Alicent asked the two silent individuals to her right. Eraena peeked through her lashes to look at Aemond, his good eye on her. He made no indication to respond to his mother, so Eraena forced a tight smile on her lips. “You can say that, my queen,” she fibbed, she did not enjoy her ride, not at all. Alicent gave the girl a small smile and returned to her meal. 

“I saw the prince Aegon with his nephews and niece in the tiltyard, practicing for the hunt, I assume?” The hand inquired. Eraena turned to the three, who nodded. “The princess? In the tiltyard? You are not joining the hunt, are you, Eraena?” The queen asked, almost scandalized. “I—I am not, your grace.” She replied. “Eraena was merely supervising her brothers,” Daemon interjected. “Supervising? I would not think that a princess should have been the one to teach princes a skill such as archery,” Eraena bit back her tongue and took a chalice to her lips to hinder her from speaking out of turn. 

“It…gladdens my heart to see… to see you all getting along.” The king suddenly spoke. “This… this is how it should be,” Eraena could see a smile breaking upon his cracked lips. Her mother smiled and took hold of her father’s hand. Supper ended fairly quickly, unlike the other night; this held less violence. Eraena walked the hallways of the keep, alone and her mind wandering off once again. She passed by a window alcove and paused, staring up at the crescent moon before her. Eraena leaned upon the opened window and took in a deep breath, the cool night breeze fanning her face. 

“It is not wise to lurk these halls at night,” she heard the cold silky voice of Aemond. “I am not one to lurk, uncle; that is your specialty if I remember correctly.” Eraena sighed and turned to the man who stood behind her. “You seem to enjoy my brother’s company,” he said, and Eraena raised her brow. “Well, I would always enjoy the company of those who do not make chase on a war dragon’s back,” she said and watched as Aemond’s jaw ticked. “Let it go, Eraena,” The prince sighed and stepped closer to the prince. “No,” the girl felt a smirk coming to her lips but hindered it. “I will not until you apologize,” she said and wanted to laugh at the look of appalled on Aemond’s face. “I will never apologize to a bastard like you,” the girl shrugged, the word bastard rolling down her back as if it were not a deep insult he had made it to be. 

“Then I shall be here to constantly remind you of your idiotic actions; what happened to the cautious boy I once knew? Has your vigilance gone with your eye, uncle?” She asked and finally let the smirk pass to her lips. It was quick to be wiped by Aemond’s next actions, forcefully pushing her to the curved wall of the alcove, his hand enclosed on her neck. Eraena’s obsidian eyes widened in fear, and her breathing stopped. She clawed at the prince’s hand. “A—Aemond,” she wheezed out, but the prince was too far gone in his own rage. Eraena closed her eyes, feeling his hold tighten, lifting the girl from the ground by her throat. “How easy it is to be rid of you now, bastard,” Aemond seethed, and Eraena felt tears run down her face. It was not until her salty tears hit Aemond’s hand that he grew aware of what he had done. 

The prince quickly let go of the girl, who fell harshly to the ground. “Eraena…” he managed to say, voice growing soft. Eraena tried catching her breath and turned to the prince in horror. She quickly stood up, gathered her skirts, and ran to her chambers in fear. When in the solace of her own chambers, Eraena broke into tears. Anger cannot find a place in her being; she is only wrapped in fear. What has Aemond come to? So cruel and callous that he did not even give a second thought about taking her life.

[rayveneyed]

cw: ares!bakugou x aphrodite!reader, fem!reader, mentions of war and violence, bakugou who is so pathetically in love but doesn’t know it

he finds you in a place unlike any other he’s previously found you in — sitting on the ground behind a quaint little market stall near the sea, where purple weeds grow from old brick and the streets are worn and dusty. the sun shines bright here, always has, but illuminates your little corner something special — golden and honeyed, reflecting off the jewellery hanging from your ears and wrists.

this is not the sparkling marble and iridescent gold of mount olympus; this is not the illustrious facades of athens, nor the rich fabrics and skilfully carved stones of abyssinia. you’re selling flowers — clay pots of red roses and white geranium; dandelion bulbs for next spring. they pour over the stall and onto the ground, long, frond-like leaves and jewel-toned petals, encapsulating you in an orb of beauty. it suits the city, with all its charm and narrow streets, but at the same time you eclipse it all. it’s only natural, he supposes — godliness rarely ever goes unseen, and you most godly of all.

his boots are caked in dark mud; his sword clangs loud at his hip, and the crowd parts for him instinctively. those who have any sense turn away from him, scurrying along with their baskets of fruit and loaves of bread, smart enough to avoid soldiers and smarter, still, to avoid those of his nature; those who are perhaps more foolish turn to gape at him as he nears you, taking in the slope of his broad shoulders and his unpleasantly-contorted face. he imagines it almost comical, the juxtaposition between you, but he is no stranger to your treachery, nor your barbs.

you do not regard him when he nears, but he would be a fool to think you haven’t noticed him — as expected, your pretty lips split in a smile when his shadow falls over you.

“aphrodite,” he greets, plain and frowning. “what business have you here?”

it is more respect than he allows most other gods, except perhaps his father and mother — but you are you, born from sea-foam and gore, and he knows your power as intimately as he knows his own. if his power is drawn from combat, from war and blood and guts, yours is much from the same; jealousy, dark and curdling, crimes of passion, blood-coloured rubies and garnets. it is only this that stays his irritation, bubbling instead as something just as fierce and red-hot in his chest.

“here, i am known by one name, and one name only,” you only say, demure. a sharp blade in your right hand, and a thorn-ridden in the other, you make quick work of slicing the hardy stem in half. “they call me _____. it is a good name. what name have you taken in this form, dearest ares?”

he stares at you — eyes the roundness of your shoulder beneath your robes, the embroidery of which is delicate and expertly done. your eyes are half-lidded, cast down to your work, the shadows of your eyelashes curving over your cheeks. it has never been a question of his (or any other, for that regard) as to why you govern all matters of beauty. it is clear as the sun in the sky.

your eyes flicker up from the flower blooming in your hand. he realises that he did not avoid your question quickly enough — his head still stumbles over dearest ares. no matter. you’ve never bristled at his misanthropic silence or brutish remarks — only brushed them off with a knowing smile or distracted sigh, like he was nothing more than an overexcited puppy nipping at your ankles. it should annoy him more than it does, perhaps, but there are more pressing matters to attend to.

“war will find its way here,” he says shortly. looking away from your face and finding his mind clearer, he takes in his surroundings more fully; the cobbled streets, the wooden crates of produce, fresh and shiny. the smell of salt in the air, the heat of the sun. if he had such an appreciation for beauty, for aesthetics, he would perhaps feel worse about the sorry state this place will surely be in once the fighting is over. this is wholly against his nature, though; he cannot deny the chance of a good fight sparks something in his stomach. still, he attempts to dull his blood-thirst when he turns to you once more, and says: “most will die. blood will fill these streets, and fire will burn these stalls. none will inhabit this village for the next hundred years.”

he hadn’t expected tears from you, to be sure, but he still finds himself surprised when you simply respond: “hm.”

the stem is cut in half again. then, methodically, your blade slices away at the thorns.

“does it please you, sweet ares?” you say, then, peering up at him from below those gods-forsaken lashes — and he is frozen once more. “to look here, at that peaceful horizon, at these swarms of mortals, and see war?”

“yes,” he says. honest. you know his nature.

“hm.” after another pause, you raise a hand; beckoning him close with a simple wave that he is all too weak to resist. his knee finds the cobblestone, his other forming a rest for his arm. he is not unaware that this could be regarded as deference. better you than apollo, or hephaestus, or dionysus, or any other.

you lean forward. he bends towards you, too, until less than the width of your stall separates you. would he be a mortal man, this proximity would have already ruined him for all others.

“by the time this village is in ruins,” you say, voice a low whisper, eyes boring so pointedly into his — so close that your breath heats his lips, and the smell of roses clouds his head, “i will be gone, or perhaps i will be among it. and i will find another town just like it, or a city thrice its size, or a village not even half of it. and you will follow me there, as you have followed me for millennia, sweet…?”

“katsuki.”

a toothy grin suddenly eclipses your face — all hints of secrecy or solemnity vanished. his cheeks are hot — he hadn’t even meant to reveal it, the inconsequential name of his current human form — but before he can snap at you, snarl his embarrassment away, you reach up. that same flower you had been carving away at is deftly tucked behind his ear, fragrant and blooming, and he is equal parts enraged and astounded by it. you can see it on his face, too, and laughing, stand to your feet.

“sweet katsuki,” you say, turning away from him, “let us meet here again. bring your war. i will bring mine.”

you disappear around the wall — or perhaps in the fluttering of a butterfly’s wing, or a ray of golden sunlight.

katsuki — ares — is left, with his mud-stained boots and his face contorted somewhere between anger and incredulity, a rose in his spiked hair.

[witchtwig]

Costuming, Connections, and Constructing Meaning Agatha All Along Thoughts

This isn’t an essay. This is just rambling and plucking at the threads of thoughts I’ve had since the end of Agatha. Also apologies for the fact this is all over the place. I just really wanted to start sorting out some of the visual signifiers I was fixated on when looking at the Agatha All Along designs.

The costuming design, art, and choices made on Agatha All Along are phenomenal. And it is clear from just reading through Daniel Selon’s instagram how much thought and effort went into the work of making those looks stand out as strong as they did. In particular, I have been fascinated by two looks of Agatha’s—her witch’s look (first introduced in Wandavision) and her spirit’s look. In particular, I want to consider them through the lens of what they say about Agatha and potentially where she is going, but also, hypothetically, her relationship to the original Green Witch, Death, Rio Vidal. 

Agatha Harkness, Wandavision

As noted above, Agatha’s witch look was first seen in Wandavision. This is important in the context of Rio, because as a character she had not been introduced or even conceptualized yet. Despite that, I do think there are some interesting design choices on the costume that with the introduction of Rio, can be reanalyzed through that relationship (and to Nicholas, Agatha’s (and likely Rio’s) son). Specifically if we look at the neckline/chest design of the piece—there is a fascinating embroidery work. Tendrils of vines or roots mask off her chest, reminiscent of a scar. This is where her locket with Nicholas’s hair centrally sits (which, in episode 8, has fallen off and not worn during her battle with Rio). 

During episode 9, we see Agatha create a cairn over the burial of her son Nicholas. In this moment, she sings through tears that she “buried my own heart here with you, my child.” A central point of Agatha Harkness’ character throughout her journey in Agatha All Along, is that she is closed off to the point of using deceit to manipulate and obscure attempts to know or truly see her. And to turn back to the costume—this design work indicates the hidden nature of her heart. 

We can look too, beyond her witch’s costume, to her costuming within the fourth episode during the fire trial. Agatha’s heart is momentarily exposed, but she closes it off and hides it, specifically when her ex-lover, Rio, attempts to create a floor with her. It is interesting then to note that Rio has her heart on full display that entire conversation. 

Rio Vidal and Agatha Harkness, Agatha All Along episode 4

And to go further, we can also note that Rio’s costuming as Death in episode 8, quite literally exposes her obsidian heart. Where Agatha’s heart is hidden (scarred over, perhaps), Rio’s heart is on full display. Looking back at Rio’s episode 1 appearance near the end, she declares that her heart is black and beats for (you) Agatha.

Rio Vidal as Death, Agatha All Along episode 8

This is the fundamental crux of the struggle between these two characters in full display in the design choices of their costuming. Agatha’s heart is no longer on display or truly reachable (it has been buried, by Nicholas’ death, by Rio’s existence as death), versus Rio’s heart on constant display (open and yearning). To me, this is what makes the costuming and design choices of Agatha’s outfit as a spirit in episode 9 very interesting, because it suggests a shift, an evolution of her character (that may not have come into view fully yet, but can be explored moving forward).

Agatha Harkness, ghost costume behind the scenes

Agatha’s costume as a spirit has shifted from the closed, vine-covered design, to a more open space. Through death, through Death, accepting her lover, Agatha has found herself at a new point within her existence. One that allows light in, one where her closed off heart is no longer hidden under the weight, vines, and scarring of the loss of her son (and I would argue the trauma of her struggle to accept and feel comfortable in her love of Rio). 

The costuming change between her witch’s outfit and her ghost outfit also has a shift in the overall patterning of the upper portion of the design. As a spirit, the bodice now has an intricate line pattern, which could be argued to be reminiscent of Rio’s branching patterns.

Agatha and Rio's looks side by side

Daniel Selon noted on his Instagram the ghost design for Agatha that the costume’s letting in of light was her letting go of the weight of those she had taken the lives of over the years, I think too it more importantly could indicate the potential for her to begin to actually emotionally connect again with her heart no longer hidden. And if we look to the fact she both pointed out that she did not kiss Rio for Billy’s sake (further pushed by Jac Schaffer in an interview), and the fact she noted it was not Billy who released her from the hex (he merely loosened the lid), on top of her understanding that “sometimes… boys die”—this all could allow for her and Rio to reunite in the future on better footing. 

This of course hinges on the fact Agatha does begin to do some of the emotional work on herself that she has been avoiding, by helping Billy and giving herself the thing she felt she lost when she lost Nicholas. But the possibility for her to do that work is now there. She took a step in no longer denying her own emotions through her kiss with Rio, and has the possibility to work through her grief more fully through Billy. 

It should also be noted again that by and large, Agatha is not a very communicative person when it comes to her emotions. This is even more so true when acknowledging her feelings around Nicholas and Rio. She only calls Rio by her name once throughout the show, and not even to her face. She never divulges the truth of what happened to Nicholas to Billy, despite the youth seeking that knowledge. So, it is important then for her to wear visual markers of both on her, even where she will not voice their story—she is wrapped up in them all the same, still. 

It will be interesting to see where these characters go from here, because it is doubtful this is the last of any of them. And either way, symbolically, I think there is a lot of positive potential, tucked away into the costuming and design choices. Thanks for reading my weird little ramble!  

[ataraxiaspainting]

There’s a Certain Slant of Light.

Yan (Soulmate) Chrollo x F Reader.

Synopsis: Something is different. But what could it be?

Warnings: Yandere themes, the reader is unwillingly a Spider and from Meteor City, mentions of religion/religious imagery, implied drugging, manipulation, and unhealthy relationships.

Word Count: 1k.

i’ve been seeing a lot of chrollo being paired with a phantom troupe member reader and i just think that the concept is very interesting! :D

credits for og art piece here!

*~*~*~*

Your sword, while having the ability to stab and slice just about anything, is still by far the most frail weapon at your disposal. It is a slight sadness that fills Chrollo’s mind, then, once he realizes this. The feeling is small, minuscule, just like most of the other emotions Chrollo’s heart cannot beat with, the blood that flows through his veins frozen with the concept of what he wants to be. He feels next to nothing as if he were a walking corpse, a prisoner who has just been released from the deepest depths of hell, not once being able to see twinkling eyes and shining stars. Light is a concept unknown to people like him, and people like you, foreign, as alien as a coup made of peasants storming a palace larger than ten of their villages combined. 

Your two true weapons are your lips calling out his name, and the thin red string that connects your little finger and your fate to his thumb and his future. Despite the thread being wispier than that of paper, it has a will stronger than one forged in diamonds and never had to be a carbon crystal to be so. Chrollo is thankful for it, more so than he is for most things that he would rather leave in the past. It has linked you two together for so long and has been the key for chaining down your animosity towards him whenever he had gone too far. All he had to do was tug, and you would be right back wherever he had placed you. But even diamonds can shatter when a love made in a less-than-fortunate childhood turns more and more into hate.

This entire act is like a balancing beam. He must not be too loud, but also not be too quiet. He must always have cards up his sleeve for any potential mishaps down the line. Inside one hand is the key to your freedom, but inside the other is the key to a false route to such fantasies, the trap of reality. Even Chrollo does not know which is which, for he is a dreamer himself at heart.

“Good morning, sir,” It is a rare sight, you yawning, your posture nowhere near how put together it usually is. “How are you today, sir?”

“Very well, thank you.”

“I must have been quite exhausted last night; my apologies, sir.”

“I told you if you ever wanted to take a break here, you are more than welcome to.”

“I’ve always declined such an offer for a reason, sir.”

“Just as I’ve always told you that you may call me just Chrollo for a reason, [First]. I think I haven't heard you say my name without an honorific since we were both still children if my memory serves correctly.”

“...”

The provocation of the past seems to hurt you more than him it seems, from how you flinch at the word children, and from how he smiles at your discomfort. 

“We are not with the rest of the Troupe right now, it is quite alright if you want to relive prior times, wouldn’t you say?” He asks, and with his eyes appearing to look back at his books, he sees yours darting around the room, looking for an escape route.

They move left, to the tables at the back of the sitting room which hold lamps and framed photos and paintings. Then right, to the fireplace and the large but still solitary couch, covered with leather and embroideries. Then up, to the crackless and spotless white ceiling, and then down, to the wooden rosewood planks of the floor.

“I saw a book in your satchel. Crime and Punishment, hmm?”

“Yes. Please do not say how ironic it is, sir.”

“Very well.”

To you, perhaps the room feels deathly still. To him, it feels like the scene right before the climax. Slow, steady, full of tension and dread. Though Chrollo will never let the curtains that cover your very soul close ever again. It would not be hard to get them to open up again, you have known each other for so long after all, but regardless he needs you to stay within the palm of his hand forevermore. Only then will he be able to feel something so warm and soft once more.

Oh, how he wishes that he could open the floor below you and trap you there. But he cannot. At least not yet.

“...Where is my bag?” At your question, Chrollo pulls his thumb towards him, and you move accordingly. “It is not in the room.” You continue, your eyebrows furrowing as you attempt to resist. “Sir?”

Desperation. Then a hand raise and a pause.

“Stolen treasure from the last meeting.” Chrollo begins curtly. “A contact list full of people I have not permitted you to speak to. Keys to a car that is not mine.” He proceeds to say. “Tell me, [First], what is all of this, hmm?”

Something akin to a mix of a horrified chuckle and a choking sound emerges from your throat as if his hands were squeezing and squeezing until you burst. He sets the book he was reading down, and without his hands covering both the front and back of it, you see the title, the synopsis.

“Crime and Punishment, hmm?” He repeats, and for the first time in what must be a few years, he sees you terrified, shaking, and near to tears. “A clever way to code your plan.” Chrollo crosses his legs. “By the way, it is an hour or so past sunset by now.” He hears a small gasp from you. “You missed your flight a long time ago, sweet thing.”

“...I… I…”

“You were planning on leaving us, weren’t you?” When you don’t answer, instead looking straight towards the door, he raises his thumb again. “I know you never wanted to join the Troupe, per se, but still… this hurts.” He pulls and pulls, and being forced to be a puppet for the umpteenth time since the soulmate string has appeared in Chrollo’s vision, you are placed where he wants you to be. 

Close to him.

[barracuda-shark-games]

Jocosa | she/her | 33 years old | bisexual

Notable traits: Intimidating, clever, diplomatic, merciful, reasonable, compassionate

Description

Despite her relatively young age compared to other advisors, Jocosa has served as Chief Royal Advisor to the Sunrise Throne since Wilmot ascended to power 13 years ago, when Jocosa was only 20. Her curly blonde hair frames piercing blue eyes, and she keeps it tied into two braids that cascade over her shoulders and reach just past her waist. Her curvy figure is usually adorned by a form-fitting crimson gown with silver and gold embroidery, and accessorized with matching gold and silver jewelry in the form of heavy bangles, thick chokers, and big earrings. She colors her full lips and round cheeks with rouge makeup that embellishes her rosy complexion. At a relatively average height of 5’7 (170cm) and with a deceptively youthful face, Jocosa still makes an imposing figure due to her competency, wisdom, and willpower. She carries herself with poised grace and determination. Some accuse her of having a bleeding heart; whether or not that’s the case, it’s still a heart she keeps closely guarded.

Trivia

On romance: While Jocosa will be available for romance regardless of the MC’s gender, she has never had a relationship nor feelings for another woman before and will, as a result, be a bit shyer with a female MC than with a male MC. That being said, she will fall equally in love with an MC of either gender when romanced.

Favorite food: Grilled salmon; she is a pescetarian

Song: 'Hold Me' by be steadwell

I am breathless weightless in her arms nothing felt so much like home yet I'm restless the parts that I can't trust, the reckless urge to stay alone. she said "Hold me. Hold me, when you start to lose control. When you feel like letting go, baby don't." No one ever could control me, least of all myself, tangled up in consequence. I remember when she told me she would be the one, spoken with all confidence. She said "Hold me, that's all I need you to do. Break the skin if you have to, I can take the pain for you."

Excerpt

Under the cut for chapter 1 spoilers! Keep in mind that this is a rough draft and, therefore, may be subject to change before chapter 1 releases.

Your automaton escort leads you to a set of heavy oak double doors before it turns around and appears to power down.

Okay… You suppose you are meant to take it from here, so you knock on one of the doors.

When you receive no answer, you try again. Once again, nothing.

With a sigh, you resign yourself to opening the door yourself – you were summoned here, after all. The door is as heavy as it appears, and it takes some effort for you to push it open.

You find yourself in a room significantly taller than it is wide, with a winding staircase along the wall that appears to lead to nowhere and functions simply to allow one to scale the bookshelves that line the rounded walls. It occurs to you that this room must be one of the spires you observed from outside of the palace. This room is as maximalist as it can get, with all sorts of trinkets, tools, and appliances you struggle to place the purpose of. The only decluttered space is the polished mahogany desk near the front, which has atop it a quill and inkpot, a clipboard with blank parchment, and a placard that reads “Chief Advisor Jocosa.”

Behind the desk is a high-backed chair in matching mahogany, with red velvet upholstery and a sun carved into the top of its back. A woman sits in the chair with an unreadable expression in her piercing blue eyes that seem to look right through you. Her hands are neatly folded on the desk before her, and even from where you stand you can make out their smoothness. Long, blonde braids frame each side of her soft face, cascading down over her shoulders and chest before disappearing from sight below the desk. Clad in an expensive-appearing crimson gown, the woman’s curvy frame almost appears to disappear into the red chair behind it.

You realize you’re staring, and so is she. You shift uncomfortably beneath her gaze and prepare to clear your throat when she suddenly speaks.

“Please, have a seat,” she says, gesturing to one of two low armchairs positioned in front of her desk. Her voice is smooth and melodic, as if she just wakes up and it’s ready to go.

You oblige and decide to make yourself comfortable, which comes easy given the high quality of the armchair within which you now sit. “You asked to see me?” you say.

“I did,” the woman says with a gracious nod. “We haven’t been properly introduced yet. My name is Jocosa, Chief Royal Advisor to the Sunrise Throne.”

You introduce yourself before turning down her offer for tea. “Suit yourself,” she says with a shrug and proceeds to pour herself a cup. “Let’s cut to the chase, shall we? As chief advisor to the throne, you and I will be seeing a lot of each other.” She brings her cup to her bright red lips and blows to cool off her tea. “I thought it only fair for you to know that I did not approve of this marriage arrangement.”

Wait, what? You’re not sure what you expected of this summons, but it certainly wasn’t this.

[jinchuls-moved]

𝙸𝚗 𝚂𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝙷𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚝𝚑 ˚‧⁺ ･ ˖ ·

╰┈➤ prince!sakusa kiyoomi x princess!reader

about ≡ a love that felt timeless comes to a halt; the man in front of you isn’t him but you don’t know here he has gone.

ANGST — 5.3k

MASTERLIST ≡ NEXT

divider by @/cafekitsune

The first time you saw him you were only a young child, as the only daughter–the only child–of the king’s closest confidant, you learnt of your engagement to the young prince as soon as you were of an age to understand what would be expected of you.

You stood in front of him, confident and proud; proving to him, to yourself and, most of all, to your mother you were worthy of the title that would one day be passed on to you.

Just children, finding their fates intertwined by forces they could not control and their betrothal that would not only impact their families, but the lives of each and every subject of Itachiyama, as your mother often put it.

From then on, you were forced to endure your mother’s lessons and unbearable pressure. Teaching you of all the expectations that will be placed on you in addition to her own that weighed down on your heart.

Time felt as though it slowed, day by day passing as your mother and various tutors join you in a study, bombarding you with the history of the family you are to wed into; etiquette lessons to become more accustomed to the manner in which you’d be expected to act as a royal. And, those you enjoyed the least, lessons in embroidery. Pricks of the needle into your fingertips, sloppy threadwork you weren’t certain would ever improve all whilst feeling berated by your mother as “a lady should be able to do this with ease.”

Months of lessons stretch to years, from etiquette and embroidery to each and every aspect you needed in order to become the best queen you could, even if that role was far in your future. Through it all, there was something that made the passing of time more bearable.

The blissful, peaceful days you could have with Sakusa by your side.

What had begun as forced, uncomfortable meetings, sharing tea under the watchful gaze of your mother, had turned into something you’d often look forward to. Exploring the palace grounds as children, taking a wrong turn one day and finding the new place of your ever more frequent encounters.

Starting with standing in the ankle-deep stream that ran along the left of the clearing, crystal clear water, that looked more than refreshing; evolving to basking in the sun in the heat of summer, sneaking pitchers of juice and snacks away from the maids before they’d notice the two of you, or the food, had gone missing. And, as the two of you grew into near adults—as your social debut, and your wedding approached—the clearing became the one place the two of you could forget the duties sitting heavy on your shoulders.

Under the weeping willow, shielded from everything outside, you’d sit with Sakusa’s head resting on your lap, gentle strokes through his hair, occasionally tracing your finger between the beauty marks on his forehead. The soft, sweet movements relieve him of all stress haunting him.

It was times like these where his princely nature, the vision the public had of him, would fumble and you would gain confidence to speak in ways you’d never let another witness as you gently ran your fingers through the curls of his hair, you studied the delicate features of his face as he closed his eyes, almost falling asleep with you as his pillow.

“What burdens you, My Dear?” He spoke up, eyes remaining closed. “I can feel the way you stare.” Now opening his eyes, his gaze meets yours, a soft frown on his face as he misinterpreted your silence as something worse.

“Nothing burdens me.” You smile, “I was simply thinking how much more enjoyable my time is when it is spent with you.”

He grins in return, lips faltering as he tries to hide his embarrassment, evident by the faint pink that adorns his cheeks. “I feel the same,” Sakusa whispers, reaching up to loosen your fingers from his curls and lacing his between yours. Bringing your hand closer, he places a soft kiss on your skin. “And, I must say. Though we had little choice, I am glad you are my betrothed.”

A sweet moment, one you had begun to cherish from the moment it occurred, or at least would have if it were not the final time you found the joy of his company and the clearing hand in hand. In fact, until the night of the ball hosted to celebrate his 18th birthday, you wouldn’t see him again.

You hadn’t thought much of it, assuming his responsibilities had made him too busy to make time for you, as it did occasionally. You find yourself missing him; waiting for the moment you could see him again, relaxed, under that oak tree but you have no luck until you’re attached to his arm, his partner as always, and waiting for the grand doors to open and your arrival to be announced to those lucky enough to receive an invitation.

They open and you can hear the faint music grow louder as you take your place at the top of the extravagant, and aggravatingly long, staircase allowing the guests time to lower their heads not only for the man at your side but the king and queen who had stepped in alongside you and, one day, they would do the same for you.

The music does not stop until you reach the bottom of the stairs as you wait for the king to announce the official beginning of the celebration; to wish his son well on the day intended to honour him. His speech comes to an end and the music brings the hall back to life. You’re pulled into idle chatter by those around you, some wanting to know of your well-being or your family’s, others solely interested in forming a connection with the future leaders of their kingdom.

Through it all, you simply wished for a moment of peace and an opportunity to escape. Yet another thing you’d learnt you shared with Sakusa: your distaste for expectation and attention.

You endure it for as long as you can, taking Sakusa’s hand as he requests your first dance, standing alongside your mother at the edge of the ballroom floor as Sakusa entertains each noble that approaches him. It seems like forever passes before you’re able to be beside him again, once more pulled into the centre of the floor (a result of your mother’s persistent pestering). You tell yourself there’s one more dance, a few more minutes of your time taken with everyone’s eyes locked onto the pair of you, an action you were sure you’d one day become accustomed to but, until then, you were left comforted by Sakusa’s words–encouraging you through each step.

Minute by minute, the night passes slowly—only enjoyable in the moment you find yourself hand in hand with Sakusa as he leads you through one of, what feels like, the hundreds of dances you had practiced all your life. His soft, gentle hands holding yours as though you were made of porcelain; as though one wrong move would shatter you in seconds.

Two or three dances pass—your movements seem to blend into the music, your focus only on him—you lose track of the time as the busy, political, intended nature of the ball. Leaving the dance floor, still hand in hand, you expect Sakusa to bid you farewell and mingle amongst those that will benefit him greatly once he is coronated.

But he never lets go. He never stops moving. He never looks back.

Pulling you from the vast ballroom you find yourself in the corridors of the palace, one’s you know well but ones that felt much different, more intimate now you were lead by your betrothed until you reach the beautiful glass doors that lead one of many balconies looking over the palace garden.

“What will people think?” You laugh, allowing him to pull you into the cold—he wastes no time in ridding himself of his jacket to wrap it around your shoulders. “The guest of honour hiding from his own celebration, taking a woman with him no less.” Fingers taking hold of the collars, you pull your covering closer. The familiar scent of him filling your nose.

“Taking his fiancé with him.” Sakusa corrects, leaning against the balcony rails as the cold breeze swims in the air. He looks beautiful as the wind disheveles every perfectly placed hair.

“We are yet to marry, there is still room for scandal.” He chuckles, staring down at the view of the garden. Making your way beside him everything feels right. The world you had been born to be part of, trained in your youth for and yearning for since you felt you heart beat only for him. It may have never been your choice, but the life expected of you didn’t seem too bad when Sakusa was going to be there with you.

“I can think of a worse scandal soon to be exposed.” Turning your head to him, you raise an eyebrow in your confusion. “The prince’s fiancé makes no attempt to congratulate him on his birthday.” A smile comes to your face at his teasing joke, turning to face him and taking a small step back. Your hand comes to your dress, pulling it out as you prepare yourself for a curtsy. Bowing your head you begin the official congratulations you’re assuming he’s expecting.

“I wish His Highness-” he raises his hand to stop you before you’re able to so much as bow.

“Not like that.” He whispers, taking a step towards you and gracefully wrapping his arms around your waist. Pulling you close he waits for you to talk.

Feeling the warmth emanating from his body, you’re suddenly painfully aware of the distance between you he’s shrunk. The cold chill in the air feels like nothing against the burning of your embarrassment coursing through you until you find yourself lost in the moment, meeting his eyes with your shy glance. “Kiyoomi.” You whisper, pushing a hand to his chest–he makes no effort to move. “This isn’t-” He watches you as you struggle to find the words becoming more flustered as each second passes. You look away, unable to keep your gaze on his, instead choosing to focus on the balcony railings and the stretch of the garden barely illuminated under the palace lights. “We are yet to be wed.” You remind him once more, tone as confident as you can muster.

“Will your reputation be tarnished by a single act no one is a witness to?” A guiding finger rests under your chin, luring you to look his way again. “I simply wish to hear your congratulations today.”

His fingers move gently against your skin, soft for the most part but the rough calluses forming rubbed against your skin, making you wish they could remain soft for the comfort of his caresses.

“Happy birthday, Kiyoomi.” Your voice is barely audible, only reaching his ears and, had it not been for the silence of the balcony, he may not have been blessed by the quiet embarrassment in your voice he’d grown to favour.

“I believe I may now call it so.” He whispers back through his grin, relishing in your initial shock as he closes the gap between the two of you, catching you in a kiss—your first—that would certainly trigger another lecture on your social reputation from your mother. If she were to find out.

It was magical; everything you had dreamt of. Perfect. Had you known what was coming, you would have savoured the moment longer.

Mere weeks later, to the surprise of everyone, the news comes that sits a weight on your heart that you can’t hold—the kingdom is at war and the prince must lead his army to victory. And you are left alone.

Your only solace is found in the frequent letters you’d share, his less detailed than yours—saving you from the horrors he was experiencing and only sharing what little could be considered ‘good’ on the battlefield. Small anecdotes; stories about his men and his queries into how you are. There seemed to be and endless amount to talk about and the letters were frequent enough to keep you enthralled with him.

Until they weren’t.

Days turned to weeks. Weeks turned to months and word soon stopped. No matter how much you longed to hear from him; no matter how often you sent letters of your own you heard nothing. You fear the worst, fear his death came too soon and that you were going to be the last to find out; you wonder if his parents would even feel the need to tell you. And if he wasn’t, was he captured? Was he in danger? Did his men fail to keep him safe?

How were you to ever find out?

Maybe you were never supposed to. Maybe this was how you were to find out the truth of his feelings towards you and that he’d stopped entertaining your painfully obvious childish infatuation. You could only assume so when his mother mentions, in passing, that he’s grown more into his role over the years if she was perceiving his letters correctly.

His silence was for you and you only and it shatters you. You’re left heartbroken and with a hundred questions but the one lingering on your mind the most is why? Why spend your life concerned for a man that appears to have to care for you?

You wish you could say it never bothered you and had never left you sleepless as you thought of every part of your childhood that had you falling for him in the first place. And, perhaps, with a little more time, you would have found a way to heal. Perhaps if you hadn’t heard from him again you could have felt normal.

His final letter comes as a surprise; you read it again and again, eyes scanning each word as if there was a hidden message behind them; as if something would jump from the paper and scream the truth of all that you had missed–all that he had kept from you.

But nothing came, just the words that felt as though they had no care behind them; no explanation as to why his letters had stopped. Simply a small letter, a paragraph that held nothing more than the words scrawled on the page, that you doubted he had even written himself, stating your wedding would be held in three days–leaving you no time to process that he was back. The time you had spent mourning him; crying to Kiyoko as the thought of losing him broke you.

Instead, you found yourself thrown into preparations and, with your lack of interest in the wedding painfully obvious to everyone but your overexcited mother, you feel as though there’s no time to breathe as flower arrangements, invitations and dress fittings are forced on you with no room allowed for your own opinions.

The days pass slowly, you’re overwhelmed and waiting for the end of the night when you can crawl into bed or finally release the build-up of emotions to an increasingly worried Kiyoko as she stood, brushing through your hair and encouraging you to tell her the truth. After witnessing it all, the months of missing him; the way you broke at the loss of contact and the anger you had felt when he resurfaced, she was unprepared to let you burden yourself with the weight of the kingdom’s expectations.

Especially as the night before the wedding falls.

You cling to Kiyoko as she held you tight, your head rested on her lap as she gently stroked your hair—her futile attempt to soothe you. Every wail from you leaves her shattered and the letter, the blaster letter, sit torn to shreds at your feet. Ripping it apart in a haste as Kiyoko opened your doors, you fell into a state of despair.

Tomorrow was the day of your dreams but reality felt like much more of a nightmare.

It’s a miracle your home isn’t awoken by your heartbreak but no one else comes or they simply don’t care enough to stop the once thing that benefits even the lowest of employees in your family home. Why should they step in just because you felt pain?

“I can’t!” You cry. You must, you think—the protests fall from your lips as you lose yourself in the spiral your mind has become, Kiyoko’s efforts to calm you are useless. She’s left with nothing to do but wait for you to exhaust yourself—which comes soon—only then is she able to gentle tuck you into bed again ignoring the painful pant of her own heart as she yearns for a way to get you out of your forced destiny. Yet, all she can do is stay at your side and bring you some sort of familiarity to the life you’re dreading.

It’s a restless night, tossing and turning in a light sleep that wakes you frequently. You stare at the ceiling, hoping sleep will take you once more as the birds chirp and the world awakens. If an escape is not possible, just a few more minutes of sleep will be preferable.

Puffy-eyed, throat sore, and filled with dread, you wake the next morning to the room filling with maids, more than you had ever been used to seeing, and your mother pushing her way in determined to oversee every last detail of the preparation. Since you woke up that morning, you hadn’t had a single chance to breathe.

Your mother, someone who had always been considered a respectable woman, pulled you to your feet with a childish grin on her face, pushing you from the comfort and warmth of your covers to one of her employees, whose name she certainly had never bothered to learn.

Rushed onto your feet, the only chance you have to breathe is the short time you have away from your mother–that you wished would stretch longer–sat in the warmth of your bathtub and allowing yourself just a few minutes to relax before you’re thrown into the fire burning in your home.

Your mother stands amongst the maids as you return, insisting on every last detail of your hair and clothing; ignoring the few requests you’d had just a few days beforehand. But you move past it quickly, those few requests weren’t important to either of you, your mother wanted this day to be perfect; it had to fit the image she had in her mind whereas you would had preferred nothing at all or, since you had no choice, something much less extravagant than all that had been planned.

You’re more than ready for it to end the second it begins, you’re being tugged from side to side as the maids (not so) delicately pull your hair into the intricate style your mother is insisting on, she’s quick to slap the back of your hand as you complain, reaching to alter the curl your mother seems to love–she’s telling you to remain still; accusing you of ruining the day before it had even began.

So, you’re left with no choice. You sit, having your head pulled from side to side under your mother's orders; you share a look with your lady-in-waiting through the mirror praying there was something either of you could do to stop the hell you’re about to subject yourself to—as though either of you could stop the dictator making her orders.

You lose track of the time you’re spent as your mother’s living doll, having your breath stolen as the corset is tightened around you with the order of “a little more” and your ignored protests. Your arms are pulled left and right as you're pushed into the gown, leaving only makeup to be done.

You hope it won’t take as long as your mother makes it seem; with powder being slapped on your face and more instructions being tossed at the maids. There’s nothing you can do but sit and take everything thrown your way; you’re being led to the royal carriage before you realise it—you’re still not ready.

You’re not sure how many hours have passed since the moment you woke up but, now, the sun is beating down on you through the window of the carriage. It hurts your eyes, just a little bit, but you think that’s better than your attention being on your mother. She’s sat opposite you listing off her requirements and rules for the day—all boiling down to ‘don’t mess this up’. Ruining the day was practically impossible. You’d practiced a million times, you’d had nothing but lessons on palace etiquette and you’d memorised your agenda for the day years ago. Above all, it was once a day you dreamt of—once one that left your heart fluttering.

You were a robot programmed for this day and this day only. Ruining it was not an option.

She doesn’t stop talking until you reach the palace but you’re left with no time to feel the relief. You freeze for a moment, staring at the church that stood tall, staring down at you; taunting you. Even with only a few more moments until those doors opened, until you were expected to give the rest of your life to a man you no longer wanted in your memories, you hoped you’d receive one more message that would set you free. Instead, you take the step out of the carriage, feeling the never-changing watchful glare of your mother bore into your side even as she’s encouraged away, inside the building, with Kiyoko following behind her. Your silent beg for her to stay with you; your plead for her to stand beside you and offer you the only comfort you would receive that day, don’t go unnoticed but she has no choice but to follow after your mother, leaving you stood alone with nothing to do but wait for the sound of the organ and opening of the holy doors condemning you into a life you considered hell.

Left alone, time seems to stop. There’s an endless silence that envelopes you until you’re left restless, taunted by the wait hoping the tune will never start. You don’t fund yourself lucky. The grand doors slowly creak open, the music begins quietly, the volume rising as you come into view. You want the floor to swallow you whole as every guest stands and their attention is solely on you.

It’s time.

You wish there was someone beside you. Your mother, your father, Kiyoko or just a maid. But you’re expected to take each step solo.

As the music continues you take each painstaking step. Chattering and whispers dying down to silence as the sound of the organ grows; there isn’t a single pair of eyes not on you.

Glancing around the room, or at least to those sat in proximity to the aisle in the vast chapel, you’re realising there are minimal people here to support you.

There’s viscounts and barons hoping to gain power through relationships with the higher ranking earls and dukes. There’s women hoping to meet a higher ranking man to lift them up the societal hierarchy and you start to think Kiyoko is the only person really there for you.

The closer you come to Sakusa, the more familiar the faces become. You may not know them all, but the soldiers that fought alongside your fiancé stand to your left, all smiling at the thought of their captain, the man that lead them to victory in the near half-decade they were at war, getting his chance of happiness. Or what they perceive to be so.

You search the sea of vaguely recognisable faces, trying to keep your attention forward as you walk and, only then, do you look to the men that stand close, at Sakusa’s side. His most trusted, his family–only one of which you recognise. And only one of which you’re happy see.

Komori. Sakusa’s cousin and right hand, there wasn’t a thing on Earth Sakusa knew the Komori didn’t; as your eyes met his he greets you with a familiar, comforting smile—one you hadn’t seen in far too long. The sight of him turns from reassurance into something you’d wished you’d never laid eyes on.

You hate it.

It reminds you of the happiest years of your life, when you could consider Sakusa a friend instead of the stranger he’d become; when you could laugh or cry around him and not fear his reaction. Of when you would accompany both Sakusa and Komori on walks around the palace garden, almost always ending in a scolding from your mother at the filth that littered the dress she had carefully picked out that morning, something that never bothered you. Because the time you spent without supervision was always the time you looked forward to most.

It reminds you of the time you thought married life could be somewhat enjoyable.

Beside him are the infamous mercenaries hired to fight alongside the soldiers; now knights of the palace with the sole duty of protecting the prince. There’s Bokuto and Hinata, the two deceitfully cheerful men with the power to kill in seconds if given the chance. Together, they were an unstoppable team but they were not as treacherous as the faux blonde sat beside them with judgmental eyes targeting you.

Miya Atsumu. Bloodthirsty and menacing, his stare had you wanting to turn and leave more than you already were. His brown eyes felt like they were searching your very soul and all you could do was look away, finally looking at your betrothed.

For the first time in over four years.

You hate to admit it, you really do, but, no matter how much you despise him, you cannot deny the fact he’s become an inexplicably handsome man.

Maybe it was the years on the battlefield that had forced him to grow from the 18-year-old you remember into the toned, beautiful heir to the throne waiting for you at the alter; his new physique perfectly suiting the white suit he had donned; golden accessories making him more breathtaking. And, across his shoulders sat the white mantle handed down the generations of his family: a symbol of alleged love and affection between the king and his queen.

It makes you want to laugh.

The worst thing about it all, the one thing you’d expected but hoped he would control, is the expression on his face. If a single person was looking at him they would realise what a mockery this wedding was—no one should have an expression of such abhorrence at the site of their wife. Yet, there he was looking at you like you were dirt on his boots, like you were the enemy he’d been fighting for so long.

You slow for a second, taking a hesitant step forward as you force your eyes away from his. You know this isn’t what either of you want, you’re aware there may even be a woman Sakusa yearns for but can never have. But you wish you could live your life differently, turn and run; find a man to love wholeheartedly.

Reaching the alter, everything feels real. Sakusa takes his steps towards you; taking your hand and guiding you up the steps to the high priest, who’s waiting for the music to cease and the ceremony to officially begin.

With your back to the crowd, you ignore the words spoken by the priest; they mean nothing to you as he speaks of blessings showered down on the union—on how this is the wedding everyone has been anticipating.

Everyone but the two of you.

So, you stand. A hand rested on Sakusa’s as you wait for your cue to turn to him; to listen to him speak his vows, one’s you’ll have to echo afterwards.

When the time comes, you let him take your hands; you let him talk and you let him slide the ring on your finger. You’re locked into your life the second he finishes; he looks as unhappy as you feel at that moment.

Then it’s your turn; everyone’s watching you. They’re waiting to celebrate not only the marriage of the prince but the consolidation of power that will become their king and queen. But, not a single one knows you’re anxious about the words you're expected to say.

All eyes turn to you as your turn to repeat the words spoken moments beforehand comes, holding Sakusa’s hand in yours whilst you wait for the moment to slide the ring on his finger; the cold metal matches the rough man who’s not so much as smiled at you from the moment the doors opened.

You can hear the minister speaking even though you don’t register the words, meaningless words you’d practised a hundred times under the order of your mother, words that would have once spluttered from your mouth through your amusing nerves and had your heart racing. Yet, now, they left you numb and full of regret. Had all those years you’d given him, all the emotions you’d once thought you shared, been some sort of game? Or had he let you think he felt something towards you just so he could fulfil the duties placed on him by his father?

Taking a deep breath as the silence falls amongst the hall, as it had when Sakusa spoke his vows, and you prepare yourself for what was beginning to shape the rest of your life. “I y/n l/n take you, Sakusa Kiyoomi,” meeting his eyes for just a second you feel yourself begin to falter, staring at the man who, for just a split second, held a soft expression on his face. You lose sight of it just as quickly as you had noticed it, watching him as he turns from the young man that had been by your side; the man that had made you feel as though you were more than enough for anyone, to the stranger that had returned.

The moment passes and the light fades as you open your mouth to continue, “to be my husband, to have and to hold from this day forward,” with him in front of you; with the hopeful eyes of everyone watching, you’re left with nothing other than a bitter taste in your mouth.

“for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer,” you let your eyes drift to your parents, sitting beside Kiyoko, and your mother’s beaming smile urges you on with no care for what you want. She sits, expectant, waiting for the opportunity to call her daughter the princess, waiting to be known as the woman who was successful in making her child the future queen.

No matter how much you had told her you wanted anything else for your own life.

With your attention back to the man in front of you, you continue. “in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish,” You allow yourself to entertain the thought of just what type of person Sakusa would be in those situations. Wondering if he’d warm to you again, just as he did when you were younger, or if he’d show more of the man he’d seemed to have become. Would he care or would he leave you to feel alone in the palace through the moments you needed someone with you most?

“till death do us part,” The question of his loyalty had never come to your mind, you knew how he was raised and you knew how he felt about mistresses. You were all he would have be it willing or not.

“according to God’s holy law.” Uttering the words feel almost blasphemous, in a place of worship shared with a man you had long since lost any loving feelings. Words that most would believe were shared between lovers, young adults that had waited for this moment since they were children, unaware of the loss you feel thinking about the man that once took claim of your heart.

You hold the ring in your hand, delicately lifting it so you can slide it down his slender finger, trapping yourself with the final words you speak, mouth dry and voice shaking, enough to be misconstrued as nerves, as you do so.

“This is my solemn vow.”

[arabellasleopardcoat]

Categorical (Aemond Targaryen x Reader)

Summary: Aemond needs to blow off some steam, so you offer to verbally spar with him. 

Warnings: Smut. Oral sex (F receiving) Friends/ Academic rivals to lovers. Torturing of philosophers.

A/N: Man, translating modern texts into High Valyrian is a pain. I did my best. Also look! My first Aemond smut. For nerdy explanations, go beneath the dots. 

“No.” You laugh, placing your cup down. “You will not convince me of Archmaester Rene's superiority to Septon Immanuel.”

It's very late on the library. You are sitting cross-legged on top of the table, Aemond properly sat on a chair. If a Maester were to see you, or god forbid, a Septa, you would be scolded until their face turned red. 

You shouldn't be here. Not in the library or alone with him, either. A loud feast is going on outside, to celebrate Princess Rhaenyra and her sons. Neither of you wanted to stay for longer than was strictly required. 

It had been your idea. Noticing how pent-up the Prince was becoming, you had offered to come here in the hopes of letting him blow off some steam in a constructive way. If you had been taught how to handle a sword, you would have invited him to the courtyard. But you had been born a woman near Oldtown. Words were your preferred weapons. 

“Rene shaped his era!” Aemond protests, brandishing the Second Meditation in his hand. “Without him, Immanuel would be nothing.” 

You scoff. Here he goes again. One would think, for such a devout man, he would be kinder to the Septon’s views on philosophy.

“That's a bit much. Did Prince Aegon spike your drink?” 

Aemond and you… It was a weird thing. As the daughter of a member of the small council, you had been brought to King’s Landing to foster alongside Princess Helaena. But as a girl from The Reach, you had little interest in embroidery and chasing bugs. No, you were more interested in learning politics and new languages. It meant that you were closer to her brother than her. 

At first, both of you had been hesitant to break out of your roles, but soon, having someone who was as passionate as you were about learning turned seductive. Sometimes, too seductive. 

“Perhaps you are right.” The Prince laughs, and you let your expression turn hopeful for a second. Had you finally defeated Aemond in an argument? You could actually dance from happiness because the man was as stubborn as they came.  "Only on being a bit much. Because while that might have been exaggerated, you know I am right about any Maester being superior to the Septons in terms of exploration of philosophical themes. Septons stray into ethics too much, and do not solve the truly important questions.” 

“And what is exactly wrong with ethics?” You frown. You have dedicated yourself to the pursuits of understanding how a rational human being behaves in society. It's interesting, as an overthinker. Obsessing over the existence of a universal way of doing the right thing occupies most of your days. 

How different would life be, if there was a universal guideline to follow and have things always turn right? How easier, if you knew how to get the best outcome, each time?

“Nothing, I guess. If you like ethics, I am willing to indulge you. But Immanuel?”  Aemond shakes his head, sliding the book to a corner of the table. It’s opened in the middle of one of the passages, one you know well.

One you hate well, too. A thing that thinks. A thing that doubts. Cogito ergo sum. You were not sold on the idea of reality being the product of a particularly malicious demon, but it was on-brand for Aemond. To you, instead, it ended up reading more like the ramblings of a madman. 

“What’s wrong with him? His work is revolutionary!” And it is true. You are not exaggerating. No one else has done such a thorough job of explaining how one should behave, and how society and laws play into our choices. 

“Who likes him, anyway? He is a nightmare.” Aemond shakes his head. 

“To your logic self, perhaps. I find him very inspiring.” You try to keep a straight face as you say it, but your lips are twitching into a smile. 

You are morally obligated to defend Immanuel's honor. He is the basis of your whole studies. But you have to admit, he is not the easiest read. Or the most interesting. The Archmaester is much more compelling in that aspect, but you would rather die than prove Aemond right. 

“You are lying through your teeth right now. What would the Septon think of that?” 

“Oh, shut up, you. It still doesn't prove your point.”  And honestly, it’s a tactic so low, it impresses you. Moral attacks? Really? You grin at Aemond and he grins back, knowing you caught him red-handed. He shrugs. 

“Do you want me to prove my point?” His hand taps on your knee.  The Prince is not meant to touch you like this, no matter how innocent. You are not supposed to be this close to a man who is not part of your family or your betrothed. Yet, he never seems to care. 

You and Aemond touch often. Always innocent touches, of course. A hand that lingers too long when passing over a quill. Lips that drink from the same cup, from the exact place your lips have left a mark. You circle each other, you chase each other. 

You marvel each time he does, at the wonderful reactions he manages to prompts from you. Heart skipping a beat, palms getting sweaty, pupils dilating. You are in love. So in love it hurts, and it tears at you, but also feels like floating and sitting on the softest clouds. 

It’s exquisite, the pain of loving. Overwhelming. Like standing in the freezing rain. Makes you feel so alive but so utterly lonely, knowing the object of your affections will never see you as you want him too. 

You are his friend. The one he can count on to discuss the latest book or the intricacies of a long forgotten society. Never a woman. 

How you long for him to look your way, just once. For his eye to linger on your lips a little too long. His hands to stray away from proper touches, towards intimate caresses. 

And it hurts, when it doesn’t happen. You clear your throat, vanish those thoughts, and plaster a smile on your face. It’s easy, pulling witty remarks out of the tip of your tongue. It always is, with him. The debate manages to be lively and profound, minds bouncing from topic to topic until you exhaust yourselves. You make each other better, sharper, smarter. 

"Of course, Prince of Arguing.” You tease, eyes crinkling at the corners. “No rhetoric. Or fallacies. Tu quoque.” 

“I don't need them. I can do it with pure empirical evidence.” Aemond taunts right back, leaning forward on his chair. It sounds strange. More charged than usual. The tension between the two of you building, rising. Suddenly, it’s not a conversation about Septon Immanuel and Archmaester Rene. 

“Oh?” 

It’s all the permission he requires. Aemond gets up, abruptly. The chair falls back with a loud clatter. Neither of you pay it any attention. 

“Look me in the eye.” He says, stepping closer. Your breath hitches at the proximity, but you decide there is nothing wrong with indulging him. The library is empty and no one will look for either of you. “Iksā iā run bona iotāpagon.” 

You arch an eyebrow. Of course, he picks the one language you have yet to be able to master. 

“Valyrian. How fancy.” 

Aemond ignores you. You have no choice but to look up at him, with the way he is looming over you. This close, you can see his pupils are blown, and he looks slightly nervous. Does he think you are a dragon, perhaps, that he is speaking High Valyrian in such a soothing tone? You are about to make that joke, but it dies in your throat when he gets even closer, nose nearly bumping against yours. 

"Bona umbagon, bona vestras kessa, bona vestras daor.” He mutters, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. You tilt your head up, like a flower moving to follow her sun. Whatever he is saying, you don’t know, but you recognize the words for yes and no. You do not dare speak, afraid of breaking whatever is finally building up between the two of you. 

So many months spent playing cat and mouse, so many months making him give chase. Queen Alicent gushing about how good you would look together, how much she wants another daughter. Nights spent in the library, arguing just for the sake of it. 

It doesn’t feel like a game, anymore. 

Aemond leans forward, pupil dilated and dark. “Bona gīmissiks byka.” His nose bumps against yours. Your pulse accelerates. To jump or not to jump? His eye goes from yours, to your lips. You watch the slight smug quirk of that smart mouth you love so. It’s then when you get a hold of yourself. You love him too much to lose him to this if it were to go wrong. That line you don’t dare cross. You try to get off the table you are sitting on. 

Aemond grabs your arm, not forcefully, but enough to hold you in place. You could get out of it if you wanted to. 

“Bona daor gīmissiks olvie.” He whispers, carefully cupping your cheek in his hand. Helpless against him, you nuzzle his hand. Fervently, as if promising something, anything, he keeps going. “Bona ēza jorrāelagon, vēdros, ebas, daoriot ebas.” 

Jorrāelagon. Love. A confession. For your ears only, in a way that fits both of you. High Valyrian has always been the language of the arts, after all.

Unable to resist him any longer, you kiss him. Forgetting all about how you should behave, how the library is empty and that if you two get caught, your reputation would be ended. You just couldn’t wait anymore.  

You would know his voice among a thousand voices. That's why you know, even when it is a whisper, that Aemond is still speaking into the kiss, smugly. 

“Bona ēza ēdrugon, bona ēza dijāves.” 

You kiss him harder. He is quoting something against your lips, against your skin, as he presses lush and desperate kisses to the skin of your jaw. As you suck a bruise in the hollow of his throat. 

He pushes you gently to lay on the table, giving you a wicked look. When you nod, Aemond hikes up your skirts, exposing your legs and lower stomach. 

“And to think we could have been doing this for so long.” He presses an open-mouthed kiss to your belly button, smiling as you squirm desperately. 

“Quoting things in High Valyrian?” You ask, unable to not tease him. 

“That, too.” He laughs. “If you knew it, you would have figured out it was Rene's Second Meditation.” 

You laugh, soon melting into a moan when he starts nibbling at your thighs. 

“I’m not sold on his superiority, yet.”

“Trust me, my Lady.” Aemond grins. “When I am finished, you will be singing his praises.” 

“Aemond…” You say, suddenly apprehensive. Despite trusting him, you are a smart and educated woman. You know that even a hint of doubt could ruin your reputation. And while you would gladly give your maidenhead to him, you do not feel comfortable enough to enjoy it. “I… We are not married.” 

“I know.” He says, taking your hand in his and squeezing it. “I’m not that kind of man.” 

“What are you doing, then?” You push yourself up on your elbows, to be able to look at him. Aemond remains crouched between your legs, busy with sucking a bruise on the juncture between thigh and hip. 

“Finally, a subject where I am more knowledgeable than you.”  The Prince smirks, before licking over your hole. You bite your lower lip to keep quiet, trying to stay still on the table. 

“My Prince…” You whine. It’s a strange feeling, but a pleasurable one. His mouth is scorching hot over your sex, and his tongue is doing things that you are pretty sure are considered a sin by the Faith of the Seven. A shame you were never very religious. 

You cannot think straight, with the way his tongue is lazily playing with your pearl. You try to be polite about it, but the moans leave your mouth unabashedly. If it were not for the feast happening outside, the whole Red Keep would hear your moans. You hope the music is enough to drown it. For your sake and his. 

“Ah, weren’t you the most eloquent Lady in The Reach? Finish your sentence.” Aemond mocks, pulling back. It doesn’t make any sense to you, your line of thought long-lost to the pleasure he is delivering you. Unashamedly, you try to grind your hips against his face, but Aemond just tuts. “Use your words.” His voice is filled with the same smugness as when he beats Ser Criston on the training yard, or manages to make you change your mind on a subject. 

The respite lets you think. Without him assaulting your senses, you try to recall what it was that you two were discussing. Knowledge. Aemond had been saying he had more knowledge than you about something, and his phrasing had been ambiguous. You had been about to ask him what he meant. 

“I meant to…” He swirls his tongue around your pearl, making you cut off your question, again. He keeps at it, making your voice turn shaky. You cannot think straight, or speak without moaning. Not with the way his tongue presses at your entrance, not with how he keeps torturing your poor pearl. The bud throbs and feels swollen, and you can tell he is taking advantage of it. “Ask. I was going to… Prince Aemond!” 

“What?” Aemond sits back on his heels, perching his chin on your thigh. Caressly, he takes off the eye patch. You respectfully don’t look.  You know it’s not because he trusts you, or because he wants you to see it. It’s because he is about to dive right in between your thighs and with how wet you are, the garment would get soaked. And it would show. You know your body well enough to know that your juices would stain the dark leather. 

Eventually, the night will come to an end and you two would have to return to your separate chambers through hallways full of people. If the Prince were to walk back with a stained eye patch, tongues would talk. More so, when your absence was noted. Half the Red Keep knows already how much time you spend together. He would not risk the stain on your reputation or on his. If it were found out you two were partaken in such deviant acts, both of you would be shunned. 

So, keeping your eyes firmly on the ceiling to not embarrass him or force him to share something he is not ready for yet, you speak. 

“I can’t speak with your mouth doing… Doing… That!” 

Your cheeks burn. You are unsure how to name the act, and if perhaps you got over your shyness, you would ask him. 

Aemond's response is clipped. Irritated. 

“You should have thought about it before denying us for so long. Keep arguing. Or I’ll stop.”  And it’s not your fault, really. It’s not like you were doing it on purpose. On the contrary. So focused on your feelings of admiration towards the Prince, you had been blind to his. You had never thought your love was reciprocated, and so were set on stomping on it until nothing but friendship and camaraderie remained. 

Never would you have thought him angry at your constant shying away. The thought makes butterflies surge in your stomach. The fact that Aemond wants you so much that he is angry at the thought of not having you sooner has you weak at the knees. 

Aemond takes your pearl between his lips, once more. He is careful, so the pleasure only edges to uncomfortable. You whine. He pulls away. You scream out on betrayal, before remembering exactly what Aemond asked you to. 

“I meant… Ask if you meant you knew…” And back at it, he goes, this time rewarding you by licking a path from your hole towards your pearl. “Ah! More than me in…” 

Too lost in your pleasure, you grab a handful of his hair, bucking your hips on his face. At this angle, Aemond’s nose rubs you just right, and you find yourself chasing the friction. 

“Go on. I quite enjoy where this is heading.” He snickers, the vibrations doing wonders to make you lose your line of thought even more. But the threat of him stopping the wonderful, wonderful things he is doing is enough for you to rack your brain for anything to say. 

“Knew more about matters of the flesh or if you meant… Aemond, Aemond, stop it! I can’t think.” You beg, on the verge of tears. Just as you are speaking, he starts sucking hard on your pearl. You have never, in your life, been as frustrated. It’s impossible to do his bidding when he is torturing you. Aemond has set you up for an impossible task. You would rather have the feeling stop than have to endure it a bit longer. Your body trembles, shaking and writing on the table. “High Valyrian!” 

“Both. A few times.” Aemond answers, and you mumble back something incoherent. You are near something, a cusp of pleasure so intense you fear you might shatter from the force of it. You scream, shrill and high, feeling your body absolutely gush at his ministrations. 

As you pant down from your high, Aemond tenderly fixes your skirts. He smooths your dress down, making sure there are no creases or suspicious stains. Completely at ease, as if he was not making you reach a peak that had your legs shaking mere moments ago, Aemond puts back on his eye patch. 

You remain laying on the table, flushed and sweaty from the exertion. He gives you a mischievous look, and leans down to kiss you. 

“Will you teach me, my Prince?” You ask, when you two part. It comes out more eager than you would have wanted, but you don’t care. You are not afraid anymore of showing how head over heels you are for him. And in the typical fashion of Targaryen men, Aemond seems to delight in the attention. 

“Trust me. I intend to.” He pulls you to a sitting position. Still shaky, you cling to him. Aemond keeps grooming you, fixing your hair and tugging at your sleeves. You rest your head against his breastbone. 

“Long engagement?” 

“Short. I would marry you tomorrow, were I able to.” He answers, as he fixes a button that had come undone in all your trashing. Then, he grabs the Second Meditation and presses it into your hand. “So?” 

“Yes. You win. Archmaester Rene is superior to Septon Immanuel.” 

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Credits: 

The ideas that Aemond and the reader are discussing belong, of course, to Kant and Descartes. The Second Meditation of Descartes as a prelude to sex was my sexual awakening, during a philosophy class at like… I don’t know. Sixteen? There is this show our philosophy teacher showed us, where a philosophy teacher is the main character.  Merlí. In the first episode, the Philosophy teacher seduces the English teacher by reciting the Second Meditation in the original French.  As the years passed, and I too entered my love and hate philosophy phase, I never lost that memory.  I really wanted to write something with it, and my Aemond’s fics tend to be more artsy. 

Also, forgive me for using philosophy from the 1500 - 1600 AC. I just can’t find it in myself to make the debate on how many angels can dance on a pinhead fascinating (That one would be period, although not Westeros, accurate) Hm. I should have gone for Aquino, maybe. 

[invye]

So my friend has me watching One Piece again which means I am back on my Mihawk brainrot--

Therefore let me introduce you to the list of hobbies I headcannon Mihawk to practice when he's sailing from A to B or taking a bit of time off in his goth castle:

cooking

reading

gardening

embroidery

wood carving

soap making

Extensive and rambly collection of thoughts on all of these under the cut:

Cooking

Reading

My man lives alone, of course he can cook. And he enjoys it. He is the type who technically can eat anything and everything no matter the taste as long as it gives him the nutrition he needs, but ever since he started cooking more regularly he's caught himself getting more picky about the quality and taste of his food. This becomes a problem when his unbidden guests (read: Perona dragging Zoro along) decide to help with the cooking duties... Mihawk has to go through a unexpectedly difficult phase of adapting to liking food that he hasn't made himself exactly fitting to his own taste again.

(Also Zoro on vegetable cutting duty leaves a Mess™. Mihawk makes him scrub the entire kitchen back to his standards after the first time, and while Zoro at first only marginally improves on the not making a mess part, he significantly improves on the cleaning the mess part. [Mihawk's standards for a clean kitchen are exactly as high as Sanji's, a fact which serves Zoro well after his return.])

Gardening

Mihawk enjoys his books. Nothing like a nice evening of quiet reading with a good glass of wine. He reads while travelling too, because lets be honest, there is only so much wistful staring at the horizon he can do and only so many naps he can take while he sails Hitsugibune from one end of the world to the other. At this point he has worked his way halfway through the library of his castle. Which does not stop him from buying new books. He's surprised that it still isn't a commonly known fact about him, with how often he has caused near heart attacks in poor bookshop owners when they are faced with the World's Greatest Swordsman having appeared in their shop to buy a book?? But he supposes it's one of these "no one will ever believe you" kind of situations.

Mihawk also has a lady two islands over from Kuraigana who supplies him with romance novels. She wisely knows not to comment, but he will never forget her wild grin the first time she saw him reaching for a queer novel. The woman seems to pride herself in always having a new queer story available whenever he stops by, and Mihawk has stubbornly decided to pokerface his way through their interactions forever and ever.

The library has significantly grown since Mihawk moved in. It's sorted by genre now. He'll never let Shanks in there so he doesn't have to admit just how much and what kind of romance he's reading.

Embroidery

Roses. Mihawk has an aesthetic and he commits to it 100%. He keeps the most immaculate rose garden Shanks has ever seen, and Shanks has seen plenty of pretty places. At least half the different species of rose bushes are actually gifts from Shanks after he's seen the beginnings of the garden the first time he visited (read: dropped by unannounced) Kuraigana after it became known Mihawk had claimed the island. So now, years later, Mihawk has probably the most extensive collection of rose species in all colours, shapes and sizes in all the seas.

To Zoro's chagrin, the garden is set up like a maze. It's not a big maze. Even the rose bushes Mihawk has allowed to grow tall during his absences barely even reach higher than Mihawk's shoulders. No reasonable person could ever get lost in it. It quickly becomes apparent that Zoro is not a reasonable person.

'Hidden' within the rose 'maze' there are some dedicated patches of ground making up a kitchen garden. Mihawk got tired of doing supply runs every couple weeks, so he grows his own vegetables and herbs (healing purposes included) and even started to grow the spices he prefers.

(To his own annoyance that garden is not able to support feeding three mouths instead of just one, so the supply runs are back to their old frequency until he makes Zoro and Perona spend a week helping him extend the garden. By year two Kuraigana is mostly self-sufficient again. [By year three Mihawk doesn't know what to do with his extra produce anymore so he decides to actually host Shanks' crew for once instead of just Shanks on his lonesome. They are surprisingly respectful of his space, he might even get the utterly insane idea to do this again.])

Wood carving

You have seen his clothes. Everyone has seen his clothes. You know the chances of finding a good, waterproof coat that not just fits perfectly but also exactly reflects your style? They're abysmal. And even if you found the perfect piece of clothing for you, it needs to be properly washed and maintained if you want it to last longer than a storm or two. Also, professional hand embroidery costs a ton of money. So yes, Mihawk made all the little embroidered details himself. At this point he doubts anyone even remembers how his coat looked back when he bought it and before he had time to put a needle to it. Well, anyone who isn't Shanks. Because Mihawk distinctly remembers Shanks staring when he first showed up to a duel with his brand new coat and then staring again after Mihawk was done with it.

Embroidery is more of a winter hobby, when the garden doesn't need him, and he feels the urge to keep his hands moving. For a while he considered teaching Zoro to give him more of a feeling for fine control, but he quickly discarded the idea in favour of helping Perona with her clothes making adventures.

Mihawk never thought or intended for wood carving to become an actual hobby at all. It started out with him finding himself having sailed into a middle of a rather big reef in an attempt to evade social interaction with Vice Admiral Garp after he spotted his ship on the horizon in the early days of Mihawk's Warlord-ship. The reef had plenty rock and coral formations just closely hiding beneath the water surface, interseeded with sand banks that shifted with the tides, which any ship that lays even slightly deeper in the water than Hitsugibune would not be able to navigate. Mihawk relied on his Haki and superior eye-sight to spot all the obstacles and even with all that it was difficult to sail Hitsugibune safely. Then the winds turned on him rather suddenly when he crossed a climate barrier, bringing along heavy cloud cover and fog, and Mihawk decided he needed to make note of the rock formations somehow to not run into them after all as visibility pretty much approached zero. Being not at all talented in map drawing, Mihawk used Kogatana to carve the map into a random scrap of plank instead. It served him well (he sucessfully avoided Garp and there was not a single new scratch on Hitsugibune) and it kind of just became a thing he did. He now has a small collection of carved maps of mostly reefs and other dangerous waters he uses for hiding and evading purposes. And if he carves the occasional bird or other animal when he's bored out at sea, no one needs to know.

Soap making

It's another hobby Mihawk stumbled upon mostly by coincidence. One day during a supply run he got annoyed by how expensive soap is. The next day he had everything he needed to make it for much less money. A week later he had a year's worth supply of soap sorted out. Shanks asks how Mihawk manages to always smell of roses, even when he has been gone from Kuraigana for weeks. Mihawk says nothing while Shanks' crew mercilessly teases their captain for always getting up and close into Hawkeyes' personal space to even know that. They are smart enough to know not to comment on Mihawk allowing Shanks this close in the first place.