#I miss my purple space wife

[aegonstradwife]

closer | aegon targaryen x reader

summary: anonymous requested; aegon's wife comforting him after his battle with rhaenys.

warnings: mention of various injuries, established relationship, smut. (handjob, fingering.)

a. note: link to the original request.

They've been keeping him from you.

'He needs his rest, m'lady.'

That's all you ever hear.

Well, damn rest to the seven hells. Aegon needs you; without your love and support, how is he ever supposed to get better?

All evening you've stood watch just around the corner from Aegon's bedchamber on the second floor of the keep, under the guise of overseeing the hanging of a new tapestry along the hallway toward the grand staircase.

Once you hear the last maester leaving Aegon's room and shuffling along for the night, you hurriedly dismiss the servants hanging the tapestry and begin to creep down the corridor.

Finding the door unlocked, you sweep silently inside.

The room is dark, the only illumination the light of the moon slipping in through the windows. Aegon is lying down, breathing steady beneath the sheets as you sneak over and settle yourself gingerly on the bed beside him, making sure not to rustle any of the bedclothes.

His eyes open instinctively, staring amazed up at you, clearly not expecting visitors this time of night.

Aegon whispers your name like a prayer. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to see my husband. Am I not allowed to see how his recovery's going?"

If you're being honest, Aegon looks awful, the mottled skin of his cheek purple and red in the low lighting. There are more burns, further down and across his shoulder. You ache to hold him, but don't want to hurt him.

You clear your throat. "I just needed to see you, my love. It's been so long...." You reach out, avoiding the burn on his cheek as you pet a lock of hair back from his forehead. "Don't you miss me?"

He watches you carefully. Of course he misses you, more than he cares to admit. And he is touched by the gesture, even if he's unwilling to show it right now.

"I miss you," he admits quietly. "More than anything. But I assure you, I'm fine. No need to waste your time fussing over me."

He tries to sit up, biting back a pained groan.

"Don't," you urge, pressing him back against the sheets with a hand at his unmarred shoulder.

It's been a long time since you've slept together - the maesters have been keeping Aegon in this room to rest and heal. Even during the day, you've been forbidden to see him; everyone claims it's better for him to be alone and 'clear his mind.'

But what about you? It's been torture not having him beside you at night, not holding his hand at meals or at court.

And what about him? Has anyone even asked Aegon what he wants? What he needs while he's like this?

"What can I do for you, Aegon? What do you need?"

"You," he says with no hesitation, "to lay here with me." He pats the space on the opposite side of the bed. That's what he needs - the woman he cares for most.

"Just.... be careful of my leg. It's broken, if they hadn't told you...."

You hurry around to his unburnt side, climbing carefully back on the bed so as not to disturb his broken leg. "I know.... does it hurt badly still?" You ask quietly, tucking yourself against his side.

He wraps his good arm gently around you and rests his chin at the crook of your neck. Your touch soothes him, and he's missed it more than he can say.

“Only when I try to move it. The burns still hurt like all seven hells, though….”

You nod - closer now, you can see the burns all over the side of his body, trailing down beneath the covers. The maesters had told you his injuries were extensive, but you didn't realize just how badly until now.

"Oh, Aegon -" you cut yourself off on a choked sob. "Why did you do it? Why did you leave me to go to that wretched battle?"

His heart aches just hearing the sound of you crying. He pulls you as close as he can with one arm.

"Shh...." He shushes you, running fingers through your hair. "I had to go. I couldn't let what they'd done go unpunished. The people need their king to fight for them."

You sniffle. Not wanting to get snot and tears all over him in addition to his other tragedies, you calm yourself with a hand at the remaining smooth skin of his stomach. "I just can't believe they've kept you here, away from me. It's been so difficult, Aegon...."

"I know, my love, I know...."

He pulls you against his chest and lets you rest your head there against his beating heart, seemingly the only thing that had not been damaged in the battle.

“It's been difficult for me too…. I thought of you every day....”

It comforts you, to know Aegon has been thinking of you, even as sick as he is.

You lick your lips, fingers circling gently over his stomach. "You have? Have you been able to.... pleasure yourself at all?"

A shiver runs through him, and he lets out a shaky exhale. “Only once. I tried a few times, though....” His voice is a whisper as he speaks, his body reacting even to the simplest of your touches.

You kiss his shoulder in sympathy. "You must be so pent up. I mean.... I know I am," you say suggestively.

"Yes," he breathes. He is desperate. The touch of your lips to his shoulder is enough to send heat shooting straight down. "You don't even know.... but...." He swallows thickly. "I don't know how I would...."

He turns his face from you in shame.

"Shh, Aegon, it's okay." You turn his face back toward you, cradling him gently just below the heated scrape of burn. "I wouldn't expect that right now.... You need to heal more before that. But there are always other ways to make sure you get your release ..."

His eyes, one darkened by the brindled skin surrounding it, fix on you. They are both, however, hungry and wanting. "Other ways?" He whispers.

You nod, smiling sweetly at your husband. "Yes, many other ways. I can think of two off the top of my head that won't be too taxing for you.... shall we try them?"

Aegon mirrors your nod. “Try them, yes. I’m desperate. I’ll do anything, as long as you’re the one doing it….”

With another kiss to his shoulder, you let the very tips of your fingers trail just beside the jagged line of burns along Aegon's body, making sure not to hurt him. You want to tease, to make this as good for him as possible.

You've been apart for a month at least; if Aegon is anywhere near as tense as you are, he will appreciate this.

But just as your fingers are about to traipse under the sheets, Aegon stops you with a grunt. "Darling.... one thing first."

You gaze curiously up at him.

"Are you still.... Do these bother you?" He gestures to the slowly healing burns along his face and side. "Do you still find me as handsome as you once did or am I...."

He can't seem to find the words to finish.

You shush him yet again, pressing a loving kiss to his lips. "You will always be the most beautiful man in the world to me, Aegon. No matter what."

“You…. you still find me…. pleasing to look at, like this?”

You lean up on your elbow, fingers now taking their time trailing over his stomach, up to his uninjured shoulder, over his unburnt cheek, and back down. "Oh, Aegon.... I've missed you so. Is that the real reason you've refused to see me? You're afraid I'll find you ugly?"

He closes his eyes as your fingers wander over him, his breath hitching in his throat at the pleasure of your touch, but the question makes him pause.

“Yes,” he admits without any attempt to lie. “I don’t want you to look at me and feel nothing but disgust…. I’m not….” He swallows and opens his eyes, gaze blazing into you, “I was afraid you would think me hideous.”

Gods, the fact that you can't throw your leg over him and just fuck yourself down onto him to show him just how handsome you still find him is driving you mad....

"Why don't you let me show you, hm? Just how attractive I still find you?" You kiss him again, his neck this time, dry, fluttering kisses along his pulse point, which has quickened.

Exhaling with a shudder as your lips trail across the sensitive skin of his neck, he whispers, “Yes.... please.” His eyes are pulled to the tenting in the sheets below.

"You still get hard for me so easily," you reply with a pleased smile, gaze also drawn down toward his midriff. "Give me just a moment."

On the bedside, you had spied some oil the maesters had been using to treat Aegon's wounds. With the vial in hand, you retreat back into Aegon's side, slowly pushing the sheets down to reveal his hardened manhood.

You hiss, sitting up momentarily to see where the burns wrap around his hip, coming dangerously close to his erection. "Will it be okay for me to touch you?"

His breath catches, eying the path of the sheets as you remove them.

“It'll be fine. Please, touch me. I want your hands on me, need them on me, please….” He pleads, his eyes darkened with want, watching you as you continue to examine the extent of his burns.

“Only be gentle...." he sighs softly.

"Of course." You nod fervently, bending to press a kiss to his belly.

Curling against his side, you reach with the vile to drip just a few spots of oil onto his hard cock. You watch them rain slowly down, licking your lips at the sight.

"Gods, I missed seeing your cock. Is that weird...?"

Aegon's length twitches as the oil hits it. He watches you closely, moaning at the mere sight of you here with him after so long.

"Not weird," he reassures you. "I-I've missed you so much, your touch, your.... your everything. It's all I've thought about for weeks, and the only thing that's made this bearable."

Reassured by his sweet words, you press your lips to his side. With just one finger, you stretch and start to run that finger slowly over Aegon's slick cock, spreading the oil, making sure it doesn't drip too close to his burns. "Aegon.... oh, gods ..."

You're trembling, wanting him so bad, but unable to properly have him.

A shiver runs through his body at the touch of your finger, and he gasps for air as the sensation washes over him.

“Oh, gods…. yes, please....” he mutters. “Don’t stop, please.”

He desperately wants to reach out and touch you, to give you as much pleasure as he can, but with his broken leg and burned body, he's helpless to do anything but let you work.

"I-I'm sorry I can't.... for you."

"it's alright," you mutter, mouthing at his side, so hungry for him.

That one finger continues to stroke and tease your beloved's cock, which is twitching up into your touch. "Is this okay? Does it feel good?" You query, staring up at him.

"Yesyesyes," your husband mutters breathlessly, hips canting up into your touch. "It feels so good.... so good.... don't stop, please."

That tensing in his stomach tells you he won't last for much longer.

You know you shouldn't tease your poor injured husband too much, but you also know by now when he's about to climax. And you really want to draw this out for him.

"Don't cum," you plead, taking your finger away. "Not yet, my king."

Aegon groans miserably; he was so close. He tries to hold himself back from the edge but it’s damn near impossible when your hand had brought him almost to the brink.

"Please," he pleads with you, "I-I'm so close, please don't stop, please, I need...."

"I know," you mutter, straining up to kiss him properly. It's a searing kiss, your lips biting into his as your slippery finger slowly circles the base of his cock, avoiding his burns. "It's going to be so good when I finally let you finish, Aegon...."

He practically melts against you, desperately returning your kiss. Your ministrations have slowly come to make him forget all about the pain, for the first time in a long while. Everything, right now, is just you.

"Please," he manages to mutter between kisses. "Please, I need to finish, I need you so badly.... please.... please let me finish."

You shush him yet again, letting him catch his breath for a moment. "I know it's been so long, Aegon. So long since we've seen each other, let alone touched each other. I know it's hard for you to hold back. But can you try? For me?" A thought crosses your mind, and you look worriedly at his strained face. "It doesn't hurt, does it?"

Aegon loves you, and the resolute look that overtakes his face tells you he'll try for you. "It's alright, it doesn't hurt."

You kiss him again, sweetly, knowing how hard he's trying for you. "Thank you, my love."

Being careful not to jostle his leg, you push the sheets down further and let your finger swirl delicately over the top of his thigh. "Is this okay? I know your legs have always been sensitive...."

He stifles a gasp; it's all so much, almost overwhelming his restraint.

"S-Sensitive, yes, but.... it's alright. It feels good."

Aegon's good arm tightens around your shoulder and you bite your lip around a moan. Part of you doesn't want Aegon to know how wet you are - he'll see it as his duty to do something about it. And right now that's just not possible.

"Aegon? Do you mind if I light a candle? I want to be able to see better when you spill for me."

He’d known it would be difficult for you too, like this. And, unbeknownst to you, he feels a small sense of satisfaction that your voice sounds just as strained as his. Even though there's nothing he can do about it.

When you ask about the candle, he nods. “Y-yes, go ahead....” he says between breaths, a flush of heat across his unmarred skin.

With another quick kiss, you dart off the bed, fumbling with the matches on the night stand. The series of half-melted candles finally lit, you turn back to the bed, but are stopped by Aegon's uninjured arm, his hand planted firmly on your stomach.

"Aegon...?"

"Pull your gown up," he croaks.

You shake your head, trying to press past his grasp, but Aegon is still surprisingly strong. "Please," he gasps, tugging at the loose material around your thighs.

Acquiescing to his request, you tug the folds of your dress up and rest a knee at the side of the bed, letting Aegon reach under with curious fingers.

Your undergarments are soaked when he presses his hand against them, and you whimper, grabbing for him to steady yourself.

"There it is," he moans, a satisfied smile plain on his face. "So you do still desire me...."

"Of course I do, Aegon.... how could I not? Every day without you is like a knife to the heart. My ladies' maids urge me to bring a serving boy in to help satisfy me, but they don't know.... they don't know you're the only one who has ever been able to."

His fingers continue their journey between your thighs, running along your sensitive center. The feel of you only serves to make him harder.

"And you don't know," he gasps, "how much the thought of you being.... with someone else nearly kills me.... you are mine."

"I'm yours, Aegon. I wouldn't ever have asked anyone to share our bed with me. Ever." Desperate now to be rid of your clothes, you rip yourself out of them, tearing the seams of your gown in your hurry.

Nonplussed, you bring Aegon's warm fingers back to your dripping cunt, letting him touch to his heart's content.

Aegon cups his hand underneath of you, fingers slipping wetly through your swollen, sensitive folds.

"Every night," you tell him, voice trembling. "Every night I'm like this for you. I've missed you so...."

Aegon looks tortured, the tips of his fingers seeking that tight, leaking hole. Slowly, two digits begin to work their way inside of you. "So tight, my love. So tight without me stretching you out every night, aren't you?"

You sob, fingers clenched painfully hard in the covers as you struggle to stay upright. One foot is still on the cool stone floor, your other leg stretched out beside him on the bed so he can continue to finger you. "Yes, Aegon! it's actually quite.... a struggle now, to take your fingers."

"I'll be gentle then...." He keeps those digits working slowly inside of you, just stroking at your insides to get you used to him.

"Thank you, Aegon...." Having not forgotten about him, you steady yourself better with one leg on the bed and lean over to take Aegon's oily cock in hand properly now, stroking him lovingly.

At your touch, Aegon inhales sharply. His free hand comes to grip the pillows behind his head as your hand moves over him. “Ah, darling, I’m trying to.... stay, mmh, focused on you.... but you’re making it so difficult....”

With your clean hand, you stroke his hair, messy against the pillows. "You don't have to focus on me, Aegon. This was supposed to be for you. My poor boy...." You sigh, gaze roving over his injuries.

"But I want to please you, too...." He protests, although the words are almost lost in the moan he lets out after, body jerking with pleasure.

He gazes up at you as you comb your hand through his hair, fingers stuttering inside of you. "I-I'm still your sweet boy?" He gasps.

"The sweetest boy," you can't help but respond, twisting your hand around his fat, leaking head. "If you just.... keep your hand there, Aegon, I can...."

With his wrist against the bed, his fingers still pointed up into you, you start to roll your hips, effectively fucking yourself on his fingers. "I can't wait to do this to your cock. W-When you're a bit more healed, I'll come in here and bounce on you until we both cum, okay?"

Aegon’s eyes are nearly black with desire as he digs his toes into the sheets and starts to cum. His orgasm blindsides him and he cries out, letting you work your hips over his hand as his cock begins to spurt all over your fingers and his own stomach.

"That's it, my king.... let it all out. Let me milk all of it out of you.... you've been pent up for so long, haven't you?"

"Ye-es," Aegon chokes, and as the last rope of his cum hits your wrist, you fall into your own climax as well.

Cunt spasming around his fingers, you brace yourself over him clutching whatever unmarred parts of him you can reach. "Aegon! Oh, Aegon.... Gods, you're doing such a good job.... "

Aegon’s fingers move slowly, coaxing you through it as his chest heaves. His heart is still pounding with the pleasure of his orgasm, taking in the gorgeous sight of you climaxing above him.

“You are so beautiful, my queen,” he mutters, looking at you with desire in his eyes and a hint of pleading. “.... can I ask for something?”

Panting with exertion, you turn your face toward him, still grinding your orgasming cunt down against Aegon's thick fingers. "Anything, my king."

His body is exhausted, but there is one thing he wants more than anything in that moment. He needs to feel you against him, skin to skin.

“I….” he starts breathlessly. “I want you to lay down. Right here, right beside me. I…. I need to feel you against me.”

Pulling yourself free from his fingers, you whine at the loss, but do as he's requested. Laying down beside him, tugging the sheets over both of you, sweaty and covered in the essence of each other.

"Did that hurt at all, my love?" You mutter, kissing along his shoulder. "Was it okay?"

Aegon’s eyes flutter as he feels your lips against him again. Feeling your body pressed against his and just knowing you're there brings him more comfort than he can say.

He reaches out with his uninjured arm, pulling you harder into him as he buries his face in your hair, against your neck.

“No, it didn’t hurt, my love. It was perfect, it was more than okay.”

Out in the hall, hurrying footsteps make themselves known just outside the door. The knob rattles, but you had locked it behind you when you entered.

"My lord," comes the head maester's voice. "I heard you cry out. Are you alright? Are you in pain?"

Aegon just manages to hold back an annoyed laugh. Of course they had heard the two of you, it's a miracle the whole damn keep didn't. His entire body sags in irritation, and he tightens his grip on you, pulling you flush against him. He damn well isn’t letting go of you just yet.

“I’m fine, Archmaester. Just a…. a bit of a twinge in my leg. Nothing to be concerned about.”

You giggle, muffling the sound against Aegon's skin. "Should I let him in?"

“Absolutely not,” he mutters, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “You’re mine, and you’re not leaving this bed, and you’re not letting anyone else in this room for a long time.”

[the-midnight-blooms]

ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ᴀʀᴛɪꜱᴛ'ꜱ ꜱᴛᴜᴅɪᴏ

pairing: painter!choi san x painter!reader

AU: historical au, joseon dynasty

word count: 10.5k

masterlist

I reach out to my lover, he’s trapped within a painting. The muse of a Renaissance artist- he’s so divine he may have even started the movement.

Her feet pattered down the cold floorboards, pushing through the salmun doors-the fabric of her purple hanbok bunched up in her palms. The midnight bloomed in the depth of the spring, where the cherry blossom trees roared with the wind. A captivating beam from the candle paved the way to the front doors, her heart lurching in her chest as she felt an enchanted soul beckoning her name; her vessel bowed in his essence as if the rapping of the door knocker was to the beat of her name, echoing every syllable. With her hand outstretched for the doors, she hauled it open finding a man whose eyes were squinting as the the coarse rain battered against his supple skin; his teeth chattering with the cold. With a brown leather bag sloped over the shoulder of his light yellow hanbok; hands gripped steely over the handle of his heavy cases. He was tall, with broad shoulders, she quickly discerned but his face almost seemed obscured by the dark clouds and the night slowly filtering into the star studded sky.

"Please, Miss, I'm here to see Mr Yim. I'm a new apprentice at the local government office." His voice was almost mellowed by the crash of thunder against the sky, which had them both flinching at its mercilessness. A surge of relief rested upon him as a slender arm in purple outstretched towards him; the warmth easing the shattering goosebumps bestowed upon his delicate skin. With a contented sigh, the figure in front raised the candle to his face; the soft glow illuminated his crescent eyes which bored into another's burgeoning with curiosity.

"Your name, Sir?" Her honey like voice, slid into his ears; lashes gently fluttering as he breathed in the sight before him the beaming light from the candle forging a halo around this angel. Her tight jaw and deadpan expression was immediately dissolved between the influx of enigma that flooded into her eyes.

"Choi San." Nodding diligently, she gesticulated for him to follow her to her father's study. The hallways of the Yim estate were particularly large, a few candelabras were perched on top of the drawers plastered across the panelled walls-the smoke infiltrating into the empty space. They graced the floor with minimal sound, as if there were ghosts traipsing the corridors rather than real people.

Stood outside the large door, she dipped her head in politeness as he gently caressed the lumber; soft knocks restituting off the walls. With the candle perched within a hand of his own, yet another door opened; the esteemed artist tumbled through the doorway into another life.

Just over two decades ago, on a winter night, where the trees were bare of crisp leaves and the ground was brazen with purest of snow; a couple sat by the fire in their bedroom: a new-born cherub encapsulated within her mother's arms. Mr Yim, the father of the child, was a member of a group of scholars who advocated the need for the government to foster commerce, industry, and technology. He was a part of one of the four schools of thought in Joseon that shifted from speculative theory to attending to more taxing socio-political issues. Therefore, despite being renown for his hard work, and steadfast nature, he was also known for being quite reserved- to put it nicely. There were no 'good mornings' or 'good afternoons' from Mr Yim. Nor were there dirty looks and unwelcoming mannerisms bestowed upon his acquaintances. He liked to keep to himself, Mrs Yim being the only woman in the world capable of seeing that man smile.

"Would you like to hold her, dear?" His wife called, the gentle babbling of his child sending a jolt of fear rushing through him. Eagerly, he dismissed the opportunity, to which Mrs Yim had sighed staring down at her beautiful daughter. "She is your daughter, too. You're going to have to hold her at one point."

"I'll hold her when she is a little older than what she is now."

"Before you know it, she will become a woman and you will reminisce all the opportunities you had to cuddle her when you could." Truthfully, Mr Yim was afraid of fatherhood; he never really understood the notion of it but if having a child would make his darling, Mrs Yim, happy then Mr Yim would give her all the children in the world. How could he raise a child when he was left to raise himself? What could he even teach except say to his daughter after every stumble, every mistake, every stutter, every cry for help but: 'find your way'?

Thus, his aloof nature extended to his daughter, who having been pinned by her mother's side until her unfortunate death, became wholly estranged from her father. He was no longer her mother's husband, but rather just a kind stranger who fed her, clothed her, kept her under his roof and gave her almost anything she wanted.

Miss Yim was rather bizarre.

Or at least, that's what the townspeople thought through her poignant introvertedness; maintaining scant friendships, rejecting all marriage prospects almost immediately preferring the confines of her large quarters-which in themselves were situated in the segregated division of the family home. Her rooms were not bright, but panelled with a dark wood that foremost created a dull atmosphere, there was minimal light other than what streamed in through the open doors and windows that overlooked the vast lawn. A porch ran around the whole building, where Miss Yim frequented, all year round, as she drew.

Oh! The most compelling thing about Miss Yim was that in contrast to her academic father, she had particularly excelled in the arts, often taking on commissions from local noblemen requesting venerated portraits of their wives. As well as the opportunity to put her skills to practise, she saw it as a way of putting a few extra pennies in her pocket. In alignment with her reserved nature, Miss Yim found that she preferred to draw using defined, darker mediums such as charcoal, ink and graphite pencils. There was something so true about the loneliness that could be felt from the intricate brushstrokes as the ink spilled across the page. As if the figurines were her, simply founded to be a mere prop in a large frame.

Smoothing down the hairs on her head, she snapped away her gaze from the mirror to the window overlooking the side of the garden, the silhouette of the hanok roofs, carving elegantly into the sky. The trees rocked and the grass rippled with the pending ferocity of the wind. Indeed, the storm would not subside within the next few days. The door to her bedroom slid open, the older maid stumbled in settling the tray upon her bench.

"Will I not be eating with my father today?" Ina looked up from where she was kneeled on the floor, settling the bowls onto the bench.

"Mr Yim is currently accompanied with Mr Choi. Your father requested that you eat by yourself for the duration of his stay, you know how it is." Nodding, she took her seat opposite Ina patiently awaiting for the maid to stop assembling her dishes in a neat line in front of her. Whilst women typically dined by themselves, her father had allowed her to eat with him almost daily; except when there were guests. Despite his neglect towards his daughter, he still valued her feminine dignity and did not trust the vulturous eyes of men that rested their predatory gaze upon her.

"Who is this, Mr Choi, and how is it that I wasn't aware of his arrival until he was knocking on our door?" She questioned, Ina's careful gaze flickered to her before staring out into the open space in contemplation.

"A new apprentice. He’s appointed here, on request of his father." Leaning forward, Ina's voice dropped an octave. "Apparently his father says he's been 'engaging in sin' so he's been estranged from his parents until he gets his act together." Raising a questioning brow, she looked down at her bowl.

"Is he a homosexual?" Immediately, she was wacked on the back of her head by the older maid who didn't miss a single second in scolding her. Her hand sped to the back, rubbing the jolt of pain that seared through her, a temporary look of irritation glazed over her eyes.

"You insolent girl! How could you say such thing, you know how disgraced that is!"

"You said ‘engaging in sin'. I can't think of anything more sinful other than fraternising with men or women." Ina's dirty look penetrated through her bones, provoking a sense of humiliation that would rattle through her in the depth of the night. Scowling at her mistress, she rolled her eyes before getting up from the floorboard.

“Hurry up and eat your food. You need to go to Mrs Kang’s today." Following Ina's orders she gulfed down her food, drowning out the maid's muttering about her being crude and dishonourable.

The light chatter from the front room fell deaf at her ears as she sauntered to the entrance, which the two kitchen maids scuttled in through. Bowing at their mistress, they made a fowl attempt at suppressing a fit of giggles as they subtly snuck a glance into the room. Following their gazes, she warily traipsed in, catching her father converse with their new guest.

"Ah, speak of the devil! Mr Choi, this is my daughter." He teared his gaze away from his mentor to draw his eyes across the room and find the infamous Miss Yim perched by the doorway, gripping onto her onto the full skirts of her dark blue hanbok.

It was hard to deny that Mr Choi was amiable. He was tall, well-built with a toned torso that was still perceptible through his uncreased peach coloured hanbok, dimples adorned his perfectly structured cheeks. He nodded with such elegant eagerness, at her father's command harbouring the position of an obedient son, almost leaving her wondering what was so 'sinful' about that man in the first place? What could he have possibly done so wrong that he had practically been disowned by his family?

"Miss Yim, it's nice to formally meet you." She gave him a polite nod, choosing to stay silent than say something and be met with her father's harsh stare.

"Mr Kang told me you've been over at his home, a few times." Her father spoke breaking the awkward meeting. A breath became lodged in her throat as she anticipated some sort of wrath, after all Mr Yim was supposed to be oblivious to her going out and painting other women for a light commission. She didn't exactly know how he would react to that. "He appreciates your help with Mrs Kang's pregnancy." Mrs Kang is pregnant? That would explain the engorging belly, the mood swings and the other number of odd behaviours that she was listing off in the past few weeks she had been challenged with drawing the difficult woman. At times, Miss Yim thought she ought to have more empathy, it wasn't that she lacked it, it was that she tended to not gift her empathetic abilities to the prejudiced. It was women like Ina, and the cooks that worked in the kitchen that deserved her compassion. Women who strived to be breadwinners, even if it was due to poor socio-economic circumstances. Because women like Mrs Kang were hypocrites to be preaching the old values, pre-Confucianism, when they neglected their own sex.

"Yes, she's been enjoying my company. I intend to go again to deliver herbs she’s asked from Ina’s garden.” She recalled glancing down the extensively large page, as Mrs Kang moaned and groaned when the servants were too late to serve her namul and kimchi.

"Red raspberry leaf, dandelions, echinacea." Grimacing, she looked over her sheet to give the woman a look. "You can just get this from the market, why do you need this from Ina's garden?" Mrs Kang simply pouted rubbing her belly. Now that she thought about it, how did it not occur to her that she was pregnant? Perhaps it was because they begged to slim down her figure in the painting.

"Fresh herbs are good for babies." Were the herbs from the market not fresh enough for her? “I need them picked before they’re here.”

"Perhaps I should add lemon balm to burn that fat." A discourse of exasperated gasps rippled over the room, Mrs Kang waddled out of the room wailing for her husband. It was ruthless and unkind, keeping the unsympathetic Miss Yim awake at night before she travelled back to the Kang estate to see a very unhappy couple.

“I’m sorry, Mrs Kang. You’re beautiful just the way you are, even more with the little belly.” The pregnant woman’s tight grip around her neck, as they hugged, almost choked her to death.

Mr Yim's eyes outcasted through the doorway, there was a light patter of rain yet the howl of the wind had subsided significantly. He let out a small hum before returning back to the young pair staring, ardently, back at him.

"I say Mr Choi, should be your chaperone. It's a little unsafe to be going out by yourself." Before she could open her mouth and argue, her father held out a hand to silence her thoughts. Chewing on the inside of her cheek, she nodded once more, before dashing from the room to have a flustered Mr Choi following her.

Hitching up her skirts, she trudged through the field, the sun had filtered into the sky radiating its essence onto the young souls as they surpassed the reams of houses. Had it not been for the joyous discord of infantile laughter, it would have been quiet; San mustering the courage to initiate a conversation. He cleared his throat, she merely blinked at his futile attempt at grabbing her attention.

"Miss Yim, you must slow down I can't keep up with your pace." He declared, striding faster towards her, the tall grass brushing against his knees.

"I think you can cope, Sir. Your legs are longer than mine." Walking through the grass wasn't difficult but when her hanbok was floor length, lifting up the heavy fabric proved tiresome and not to mention her shoes were sinking into the muddy fields, squelching miserably under her heavy steps. Eventually, San matched her pace as they made their way up the steps to the Kang estate.

A shrill voice eructed into the airs, the domestic staff worked at a proficient speed as they amended the damages inflicted from the storm. As a group of servants raised the logs from the path, San ran to their aid significantly lightening their work load. His charity had left her silent contemplating her initial thoughts on his persona. There must be something impure under all that. Surely? There had to be some reason why his father practically disowned him.

Kang Yeosang stood by his front doors, watching as his staff worked the lawn and through the large home. He sought the enigmatic painter launch up the steps, with an unreadable look painted on her face.

“Good Morning, Miss Yim.”

“Morning, Yeosang.” She greeted, he laughed a little at her dull tone.

“I take it, there’s nothing particularly good about this morning.” He jeered, she huffed at his characteristically exuberant manner.

“Not when my father’s spy is here to be my chaperone.” She turned around on the steps, the pair looking down at San moving the heavy logs from the path, dirtying his robes at that. “He’s the new apprentice at the local office, Choi San, I think he said his name was.”

"Oh, the country boy." Country boy? "He's from Yangdong, have you not heard? His family is amongst the richest, they're both scholars and farmers, now." Across the country, Joseon farming techniques had taken a turn within the last few decades, especially with the establishment of irrigation and rice transplantation methods- bringing Joseon to a state of flourishment. It was safe to say, which farmer wasn't rich now? The admirable farm boy was pushed away by the servants, making his way up the steps. Leaving him with Yeosang, she made her way in the direction of the couples' shared quarters, Mrs Kang draped over her bed, her wrist dramatically resting on her forehead.

"Hello, Mrs Kang." The woman jolted up from her seat, an obnoxious groan emitted from her as she propped her back up against the wall. "I brought you your herbs."

"Thank you, my love. You left your paints, they're just on my dressing table." The herbs were exchanged from her paints, digging into the pockets of her hanbok. The older woman began to natter, the discordant tonality rattling in her ears. Mrs Kang loved to talk. Even if it was about absolutely nothing, that woman talked for the whole of Joseon.

I'm leaving this place with a headache.

She often wondered how it was that Yeosang put up with his insufferable wife. Was it love, or a promise that he had made to Mrs Kang's parents that he would never leave her? The thought made her sigh in pity- to be permanently bound to someone in matrimony seemed like too much effort at times. Perhaps the effort itself is what subdued her mother to misery, the poor Mrs Yim eagerly handing her soul to the Angel of Death. Or maybe Miss Yim had possessed a stone-cold heart frozen over by the neglect of life's intimate essence; overpowered by a sense of maturity held over by her mother's early death. She took it upon herself to make it clear that by the time she was thirty, if there was no proposal that had come around she was going to wholly abandon the idea of marriage and work herself to death.

"That man is so pretty." She spoke, dreamily, Miss Yim's eyes lazily fled in the direction of Mrs Kang's. Her head poked through the doorway where both Yeosang and San were travelling down, engaging in intelligent discourse. "Not Yeo, the other one." The pregnant woman clarified.

"He's ok, I suppose. Not bewitching enough to tempt me."

"That has to be the biggest lie I have ever heard."

"What is Miss Yim lying about now?" Yeosang provoked as both men entered the room. Both women shared a look before the painter slumped onto the dressing table chair. "I suppose you're awaiting your payment."

"Well, my services aren't free." She declared, pompously. Yeosang rolled his eyes before he moved to the opposite end of the room, San had almost drawn his body out of the bedroom, a little embarrassed as the pregnant Mrs Kang ogled her eyes at him. Stretching her limbs, she got up taking the velvet bag. "Thank you, Mr Kang. I'll visit when the baby arrives."

His perfection had her repleted with such distaste for him. Simply put, Miss Yim hated Choi San because he was loved by all. Her father loved him, Ina adored him, the maids were constantly drooling over him it shot her with a sense of annoyance. He quickly became a household name, spoken of when he was at the office with her father and even when he was at home. Everywhere she went it was just him, him and him. The worst thing was, was that he was even trying to be nice to her prevailing through her grim looks and hard words.

“San this, San that. Honestly, he’s not even as esteemed as everyone claims, Ina. He’s just a man, like every other man. And all men are the same. So what if he's good looking, does that suddenly make him god’s greatest gift?” Burying her face into the pillow, an exasperated huff escaped her lips. Ina fell onto her bed, reaching her arms out to stroke her mistress’ back. With a contented sigh, she felt her eyes drooping a little as the maid's soft caresses were gently lulling her to sleep. Her touch felt like that of her mother's, soothing the aches of her heart whilst simultaneously provoking the nostalgia of a mother's love. To have her mother again, to have that woman encircle her into her arms. Rock her back and forth. She longed for her mother's scent again, often chasing the whiff of her familiar saccharine redolence as one chased butterflies in an open field.

“Yet you think of him often. He occupies your thoughts as much as he occupies ours.”

“Hardly, I-,” She stammered in a desperate attempt to recollect her thoughts into a single ambience. “I envy him. How is that he steps into this home for a second and I see my father smile?” Ina’s face dropped, a breath caught in her throat as her mistress spoke aloud the forbidden words she denied her staff to even breathe. The older maid had been rendered silent for too long, giving Miss Yim all of the answers she needed to press forward with her wistful assumptions.

"Perhaps if you grew to understand him, you would know why your father has inhabited such emotions for him. Think of him like a son-in-law. He will love him but not as much as he loves you." The maid reasoned.

"Then that makes him my husband." She grumbled, pulling the duvet over her shoulders.

"Now is that so bad?” Ina teased, before pulling her weight off the bed. With no strength to argue, her eyes fluttered to a close; her soul being dissolved by the night.

The following morning, it was too cold to be even sitting on her porch and with eyes tired of the same dreary scene, she ventured out of her quarters, delving into parts of the home she had missed. By the kitchens, the late Mrs Yim had reserved herself a small room decorated with the tools of all her hobbies in order to enact time alone for herself, away from motherhood and social responsibility. The room was consistently cleaned but usually left empty having it being full of painful memories of the beloved mistress of the household. For the first time in a long time, Miss Yim had felt the drive to find the room again and read her mother's poetry she had spent hours pouring over in the rooms.

Yet it had been almost shot stone-cold dead when the door opened to find San sat by the window hands raised towards the canvas. The anger within her refused to simmer or boil, it was rather the smooth swaying of the soft waves lapping the crust of sand. Her hands feebly reached for the poetry book on the table.

"I didn't know you were a painter, Mr Choi." She proclaimed, her breath hitched in her throat as her eyes sought the intricate details on the canvas. Her eyes glossed over the colours, the succinct shapes, drawing on the brushstrokes herself with the sharp movements of her eyes. It moved her. When was the last time she had been left this breathless?

"You never asked, Miss Yim." Immediately she felt intimidated by his artwork, her own revered drawings felt meek in comparison to his. A mere apprentice in an important official’s presence. To even be this close to him was considered a blessing. "You can sit next to me. I don't bite." Tentatively, she drew closer seating herself on the floorboards next to him; the brush of their fabrics sending a tidal wave of timidness over her. Where was the bold, steadfast Mrs Yim? Long gone, lost to the large expanse of the sea. Drowning under the ocean of his perfection. She didn't even want call for help, allowing herself to be enveloped by his allure. You draw so beautifully, she wanted to say. It's perfect, like something-someone even.

"You should have been a royal painter." The remark was swallowed into a melancholic void within his heart. Sparing a glance, he dipped the tip of the paintbrush into the crevice of the cerulean blue paint before raising to illustrate the canvas.

"Don't say that to my father." She sought the gloom glossed over his brown eyes. Was he, too, held down by social responsibility and expectations? She didn't think it was possible for a man's dreams to be mauled over by society; for she saw it with her father who had the whole world at his feet-picking dreams as if he was picking daisies from a meadow. Dropping her book onto the floor, she rested her head on her knee, solicitude fulfilled the serene atmosphere. Her eyes fell over the fancy metallic pots situated around the easel, which she knew to be various colours of paint pigments. Resting her head on her knee, she tenderly rocked her body from side to side as she watched his hands elegantly work through the canvases.

"Did you ever consider pottery? That's supposed to be quite popular now." Her question breaking through the quiet airs, the delicacy of her voice startling San. It was devoid of boredom, or disinterest like he had always perceived. No lace of judgement like he was silently praying to be diminished from her soul.

"It'll grow out of popularity soon." He stated, resting the paintbrush down to exercise the tense muscles in his hands. "I heard this was the late Mrs Yim's room, I hope you don't mind me being here." It, too, came as a shock to her when she shook her head-with no care in the world that he had colonised the room that she was once sure was hers.

It was sunny for once, which was odd for this time of year-she thought throwing open the door to the porch finding San surrounded by a large number of logs and an axe.

"What's he doing outside?" She pondered, Ina folding up the washed bedsheets before tucking them away into the drawers.

"They stopped properly chopping up the logs so we can use them for the fire, so Mr Choi offered to help." Wandering out through the doors, a smooth current of air tousled her hair, a book held tightly against her chest.

God, he really was toned. Rolling up the sleeves of his hanbok all the way to his bulging biceps, the maids all stopped in their path to rest their elbows on the low garden wall overseeing the vast expanse of grass. Effortlessly he picked up the axe, raising it over his head to slice down the log of wood. She rolled her eyes at her maids, as they watched him with dreamy faces. They nattered in hushed tones, giggling amongst themselves unbeknownst that their mistress was stood behind them. Leaning down to where they were sat on the garden wall, she poked her head in between the sea of charmed maidens.

“What are we looking at?” They squeaked, jumping up from their seats upon sight of their mistress- flapping their hands as some rushed back into the kitchen and others tended to garden duties. “Well? I would like to know too.”

“You wouldn’t understand Miss Yim.” Yes, yes she was the narcissistic Miss Yim who harboured no feelings for men and couldn’t deduce their charming airs. She was the Miss Yim who rejected countless marriage proposals, not based on looks but merely because she found that no man possessed the kind quality in a man that she was seeking. No patience, no loyalty. They were not even ruled by a sense of ambition. So how could she be hypnotised by the sacred beauty of a man, specifically, Choi San.

“Yes, I don’t understand why you’re not doing the job that we’re paying for you to do. All of you, out of the garden, it’s already been tended to!” She shouted, in an instant all of the maids dispersed back into the home. Huffing, she slumped onto the garden wall, glazing her ink pen over the defined lines on the page. Occasionally, she’d peer her eyes over the pages at San, tending to the curve of his body, and the horrific cinching of his waist. When he looked to his side, she hastily returned back to her sketchbook, feeling a blush decorate her cheeks as his steady gaze burned into her skin.

“Very accurate, Miss Yim.” Jumping up from her seat, she screeched the pot of ink spilling onto his face and neck. Whoops.

“Oh goodness, I am so sorry. Ah.” She let out a pained sound, battling with her internal conflict as she grabbed his hand rushing them into the direction of the porch that led to her quarters. Powerfully, she slid the door open darting inside and towards the washroom. Hauling him down to his knees in front of the washing basin, with a soaked rag in hand, she scraped away the ink splashed across his face. “Take this off.” She ordered, signalling to his hanbok.

“W-what?” He stammered, his face heating red.

“Well you’ve got ink and dirt all over it. I can get a new one for you.”

“I can’t just return back to my quarters and change?”

“Well no because then my father will see you and he’ll know I stole his ink again.” An annoyed huff escaped from his lips as she handed him the rag to clean himself. “Here, I’ll go get you a spare set of clothes.” Jumping up from where she was kneeled, her foot slipped over a puddle of water his arms snapped out towards her waist. Gripping his shoulders for stability, a faint blush trickled over her face, their noses barely an inches distance.

"Be careful." Quickly unravelling her hands from his shoulders, Miss Yim ran out of the room towards his quarters. Slipping past the double doors, she rummaged through the drawers for his clothes-picking up a light green set.

"Mr Choi?" A maid's voice called out from behind the closed door. Discerning their shadow moving closer, she made a beeline through the open doors leading into the garden. Scuttling into her washroom, she practically launched the hanbok at him before hiding in her room.

A breath of relief had finally escaped from her when he left from her room, both of their faces burning red in the midst of this shameful meeting. Yet San seemed persistent to know her, feeling that there was still something beneath the stone-cold façade she had constructed; something emotional and raw that he had felt he had to know. And Miss Yim was too becoming more curious, by the day, as to what Choi San’s secret was and why his father perpetually hated him.

Ina had forced them to go on a walk together, she groaned, silently, as they left the home behind making their way down to the meadow. At first an odd tranquillity permeated the air, eventually she grew tired of the jarring dissonance of absolutely nothing.

“A penny for your thoughts?” She inquired.

“I’ll keep the penny. I almost feel you’d judge me for having thoughts.” San bemused, she rolled her eyes, a faint of a smile on her lips. Just the tiniest, but it was practically gone within the same second.

“I don’t judge you, Mr Choi. I do, however, envy you. You’ve taken the place I wanted in my father’s heart.” She confessed, he looked towards her sympathetically, with knowingness that she was indeed right and the Mr Yim, famous for being just as aloof as his daughter, had somehow softened a little upon his arrival. Perhaps it was a son that he had always wanted, not a daughter but the scholar was reserved; San being too terrified to pry.

“Your place is best occupied elsewhere. Somebody else has it, I’m sure. He keeps it safe with love that is too potent that even dreamers can’t feign.” Of course was reading her mother's poetry, she didn't think many could understand the abstract nature of her words; of course it was him out of all who admired her poetry as it was his own.

"I am not pretty enough for that." Miss Yim argued, looking down at her feet. After all, the marriage proposals were not because of her vague good looks, but mainly because Mr Yim claimed an abundance of wealth.

"I disagree with you on that." Her face heated with his affirmation.

"Well, I am no Jang Ok-Jeong."

"There are many beautiful women in Joseon, not all of them have ever been recorded."

"She caught the eye of the King, a man who has a kingdom at his feet, he is supposed to be too superior to even look at his subjects. And he looks at her? Is that not a beautiful woman?" They were both fuelled by this argument, the debate igniting a set of powerful emotions that roared within them. This, was what they both deeply felt conversations were supposed to be. Potent discourse about society, literature and art. Not idle chatter on the weather, marriage and the social laws that subdued them.

"A man is supposed to be ruled by his head, not emotions. I say if any man bestowed more than a single glance, on a woman, and his breath was taken away, then she is more gorgeous than Venus herself."

"Not that wretched painting. It's so...vulgar." San snickered, squeezing his eyes as he let out a melodious laughter. "It says so much about the male gaze." She spat out as they trudged through the fields back in the direction of her home.

“I wonder if you like any art, at all? Other than your own?” He questioned.

“Owon is good. Apart from the vulgarity of Renaissance paintings-,”

“Which I must say is the majority of the whole movement, pray, continue.” He teased, his pestering smirk seemed to stitch wings on her heart, for it fluttered at his amiability, his devoutness to mankind and all of its endearing qualities and his perseverance. Despite her uncompromising attitudes and distasteful demeanour, he seemed compliant with listening to her, talking to her, truly trying to understand her and not just turning a blind eye. Choi San truly wanted to know her, for her; and not follow some false allegation that she was devoid of a heart or soul. He commended she had both and they were wrought with an existentialist quality that he wanted nothing but to huddle in the corner of a library and read away his life until it dissolved under the cover of her persona.

"What about you?" She questioned, tucking a strand of loose hair behind her own ear. At once, San was drawn into the world of virtuosity describing each of his favourite pieces as if it could be encapsulated into a single globe. The sweet dissonance of his voice lugging her into a dreamscape as they gently glissaded through the empty hallways of the Yim estate. They sought their eyes over the panelled wall, following the intricate lines of carved wood. They could almost be called mad people loose from the dreaded ward. For their eyes did not see the same way a normal persons did. He saw the shimmer in the air, the light poring through the crevices, the faint blemishes on a skin unseen with a naked eye-too vague to be called a taint, a mark, a scar. And she would see what he saw, whether it was not there she could reach to the depths of her sanity and pour out the image before her eyes to satisfy him.

It became a wonder to her how they spent several nights, the light patter of her feet as she rushed to his quarters with fulfilling arguments over art pieces, sharing techniques, rifling through each other's sketchbooks. His style was a stark contrast to her own: luminous watercolours, velvety acrylic paints, oily crayons. His muses were full of life and wonder, the strokes brimming with fruition. It was if a single segment of his painting held more hope than what could exist in her whole being.

There was something about him, too. She could see it now, his compassion, his adoration. As the weeks spun by, she became less repulsed by his sincerity and opened up to it more, almost finding herself craving his attention. His affection was much welcomed; she often wondered what it would be like to be so loved by him.

In her mother's old drawing room, she found him again, his large hands drifting over the pages again. Peering over his shoulder, she softly blew into his ear; the warmth tickling him.

"What are you drawing?" Her eyes scanned over the cartridge sheet, its intimacy striking her. It looked like her. Every sketch line, every shade, every little detail, every little blemish on her face.

"You." He answered, he didn't dare tear his eyes away from her for her hair was falling down her face in perfect waves that lured him into uncharted depths.

"You drew me so pretty."

"I only drew what I saw." Her heart wavered in piety, his devotion provoking an arrangement of madness. He was going to drive her insane and she was content with it.

"I wonder, what was it that you were excommunicated for?" Her silence broke through the passionate airs, culminating the objectivity that fulfilled among them as his sins held heavy on his tongue.

"I am not a scholar, a farmer or a devout son. I am an artist, a man who sees the world despite all of its maliciousness. I see the world so raw, it almost disgusts me but I am not terrified by its honesty. I find it so beautiful, it belongs on a page: drawn." Her body swayed towards him, hypnotised by his delicate words drawn his intoxicating tenacity, filling her with such immitigable rage that within that severe moment all she wanted was him. "I was 'excommunicated' because I am not the man my father wants me to be. I return as soon as I am devoid of all the emotions he renders vile." Tentatively, her fingers curled through his hair his eyes fluttering shut under her gentle touch.

"What about you Miss Yim? Why are you so solitary?" He murmured, their quiet voices serenaded the room.

"I am not solitary by choice. It's been enforced upon me and I know nothing and no one else but myself." Her whispers, though full of hurt and pain, were seldom dulcet. He thrived himself upon her words alone, it was enough to send him into delirium but her whole unmatched beauty with her words? He was sure to be sent to the wretched institute.

With an envelope gripped in her hands, she made her way over to his quarters slipping into the warmth, his smile greeting her as she slumped onto the chair in front of him.

"Mrs Choi? Your mother?" She inquired, handing over the envelope. San snickered at her nosiness, rolling her eyes as he took the sheet from her grasp, ripping open the seal to reel his eyes down the page.

"Actually, it's my wife." He announced, sparing her a single glance as he continued to read the words sprawled across the page. A sharp pang penetrated through the barriers in her heart, she felt her feet slipping under the ground, the walls pulverising as they caved in on her. For some reason, the room felt much more smaller than it was. Her heart was beating faster than any poetic declaration he had bestowed upon her, any time he had made her feel as if she was truly a worthy soul of being loved. Her heart palpitated faster than when he made her feel she would not die from a cataclysmic loneliness.

"I didn't know you were married." She breathed out, gripping the sage green silk in hand; feeling almost disgusted with herself for fixating her whole being on a man who never belonged to her in the beginning.

"We'll be officially married when I return back home." With a teasing smile on his lips, he grabbed a clean sheet from his desk and began elegantly carving the characters onto the page. "I'll be sure to send you an invite, if you'll come?"

“Of course, I’ll come. You know, for the food.” She quipped, his dimpled smile shattering the months of pining she had set for this revered soul. “I’ll take your leave, San.”

She fled from the room her bare feet blessing the sweet earth, the velvety wisps of the wind taunting her as tears welled up in her eyes. With a breath hitched in her throat, she fell onto her bed; bottom lip quivering as pearl tears escaped from her eyes dribbling down her cheeks before splattering onto the bedsheets. Her painful howl terrorised the desolate quarters as she had done on several dispassionate nights, the skies mimicked her torment, the light patter of rain hit against the window as if it understood all her wretched emotions. As if it understood her anger, hatred and hurt. As if it understood how disgusting it felt be left vulnerable by a man who could never be hers.

Was it some false delusion that she had been seduced by? That he, who was carved from a sculpturers most wild emotions, by all of his tenacity and his violent rage that he wished to create a being made of light: could truly be hers? By his yearning and pent up sentiment, by his dying wish that this world was not at peace until some divine figure from a concealed land would touch her world? Her hands shook as she sought to remove the tears streaming endlessly down her face. After all it had now made sense to all of the sympathetic souls that had heard her be plunged through such pain, to read her tale and understand the reason for her aloof nature.

Up the walls went back up. Brick by brick.

Curse you, Choi San, for breaking them down in the first place.

San had not seen Miss Yim for the remainder of the week or the subsequent. Granted, he had been flooded with an overwhelming amount of work but such was to be expected with the incredible staff shortage and Mr Yim’s high expectations. Regardless, he missed the snarky comments and unrelenting stares from across the room. He missed her moodiness, how ever infuriating it was at times; he missed the sense of quietude she presented at his feet and its ability to render his mind numb. Overall, he missed her. Yet, she seemed to be nowhere in sight and in fact missing even under the cover of the night.

“Ina, do you know where I can find Miss Yim?” He questioned, the agony rupturing the sutures of his weak heart apart.

"In her room, Mr Choi. She's, specifically, requested not see anyone." Oh. His mood deflated after that concession, wracking his mind for all the things he had said in their last engagement; anything potentially hurtful or offensive but he didn’t recall anything particularly endangering. His quest to venture into her quarters, despite her ruthless commands which had the servants petrified over her uncharacteristic (but not abnormal) behaviour, had been cut short by Mr Yim’s desire to keep a tightened hold on the apprentice. He thought about bringing it up as he ate dinner with his mentor.

“How is Miss Yim? I heard she’s isolated herself in her quarters?” He raised, tentatively, as Mr Yim’s eyes scoured down the reports. Her father was a little too quick to dismiss her actions.

“Never mind her, that’s not something new. I was surprised she was even roaming around the house when you arrived…” Mr Yim trailed off as a thought infiltrated his mind, shutting the book close, his furrowed brows silenced the questions in San’s mind.

The moonlight spilt in through the window, the luminous shadows dancing with the light breeze. With dried tear tracks staining her puffy cheeks, she circulated her finger around the cotton sheets pulling up the heavy duvet over her shoulders, a trail of heat comforted her. The door to her room, silently, slid open; oblivious to the soft bustling of footsteps she stretched her limbs sitting up in her bed.

“Miss Yim?” Her head snapped up at the deep voice, its familiarity sending an agonising wave of heartache through her being. There he was, the perpetrator himself, settling in front of her with a teacup in his palms as if nothing had happened in the first place. “Are you ok? I know you don’t like echinacea, so I got you lemon and ginger tea.” Placing the tea cup on her night stand, he rested his palm against her forehead.

“What are you doing here, San?” Huffing, she fisted up the hair in her palms before sticking a dry paint brush through it to create a tight knot.

“You’re burning u- were you crying?” His finger lightly smoothed her damp skin, shaking her head she pushed his hand away from her face. God, she felt awful for his wife who had to endure his infidelity. “What’s wrong, jagiya, speak to me?” Biting down on her lower lip, Miss Yim threw her gaze out of her window, she sought the light shimmering as her vision blurred.

“Just leave, please.” There was no more hostility left in her tone, a coarse throat lacerated with the phlegm that built up from endless nights of sobbing herself to sleep. Tiredness gnawed at her, she just wanted to dissolve back into the covers. Pleading, begging she’d do whatever she could to force him to leave because if he didn’t then she would tear down the path to the Angel of Death and beg him to take her dwindling heart. On her knees she would go, for the mere sight of her lover crumbled the steadfast walls she had tried so hard to rebuild.

“Are you upset because I’m going home next week? If that’s the case-,”

“San, are you dense?” She interrupted. He was subjugated to silence, a look of hurt flashing over his face. “Leave means leave.” Adjusting her body so she could slide under the covers, she stridently hauled the fabric over her head, gripping her lips tight shut, so no more pitiful sobs escaped her and she was no more a servant to his cruel love.

The Yim estate was left with a melancholic air as the venerated bachelor made his preparations to leave the home. The maids were forlorn as they’d no longer have the privilege of seeing his striking face to bless their monotone days. Miss Yim had finally mustered the courage to take a stroll through the garden, avoiding San's quarters at that. Lingering by the flowers, she wrapped her arms around herself to manifest a sense of warmth that failed to prevail with the awful weather. She didn't notice her lover tear down the garden to her, his heart leaping within his own chest.

"Miss Yim?" Her body whipped around upon his words, her hands balled up into fists the anger displaced by fear. "Do you know how painful it has been for me to go days without seeing you? I am leaving for Yangdong, today, and god knows if I didn't even so much as see your face I would have gone feral."

"I- why?" She stuttered, at a desperate attempt to collect together her words and form a sentence. How and when did he culminate such passionate feelings for her?

"Why? Isn't it obvious? I am in love with you." He declared, she shook her head, profusely, at him.

"How can you say that?" Her voice raised an octave, parrying against the harsh winds that blew at them.

“If being in love with you is a deadly sin, then I am the greatest sinner there is. I will walk up to the gates of hell and open them myself. Hand over my arms and ask them to bound me to its greatest depths.” His chest heaved up and down, tears brimming at the front of her eyes. “I cannot live without you. I would not even do so much as breathe unless you asked me to. If you asked me to stop breathing, I would!”

“You’re a married man, San. Do you know how god awful that sounds?”

“I’m barely married but engaged. When I go back home, I will once again beg to not be wed off to her. I don’t love her, how can my father expect me to marry her? How can you expect me to marry her?”

“I don’t think you understand, San. I can’t love you.” His arms outstretched for her waist, hauling her towards him, the rain beating down on them both. With the gentle flick of his finger, her head tipped up to peer into his eyes.

“Look into my eyes and tell me you don’t love me, or even feel as much as a small emotion for me. One word from you, would silence me forever.” She bit furiously down on her lip as his vehement fixation tore through the borders of her soul. When did she fall so vulnerable in his conquest for her being?

“I don’t love you the same way you love me. I am incapable of doing so.” His own brown eyes fulfilled with hot tears, pouring soundlessly down his cheeks. Her heart wavered with misery as he ripped away his grip, stumbling backwards upon her untruth.

“I understand. Thank you, Miss Yim. For the first time in my life, someone saw me for who I really am and not who I am meant to be.” Once again, the thunder cracked against the sky as San turned his back on her striding back into the home. The maids ran out to shut the doors, summoning their mistress back in but she sunk to the floor erupting into a fit of sobs; a wave of shock rattling through them. Her heart burned with such pain, even as Ina cooed lifting her up from the floor to guide her back into the home. Melting into the older woman's arms, her ears drowned out the distant sound of her lover ambling far, far away from her to a land in which even its notion would never grace the depths of her mind.

Her father's office was warm, but not the comforting kind as the biting airs of Joseon persisted. It was more suffocating as they sat across from each other in his office, discussing the state of her future now that he had managed to complete some of burdening tasks at work. He had several proposals lined in front of her, some prospects from his workplace, some from Mr Kang and even Ina had managed to find one or two seemingly agreeable men within their social class. A sigh fulfilled her, it would be a lie to say that she didn't look for the smallest hint of San within them all.

"I'm sorry Father, I don't like any of these men." He closed his eyes in indignation, rubbing his face before collecting the sheets from in front of her and throwing them into the fire. The embers cackled in a slow, seething ferocity as he leaned back in his chair.

"I honestly don't know what to do with you anymore. You won't marry, you won't leave your quarters. You've stopped helping around the house. All you want to do is sit in your room all day and stare into space." He scolded, she shook her head before raising from her seat. "You are becoming a burden to me."

"Well if I am such a burden to you, then just get rid of me." She taunted. An animosity truanted through him at her discourtesy.

“What do you think I have been trying to do since your mother left us? It should have not been your mother that had died! It should have been you! I would trade my soul to have your mother in place of you.” He blurted, before quickly slapping the palm of his hand to his mouth, cursing him for the spoiled words that left it.

“I would trade my soul too, to have my mother where you stand. You are a poor excuse of a man and to call you my father is an insult to me.” She hissed through gritted teeth, the shock reverberating at Mr Yim’s core; the severity of her words pulsating through his blood.

“You shouldn’t have been a father if all I was going to be to you was a pretty doll in a picture. The truth was she didn’t die because she was ill, it was the heartbreak of carrying a whole marriage on her back. It was the fact that you didn’t care about her wants, but your own.”

"You are in no position to say that to me. I loved your mother like it was breathing, I loved her as if she was the greatest blessing, as if God had granted me mercy for all the times I had done him wrong." His chest suspired, brittle hands shaking as a heavy tension remained suspended in the air between them; Ina loitering outside afraid to walk into the war zone.

"But you didn't love me! It was my mother who loved me, and I wasn't allowed to have her! I wasn't my mother's daughter, or my father's. I was a daughter of a servant with my name merely attached to you." At the end of the day, she was the figure in those paintings. Trapped within a frame, four equidistant lines on a piece of cartridge paper, bound by brushstrokes, sketch lines, constricted and held down by the artist. Subservient and stuck to a position in which she could not move.

Mr Yim deserved the brutal honesty of those words, no matter how harsh it was, and with a pounding headache, she ran out of his office ignoring her father’s calls for her to return to his side. This was it, there was nothing and no one by her side now and she was now the destitute figure that she had feared she would become.

“What’s wrong my dear? What’s hurt you so much?” Ina’s soft voice dilapidated at her mistress’ gloom, one she had seen prolong within her late madam too. Squeezing her eyes shut, she summoned the courage to spill her heart to her maid. She told her of how much she adored him, how deeply she wanted him and the ways in which he had made her fall in love with him. And how he had hurt her too.

“So call me heartless and apathetic all you want but I couldn’t take another woman’s man from her.”

“My love.” Ina’s weak fingers travelled through her hair. “You are far from heartless and apathetic. A man who you love is your whole life, you gave your life away to another woman.” She looked over to Ina, falling into her motherly embrace, breathing in her scent. There it was. The same scent that her mother had, the scent she was dreaming to come back to her in the midst of the night, and her a fool to dismiss that it was in front of her the whole time.

“What should I do now?” Her weak inquiry, breaking her heart, sinking deeper into the void than she already was.

“Go back to him and tell him you love him. He is a gentleman who accepts despondency like a soldier. So you, his general, must go back and tell him to return home to you.”

“Ina-,”

“Do not deny yourself of what you deserve. Your mother did, I won’t see you walk the same path.”

“I will let time run its cycle. Time will tell if he is meant to be mine.” She declared, to which the maid rested her palm on her cheek.

Mrs Kang’s baby boy, Kang Minho, was indeed a beauty. His bedazzling little eyes stared up at her in wonder, babbling as she lightly drew the tip of her finger over his chubby cheeks. It was astonishing for Mrs Kang to see that it was merely a little baby that would eruct a smile out of the secluded Miss Yim. It had been about four months since San had left the estate, and a while it took for her to leave the confines of her quarters. Once again, she took requests after requests painting and painting until her hands became stiff and sore. And so even more marriage prospects came, and her eyes lingered slightly over a potential husband. Both Ina and her father were pleased when she stayed a little longer at the doorway of their home talking to one of the young apprentice’s at the office. He was tall, handsome and kind; perhaps it was flickers of San she saw within him that had her thinking that spending the rest of her life with this man: wouldn’t be particularly gruesome. Regardless, she made no firm decision but still, for her father this was significant progress.

“He likes you.” Mrs Kang chimed, grinning down at her baby. She hummed carefully, softly tickling his smooth cheeks.

“Maybe I like him too.” Her gaze lightly flickered to the elated mother. “Where is Yeosang? I didn’t see him on my way in?”

“Oh he’s in his office with San.” Her head snapped up from the baby at the sound of his name. Goodness, how long had it been since she had heard that single syllable name, forever it seemed it would merely reverberate inside her head. “Did you not know he was in town? He came to see Minho.” Shaking her head, she got up from the bed consoling herself.

“I- I think I’ll leave now. I’ll come visit another time.” She announced, before awkwardly patting Mrs Kang’s head; a poor endeavour at affection but for Mrs Kang this affection was whole-heartedly appreciated. Her footsteps sped down the hallways, she came to an abrupt halt at the exist of the Kang estate.

There he was, stood there with Yeosang conversing if they were age-old best friends her heart palpitated with anxiety, knowing that she’d have to walk past him again. The sight of him almost triggered her, she gripped onto her deep purple skirts, his own yellow hanbok beaming like the sun.

“Miss Yim! I didn’t know you had arrived, leaving so soon?” Mr Kang chirped from the door. She shook at her head at him.

“I’ve been here for over an hour and a half. I’ll visit another time, especially since Minho is the only tolerable person in this household.”

“Just say you love him.” A grumble erupted from her lips, she rolled her eyes- with a delicate playfulness- before squeezing past the pair of men. A pounding of footsteps travelled after her as she trudged back through the fields in the direction of her home.

“Miss Yim, allow me to accompany you.” San professed, breathlessly. With a diligent nod, she transgressed forwards ignoring his burning gaze into her skin. “How have you been?”

“I’ve been fine. What about you?” He responded he was great all the same, reporting that the weather in Yangdong was a little warmer than in her hometown.

“When is your wedding date? I’m still awaiting on an invite.” It was a joke, nonetheless, but one that didn't hesitate to puncture holes in her heart.

“We broke off the engagement, it was mutual really. She was in love with someone else.” With a breath lodged in her throat, her stare tore away from the fields piercing straight into his eyes. It was then she had realised how burdened he truly was. Where was the San that always smiled and joked, and was so full of love it seemed inhumane to have so much of it? They didn't need to say anything to each other in that moment, they stopped walking subsided to a silent, paralysed position. "I think I'll just take your leave." His voice quivered, sending a jolt of agony through her.

Hadn't she made him suffer enough? After all he was the same man who loved her as if she was the vessel that kept the blood running through his veins, his heart beating and his feet walking.

Go back to him and tell him you love him.

Tell him to return back home to you.

His body almost disappeared behind the vast expanse of buildings, when she raced down the fields, as fast as her legs could carry her, ignoring the vicious ache gnawing at her muscles and the agitated pounding of her heart against her chest. Tearing down the path towards him, in the chance that if she didn't run any faster she was going to lose her lover to the wind.

"San!" Her shout echoed in the breeze, but reached to his ears anyway, a tug at the weak strings that had barely held down his soul. He turned, so desperate that she would come to him like she had done in the dead of the night. Feeling his lover crawl into his arms, pledging that she would never leave from his side.

"Miss Yim, what's wrong?"

“I lied to you, when I said I didn’t love you. I really, really do, I almost feel disgusted by it. I never thought, that someone as ruthless and as cold as me would be privileged enough to fall in love but when you entered my life I felt like my mother.” She sucked in a deep breath, her lover making gentle steps toward her as the wind whipped their hair. “I felt like her when she said: ‘If he was the muse in a painting, to be an object, a fleck of paint, or even dust on it would be my greatest honour.’” Warm tears forged in his eyes, biting down his bottom lip to prevent them from escaping. She wanted to outstretch her arms towards him but it was too soon.

“So, Choi San, it’s an honour to be loved by you. I came back, because I had to tell you that. I hurt you so much. I was scared that being vulnerable to love would only hurt me but the only person who gave me such torment was myself.” Her confession disturbed her, yet it was the unspoken truth that only he was entitled to. A tense silence suffused the air as she pended his response, but all he could do was try to convince himself that it was not a dream and she really had said all of the words he had spent countless nights praying that she would declare.

“I love you, Miss Yim. I loved you yesterday, I love you today and I will love you for eternity. There is simply nothing that one can do to tear my heart away from yours, not even you.”

"Do you mean that?" It was a stupid question, but she could not help the words be spilled from her mouth. He nodded violently.

"I do. With my whole entity." Choking back on her sobs, her arms reached out for him throwing them around his neck. Nuzzling her face in the crook of his neck, her grip tightened as he ensnared his hands around her waist; breathing in her scent as if it was oxygen. "Come home with me my dear, come home and be mine."

•••

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'Yim' meaning light

A/N: the long awaited painter!san fic (with a twist 😏) that i've been waiting too long to put out. I hope you liked this one. :))

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tags: @n0v4t33z @potatos-on-clouds @jjongwho

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

1968 [Chapter 5: Artemis, Goddess Of The Hunt]

Series Summary: Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemond’s chronically delinquent brother Aegon.

Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.

Word Count: 6.6k

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💜 All of my writing can be found HERE! 💜

“So you smoked grass in college,” Aegon says, pondering you with glazed eyes as he slurps his cherry-flavored Mr. Misty. You’re in Biloxi, Mississippi where Aemond is making speeches and meeting with locals to commemorate the first summer of the beaches being desegregated after a decade of peaceful protests and violent white supremacist backlash. Route 90 runs right along the sand dunes. If you walked out of this Dairy Queen, you could look south and see the Gulf of Mexico, placid dark ripples gleaming with moonshine. “And swore, and had a boyfriend, and presumably, what, did shots? Skipped class on occasion?”

“Yeah,” you admit, smiling sheepishly, remembering. You stretch out your fingers. “I chewed gum, I talked during mass. And I loved black nail polish. The nuns would beat my knuckles with rulers, I always had bruises. I wore these flowing skirts down to my ankles and knee-high boots. My hair was a mess, long and blowing around everywhere. My friends and I would do each other’s makeup, silver glitter and purple shadow, pencil on a ridiculous amount of eyeliner and then smudge it out. If you saw a photo you wouldn’t recognize me.”

Aegon takes a drag on his Lucky Strike cigarette, weightless smoke and the tired yellowish haze of florescent lights. Buffalo Springfield’s For What It’s Worth is playing from the Zenith radio on the counter by the cash register. “I’d recognize you.”

“I used to skip this one class all the time. The professor was a demon. I could do the math, but not the way he wanted me to. Right solution, wrong steps, I don’t know. I learned it differently in high school, and I couldn’t figure out the formula he wanted me to use. So he’d mark everything a zero even if my answer was correct. I couldn’t stand that bastard. Then the nuns kept catching me sunbathing on the quad when I was supposed to be in Matrices and Vector Spaces. I racked up so many demerits they were going to revoke my weekend pass, and then I wouldn’t be able to go into the city with my friends. So I stole the demerit book and burned it up on the stove in my dorm. Almost set the whole building on fire.”

Aegon is laughing. “You did not. Not you, not perfect ever-obedient Miss America!”

“I did. I really did.” You sip your own Mr. Misty, lemon-lime. Across the restaurant, Criston and Fosco are eating banana splits—dripping chocolate syrup and melted ice cream all over their table—and passionately debating who is going to end up in the World Series; Criston favors the Cardinals and the Orioles, Fosco says the Red Sox and the Cubs. The rest of the Targaryen family is back at the hotel watching news coverage of the Republican National Convention, something you can only stomach so much of, Otto’s cynical commentary, Aemond’s remaining eye fixed fiercely on the screen as he nips at an Old Fashioned. “I was wild back then.”

“And you gave it all up to be Aemond’s first lady.”

You think back to where it started: palm trees, salt water, alligators in drainage ditches. “My father grew up in a shack outside of Tallahassee. No electricity, no running water, he dropped out of school in eighth grade to help take care of his siblings when his mom died. They moved south to live with their aunt in Tampa, and my father wound up in Tarpon Springs working as a sea sponge diver.”

Aegon’s eyebrows rise, like he thinks you’re teasing him. “Sea sponges…?”

“I’m serious! It paid better than picking oranges or sweeping up in a factory. It’s dangerous. You have to wear this heavy rubber suit and walk around on the ocean floor, sometimes 50 feet or more below the surface.”

“What do people do with sea sponges?”

“Oh right, you would be unfamiliar. You’re supposed to clean yourself with them, like a loofah. Soap? Water? Ringing any bells?”

He chuckles and rolls his eyes. “You’re a very mean person. Aren’t you supposed to be setting an example for the merciful wives and daughters of this great nation?”

“Painters and potters buy sponges too. And some women use them as contraceptives. You can soak them in lemon juice and then shove them up there and it kills sperm.”

“I suddenly have great appreciation for the sea sponge industry. God bless the sea sponges.”

“So my father spent a few years diving, and he fell in love with a girl who worked at one of the shops he sold sponges to. That was my mother. They got married when he had absolutely nothing, and by their fifth anniversary he had his own fleet of boats, a gift shop, and a processing and shipping facility, all of which they owned jointly. They just opened the Spongeorama Sponge Factory this past April, a cute little tourist trap. But my point is that they were partners from the start. My father listens to my mother, and she works alongside him, and it was never like what I’ve seen from my friends’ parents: dad at the office 80 hours a week, mom at home strung out on Valium, just these…deeply separate, cold planets locked in orbit but never touching each other. I knew I didn’t want that. I wanted a husband who was building something I could be a part of. I wanted a man who respected me.”

Aegon watches you as he lights a fresh cigarette, not saying what you imagine he wants to: And how is that working out? He puffs on his Lucky Strike a few times and then offers it to you. You aren’t supposed to smoke, not even tobacco—it’s not ladylike, it’s masculine, it’s subversive—but you take it and hold it between your index and middle fingers, inhaling an ashy bitterness that blood learns to crave. The bracelets on your wrist jangle, thin silver chains that match the diamonds in your ears. Your dress is mint green, your hair in your signature Brigitte Bardot-inspired updo. Aegon is wearing a black t-shirt with The Who stamped across the front. When you pass the cigarette back to him, Aegon asks: “What music did you listen to? The Stones, The Animals?”

“Yeah. And Hendrix, The Kinks, Aretha Franklin…”

“Phil Ochs?”

“I love him. He’s got a song about Mississippi, you know.”

“Oh, I’m aware. It’s one of my favorites.”

“And I’m currently getting a little obsessed with Loretta Lynn. She’s so angry!”

“She’s sanctimonious, that’s what she is. Always bitching about men.”

“Six kids and an alcoholic husband will do that to someone.”

Aegon winces, and then you realize what you’ve said. Loretta Lynn sounds a lot like Mimi. He finishes his Mr. Misty and then fidgets restlessly with his white cardboard cup, spinning it around by the straw. You feel bad, though you shouldn’t. You wouldn’t have a month ago.

“Aegon,” you say gently, and he reluctantly looks up at you, sunburned cheeks, blonde hair shagging over his eyes. “Why do you ignore your children? They’re interesting, they’re fun. Violeta invited me to help her make cakes with her Easy-Bake Oven last week. And Cosmo…he’s so clever. But it’s like he doesn’t know who you are. He might actually think Fosco’s his dad.”

Aegon takes one last drag off his cigarette and discards the end of it in his Mr. Misty cup. Now he’s fiddling with it again, avoiding your gaze. “I don’t have much to offer them.”

“I think you do.”

“No you don’t.”

“I do,” you insist. “You can be kind of nice sometimes.”

He frowns, staring out the window. You know he can’t see anything but darkness and streetlights. “I should have been the one to go to Vietnam. If somebody had to get shot at so Aemond could be president, I was the right choice. No one would miss me. No one would mourn me. Daeron didn’t deserve that. But I was too old, so Otto and my father got him to enlist. Now he’s in the jungle and my mother has nightmares about Western Union telegrams. If I was the son over there, I think she’d sleep easier.”

I’m glad you’re still here, you think. Instead you say: “Your children need you.”

“No they don’t. Between me and Mimi, they’re better off as orphans. Helaena and Fosco can be their parents. Maybe they’ll have a fighting chance.”

The glass door opens, and a man walks into the Dairy Queen with his two sons scampering behind him, all with sandy flip flops and carrying fishing rods. The dad is at least six feet tall and brawny, and wearing a Wallace For President baseball cap. You and Aegon both notice it, then share an amused, disparaging glance. You mouth: Imbecile bigot. The man continues to the cash register and orders two chocolate shakes and a root beer float. At their own table, Criston is mopping up melted ice cream with napkins and telling Fosco to stop being such a pig.

“Me?!” Fosco says. “You are the pig, that spot there is your ice cream, do not blame your failings on poor Fosco. I have already let you drag me to this terrible state and never once complained about the fried food or the mosquitos. And that thing out there is not a real beach. The water is still and brown, brown!”

“For once in your life, pretend you have a work ethic and help me clean up the table.”

“You are being very anti-immigrant right now, do you know that?”

Aegon begins singing, ostensibly to himself. “Here’s to the state of Mississippi, for underneath her borders, the devil draws no lines.”

“Aegon, no,” you whisper, petrified. You know this song. You know where he’s going.

He’s beaming as he continues: “If you drag her muddy rivers, nameless bodies you will find.”

Now the man in the Wallace hat is looking at Aegon. His sons are happily gulping down their chocolate shakes. Criston and Fosco, still bickering, haven’t noticed yet.

“Oh, the fat trees of the forest have hid a thousand crimes.”

“Aegon, don’t,” you plead quietly. “He’ll murder you.”

“The calendar is lyin’ when it reads the present time.”

“Hey,” calls the man in the Wallace For President hat. “You got a problem, boy?”

Aegon drums his palms on the tabletop as he sings, loudly now: “Oh, here’s to the land you’ve torn out the heart of, Mississippi find yourself another country to be part of!”

In seconds, the man has crossed the room, grabbed Aegon by the collar of his t-shirt, yanked him out of his chair and struck him across the face: closed fist, lethal intent, the sick wet sound of bones on flesh. Aegon’s nose gushes, his lip splits open, but he isn’t flinching away, he isn’t afraid. He’s yowling like a rabid animal and clawing, kicking, swinging at the giant who’s ensnared him. You are screaming as you leap to your feet, your chair falling over and clattering on the floor behind you. The man’s sons are hooting joyously. “Git him, Paw!” one of them shouts.

“Criston?!” you shriek, but he and Fosco are already here, tugging at the man’s massive arms and beating on his back, trying to untangle him from Aegon.

“Stop!” Criston roars. “You don’t want to hurt him! He’s a Targaryen!”

“A Targaryen, huh?” the man says as he steps away, wiping the blood from his knuckles on his tattered white t-shirt, stained with fish guts. “All the better. I wish that bullet they put in Aemond woulda been just another inch to the left. Directly through the aorta.”

Aegon lunges at the man again, hissing, fists swinging. Fosco yanks him back.

“Are you gonna call someone or not?!” Criston snaps at the girl behind the cash register, but she only gives him a steely glare in return. This is Wallace country. There’s a reason why it took four years after the Civil Rights Act of 1964 to finally desegregate the beaches.

“We should go,” you tell Criston softly.

“Yes, we will leave now,” Fosco says, hauling Aegon towards the front door. Then, to the cashier: “Thank you for the ice cream, but it was not very good. If you are ever in Italy, try the gelato. You will learn so much.”

“I can’t wait ‘til November,” the man gloats, ominous, threatening. His sons are standing tall and proud beside him. “When Aemond loses, you can all cart your asses back to Europe. We don’t want you here. America ain’t for people like you.”

“It literally is,” you say, unable to stop yourself. “It’s on the Statue of Liberty.”

“Yeah, where do you think your ancestors came from?!” Aegon yells at the man. “Are you a Seminole, pal? I didn’t think so—!” Fosco and Criston lug him through the doorway before more punches can be thrown.

Outside—under stars and streetlights and a full moon—Aegon burst out laughing. This is when he feels alive; this is when the blood in his veins turns to wave and riptides. You didn’t think to grab napkins from the table, so you wipe the blood off his face with your bare hand, assessing the damage. He’ll be fine; swollen and sore, but fine.

“You’re insane, you know that?” you say. “You could have been killed.”

Aegon pats your cheek twice and grins, blood on his teeth. “The world would keep spinning, little Io.” Then he starts walking back towards the White House Hotel.

~~~~~~~~~~

When the four of you arrive at your suite, Aemond, Otto, Ludwika, and Alicent are still gathered around the television. The nannies have taken the children to bed. Helaena is reading The Bell Jar in an armchair in the corner of the room. Mimi is passed out on the couch, several empty glasses on the coffee table. ABC is showing a clip they recorded earlier today of Ludwika travelling with Aemond’s retinue after he made an impassioned speech condemning the lack of recognition of the evils of slavery at Beauvoir, the historic home of former Confederate president Jefferson Davis. The reporter is asking Ludwika what she thinks makes Aemond a better presidential candidate than Eugene McCarthy, as McCarthy shares many of the same policy positions and has an additional 15 years of political experience.

“This McCarthy is not a real man,” Ludwika responds, her face stony and mistrustful. “He reminds me of the communists back in my country. Did you know he met with Che Guevara in New York City a few years ago? Why would he do such a thing?”

Now, Otto turns to her in this hotel room. “I love you.”

Ludwika takes a sip of her martini. “I want another Gucci bag.”

“Yes, yes. Tomorrow, my dear.”

“What happened to you?” Aemond asks his brother, half-exasperated and half-concerned. Criston has fetched a washcloth from the bathroom for Aegon to hold against his bleeding lip and nose. Aemond is still wearing his blue suit from a long day of campaigning, but he’s taken out his eye and put on his eyepatch. His gaze flicks from Aegon’s face to the blood still coating your left hand. On the couch, Mimi’s bare foot twitches but she doesn’t wake up.

“There was a Wallace supporter at the Dairy Queen,” you say. “Aegon felt inspired to defend you.”

Aemond chuckles. “Did you win?” he asks Aegon.

“I would have if the guy wasn’t two of me.”

On the television screen, Richard Nixon is accepting his party’s nomination for president at the Republican National Convention in Miami, Florida.

“He’s a buffoon,” Otto sneers. “So awkward and undignified. Look at him sweating! Look at those ridiculous jowls! And he comes from nothing. His family is trash.”

“Americans love a rags to riches story,” you say. And then, somewhat randomly: “He loves his wife. He proposed to Pat on their very first date, and she said no. So he drove her to dates with other men for years until she finally reconsidered. He said it was love at first sight. He’s never had a mistress. And jowls or no jowls, his family adores him.”

Aegon turns to you, still clutching the washcloth against his face. “Really?”

You nod. “That’s the sort of thing the women talk about.”

There’s a knock at the door. You all look at each other, confounded; no one has ordered room service, no one is expecting any visitors, and the nannies have keys in the event of an emergency. Fosco is closest to the door, so he opens it. A man in uniform is standing there with a golden Western Union telegram in his hands. Alicent screams and collapses. Criston bolts to her.

“It’s okay,” you say. “He’s not dead. Whatever happened, Daeron’s not dead.”

Otto crinkles his brow at you. “How do you know?”

“Because if he was killed, there would be a priest here too.” They always send a priest when the boy is dead. Aegon glances at you, eyes wet and fearful.

“Ma’am,” the soldier—a major you see now, spotting the golden oak leaves—says to Alicent as he removes his cap. “I regret to inform you that your son Daeron was missing in action for several weeks, and we’ve just received confirmation that he’s being held as a prisoner of war in Hỏa Lò Prison.”

“He’s in the Hanoi Hilton?!” Otto exclaims. “Oh, fuck those people and their swamp, how did Kennedy ever think we had something to gain from getting tangled up in that mess?”

“But he’s alive?” Aemond says. “He’s unharmed?”

“Yes sir,” the captain replies. “It is our understanding that he is in good condition. The North Vietnamese are aware that he is a very valuable prisoner, like Admiral McCain’s son John. He’ll be used in negotiations. He is of far more use to them alive than dead.”

“So we can get Daeron back,” Aegon says. “I mean, we have to be able to, right? Aemond’s running for president, he’ll probably win in November, we have millions of dollars, we can spring one man out of some third-world jail, right?”

The captain continues: “Tomorrow when your family returns to New Jersey, the Joint Chiefs of Staff will be there to discuss next steps with you. I’m afraid I’m only authorized to give you the news as it was relayed to me.” He entrusts the telegram to Otto, who rapidly opens it and stares down at the mechanical typewriter words.

“I have to pray,” Alicent says suddenly. “Helaena, will you pray with me? There’s a Greek church down the road. Holy Trinity, I think it’s called.”

Obediently, Helaena joins her mother and follows her to the doorway. Criston leaves with them. Otto gives his new wife a harsh, meaningful stare. Ludwika, an ardent yet covert atheist, sighs irritably. “Wait. I want to pray too,” she says, and vanishes with them into the hall.

As the captain departs, Mimi sits up on the couch, blinking, groggy. “What? What happened?”

“Go with Alicent,” Otto tells her. “She’s headed downstairs.”

“What? Why…?”

“Just go!” he barks.

Mimi staggers to her feet and hobbles out of the hotel room, her sundress—patterned with forget-me-nots—billowing around her. The only people left are Otto, Aemond, Fosco, Aegon, and you. The fact that you are the sole woman permitted to remain here feels intentional.

After a moment, Otto speaks. “You know, John McCain has famously refused to be released from the Hanoi Hilton until all the men imprisoned before him have been freed. He doesn’t want special treatment. And that’s a very noble thing to do, don’t you think? It has endeared him and the McCains to the public.”

Aemond and Otto are looking at each other, communicating in a silent language not of letters or accents but colors: red ambition, green hunger, grey impassionate morality. Fosco is observing them uneasily. Aemond says at last: “Daeron wants to help this family.”

“You’re not going to try to get him out.” Aegon realizes.

Aemond turns to him, businesslike, vague distant sympathy. “It’s only until November.”

“No, you know people!” Aegon explodes. “You pick up the phone, you call in every favor, you get him out of there now! You have no idea if he has another three months, you don’t know what kind of shape he’s in! They could be dislocating his arms or chopping off his fingers right now, they could be starving him, they could be beating him, you can’t just leave him there!”

“It’s not your decision. It could have been, had you accepted your role as the eldest son. But you didn’t. So it’s my job to handle these things. You don’t get to hate me for making choices you were too cowardly too take responsibility for.”

“But Daeron could die,” Aegon says, his voice going brittle.

“Any of us could die. We’re in a very dangerous line of work. Greatness killed Lincoln, Garfield, McKinley, Huey Long, Medgar Evers, John F. Kennedy, Malcolm X, Vernon Dahmer, Martin Luther King Jr., does that mean we should all give up the fight? Of course not. The work isn’t finished. We have to keep going.”

“Will you stop pretending this is about America?! This is about you wanting to be president, and everything you’ve ever done has been in pursuit of that trophy, and you keep shoving new people into the line of fire and it’s not right!”

“Aegon,” Otto says calmly. “It’s unlikely we’d be able to get him out before the election anyway. Negotiations take time. But if Aemond wins in November, he’ll be in a very advantageous position. The North Vietnamese aren’t stupid. They wouldn’t kill the brother of a U.S. president. They don’t want their vile little corner of the world flattened by nukes.”

“Still, it feels so wrong to leave a brother in peril,” Fosco says. “It is unnatural. Of course Aegon will be upset. We could at least see what a deal to get Daeron released would entail, maybe his arrival home would be a good headline—”

“And who the fuck asked you?” Otto demands, and Fosco goes quiet.

“Okay, then tell Mom,” Aegon says to Aemond. “Tell her you’re going to pretend Daeron made some self-sacrificial vow not to come home until all the other POWs can too. Tell her you’re going to let him get tortured for a few months before you take this seriously.”

Aemond replies cooly: “Why would you want to upset her? She can’t change it. You’ll only make her suffering worse.”

“What do you think?” Otto asks you, and you know that he isn’t seeking counsel. He’s summoning you like a dog to perform a trick, like an actor to recite a line. He’s waiting for you to say that it’s a smart strategy, because it is. He’s waiting for you to bend to Aemond’s will as your station requires you to, as moons are bound to their planets.

“I think it’s wrong,” you murmur; and Aemond is thunderstruck by your treason.

Without another word, you walk into the bathroom, turn on the sink, and gaze down at Aegon’s blood on your palm. For some reason, it’s very difficult to bring yourself to wash it away.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s mid-August now, the world painted in goldenrod yellow and sky blue. The Democratic National Convention is in two weeks. You and Aemond are posing on the beach at Asteria, surrounded by an adoring gaggle of journalists who are snapping photographs and jotting down quotes on their notepads. You’re sitting demurely on a sand dune, you’re building sandcastles with the children you borrowed from Aegon and Helaena, you’re flying kites, you’re gazing confidently into the sunlit horizon where a glorious new age is surely dawning.

“Mr. Targaryen, what is it that makes your partnership so successful?” a journalist asks as flashbulbs pulse like lightning. “What do you think is the most crucial characteristic to have in a wife?”

Aemond doesn’t need to consider this before he answers. He always has his compliment picked out. “Loyalty,” your husband says. “Not just to me or to the Targaryen family, but to our shared cause. This year has been indescribably difficult for me and my wife. I announced my candidacy, we embarked on a strenuous national campaign that we’re currently only halfway through, I barely survived a brutal assassination attempt in May, in July we lost our first child to hyaline membrane disease after he was born six weeks prematurely, and at the beginning of this month we learned that my youngest brother Daeron was taken by the North Vietnamese as a prisoner of war. To find the strength not just to get out of bed in the morning, not just to be there for me and this family in our personal lives, but to tirelessly traverse the country with me inspiring Americans to believe in a better future…it’s absolutely remarkable. I’m in awe of her. And when she is the first lady of the United States, she will continue to amaze us all with her unwavering faith and dedication.”

There are whistles and cheers and strobing flashbulbs. You smile—elegant, soft, practiced—as Aemond rests a hand firmly on your waist. You lean into him, feeling out-of-place, bewildered that you’ve ever slept with him, full of dull panic that soon you’ll have to again.

“How about you, Mrs. Targaryen?” another reporter asks. “Same question, essentially. What is the trait that you most admire in your husband?”

And in the cascading clicks of photographs being captured, your mind goes entirely blank. You can think of so many other people—Aegon, Ari, Alicent, Daeron, Fosco, Cosmo—but not Aemond. It’s like you’ve blocked him out somehow, like he’s a sketch you erased. But you can’t hesitate. You can’t let the uncertainty read on your face. You begin speaking without knowing where you’re going, something that is rare for you. “Aemond is the most tenacious person I’ve ever met. When he has a goal in mind, nothing can stop him.” You pause, and there are a few awkward chuckles from the journalists. You swiftly recover. “He never stops learning. He always knows the right thing to do or say. And what he wants more than anything is to serve the American people. Aemond won’t disappoint you. He’s not capable of it. He will do whatever it takes to make this country more prosperous, more peaceful, and more free.”

There are applause and gracious thank yous, but Aemond gives you a look—just for a second, just long enough that you can catch it��that warns you to get it together. Fifteen minutes later, he and the flock of reporters are headed to one of the guest houses to conduct a long-form interview. This will be the bulk of the article; you will appear in one or two photos, you will supply a few quotes. The rest of the story is Aemond. You are an accessory, like a belt or a bracelet. He’s the person who picks you out of a drawer each morning and wears you until you go out of fashion.

Released from your obligations, you return to the main house and disappear into your upstairs bathroom. You are there for fifteen minutes and emerge rattled, routed. You pace aimlessly around your bedroom for a while, then try again; still no luck. You go back outside and stare blankly at the ocean, wondering what you’re going to do. Down on the beach, Fosco is teaching the kids how to yo-yo. Ludwika is sunbathing in a bikini.

“What’s wrong with you?”

You whirl to see Aegon, popping a Valium into his mouth and washing it down with a splash of straight rum from a coffee mug. “Huh? Nothing. I’m great.”

“No, something’s wrong. You look lost. You look like me.”

You gaze out over the ocean again, chewing your lower lip.

Aegon snickers, fascinated, sensing a scandal. “What did you do?”

Your eyes drift to him. “You can’t make fun of me.”

“Okay. I won’t.”

There is a long, heavy lull before you answer. When you speak, it’s all in a rush, like you can’t unburden yourself of the words fast enough. “I put a tampon in and I can’t get it out.”

Aegon immediately breaks his promise and cackles. “You did what?!” Then he tries to be serious. “Wait. Sorry. Uh, really?”

You’re on the verge of tears. “I’ve been bleeding since I had the baby, and I hate using tampons, I almost never do, but Aemond wanted me to wear this dress for the photoshoot and it’s super gauzy and from certain angles I felt like I could see the pad bulge when I checked in the mirror, so I put a tampon in for the first time in probably a year. I’m not even supposed to be using them for another few weeks because my uterus isn’t healed all the way or whatever. And now I can’t get it out and it’s been in there for like six hours and I’m scared I’m going to get an infection and die in the most pointless, humiliating way imaginable.”

“Okay, calm down, calm down,” Aegon says. “There’s no string?”

“No, I’ve checked multiple times. It must be a defective one and they forgot to put a string in it at the factory and I didn’t notice, or the string somehow got tucked under it, I don’t know, but I can’t get it out, it’s like…the angle isn’t right. I can just barely feel it with my fingertips, but I can’t grab it. I’m going to have to go to the hospital to get it taken out, but I’m scared word will spread and journalists will show up to get photos when I leave and then everyone will be asking me why I was at the emergency room to begin with and I’m going to have to make up something and…and…” You can’t talk anymore. There are other reasons why you don’t want to go to the hospital. You haven’t stepped foot in one since Ari died; the thought makes you feel like you are looking down to see blood on your thighs all over again, like you’ll never have enough air in your lungs.

“Did you bleed through it? Because that should help it slide out easier.”

“I don’t know,” you moan miserably. “I mean, I guess I did, because there was blood when I checked a few minutes ago. I had to stuff my underwear with toilet paper.”

“Why didn’t you just tell Aemond you couldn’t wear this dress?”

You give him an impatient glance. “I’m tired of having the same conversation.” When do you think you’ll be done bleeding? When do you think it’ll be time to start trying again?

Aegon sighs. “Do you want me to get it out for you?”

“Please stop. I’m really panicking here.”

“I’m not joking.”

You stare at him. “You can’t be serious.”

“I have fished many objects out of many orifices, you cannot shock me. I am unshockable.”

“I’d rather walk down to the sand right now and strangle myself with Fosco’s yo-yo.”

“Okay. So who are you gonna ask to drive you to the hospital?”

You hesitate.

“I’d offer to do it,” Aegon says, grinning, holding up his mug. “But I’m in no condition to drive.”

“But you are in the proper condition to extract a rogue tampon, huh?”

“Two minutes tops. That’s a guarantee. My personal best is fifteen seconds. And that was for a lost condom, much trickier to locate than a tampon.”

Perhaps paradoxically, the more you consider his offer, the more tempting it seems. No complicated trip and cover story? Over in just a few minutes? “If you ever tell anyone about this, I will never forgive you. I will hate you forever.”

Aegon taunts: “I thought you already hated me.”

You aren’t sure what you feel for him, but it’s certainly not hate. Not anymore. “Where would we do it?”

“In my office. And by that I mean my basement.”

“Your filthy, disease-ridden basement? On your shag carpet full of crabs?”

“You’re in luck,” he jokes. “My crab exterminator service just came by yesterday.”

You exhale in a low, despairing groan.

“Hey, would you rather do it on the dining room table? I’m game. Your choice.”

You watch the seagulls swooping in the afternoon air, the banners of sailboats on the glittering water. “Okay. The basement.”

You walk with Aegon to the house and—after ensuring that no one is around to notice—sneak with him down the creaking basement steps, the door locked behind you. Aegon is darting around; he sets a small trashcan by the carpet and tosses you two towels, then goes to wash his hands in his tiny bathroom, not nearly enough room for someone to stretch out across the linoleum floor.

You’re surveying the scene nervously. “I don’t want to get blood all over your stuff.”

“You’re the cleanest thing that’s ever been on that carpet. Lie down.”

You place one towel on the green shag carpet, then whisk off your panties, discard the bloody knot of toilet paper in the trashcan, and pull the skirt of your dress up around your waist so it’s out of the way. Then you sit down and drape the second towel over your thighs so you’re hidden from him, like you’re about to be examined by a doctor. Your heart is thumping, but you don’t exactly feel like you want to stop. It’s more exhilarating than fear, you think; it is forbidden, it is shameful, it is a microscopic betrayal of Aemond that he’ll never know about.

Aegon moseys out of the bathroom, flicking drops of water from his hands. He wears one of his usual counterculture uniforms: a frayed green army jacket with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, khaki shorts, tan moccasins. He kicks them off before he kneels on the shag carpet. He checks the clock on the wall. “2:07. I promised two minutes max. Let’s see how I do. Ready?”

You rest the back of your head on your linked hands, raise your knees, take a deep and unsteady breath. “Ready.”

But he can see that you’re shaking. “Hey,” Aegon says kindly, pressing his hand down on the towel so you’re covered. “Do you want me to go to the hospital with you? I’ll try to distract people. I’ll pretend I’m having a seizure or something.”

“No, I’m okay,” you insist. “I just want it out. I want this over with.”

“Got it.” And then he begins. He stares at the wall to his left, not looking at you, navigating by feel. You feel the pressure of two fingers, a stretching that is not entirely unpleasant. He’s warm and careful, strangely unobtrusive. Still, you suck in a breath and shift on the carpet. “Shh, shh, shh,” Aegon whispers, skimming his other hand up and down the inside of your thigh, and shiver like you’ve never felt before rolls backwards up the length of your spine. “Relax. You alright?”

“Fine. Totally fine.”

“Oh yeah, it’s definitely in there,” Aegon says. His brow is creased with comprehension. “No string…you’re right, it must either be tangled up somehow or it never had one to begin with. Maybe you accidentally inserted it upside down.”

“Now you insult my intelligence. As if I’m not embarrassed enough.”

“I should have put on a record to set the mood. What gets you going, Marvin Gaye? Elvis?”

“The seductive voice of Richard Milhous Nixon. Maybe you can get him on the phone.”

Aegon laughs hysterically. His fingertips push the tampon against your cervix and you yelp. “Sorry, sorry, my mistake,” Aegon says. There are beads of sweat on his forehead, on his temples; now his eyes are squeezed shut. “I’m gonna try to wiggle it out…”

As he works, there are sensations you can’t quite explain: a very slow-building indistinct desire, a loosening, a readying, a drop in your belly when you think about the fact that he’s the one touching you. Then he happens to press in just the right spot and there is a sudden pang of real pleasure—craving, aching, a deep red flare of previously unfathomable temptation—and you instinctively reach for him. You hand meets his forearm, and for the first time since he started Aegon looks at your face, alarmed, afraid that he’s hurt you again. But once your eyes meet you’re both trapped there, and you can’t pretend you’re not, his fingers still inside you, his pulse racing, a rivulet of sweat snaking down the side of his face, his eyes an opaque murky blue like water you’re desperate to claw your way into. You know what you want to tell him, but the words are impossible. Don’t stop. Come closer.

Aegon clears his throat, forces himself to look away, and at last dislodges the tampon. It appears dark and bloody in his grasp. “No string,” he confirms, holding it up and turning it so you can see. “Factory reject.”

“Just like you.”

He glances at the clock. “2:09. I delivered precisely what was promised.” He chucks the tampon into the trashcan and then grins as he helps pull you upright with his clean hand. “So do you like to cuddle afterwards, or…?”

You’re giggling, covering your flushed face. “Shut up.”

“Personally, I enjoy being ridden into the ground and then called a good boy.”

“Go away.” You nod to where he disposed of the tampon and say before stopping to think: “You’re not going to keep that under your ashtray too?”

Aegon freezes and blinks at you. He smiles slowly, cautiously. “No, I think that would be a little unorthodox, even for me.” He pitches you a clean washcloth from the bathroom closet. “That should get you upstairs.”

“Thanks.” You shove it between your legs and rise to your feet, smoothing the skirt of your dress. “I owe you something. I’m not sure what, but I’ll figure it out.”

“Hey,” Aegon says, and waits for you to turn to him. “Maybe I’m not that bad.”

“Maybe,” you agree thoughtfully.

Just before you hurry upstairs, you steal a glimpse of Aegon in the bathroom, the door kicked only half-closed. He has turned on the water, but he’s not using it yet. Aegon is staring down at the blood on his hand, half-dried scarlet impermanent ink.

~~~~~~~~~~

Hi, it’s me again. I’m in solitary confinement. There’s a guy in the cell next to mine; we talk to each other with a modified version of Morse code. Tap tap tap on the wall, he taps back, etcetera etcetera, you get the idea. You’re not going to believe this, but he says his name is John McCain. Well, actually, he told me his name is Jobm McCbin, but I think that’s because I translated the taps wrong. I might be in the Hanoi Hilton, but at least they have me in the VIP section! Hahaha.

Every few hours the guards show up to do a very impressive magic trick: they wave their batons like wands, I turn black and blue. Sometimes one of my teeth even disappears. Isn’t that something? Houdini would love it. There’s a rat that I’m making friends with. I give her nibbles of my stale bread, she gives me someone to talk to. She’s good company. I’ve named her Tessarion.

Allow me to make something absolutely fucking clear.

I would very much like to be rescued.

[undertheorangetree]

Urgency

Summary: Desperate times call for desperate measures.

Warnings: MDNI 18+ NSFW. Female reader. Possessive/jealous sex. Against a wall lmao. Vaginal fingering. Mild exhibitionism. Reader is purposely riling him up. He calls her a whore but in a fun way.

Author’s Note: You can find the full fic on AO3 the link is below plz feel free to let me know what you think :))

The queen had spared no expense on her son’s nameday, that much is clear the moment she walks into the hall. Perhaps Prince Aegon had been involved in his own party planning as well, as there are flagons upon flagons of wine, ale, cider, and even a few vials of absinthe lining the walls of the great hall alongside all the mountains of food. It is the first party that she has experienced since marrying Prince Aemond six moons passed and she doubts she will ever see anything so extravagant ever again. She does not think even her wedding compared to this, with all the finery and gold and jewels that seem to be everywhere her turns.

She too had done her best to dress up for the occasion. She had been gifted a beautiful Lysene gown two moons ago, a pretty blue thing made of silk and chiffon, full of layers and very low cut. It showed off far more of her breast than she is used to and is too thin to wear a shift beneath. She had been unsure about it at first but now that she stood amongst all the lords and ladies of the court, she feels as though she fits right in. And besides, she has other plans for this gown besides simple fashion.

Her husband has been ignoring her. She does not know if he truly noticed it himself, but she had seen little and less of him these past few weeks. Running countless errands with the excuse of duty, squeezing in training and dragonriding whenever he is given space enough to breath. She thinks she has only really seen him when he collapses in their bed at night, pressing a tired kiss to her cheek before falling asleep just as his head hits the pillow. There has been no time allotted for her and though she does not blame him for it- she had noticed rather quickly that he has a tendency to be very one track minded- she will not allow for it to stand any longer.

So she had decided to wear her new blue dress to show him just what he has been missing out on. To remind him that his wife is young and beautiful and here and needed more from him than a half mumbled goodnight.

And, much to her delight, he seems to notice immediately. She watches elated as his eye widens almost comically at her approach, roving over her as if he can’t quite believe that she’s real. It is not difficult to ignore him as he has her, instead making her way to stand before Aegon. She wishes him a happy nameday, endures the drunken, lazy smile he gives her as he assures her it is a very happy day indeed, before skirting around the table to sit by Aemond’s side. She does not deign to look at him, staring straight ahead at the crowd before them, and lets out a heavy sigh. His eye had been boring into the side of her face but it darts down then, watches as her breasts rise and fall with her breath, and she suppresses the urge to look too smug.

Aemond has always been good at keeping himself composed and so she expected him to have more resolve, to sit and stare for only the Gods know how long while he quietly seethed. So she is almost surprised when she feels his hand close around the back of her chair, leaning in close only a few moments after she has sat down.

“What are you wearing?” he manages to ask, grit out between clenched teeth.

She smiles, doing what she can to seem oblivious as she turns to look at him, head tilted. “Do you like it? I wasn’t sure which one to wear but my maid and I narrowed it down to this and the purple dress from Qarth. Do you remember it? Should I have worn that one instead?”

The question is rhetorical, as he knows very well which dress she is talking about. An ambassador from the Free Cities had arrived with a whole host of gifts for the royal family, including two massive crates filled with dresses for herself and Helaena. The pretty Lysene dress she wore now had been among them, along with gowns from Bravvos, Meereen, Essos, and the like. She had forced Aemond to sit and watch as she tried them all on, the latest fashions from all over the eastern world. The purple Qartheen dress had been particularly memorable to him as there was only enough fabric in the bodice to cover one breast, the other bared entirely. He had deemed the show over at that point and had fucked her against the wall to show his appreciation for the gown.

She bites her lip to suppress a grin when his face flushes red at the memory, his knuckles gone white around the knife’s handle in his hand. She swears she can hear the wood creak under his grip on her seat as well and doesn’t think she would be surprised if it cracked under his hand.

Her head cocks in the opposite direction as she hums, wordless encouragement to answer her previous question, but she isn’t entirely sure he is listening to her anymore. His eye has darted down again, tracing along the lines of her gown and she indulges him, pushing her chest out a little farther. It is almost funny, how she has reduced him to this. He almost reminds her of Aegon in this moment, a comparison she knows he would loathe. And though it is unkind and she knows that she should keep her torture confined to this alone, she want to see how far she can push him. It has been weeks-three, to be exact- since they had an intimate moment alone together and her patience for abstinence has worn thin. If this is her moment to ensure that her husband’s attention is on her entirely, then she is going to leap at it.

She does not have to wait long for her first opportunity to present itself. Lord Erwin Lannister, some second or third cousin off the main branch of the family tree, has come forward to offer good tidings and the moment he is done with Aegon, he sets his sights on her. Despite the fact that Aemond is practically limp across her lap, little Lord Lannister approaches with his head held high, offering them both a polite bow. The way he takes in her gown, however, is anything but polite, eyes hungry as he stares.

“My lady, it would be an honour to have your first dance of the evening, if you would indulge me.”

Aemond’s mouth twists immediately. “I would think that honour should go to the lady’s husband, should it not?”

The confidence Lord Erwin had arrived with falters at her husband’s tone, but she is not about to allow this opportunity to pass her by. Not without putting up some kind of fight.

“But you’ve been so busy, my love,” she laments, pressing a loving hand to his chest. “You should rest. I’m sure my Lord Lannister would be more than happy to dance with me, would you not, my lord?”

“Of course, my lady,” Lord Erwin agrees, likely far faster than he should have.

She graces the young lord with a smile before turning to press a kiss to Aemond’s cheek. She flits away quickly, standing and joining Lord Erwin on the floor. It takes everything in her not to look back at him, not to revel in the way he is surely seething at the loss of her attention.

Luck continues to be on her side, as the dance the musicians are playing requires her to stand quite close to Lord Erwin. The dance is one she knows well, so she does not need to think as she follows the steps. Instead, she dares to glance toward Aemond as she dances around the young lord, hardly paying him any mind as she watches her husband. She does not think Lord Erwin minds, as he is staring at her chest so single mindedly she does not think he would hear her should she speak to him. Aemond’s gaze is even more intense. His eye is trained on her as if he cannot bare to turn away, his mouth twisted and face drawn in a way she can’t quite describe. She recognizes the rage in his eye when it shifts from her to Lord Erwin, face hardening further, and she turns to face her partner.

“Are you enjoying the fete, my lord?” She asks, keeping her voice low so that there is no risk of Aemond hearing.

Despite his initial confidence, he looks almost shocked that she is speaking to him now and has to take a moment before responding, likely trying to decipher what it is she has just said. “Yes, my lady. Are you?”

She presses a little closer to him as the dance requires, eyes darting up to catch sight of Aemond and his clenched jaw before she turns back to the young lord and smiles. “Oh, yes. I am enjoying it immensely.”

She dances four more dances with separate partners before Lord Erwin returns, his confidence returning now that he believes Aemond will not be storming in to throw him aside. And Aemond does not turn away from her the entire time, his eye boring into her so fiercely she thinks it would cause anyone else to shy away. But not her. Instead, it takes everything in her to keep her smirk at bay, chest light as pride bursts through her.

“If I may be so bold, my lady, you look particularly beautiful this evening. Is this a new dress?” Lord Erwin asks, eyes once again locked on her chest.

“It is, my lord. Thank you. It is my husband’s favourite, I think.”

Though Lord Erwin opens his mouth to respond, a voice cuts him off before he can, a rough hand clasping around her elbow. “We’re going to retire for the evening.”

Lord Erwin is forgotten immediately as she turns toward her husband, smiling politely. “We have barely been here an hour, husband. Surely it is poor manners to leave so soon.”

“We’re leaving,” he repeats, much more stern this time.

Read the rest here :)

[alvisthefox]

Name: Alvis Winter

Nicknames: Al (gose by Al mostly) 113 (called by eggman when he was in his controle)

Language: default is English (He is Polyglot so he can speak any language)

D.O.B: Unknown but was born in The War to Take Back the Planet (Sonic Forces) but guessed to be in November

Species: Fox (Genetically modified)

Age: 13 (depends on when story is, some could be him in 20s but looks mostly the same)

Gender: Male

Hight: 106cm

Alignment: True Neutral / Chaotic Neutral

Abilitys: Teleportation, electricity (He's resistant to electricity. Just cant control it. But can direct thru his gauntlets) (more but not gonna say)

Skills: Smart, Good fighting (hand to hand and weapons), Engineer/Electrician, Tech, Baking, musical instruments, Mimic voices, Parkour/Gymnastics/Brake dance

Team: Team Sonic. But work alone and with others to help

Info: Alvis (Al) use to be known as 113 was once pronounced as a missing child presumed dead before a altercation as 113 with Sonic reviling the hold time he was in Eggmans captivity. Since Eggman let him go and was found 3 months later in the mountains living out a crashed G.U.N cargo plane. He's slowly getting a somewhat normal life with team sonic. Giving inside of working for Robotnic, why he is purple ect but keeps something still to himself. Like birthdays and why he tenses up around the mayor's wife. Almost like he is holding back anger. Alvis most open with Miles "Tails" Prower. Being when was he was 5 they did meet and found out he was a HUGE and still is a Tails fan. But Tails has mentioned how he was in Eggmans position in the first place was he was sold. But is keeping alot secrate. What els dose Alvis know. What els, he has the memories of the 4 who's DNA was used to chnage Als DNA and give powers?

Edit: That last thing. Yes. Said he had identity problem and even others saying for example "Sonic" Alvis would react like you said his name, and was mentioned he hallucinates seeing one of the 4 or all 4 at the same time. Can feel how it Felt being super in space, How the space ark food tasted, How lonly it is on angel island and how it feels to bullied to then find someone who accepts you and treats u like a brother

(This is a AU.)

Yet a nother awesome peace from @catragemiau they did a amazing job with my Sonic OC and got a charicter sheet.

I cant stress anuff that @catragemiau is worth every penny! If you want art at grate quality! @catragemiau is the one!

(Pls leave a slot for me to get art tho 🥺)

I can just go on for days about this! This is my 2nd art from them. And just like last time. So happy.

((Should mention. These are all versions. I'm kinda just re using the look of past versions of Al in my AU))

V1 (first ever alvis back in 06)(IRL 06)

V2 (pre experimented Alvis)

V3 (half way thru fur changing colour)

V4

Sonic Prime AU

--Carbine-- --Captain Iceberg-- --Savage--

[darlingpwease]

My lovely wife you giving me ideas and thinking about imagining Yandere and omega Leon how breed bull he looks

hihi souffle~!!! <333 kith kith<33333

king's favourite

♡ unhealthy behaviour, animalistic behaviour, alternative universe, family making, mention of violence + blood, he has not yet lost powers, forced relationship if you squint, reincarnation themes if you squint; transmigrator!reader (or just isekaid), alpha-like beta!reader

♡ breeding / unprotected sex, rough treatment, nipples play (g.), blood play (r.), womb fucking if you squint, cum inflation if you squint, (spicy & messy)

How did they teach you there? "Get into the situation, understand and forgive"? "There is a spark of goodness in everyone"? "You just have to be patient"?

"We have to wait and everything will get better"?

You waited — many times — and even when you found yourself here, in your own body with several modified features; thought "at last I will live well, nothing is scary after death, I can start again," clinging to the chance to survive is not out of desperation at all, but from the fact that you have already seen similar situations before, using your skills and knowledge mixed with the underdevelopment of the surrounding world.

You don't know what happened here, — you don't want to know — but you're sure it makes you feel better.

After all, you, prepared by the modern world and by some incomprehensible effect caused by changes in your body, are ready for anything as long as your blood flows in your body. Undoubtedly, it is unusual for you in this new world, with these 'alphas', 'betas', 'omegas', only some deltas and gammas are missing, and already five letters from the greek alphavite have been collected, but you get used to it.

You're really getting used to it.

You are lucky to be an unremarkable beta, without this strange smelling dynamics, with these incomprehensible exchanges of smells and even stranger features — like a knot??? womb??? bite glands??? — and questionable courtship.

But no one seems to fall in love with betas.

And then you met him.

If you knew in advance that the betas, it turns out, are also quite attractive for some reason, then you would run as fast as you could from him and from his subordinates — but then you really thought that nothing would happen, "the worst thing is death". And it's not that what happened to you, when violet eyes collided with you and shone like billions of stars, was worse than death.

“Finally.”

But when the only thing you can do is agree, knowing perfectly well and seeing that your refusal means nothing if the 'king of Dark Fall' chose you. In the end, you were nothing more than a charming pet that was chosen from thousands of the same, probably even more beautiful and exciting — but for some reason it was on your figure that the purple eyes stopped and froze, with dilated feline pupils, when a strong slender hand grabbed your wrist, not letting you move away, in front of eyes an equally shocked environment, scorching at you rather than at him, asking themselves 'why are you' than 'what does his behavior mean'.

“Leon,” — he whispers hoarsely, squeezing your hands, not trying to penetrate your personal space, but also not letting you move away, glaring with such a burning gaze that your heart is beating loudly in throat from noisy fear and dull excitement caused rather by adrenaline and that strange aura of power around his body that you can't not react. — “My name. Don't forget it. You're mine now — I chose you.”

From his words, head is slightly dizzy, — or is it from a strange smell that surrounds his body, as if shouting to you that you have a handsome strong mate in front of you? — but you can only nod, realizing that resistance will lead to nothing. You have often seen this in fanfiction, you know what to do — and although this is not a dating simulator or anything like that, you are sure that the actions are not too different.

His eyes dig into your every feature, as if trying to get under your skin, while his hands imperiously but gently squeeze yours, intertwining long fingers with yours, restlessly squeeze and unclench.

A handsome and young aristocrat takes a person from the street as a lover? Isn't this the plot of Cinderella?

You must even be 'lucky' — food, bed and a handsome powerful person who seems to be passionate about you and enough free time. Even if you really are nothing more than a pet, doesn't that mean that you only need to perform your role well and manage your limited time wisely?

You must even be lucky — you think thoughtfully when blood drops on your cheeks.

Someone else's blood, of course — you are too precious; a couple of drops that unintentionally reach your skin while any sounds get stuck in throat. Not that your role is anything more special than a simple 'pet' — but even so, the reaction seems... excessive.

“I'll rip out the hands of anyone who does that again.”

It's cold in the hall, unusually cold, while the blood drips down, staining the floor, forcing the servants to step back restlessly, not even trying to wipe something or help.

“Is that clear? I don't like to repeat myself in such things.”

It's not the right time to ask about a walk — and from the looks of the servants, you can be sure that none of them will even try to approach you in the near future.

“I know you don't remember much...”

LEON begins in a soft, almost timid voice when you squeeze his thigh, climbing between them, and he allows, pushing them apart, obeying every movement and desire, even if you see how his ears, face and chest burn with blush, feeling your respectfully shameless touch.

“But, actually... I... we...”

He hesitates, as if trying to figure out how best to convey this idea to you — but when you gently rub his swollen hard nipple, watching his mouth, LEON blushes even more, covering his face with his hand, while the second grabs your wrist, forcing you to leave it on him.

“... Do you like what you see?”

Purple eyes shine like a cat's in the dimness of the room — his body is soft but strong, with elastic slender legs wrapped around your hips in an almost unbearably tight grip, and sensitive soft skin that easily trembles under your fingers, squeezing it until red prints remain. His purring comes from the chest itself, spreading through the body in hot waves, leaving dryness in the throat from the sight of his full arousal and intoxicating delight of his face, when omega's hands grab the sheet, with wide eyes and rounded mouth watching his smooth belly fill up, unable to see how you push, drawlingly teasing unbearably unbearable unbearably slow, not at all like before, as if his whole body was dependent on you, demanding more, stronger, until everything inside him was torn and destroyed, gnawed to the heart that beating in ears from drunken delight with spots in front of eyes.

His whole body is nothing more than a taut string under you, allowing you to dive deep inside, feeling a strong squeeze and hearing soft sweet purring mixed with quiet submissive moans — only to find yourself locked in a steel grip with strong legs that do not even allow you to move even a millimeter, leaving you deeply buried in the most intimate part that he can bare for you, eager to become as vulnerable and naked as it was before. His whole body is nothing more than a temple that longs to be destroyed, defeated, claimed, and when his pupils dilate like the darkness around, leaving only the noise of breathing and the sounds of contact not just bodily, but something more intimate, he looks not like a 'cute shy omega', but something that it is ready to devour you and make you a part of itself — or to become a part of you, but it is absolutely not ready to remain separate.

“D-Do– you– l-like– what you–... feel?”

His body is nothing more than a cozy nest; the perfect place where you can leave the puppies, bury the hot seed with them deep inside, filling the pliable, ripe, fertile womb with your thrusts which are echoed by the pounding of heart in your ears, nuzzling his so sweet-smelling neck, the aroma of which is mixed with the smell of blood on your back caused by claws scratching skin and looking for even more more more smell, stronger, faster, more, don't stop, just don't stop — his tongue burns like poison, licking intoxicating blood in return for the way you drive into his fertile ready-made body, eager to be breed, fertilized, rounded from your puppy, future king of Dark Fall, who will find a place in his body in need of this.

His nails scratch your hands when his stomach is rounded again - not the same soft, but elastic, easily taking everything inside when you gently lift up, assessing his body, wet with juice, semen and sweat, while tears are still flowing over his beautiful face, with a perfectly rounded mouth and trembling hips, not trying to hide none of the embarrassingly sweet traces that leave a strange taste in your mouth - especially at the sight of his thin pink lips with traces of your blood that he licks, looking into your eyes with his drugged, but aware of everything, for the first time so aware of everything for all the time that you have seen him.

“Why do you... didn't bite? Neck...”

Bites on the nipple — hickeys on the neck — prints on the waist — nail marks on the thigh — bare clean neck wet with sweat.

“... Mine?”

The pupils look steadily into yours, as if not expecting this question, and you can see how he seems to wake us up from a drunken delirium, realizing everything around.

His chest rises and falls several times, as if only now LEON realized what had happened, and a glance at the mog is thrown at the sticky wet mess between his thighs.

But when he looks up again, you don't see anything there but frenzied devotion.

“Yours — and you're mine.”

A bite from something seems too right and true — just like the pulsating mark of his teeth on your neck.

And although you are a beta, — you do not have the same ability to fertilize as an alpha, — the sight of his belly filled with you excites some base feelings in you.

[your-sweetest-nightmares-blog]

My thoughts on Murder Drones Episode 8.

(SPOILER WARNING)

• The teacher taking a slap from one of Cynessa’s tentacles so nonchalantly was amazing.

• “THEN DIE MAD, BI-!”

• Also, was Uzi saying, “Oh, fuck you” when Cyn told her and N to stop?

• Uzi and N falling through space was so cute! Nuzi confirmed!

• “TIME TO MURDER A PLANET!”

• QUEEN V IS ALIVE! And she’s on a sentinel with a cowboy hat! Everyone bow down and throw roses at her immediately!

• I didn’t expect V and J to already know about Tessa being Cyn. I don’t know why, but I expected J to find out in this episode and be broken mentally. But since they treat death so nonchalantly in this show, I shouldn’t be surprised.

• Come to think of it, I still have questions about Tessa. Which drone was the one that killed her? What was the point of her character other than being a tragic hero and a vehicle for Cyn to get to Copper 9? Tessa felt underused. So did J.

• THE SENTINEL SHAKING LIZZY LIKE A RAG DOLL WAS EVERYTHING.

• Don’t think I didn’t notice you using Uzi’s catchphrase, V.

• Cynessa is oddly cute.

• “LET ME IN LET ME IN LET ME IN LET ME IN LET ME IN LET ME IN LET ME IN LET ME IN-“

• LOL at Cynessa cursing.

• Supportive mom Nori!

• The nightcore song being played during the final battle was peak fight music.

• “NO ONE TRAUMATIZES THESE WEIRDLY HOT ROBOTS BUT ME!” Bi Uzi REAL????

• Cynessa’s reaction to Uzi swallowing the black orb was priceless!

• “You don’t know me and I hate you!” OMG I can see where Uzi got it from! Khan’s reaction was wonderful. “Kinda hot?”

• Uzi’s new yellow and purple eyes are pretty cool.

• Uzi giving a presentation about how she, N, and V saved Copper 9 was a fitting callback to the pilot! Consider Uzi’s hero’s journey fulfilled!

• “That’s my girlfriend!”

• V and Lizzy being top Uzi haters once again.

• That sudden cut to Doll’s corpse was so uncalled for OMGGGGGG. FOUL.

• Uzi scares her classmates once again lol.

• Good thing they had a memorial for Doll. The “babe-a-tron queenthousand” needed one. I hope she’s happy with her parents. And DAMMMNNN they went for Rachel’s throat (or should I say core?)! Plus, Thad’s pose is the best!

• I wonder if the drones did anything to honor Tessa’s memory after everything was said and done? In fact, I wonder how N, V, and J felt about her death. I like to think that they miss her.

• Nori is back with her family now! Yay! I wonder how Khan reacted to his wife’s return?

• Is that the original, unpossessed Cyn living in Uzi’s tail, or is it the Absolute Solver? Perhaps both?

• CYN/THE SOLVER GAVE UZI A BOW-

• We didn’t get a Nuzi kiss, but that’s understandable. Some relationships take more time to progress than others and that’s okay.

• Also, HOW DID I ONLY JUST NOW REALIZE THAT “CYN” IS PROBABLY SHORT FOR “CYNTHIA”?!

At the end of the day, while feeling more rushed than I anticipated, I enjoyed the finale! I feel it’s a satisfying enough end for such a good show.

Anyways, peace out!

[oftenwantedafton]

Moody and Gray - William Afton x Female Reader

Finale

Rating - Explicit

Warnings - sexual content

Also available on AO3

William Afton’s restaurant is closed.

It has been for serveral days, ever since the accident in the workroom. The owner is still recovering, but stable, out of any immediate danger. The springlocks had partially worked, preventing any major internal damage. But he’s going to be scarred for life, the imprints the unforgiving steel has left behind reaching from the base of his neck to his ankles.

You visit as soon as you’re allowed to. You wonder if you’re going to be bumping into family members. The wife. The children. But he’s alone when you slip inside the room. His color is better than the last time you’d seen him, that deathly pallor absent. A beard is starting to grow out. His neglected hair tousled and greasy looking. There are bandages on the arms that rest over the sheet and blanket. On his neck. That’s all you can see aside from the hospital gown. He’s almost completely wrapped up like a mummy.

His eyes are closed, his breathing even. You gently touch his hand, one of the few parts of him that had avoided any injury. A flutter of lashes. His gaze struggles to focus on you. “Moody.” A croak of sound. You know he’s on a lot of medication with sedative side effects. You drag a chair close to the bed. Talk about random things. Watch him fall back to sleep. Try to sort his hair into some semblance of order. Kiss the scratchy new growth of facial hair. Finally leave. Going back home to do what you’ve been doing since the accident. Staring. Pacing aimlessly. Crying. Forcing yourself to go through the motions of activities of daily living. Hygiene. Meals. Everything tastes like ash. You want William out of the hospital. Back in one of those silly purple suit vests in that stupid awful restaurant of his. You miss it. You miss him. You need him back.

***

The next visit you return to find William more alert.

There are get well cards cluttering every available surface. The nightstand. Bedside table. Windowsill. Some handmade. Cute children’s drawings. A variety of flowers decorate the remaining vacant spaces, their perfumed scents clashing in the air. Spring offerings. Tulips. Daisies. Lillies. The weather is warming nicely. You don’t need the cozy winter coat he’s gifted you anymore. A lightweight jacket now suffices. This garment is well worn, the sleeves fraying. You toy with those loose threads now, standing beside his bed.

“How are you feeling, Will?” You can’t resist reaching to fuss with his hair. At least it’s been washed and he’s shaved. Your fingers find his cheek and remain there.

“Better now that you’re here.” A small smile. You bend to kiss his mouth. “How’s my moody girl?”

“I miss you.” Another kiss. “I’ve been really worried about you.”

“I’m okay, Moody. Thanks to you.” His hand covers yours, trapping it against his cheek.

The door opens and you jerk back. Only the housekeeper. You tuck yourself into the corner while she mops the floor and empties the trash, smiling and nodding before she leaves.

“You’ve got a lot of people who want you to hurry up and get better.” You gesture to the cards and flowers as you make your way back to the bedside.

“I’m going to try to get out of here as soon as possible, believe me.”

“You shouldn’t push yourself too much, though. You’ll end up doing more harm than good if you don’t give yourself enough time to recover.”

“Are you going to be gentle with me, Moody?”

“To start with, anyway. We’ll see how it goes.” You bend to kiss Afton again. Lingering this time. A deep inhale. His fingers weaving in your hair. Tongue parting your lips. Oh, you’ve missed this. You feel him shift to sit up. Fumbling for the bed controls. It reminds you of that night in his car. The obvious frustration. A wince of pain when he reaches too far sobering you. “Will, enough.” Pressing gently against him. He scowls and sighs. You kiss away the lines. “You need more rest.”

“I need more you,” he argues.

“Rest,” you insist. “Heal. Then come back to me.”

The older man nods. You drag the chair back over and sit down, babbling about inconsequential topics. Reluctant to part from his side. He puts some awful morning talk show on the wall mounted television and you both roast the commentary. Give scathing reviews of the lunch tray he’s brought. He asks you to bring your Uno deck the next time you visit.

“I don’t want to leave, but I’m going to head out for now. I’ll be back tomorrow,” you promise.

“Thank you for this. It was…not unpleasant.” A more confident smile than he’d exhibited earlier.

“Mmm-hmm.” Grinning back at him. Kissing him again. A contented sigh when you part. You think you’ll sleep well tonight. Things feel almost normal.

Everything was going to be okay.

***

William Afton returns to work faster than anyone had predicted. Refusing to let any more time pass with the pizzeria’s doors closed. You see the lights on in his office and ascend the steel staircase. Knock before entering and close and lock the door behind you. For no particular reason. You aren’t expecting anything to happen. Just force of habit.

He looks up from the paperwork on his desk. “Moody.”

“Welcome back, Gray. How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine. Well, very behind. I have to get payroll done. And then I’ve got to do inventory and…”

“Will, it’s your first day back. You shouldn’t push yourself too hard.” You move behind his desk. “Can I help with anything?”

“No, it’s alright. I can manage. I did want your opinion on something, though.”

“What?”

“What do you think about me coming over after work tonight?”

“I think that is a very, very good idea.” You would have suggested it if he hadn’t. “Do you have any more good ideas?” Your fingers trail over his tie.

He grins. “A fair few. But, they’re going to have to wait until later. I need to get this done.”

“Okay. Later.” You pout but relent, settling for a quick kiss before leaving his office.

***

You’re back in his office that afternoon.

“Will, can you come downstairs? Someone wants to talk to you.”

“Who is it?”

“Just come with me.���

He follows you down the stairs, those long legs making short work of them. Close on your heels as you make your way though the employee restricted area and duck inside the kitchen.

A large group of the staff have gathered there. There’s a sheet cake on the counter. Purple lettering over white frosting welcoming the owner back. His eyes on your mouth when you take a bite of the slice you’ve cut. Your hand on his spine just above the buckle of his vest when no one’s paying attention to the guest of honor at the impromptu surprise party, the attendees dispersing as quickly as they had assembled. A last graze of knuckles when you part ways at the door, a promise for later.

“Did you organize that earlier?” Your boss has got you pressed against the outside of the building. A quick cigarette break just before close.

You nod. “People really missed you, Will. They love you. I love you,” you add softly. He’d been unconscious the last time you’d said it. Now there was nowhere to hide. The words just out there in the open. Underneath the sky. Interspersed in the cloud of smoke he exhales to the side. Cinders ground beneath his feet.

“I love you too, Moody.” His mouth on yours.

***

William Afton stands at the threshold of your apartment.

You twine your hands around his neck and pull his mouth down for a kiss before inviting him inside.

“Do you want a drink?”

“I want you.”

You’re only too willing to oblige. It’s been so long since you’d been intimate. He follows you into the bedroom. You reach for the light switch but he halts you, his fingers closing over your wrist.

“I don’t know if I’m ready for you to see me yet. The scars…I’m going to be honest with you, Moody. There are a lot of them and I wouldn’t blame you if…”

“They’re not going to change how I feel about you.”

A heavy sigh. He’s been worried about this, you think. You guide him in the direction of the bed. He sits on the edge to unlace his shoes before lying down beside you. You stroke his cheek, planting gentle kisses on his face.

“I almost lost you. I was so scared. I don’t even know how to exist without you in my life anymore.” You feel for his tie and he helps you loosen the knot. You unfasten his vest and then begin working on the buttons of his shirt. His breathing loud in the stillness. Nervously anticipating your reaction. Your fingers inside of that parted fabric, touching his chest. The sparse spread of hair. The indents where he’s been marked. Taut skin. Furrows. Lines. Circles. Strange patterns tattooing the familiar body. You begin kissing them. Making them your own. His breath escaping in a hiss. Your tongue mapping the places your lips have been. His fingers sinking into your hair.

“Need you, Will. Need you inside of me…” Your breath hot on his abdomen. Working on the fly of his pants. His hands impatiently moving under yours. Pushing you back. Underneath him now. Fingers dragging your panties down over one thigh, then the other. Off your body. Your legs spread open for him. His fingers dipping inside of your entrance.

“Oh, my God, Moody.” Your arousal spilling over him. Your mouth meeting his sloppy and wet. His cock replacing his fingers. You moan at the feel of him filling you, your head arching back, digging into the pillow. His mouth chases yours as he thrusts. “Being with you…you feel like home. My moody girl…Mine…” Rocking beneath him. Legs digging in. Every push releasing another gasp of pleasure. His fingers woven through yours, pushing them into the mattress. That sweet tight coil of pressure forming within you. Drawing tighter and tighter. Clenching around him. Pulling him deeper. “Moody…” The final incantation before the spell is completed. Unspooling, undone around him. The heat of his release filling you. Your hands still linked together.

***

Later. The lamp on the nightstand switched on. The rest of his clothing removed. Bare beside you. Tracing the injuries that had nearly stolen him from you. Pink marks on that alabaster skin. So many of them. You’ll learn the feel of all of them. With your fingers. Your lips. Your tongue. For now you’re content to have your head pillowed on his chest. Slotting your fingers through his. Admiring the way they look together.

“Moody.”

You hear the serious note in his voice. Your head lifts from the cradle of his pectoral muscle. You lean back until you’re reclining against the pillows. He rolls on his side. Your first glimpse of the scars on his back.

“I need to say something. It’s not going to be easy, but I’m not going to sugarcoat it. I just need to get this out.”

“Okay.” You’re a little uncertain. The gray eyes pierce you.

“I’ve been a terrible husband. And overall a pretty bad father, too. And I’m not blaming anyone but myself for those two facts. I got so caught up in work.” He shakes his head, pushing himself into a sitting position before continuing. “No. That’s too easy of an excuse.” Another deep inhale and exhale to steady nerves, to push through the rest of what he’s struggling to say. “The fact of the matter is, I didn’t want to be home. Things just didn’t feel right. Not the way I’d expected. For either of us. And we both just…stopped trying. Just accepted the failure. I believe in fulfilling obligations. I know I lacked on the emotional aspect, so I at least tried to ensure I was providing financially. Kind of a vicious cycle, really. Working too much, neglecting family, then working even more to make up for the neglect, and so on.

The thing is, Moody…I didn’t even realize how unhappy I was. Or care about how unhappy I was, I should say. Until I met you. And it made me want things. Makes me want things,” he amends. “You’ve made me realize what I could have. You’ve made me remember what it’s like to be happy, and I want more of that. In the future. With you. I want a future with you. I don’t want you to just be some mistress I keep on the side. I don’t want to hide you. I want to show you off. I want people to know that you’re mine. If I was a free man, would you have me, Moody? Would you be my wife?”

You’re stunned. Never in a million years would you have guessed that William Afton was going to tell you he wanted to build a life with you.

“I um…I was not expecting that.”

“What were you expecting?”

“I don’t know.”

“You know we can’t go on like this. It’s not fair to anyone involved.”

“Would you be asking if you hadn’t…”

“Almost died?” He supplies. You nod. “Yes. It might have taken me longer to come around to it, but yes. It certainly brought things into perspective in a hurry, though. Of course I’m going to still provide financially like I have been. Divide up assets. I don’t care about the house. She wants nothing to do with the restaurant. It’ll work itself out. What do you think, Moody?”

You lick your lips nervously. “I think there will be consequences. You saw how many people responded when you were in the hospital. You’re well known in the community. Respected. The restaurant has a reputation. You’re going to lose all of that if you openly leave her for me. Or even if you don't announce it but we get caught. It won’t be an uncontested divorce then. Even if she doesn’t actually want the restaurant she’ll legally be entitled to part of it. I know how much it means to you. I wouldn’t ask you to give that up. Not the respect, the reputation or any of that. You’d resent me if I cost you that.”

“I would never resent you.”

“You would. If you had to choose between having me or the restaurant…”

“I would choose you. Without question. Fuck the respect and reputation,” he growls.

“You’re going to throw everything away for some lousy waitress? Just give up everything you’ve worked so hard for? It doesn’t make sense, Will.”

“You are a pretty lousy waitress, I’ll grant you that.” He brushes your dropped bottom lip. “I’m teasing, Moody. But I’m dead serious about this. About you. I’m willing to take the risk. Just for the chance at a future with you. However bleak the odds are. When I was lying on the floor that day, all I could think of was how much I regretted not telling you how I felt. I needed you to know it. And I need to know if you want this, too.”

You swallow thickly. Pluck at the sheet beneath you. Chew your bottom lip. The last walls of reason and hesitation crumbling down. You do want it. “Yes. I do.”

“All in, Moody?”

“All in, Gray.”

***

The young woman enters the restaurant, pausing a moment to take it all in. The sights and sounds. People talking and laughing at rows of tables, inside booths. Arcade and pinball machines. Wooden balls careening down skee ball lanes. Plastic balls in the pit jostling together when a child dives in. There’s a hostess standing nearby, waiting patiently, a middle aged woman with a friendly grin on her features.

“Welcome to Freddy Fazbear’s Pizzeria! Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for someone with the last name Afton.”

“Which one? There are two.”

“Uh…I’m not sure. I have a job interview for a waitress position.”

“You’ll be wanting Mrs. Afton then. I’ll go tell her.”

The girl nods, waiting. The glass doors of the entrance open and close behind her. A family with several small children enters. They immediately focus on the nearby prize machines. Stickers, candy, plastic trinkets. Everything themed after the restaurant’s mascots.

You weave your way through the dining room, noticing the potential new hire hovering nervously near the main entrance. Poor kid. She looks scared to death. First job, maybe. You smile and greet her. “Come with me. I’ll give you a little tour, talk you through the job.”

You guide her around the restaurant, noticing William’s left his office. He’s leaning over the railing, forearms braced against it, hands folded.

“Who’s that?”

“That’s the owner. So, what do you think? Want to give it a shot?”

She nods. “Do you like working here?”

“It has its good and bad qualities, like anything else. Mainly good.” Your eyes meet Afton’s briefly before your attention returns to the adolescent beside you. “When can you start?”

“Um, I can do Saturday.”

“Great. We’ll be busy. You’ll get plenty of practice in. Don’t worry, I’ll be here. I’ll make sure your first day isn’t too terrible.” You smile reassuringly. “Let’s go get your official shirt. Black pants are the other requirement.”

You lead the teenager back to the entrance clutching her uniform shirt. “Try to be on time. The boss is kind of a stickler for that,” you add. She nods, still a little wide eyed, then skitters through the door. Yeah, you were definitely going to keep that one under your wing. You nod to the hostess. Such a relief to find someone who seemed like they wanted to stay. College girl was long gone. You return to the dining room, ascending the steel staircase.

“Hello, Mr. Afton.” You join him at the railing, resting your hands on the metal surface.

“Hello, Mrs. Afton.” He straightens. “Who was that? New employee?”

“Yup. Waitress. High school kid. She’s nervous, but I’m gonna keep an eye on her. Make sure no one gives her any shit.”

“Good.” His hand slides over to cover yours. “Want to go take a break, Moody? Maybe get a bit of fresh air?”

“Hmmm,” you hum thoughtfully. “Do I want to go on break with you…”

His lips by your ear. “Unless you want to spend it in my office instead. A new box of shirts came in. Maybe I can help you find one in your size…”

“Will!” You hiss, mock scandalized, but you have to admit your body is definitely interested. You step back from the railing. The animatronics are beginning another performance below. Lots of noise. A good time for it. You see William smirk. Thinking the same thing, no doubt.

You follow your husband to his office.

[pyrotechnicarus]

what's your experience re: the difference between writing prose and scripts 😭 i have to write plays for the first time for school and i miss my wife Purple Prose

Congrats on writing your first play! And I definitely empathize -- switching from one form to the other was hard for me, and something I still struggle with. Musical theater is arguably the novelist's crutch into scriptwriting because we have access to songs -- the kind of access to the characters' thoughts and intentions you get throughout a novel, you can inject into a song, whereas straight playwrights (especially realist playwrights) don't always have that built-in genre convention for theatricalizing their character's minds.

Unless you're working at a level of heightened text in your play that allows interior monologues to be spoken aloud or narrators to describe things (which, hey, you might want to consider!) then you'll have to really work on externalizing both beauty (your beautiful descriptions of things in your short stories? now someone has to say them out loud. Who would? What sort of person would speak this way? Would anyone?) and character development (often my playwriting teacher says that every shift in a piece has to be signaled through an action. A character can't just change their mind. That change doesn't exist to the audience until they do something with that new perspective -- hurt another character, avoid a situation, indulge in something they've opposed before, etc.) Writing for theater really forces you to make your character arcs visible in a way that prose doesn't.

On the other hand, you now have access to a ton of other tools that you didn't have as a prose writer! These usually fall under the broad umbrella of "theatricalization," but really just mean everything you can do in the theater that you can't do in any other medium. The intercut scene before Me, Myself, and I in Adamandi -- the casual, silent cohabitation of the past couple and the present couple at the start of Ghost Story -- the use of the edge of the stage to represent suicide in Adamandi -- all only work because the theatrical audience is willing to accept thematic intersections of space, time, and character because of the boundaries of the stage. When can two things happen simultaneously? When can your character make eye contact with an audience member? When can they leave the stage? What does having collective physical bodies perceiving your art allow you to do - when are they crying together, laughing together, when does their pulse race? Can you make them feel scared? Try out writing scenes that take place in the dark, in a spotlight, with a silent actor onstage, or with significant costume changes that can carry an equal amount of the story to your stage directions and spoken text.

Finally, I guess my overall advice would be to study plays you admire (my benchmarks are currently Is God Is, Escaped Alone, Streetcar Named Desire, M. Butterfly, and various Paula Vogel plays -- And Baby Makes Seven is my fave but The Baltimore Waltz is probably a gentler introduction to her) for their conventions and copy the shit out of them. Imitate their formatting, for a bit. Steal a staging that works in your context. Cut your dialogue down viciously -- words and exchanges that take a few seconds to read on the page take precious minutes to say out loud. Watch out for conversational cul-de-sacs -- ideally each line should advance the scene, advance the characters, and advance the plot. If your character is saying stuff like "What's your name?" then maybe the scene needs to start later -- you want every line to be one that only that character would be able to say.

Relatedly, and I think a failing of mine when I made the switch that is now getting better: don't rely on tone indicators to do the work of adaptation. Your actors and directors will ignore them, first of all, but also each line should contain its proper reading -- it should be clear from the context of the scene whether your character is saying "Hello." (angrily) or "Hello." (haughtily). I try to limit myself to 10-20 tone lines per 90-page musical script, if that's a helpful benchmark for you (this is different from stage directions, but you should also not be using stage directions to take the place of good dialogue. Anything inconsequential -- he paces or chewing his lip or with a sly grin -- ought to be cut.)

Anyway, overall, have fun and do whatever it takes (including disobeying all the advice above) to FINISH IT! You'll only know once you have a full draft A. whether you want to keep going with this medium and B. what your storytelling is Like; how you can improve it. Good luck!

[deadmenandthedivine]

DEAD MEN § the DIVINE

chapter eleven: the tower tapestry

Maetilda Targaryen, First of her Name, was supposed to be many things. What she became was entirely different.

table of contents

trigger warning!!! this fic contains many graphic topics and depictions. such as but not limited to: dead parents, abusive parents, toxic family systems, incest, medieval misogyny, forced marriage, threats of assault (sexual § physical), actual assault, imprisonment, kidnapping, murder, blood/gore, uxoricide, familicide, disassociation, thoughts of self harm and annihilation, PTSD and other neurodivergence. i will do my best to update as i go along, but please let me know if i have missed anything!

word count: 8138

“Ao mazverdagon nyke uēmagon. Pendagon iksā jāre naejot sagon se vok byka ābrazȳrys syt bona valītsos? Iksā iā doru-borto, ojūdan, byka aspo. Iksā daor zaldrīzes, yn iksā ñuha tala. Iksā ñuhon.” (You make me fucking sick. Think you're gonna be the perfect little wife for that boy? You’re a stupid, clueless, little bitch. You are no dragon, but you're my daughter. You’re mine.)

His words were so quietly growled she could barely hear them. An endless rant. A barrage of criticism and insults and digs. The grip on her wrist was so tight it caused her heart to beat in her ears. It was a sound she became more and more accustomed to that day. Her fingers felt like they were being stabbed with billions of different little tiny needles. Her father yanked harder as he seemingly decided she was not moving fast enough. She glanced down to find that her hand had turned purple. Only then did she feel the immense pain it caused her. She yelped as she tried to yank her hand away, to allow blood flow to return to it. But he only yanked harder and tightened his grip. Tears welled in her eyes as her face twisted with torment and torture. Her feet tripped over the excessive skirts they drowned in. They clumsily slammed into the steps as the two climbed both up and down various staircases. The princess desperately looked around for her sworn knight, for anyone who may save her. But she and her father were alone in the corridors. Where had Ser Gunthor gone? He had just been with her at dinner. He had just shielded her from being recaptured by the Kingsguard. How could he have disappeared so quickly? How could he leave her alone at such a time?

“Kepa, kostilus! Ñuha ondos.” (Father, please! My fingers.)

“Keligon aōha relgos gō nyke keligon ziry syt ābrar. I will cut them off if I see fit.” (Shut your mouth before I shut it forever.)

As usual, she did as she was told. He dragged her all the way to her chambers without uttering another word. He never once loosened his grip. The door slammed behind him and he locked it. She was locked in there alone with him. He released his grip on her once he had her in the confined space. Trapped and at the mercy of his every whim. He pushed her forward into the room. The princess stumbled before she caught herself. She nursed her right hand as blood began to flow back to it. The pace and distance of their journey left her breathless. Her heart beat wildly as she tried to fill her chest back up with air. Prince Daemon looked at her like a rabid predator as he entered further. She was cornered.

“Do you think yourself to be a smart girl?”

“I-I-I don’t know.” Her nerves blocked the words from escaping her mouth in a succinct manner.

“I-I-I—I don’t know!” He mocked, “You do not fool me.”

She gaped in disbelief, mind racing to understand what his words were supposed to mean, “Fool you? I do not know what you think you see, but—”

“Se mērī run nyke ūndegon skori nyke jurnegon rȳ ao iksis se narysta aspo ao māstan hen.” (The only thing I see when I look at you is the spiteful bitch you came out of.)

He took slow ominous steps forward as he spoke, carefully closing the gap between Maetilda and himself. She opened her mouth to respond, but he slapped her across the face before she could. Quicker than the flick of a frog’s tongue. Her cheek stung similarly to how her hand still did. Undoubtedly reddening as blood drew to the surface just beneath the skin.

“Sepār hae aōha muña, ‘kostagon dōrī vestragon naejot keligon aōha relgos. Iā aōha kris. Pendagon aōla gūrēntan? Pendagon aōla rōva ribazma? Skori kessa ao gūrēñagon. Pranced around with him like a fucking doll. Sat at the table like an empty headed slag waiting for him to come address you. If you had a shred of my mind, you would have told him no.” (Just like your mother, ‘can never seem to close your mouth. Or your legs. Think yourself clever? Think yourself intelligent?)

Her father paced as he began to monologue. The sound of his boots set off alarm bells inside her. He knew just the way to carry himself that would intimidate her the most. He knew she was scared of him. He used it to his advantage. His steps were heavy yet even. No hurry or stomp. They gave away no sign of anger or panic, remaining completely stoic as he continued to pace. Back and forth and back.

“Idiocy plagues your bloodline. ‘Seeps in from every side. ‘Stood no chance with a mother and an uncle like yours. To think I thought my blood would be enough to make you right. Your sisters came from Laena, their stupidity can only be from your uncle. You’re the one who gets it from both sides. I should pity you. I should. Yet you make it so hard. So fucking hard! You act just like her, sound just like her. Sometimes you move just like her.”

The princess swallowed the lump that began to grow in her throat, careful to keep her mouth clamped shut. She wanted to say something. To soothe him, to placate him. But she didn’t want to set him off farther. He was not talking to her, but thinking out loud. As long as he was occupied with his thoughts, she was safe.

“Iksā se doru-borto aspo bona ipradagon hen zȳhon ondos. Bloody fucking King. Iksā ñuha tala, daor zȳhon. Ao rijībagon ñuha udir.” (You are the dumb bitch that eats out of his hand; You are my daughter, not his. You obey my word.)

“Iksan vaoreznuni, kepa.” (I’m sorry, father.)

Her face whipped to the side before the sensation of the second slap actually rippled across her cheek. She furrowed her eyebrows as she wondered why she was suddenly staring over at the tapestry on the wall. It was a few moments until the billions and trillions of needles pricked her cheek, just as they had her hand. Tears welled in her eyes again at the sting.

“Skoros iksin nyke naejot gaomagon lēda ao?” (What am I to do with you?)

Whatever he decided to do, she hoped it would be over soon. Her arms wrapped around herself in a hug. Scared to look back at him, she kept her eyes fixed on the big tapestry on the wall. A floor-to-ceiling tapestry depicting an old tower built atop black stone, a bay with ships in the back. It could not have been the same tapestry that was placed there by her great grandparents or the grandparents that came before them. As she determined before, it looked like Oldtowne, a city she had only flown over only once before. She knew she would not last long around the Hightowers, but even they were the more favorable choice when her father was angry. Regardless of what tower it happened to be, who the tower belonged to, she wished she could crawl into it and hide. She hoped it would be somewhere her father would never find her. Somewhere his wrath could never reach.

“Ziry pendagon ēza ērinagon. Pōnta mirre gaomagon. Ziry se mirre lī kasta orvorta. Pendagon kostis dīnagon ao hen sepār hae pōnta gōntan nyke.” (He thinks he has won. They all do. He and all those green twats. Think they can marry you off just as they did me.)

All she could think to do was nod, afraid that opening her mouth again would result in a third slap. She did not want to risk the bruise. It would be her reputation to come into question from such a mark, not his. Yet as she kept her mouth shut, her mind remained fixated on her father’s next moves. He would not allow Aemond to have her. But how? What was he planning? An elaborate scheme or a quick shove from a high cliff. Her eyes briefly darted toward her balcony, as if to make sure it still remained where it had. Her heart began to pound as she pictured her father pushing her over the railings. That would be the easiest way to keep his ducks in a row — to get rid of her entirely. It wouldn’t be the first time she thought he may do so. Whispers that he had been responsible for her own mother’s death were never far from her ears. Perhaps they were true. Perhaps she was next.

“Nothing will be fixed, you know?” His smile was sadistic.

“Yes, I know.” She nodded in agreement.

“And yet, you already let the Queen’s favorite son parade you around like some conquered relic.” Another slap sent her twisting over again, “Nyke gōntan daor manaeragon bona!” (I did not raise that!)

The sting in her cheek only sharpened as the skin grew more sensitive. She felt uncomfortably hot. The last thing she wanted to do was betray her family. From the moment they had arrived, she had been trying to do the opposite. The princess did not feel like herself. Not in the slightest. She felt weak and confused and tested. Like whatever move she made would set off a chain reaction. Regardless, Maetilda was going to do everything in her power to not let it show. She was a Targaryen. She was not afraid of anything. Except another Targaryen.

“I will do better, kepa.” She did her best to disguise the sound of tears in her voice.

“Of course you will.” He seethed, “Do you remember what I told you before dinner? I almost did away with you once. I can still do it, I can do whatever I want with you. Swear to me you’ll do better.”

“I swear.” She assured him, tears pouring down her cheeks.

There was a pause before his words chilled her to the bone, “Swear on your maidenhead.”

“Pardon?”

“Swear that you will not betray me. Swear that if you fail, each and every one of my men will each get a turn to disgrace you for the rest of your life…”

“I—What?”

“Don’t question me, swear to me.”

“I… I… ssswear.”

“Swear what?”

“I swear… to do better… to not betray you… or our family.”

Prince Daemon looked at her expectantly, hinting to the princess that she was not done. That there were words she had left unsaid. The pain of knowing exactly what his look was hinting at hammered inside her head. He wanted her to say it out loud. He wanted to hear her say the words herself. With a forceful hand, he pushed her onto her knees. He tilted her chin up at him, petting at it in order to coax her next words out.

Tears welled up even more in her eyes, pouring down her cheeks like a mile wide river. “I swear… on my maidenhead.”

He smiled as soon as she said the word. The sound of her swallowing any sense of pride or dignity seemingly more pleasing to him than any compliment. His hand came down to cup her face as his eyes glanced across her kneeling body, an emphasis to the filthiness she already felt. Her stomach flipped as the words she had just sworn had fully processed through her mind.

“Good girl,” Her father lovingly patted the cheek that he had been assaulting, “You know, it is not a bad idea on its own. The more I ponder it, the more it makes sense. If my men took your little flower, all of my problems would be solved by sunrise.”

Maetilda shook her head in horror, tears dropping down her cheeks. Her skin crawled. Daemon’s threats were never empty. If he liked the idea too much, there would be nothing to stop him. Her knights were not enough to take on him and his men — not without a miracle sent by the Gods. Of which, she didn’t quite believe in. The cold rough hand that patted her cheek dropped down to her shoulder. She closed her eyes as the grip tightened. His thumb slowly inched toward her throat, tracing the line of her jugular.

“Mm. But—“

A light tnk, tnk, tnk on the other side of the door made her jump.

“Princess, did you mean to lock the door? It is Noarysa and Adelyn. We were told dinner was over. Please let us in, you must not sleep on your hair.”

“One moment!” Her father responded.

His grip remained for a moment longer, only tightening the more it stayed. With one final squeeze, he let go of her shoulder, but he did not release her completely. His hand moved down to the small of her back, forcefully guiding her back up to her feet and over to the vanity chair. From where she sat, she could see the reflection of the tower tapestry looming over their shoulders. She refused to meet her father’s eyes.

“I shall see you tomorrow. There will be a meeting in the Small Council chambers to discuss the nuptials that will not be happening.”

She nodded again. Much to her relief, he seemed satisfied by her response; he did not linger. Rather, in a way to mock her and the blood pounding through her veins, Prince Daemon idly walked toward the door. Coming to a full stop before he unlocked it. He paused before actually opening the iron latch mechanism. He opened it causally, putting on a show comparable to any street actor. As if he hadn’t just slapped and threatened his daughter inside, the prince nodded to the handmaids who also avoided his gaze. Once in the corridor, his pace picked up significantly while he sauntered away. The two handmaids scurried in immediately, waiting only for the Rogue Prince to be out of the way before rushing over to their princess. Maetilda sat in the wooden chair and stared at her reflection in the looking glass. Her left cheek was light purple and bright red. Her right one was flush pink. Her right hand still hadn’t returned to its normal color either. Her once intricate updo had shifted and fallen from where it had sat at the start of dinner. As soon as the princess had noticed the presence of the other two women, her gaze fell to her lap. She hoped they would not say anything to anyone, but she knew word of what her face looked like would be worth a life changing amount of money. She could not fault them.

“Good evening, Princess. Why don’t we get you into your nightgown before we take out your hair?” Noarysa’s voice was soft and gentle, like a mother’s coo to her tired baby.

The princess could still remember Noarysa’s snippets about her family, about her children. She was a dedicated mother, it made sense that Maetilda felt so comforted. The silver honey haired girl wanted nothing more than to be held, cradled, and rocked. To feel the way she did whenever Lady Laena would tuck her into bed and tell her a bedtime story. It had been so many years since the last time the Velaryon had laughed with her or wiped her tears. She longed for her late step mother’s presence every day, yet she felt guilty when she longed for Laena and not her mother. She missed her mother first. The tent of a dress was soon untied and stripped from her body. It was not until she felt the cold of the room that she noticed she was no longer sitting. She did not remember standing up or stepping away from the vanity. Regardless, Adelyn helped her into her nightgown while Noarysa scurried over to the fireplace. The older maid hummed an unfamiliar tune as she added another log and put on a cauldron of coals to begin warming for later. Maetilda stared forward but looked at nothing. Her entire being felt rigid and still. Her mind became overwhelmed with billions and trillions of thoughts at once. Tears wells in her eyes once more, but she blinked them away. Both Noarysa and Adelyn assisted the princess back into the vanity chair. Together, they worked to take down the silver honey nest on her head. In all of the action at dinner, it had tangled painfully at the crown of her head and nape of her neck. The maids took gentle care to unknot each strand, oiling the tresses when needed. Noarysa continued her unfamiliar tune. It had a happy melody, but the key was virtually unheard of to the princess’s ear. The notes in the tune flattened and sharpened at surprisingly mesmerizing places. Before long, the princess found herself leaning into the maids’ touch. The collective buzz from the night bugs far down below could be heard chorusing in the gardens, serving as Noarysa’s musical accompaniment. It would have been enough to put the princess to sleep had she not already felt wide awake. As if the Gods themselves were holding her eyes open.

Had Noarysa continued her song, Maetilda would have sat contently in her vanity chair for the entire evening. Adelyn used her skilled hands to massage the princess’s scalp as the number of braids dwindled. They had not known her long, but they had treated her with such gentle care. It felt wrong. As much as she wanted to revel in the moment, soak it in and relax, her senses all remained on high alert. She could not ignore the part of her that feared her father would barge back in at any moment. Having had a chance to stew over their exchange and turn back around. She could still remember the day her father had returned to her chambers three separate times to continue the same argument. She had been five and ten at the time, a few moons after she had her first bleed. They were at Dragonstone during the actual dispute, but the inciting incident had taken place in Driftmark that morning. Lord Corlys had allowed Daemon to take her and the twins flying. When storm clouds began to brew, they had all landed and retreated back into the castle only to find that Lord Manderly and his eldest son Warren had arrived unexpectedly. They docked to avoid the brewing storm and came to treat with the Lord of Driftmark. As the men went about their business in the morning thunder, the princess and her sisters took Warren on a tour of the castle. When the four had returned to the Great Hall, where the men had conducted their business over goblets of wine, the Manderly boy had the princess on his arm and hanging off of his every word. He had tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and pressed a lingering kiss to the back of her hand before turning to her father. It was clear to everyone in the room that the Manderly was about to ask the Rogue Prince for his blessing to court his eldest daughter. But just as the boy had opened his mouth to speak, the Targaryen prince had shoved the boy back and yanked the princess from the hall. He had flown them home immediately in a rage. Through the downpour and all. Although Shrykos was older and larger than Ceraxes, the younger dragon was faster, more agile, and had a far more skilled rider. She knew there would be no sense in trying to escape him. When they had arrived back at Dragonstone, her father had dragged her all the way back to her chambers by her ear. His grip had been much gentler at the time. They argued for the rest of the day. Her father left only to go eat his dinner, after which he returned to continue. He tried to leave the argument twice more before he was actually successful in staying away. He was a stubborn man who would not accept a truce, not even with his own daughter. Especially with his own daughter. When the maids finished with her hair, they made ready the bed. The hot coals on the fire were dumped into the iron and ceramic bed warmer, which was then tucked underneath the bed frame. Adelyn blew out the different candles across the room. The atmosphere was comfortable and inviting, yet the princess sat on edge. Despite their best efforts, the maids could not distract the princess from the evening she had.

“Thank you, Noarysa, Adelyn. Thank you.”

“It is our pleasure, Princess.” Noarysa responded softly.

“Certainly.” Adelyn nodded in agreement.

“You both may go. Have a good night.” Maetilda tried her best to smile at them.

“Respectfully, Princess. Do you want help getting into bed?” Adelyn asked.

Maetilda’s smile grew genuine, “I will manage.”

“Good night, Princess.” Noarysa curtsied before she exited, Adelyn soon parroted her.

The door latched closed behind them, after which Maetilda rushed forward to lock it. Hoping the lock would be enough to keep her father away for the rest of the evening. Her mind replayed every last glimpse of him she could remember from dinner as she paced about her chambers. He had seemed so jovial, even smiling and laughing along with Rhaenyra and his brother. While she had not acted in the most ladylike manner by getting into the boys’ tussle, he had never once voiced an issue with that. He was angry that she was to be married, that she had agreed to dance with Aemond. Perhaps he was angry that she did not do more to denounce the one eyed prince. Her stomach churned with the unknown. She felt hot, clammy, nauseous from it all. Yet her pacing only continued. Her vision darkened at the edges a bit as the feeling of doom loomed over shoulder. She felt as if she were already too late, her oncoming fate already sealed. The room soon grew stuffy. Her lungs struggled to intake a full breath. Her hands shakily clawed at the neckline of her nightgown. Her eyes ripped through the chambers, desperate for relief. She spotted the balcony door first, and barreled through it, steps labored and unbalanced. The entirety of her body felt heavy, down to every limb. The cogs inside her brain felt rusted. She took a seat on the wooden bench and stared out at Blackwater Bay. The gentle waves reflected the twinkle of the waxing gibbous moon. It was so dark that she could not tell where the sea grew deeper, where the water gradually darkened in color. It made her mind picture sea monsters and krakens lurking just below the surface, camouflaged in the black of the night. She imagined their tentacles entrapping her before pulling her to the bottom with them. Ripping her body to shreds with razor sharp teeth. It would not be a pretty end or a graceful death fit for a princess. It would be just like her mother’s, occurring in nature and shrouded in mystery. An ending that she found far more fitting. She would have much preferred the ocean’s unknown to her father’s return.

A choked cry escaped her throat despite how hard she tried to hold all tears back. The cry soon became a desperate whimper that quickly turned into a single sob. Her thoughts scared her, sent chills through her bones. Never before had she wished for death so often, so repeatedly, and in so many different ways. It felt like the world was caving in on her, like she was on a sinking ship. It felt like her days were already numbered. Yet a big part of her was too afraid to find out what waited for her in the afterlife. Deep down, she knew it would not be as simple and wonderful as her mother. Life was never that good, so how could the afterlife be? Maetilda physically shook her head to try to dispel the thoughts, wiping the wet tears from her cheeks. She felt so silly, so ashamed. There were other ladies who had it worse than she. There were ladies who were wed before their first blood, were beaten until they bruised, were belittled to the rest of Court by their own spouses. Ever since she had been little, she had told herself that such a life would never be hers. How naive of her to think herself any different from any other lady, to think herself worthy of any other fate. Perhaps gnashing teeth and murky waters would be exactly what she deserved. Perhaps the Gods were teaching her a lesson, just as her Septa would say. Perhaps she was destined for the cruelest of fates. A life of shame and misery and solitude. She could already feel the cold of it all, settling inside so that she would never truly be warm again. Without a doubt, she knew her father would never be satisfied. Not until she was no longer betrothed. Not until there was no other prince or lord to threaten his claim over her keep. Would that be the rest of her future, her life? A constant battle for the chance to be sold off until there are no buyers left standing. A never ending auction with no final bid in sight. If her knights and all the castle’s guards would not immediately come running, she would have thrown her head back and screamed. Her lungs craved the scratchy release. Only on the back of Vhagar would Lady Laena let the young princess scream at the top of her lungs. Vhagar would roar back in a pitch that matched, and they would soar until Laena decided it was time to eat. What she would do to feel such freedom and wonder again. Back then, she had never been scared to let go. She had never feared losing grip and falling. She just knew she never would. When she had eventually mounted Shrykos, she was just a few years older. Yet old enough to know that falling meant death, old enough to know that falling was amongst the worst ways to die. To idly await the collision that ended it all.

“Princess?” The voice startled her entire body into restarting before her head whipped around to find her betrothed.

Her heart stopped at the sight of him, in the last place he should have been. He would ruin any and all of her father’s plans. In fact, Aemond’s own plans could not be any more innocent. He stood in the doorway of the balcony with his hands up in feigned surrender, still dressed in the same clothes from dinner. He was tall enough that he took up a majority of the frame. His figure loomed. Her mouth went dry.

“How did y— What are you doing? How long have you been hiding in my chambers? Get out!” Maetilda gasped as she crossed her arms over her chest, trying to hide it.

“Pardon my intrusion, ñuha dōna.” He replied almost solemnly. (my sweet)

“How did you get in here? Passed my knights? Passed the lock?”

“Keep your voice down, and I will tell you.”

“My voice is down. Tell me.”

“You must know of the passages between the walls. Maegor had them built.”

“I know he murdered the men who built them to keep their whereabouts hidden. You know where they are?”

“I have lived my whole life amongst these walls. Plenty of time to search.”

“And what has brought you through them and to my chambers? You risk my good name. Leave. Go!”

“Maetilda, please. I heard everything.” He stated, “Every word your father spoke. I—I had to make certain you were alright.”

“Allow me to make certain I heard you correctly. Since dinner, you have been hiding in my walls and listening to my private conversations?”

He sucked a breath in, forcing his back to straighten. After a pause, he nodded, “I had not intended to eavesdrop. I only wished to sit near your presence for a moment after everything that took place at dinner. I was never going to come in… But your father is loud. And potentially treasonous.”

Her limbs moved of their own accord. She launched out of the bench like a projectile from a catapult. Before either of the two could blink, the princess had already slapped and shoved her betrothed at least twice. An angry cry left her mouth this time. Each of the many emotions she had felt on the balcony that evening spilled out of her all at once. With all of her might, she tried over and over to knock the prince off of his feet. But much like at dinner, he did not even flinch. The only sign of discomfort he showed was his shift in stance and the crease of his brow. The latter of which disappeared as quickly as it came, allowing his face to return to its stoic thinking position. His lack of reaction only angered her more, she threw fisted swings at his chest. His lips thinned into a line, but he remained unmoving. With another frustrated cry, the princess pushed and hit him harder. Thunk, umpf, thunk, thunk, umpf, smack. Their struggle almost made more noise than their conversation had. After a few more harsh slaps to the chest, the prince finally reacted. As she continued her attempts at hurting him, Aemond reached up and snatched his betrothed’s hands out of the air. Careful to avoid her still red wrists, his palms encompassed her fists in his grip. His hands clamped over her own like a glove that was far too tight. At least for the moment, she was lassoed and subdued. Maetilda tried to tug herself free to no avail. It was on her third tug that the dams broke. Tears welled in her eyes and streamed down her cheeks before she had the chance to blink them away. Her mouth turned down into a helpless frown. This time, her cry was a sharp throaty sob. One that caused her knees to buckle and her shoulders to shake. Wordlessly, Aemond kept her steady. His hands released hers only to reach up and wipe her under eyes dry. He voiced no complaints or made any face of displeasure; his presence was nearly calming. He held her cheeks and petted her hair. Yet she wanted him gone. Needed him gone.

“You shouldn’t be here.” She croaked.

“It will not matter soon. Whispers will only hurry our nuptials along if we are found out.”

“You seem pleased.”

“I am.” A silence hung around them before he spoke again, “Although, I sense you are not.”

“Perhaps I would be happier had you not invited yourself into my bedroom in the middle of the night.”

“And what a pleasant night the Gods have given us. Next time, I swear to you I shall knock. I only wish to talk for a moment. May we sit, Princess?”

“No, you may not.”

“Very well.”

Quiet consumed them once more. Maetilda crossed her arms in front of her chest. The nightgown she was dressed in was not at all decent. As Aemond remained standing as instructed, the princess found herself unable to sit. Her legs felt like they were on fire, her whole body did. Like bolts of lighting were shooting through her veins. The prince kept his lilac eye locked on her frame like a target, although this time they seemed glazed over. Seemingly buried deep in his mind, the princess watched him shift his weight from one foot to the other as he both looked at her and beyond her at the same time. Her mind screamed for her to shout for her knight beyond the door, to do as her father would wish. But in that moment, she felt as if her mouth was sewn shut. She was completely transfixed. The prince’s weight shifted again as his mouth opened to speak. Her own breath hitched in anticipation.

“I hope you know I meant what I said when I told you that I was going to make it up to you.”

“What?”

“For the disrespect I showed you by not greeting you and your family when you arrived. I am going to right what I have done wrong.”

“Those are pretty words, Prince Aemond, but you did the opposite of that at dinner.”

“I was provoked.”

“Provoked? No one said a word against you.”

“‘Didn’t need to.”

“So you were goaded into treason without so much as being insulted yourself? Sounds to me that you were looking for a reason to be nasty.”

“You are not being fair.”

“How so?”

“I was provoked!”

“By what? By the laughter of a boy two years your junior?”

“Yes, I was. The same one to take this.” Aemond huffed as he defiantly ripped his eyepatch off.

The princess gasped at the surprise of his uncovered face. He stood like a fuming little boy awaiting retaliation. His chest rose and fell with his rapid breaths, smoke practically poured out of his nose. His eyes’ expression held a thousand different emotions. Anger, sadness, shame, embarrassment, vengeance, guilt, despair. She felt her own heart rip to shreds with guilt. How callous had she been? Had she not considered what it would feel to be physically maimed by one’s own kin all while being cast aside a majority of one’s life? Would she not lash out given the same circumstances? She felt like a hypocrite, overly critical and judgmental. He had stolen Vhagar, he had threatened to bash Jacaerys’s head in with a rock, that’s why he had lost his eye. Lucerys was merely acting like the boy he still was. And she knew better than anybody that speaking so boldly in front of her father was more times than not a mistake. She let her eyes close and took a deep breath before she answered him.

“His actions cut deep, I understand. There are years of malice between you, but he only wins when you allow him to pull such a reaction from you.”

“He wins when he thinks he can get away with behaving like a child.”

“You are no better when you behave like a child yourself.”

He snarled at her words like an animal. It was belittling to be called a child, and he seemed to be particularly sensitive to name calling. The torment that he could not seem to escape. She watched his face twist, his nose wrinkle, and his mouth curl downwards in disgust. He huffed and puffed like a dragon with a temper. The princess simply stared back at him, insinuating her lack of fear. Aemond blew air through his nose with enough force to cause a breeze. He spun around and moved away from her in order to take his aggression out on the small potted saffron plant that he proceeded to catapult off of the balcony.

“I shall make up for my disrespect to you, ñuha dōna, but I will not allow your family to disrespect me.”

It was a sentiment that made the princess freeze in her place and briefly contemplate everything she once thought. He had a point. He deserved to defend himself against disrespect. All those years, he had been more than disrespected. He had been maimed and bullied and excluded. Could she have been the one in the wrong? Was she the one out of line? Certainly not, her gut would not lie.

“That includes your father.” He added.

“I cannot control what my father does.”

Aemond reached forward and ran a timid hand through her hair, “When I am your husband, it will be my job to put him in his place.”

Maetilda tried horribly to hold back her breathy, incredulous chuckle. His words felt weird as they drifted through her ears. She shook her head free of Aemond’s hand and huffed. It felt like she was a play toy being fought over. Her skin crawled as the feeling grew louder in her mind.

“If my father lets the marriage happen.”

Aemond’s face twisted with anger once more. His jaw clenched and fixed forward, “The King has already ordered it. He and his men will be executed for treason well before any of them can touch you. I will see to it.”

His steps toward her were so careful that they were nearly silent, but they were no less deliberate. The look on his face sent chills down her spine, internally screaming of the danger she was in. She had played too close to fire, and was about to be burnt. She should have listened to her father, and not entertained the prince’s words in the Godswood, not gotten up to dance with him. Her father was right. She did think herself to be clever. What had those thoughts gained her? More questions and uncertainty than ever, her peace and safety threatened. What was she after? What did she want? In that moment, she wanted to stand her ground, remain brave in the face of whatever Aemond was. She wanted to prove her dragon blood, she wanted her father to be wrong. Yet the prince before her also made her question that. He loomed over her, nearly resembling the figure in the black cloak. Every single hair on the princess’s body stood on edge. It could not have been him. The figure was a ghost, a spirit, an apparition; it had no face or hands.

“If I were to take you this evening, there would be no argument left by sunrise.”

“You sound just like him.”

“You insult me.” He chuckled, both knowing full well that he had quoted the man.

“No, you insult me.” Maetilda crossed her arms in front of her chest once more, “No one gets to have me. Not without first swearing vows to me in the sight of Gods and men.”

“Then I shall have the honors after all.” She smacked his chest once more as he smugly finished his sentence.

“And now you sound like your brother.”

“Take that back.”

“Then quit talking about that which resides between my legs as if it is some castle you wish to conquer. To think I suspected you were different.”

“Dōna dārilaros,” (Sweet princess) He breathed her in like a flower, reaching his hand up again to play with small strands of her hair before letting his hand drop downward. The breath hitched in the princess’s throat as his hand gently cupped her waist. His fingers lightly toyed with the soft silk of her nightgown. Carefully, his hand snaked into a tighter grip around her back that pulled her body closer into him. Unsure of what to do, the princess simply froze in overwhelming fear. She watched him with an empty stare, “No one sees you the way that I do. You shall be the perfect wife, divinely chosen. The perfect mother to my heirs. Steadfast, ferocious, intelligent. You are no castle. You are a dragon. An elusive one, just as the mount you claimed.”

That sounded more like Aemond, “What do you want from me?”

“A love as strong as Aegon the First and his precious Rhaenys.”

“Queen Rhaenys died fighting her husband’s battles.”

“A mistake I shall never make with you.”

“That’s quite the promise. And just how do you expect me to trust you?”

“I suppose I shall earn your trust with time.”

“Hmm,” She mimicked him. His gaze was intense and she could hold it no longer. Her eyes dropped down to the detailing on the collar of his shirt. Seven pointed stars embroidered in sneaky places. She gasped when the thought occurred to her, “Most men do not love the ladies they marry, but those they bed. You speak pretty words, but... I don’t—”

“We are more similar than you think, ñuha dōna.”

To punctuate his words, he descended upon her as quickly as she had launched herself at him earlier. His hands cupped her cheeks, running his thumbs across her cheek bones. His lips slowly massaged her own. His pink pout pressed into hers with passion, chasing her favor. The feeling was completely foreign, a wet mouth colliding with hers. There were muscles in his lips that she did not expect to feel, but they worked and toyed at her own mouth in such a way that felt oddly satisfying. Her heart fluttered and her skin tingled, but her body remained stiff and rigid. Unsure of what to do, terrified to do the wrong thing. But her lack of reaction did not stop him, his lips continued their dance as he pressed pressure against her through them. Her eyes remained cracked open, able to see the firelight in her chambers just beyond his shoulder. She could feel his movements spreading odd sensations throughout her body, she did not know how to describe them. They felt ticklish and almost slimy. Regardless, her heart fluttered and her cheeks filled with heat. Before she could rip her lips away from him, the Prince ceased his tirade in order to catch his breath. He pressed their foreheads together as his eye studied the minor details of her face. He had kissed her, and all she felt inside was conflict. A soft smile spread across his shiny, wet lips. Undoubtedly proud of himself. But it gave her the same feeling her father’s crocodile smile in the throne room had. Dread. One of his hands gently stroked at her darker pink cheek.

“Se Jaes vēttan nyke syt ao,” He whispered. (The Gods made me for you.)

“Se Jaes emagon dōrī gaomagon nyke mirre sȳz,” She muttered back. (The Gods have never done me any good.)

His pout moved to kiss her forehead that time. Wrapping his other arm around her and into a tight hug. His arms held her securely in place. She could not move even if she had wanted. Her father’s crocodile smile would not leave her mind as they stood. It was plastered all over her brain and onto the backs of her eyelids. The sound of Vaemond’s body splatting onto the ground echoed in her ears. It had only been the day before. She could still be next. Her body remained rigid. Tense with terror and fear that she desperately wanted to keep hidden. What would her father think? Would Aemond keep their actions to himself? Would she survive the fortnight? A big part of her doubted it. Not with her father and her betrothed under the same roof. She was shocked into taking another breath, unaware that she had been holding it, as cold fingers danced down her spine. The soothing chill could be felt even through her silk nightgown. The smooth, light scratch of his fingernails was enough alone to soothe her to sleep. Had she not been standing or utterly on edge.

“Of course they have, they made you a princess.”

“The King did that with a stroke of his quill, not any god.”

“This is true. But the Gods put the tenderness in his heart. They smile down upon us.”

“The Fourteen or the Seven?” She quizzed him, as if his belief in one or the other would reveal his true allegiance. She already knew.

“All one and twenty.”

“You keep both?”

“There is much for us to learn about each other. What gods do you pray to?”

“The ones that answer.”

“Hmm.”

Aemond loosened his grip, allowing Maetilda to pull away and look at him. Before she could get a good glimpse, he was planting small kisses all over her face. Her cheeks, her nose, her eyelids, the corners of her mouth. It felt like bugs crawling over her skin. As she squirmed away, she could feel the pull of her hair in his fist. It reminded her of the consequences that loomed over them.

“This is wrong. You should not be here. You should not have kissed me. You need to leave. We must pretend this never happened.” The princess fought against his firm, unwavering hold.

“Shhh, Gaomagon daor sȳngagon aōla. Mazeminna dohaeragon lēda mirre ra. Mazeminna marizzo toliot ao.” (Do not worry yourself. I will take care of everything. I will take care of you.)

She felt powerless as his hands grabbed her arms and turned the two of them. Positioning them so that the princess was pinned between him and the worn terra-cotta colored castle wall. Unable to run away yet again. As soon as she realized what was happening, it was already too late. He pressed his body harder against her as she squirmed.

“Please st—“

Before she could finish her words, the prince had parted her legs with his knee. Pushing his leg farther in between to divide them, only aided by the nightgown that trapped her lower limbs from kicking. She tried to push back against his arms and torso, only to be electrocuted by the brush of the prince’s thigh against her maidenhead. Tears welled in her eyes as she wondered if he had taken it, claimed it as his own. Just like that. But she knew that would have been too easy. Ladies’ matters were never that easy. Aemond dropped his head down to her neck. His breath tickled her skin as he inhaled against her. Breathing her in.

“You smell so pretty, ñuha dōna. Please. Allow me to—”

“Please, stop! Stop. I am a princess of virtue, and I wish to remain so.”

The prince’s face morphed into a more displeased expression as he pulled away from where he hovered over her collarbones. The warmth of him was enough to make her question her resolve. He looked like he wanted to say something, but didn’t know how to say it. His mouth hung open slightly as his lips formed the beginnings of different words.

“Swear that you will tell me if your father makes any more of his threats.”

“I will not make two conflicting vows in one evening.”

The prince huffed through his nose, but the princess in his arms only dug her heels in and continued, “You said yourself that you heard every word he spoke. I have already committed enough punishable offenses.”

He did not answer. Only took another deep breath of the air against her neck before shoving her away from him in favor of storming off into her chambers. She was completely taken aback at first, unsure of what to do. He paced back and forth, and back and forth and back and forth, in front of her fireplace. Twisting his hands and fingers into knots as if he wanted to hurt himself. Her instincts took over as she followed after him back inside. Had her answer truly been that detrimental? What did he know that she did not? Wearily, she reached out to rub his shoulder. Wanting nothing more to see the prince calm once more.

“How would I tell you of my father’s plans without his knowledge?”

“Helaena.” He nodded as he agreed with his own answer more and more. “Tell Helaena, and she will tell me.”

Tears welled in the princess’s eyes again as she shook her head, she felt as if she were already trapped. “Aemond, I can’t—“

Tnk, tnk, tnk, tnk. The second knock to interrupt her evening. The prince furrowed his eyebrows before he sprinted over to the floor to ceiling tapestry of the tower. He stood in front of it, just as her father had not long ago. Aemond was taller than him. He looked less small next to the tower, but not by much. Maetilda panicked as she ran to her wardrobe for her housecoat. By the time she turned back around, her betrothed was gone. Disappeared while her back was turned to him. She found herself searching for him, checking behind her bookshelves, the tapestry, and under the rug for some sort of trap door. But there was not even a trace. No handle, no door hinge. Yet he had made it both in and out of her chambers somehow. Was he still listening? Just as he had listened to her and her father. Could he see her? Would he return? She wanted to bolt the door behind him, but she didn’t know where it was.

“Mi’lady, it’s your knight. I have what you asked for.”

His whisper was just quiet enough for her to hear. She opened the door to reveal Ser Eddrin and a rucksack. When she let him into her room, he rushed over to the sitting table. His armor creaked as usual, giving away his presence. Clearing the surface with one arm, he unceremoniously dumped the rucksack out into the empty space. A very old book, a black candle, red pepper, several empty vials, and salt.

A/N: Maetilda has finally been betrothed, but Daemon is not going to go down without a fight. The current escape route is one that will bring her father’s wrath, the other option is possible eternal loneliness under her father’s thumb. She won’t be able to escape him either way. It looks like even Aemond will not come to her rescue either. But Eddrin and Gunthor always pull through!! <3

I am so sorry for being MIA. I had someone who I thought was a friend steal a very big amount of money from me, and have been dealing with a lot of stress. Updates are still coming. I am currently writing chapter thirteen and plan on releasing twelve and thirteen together. If anyone knows any good ways to make side cash without exhausting yourself, please let me know lol 😅

TAGLIST: @snh96 @marvelescvpe

xoxo messy

[mangooes]

Chapter 1 - My Family has alot of members!

Sung Sohee (Age 6) First Year Elementary School

Hello my name is Sung Sohee! I’m the youngest kid in my family! I’am currently 6  years old and my big brother is 7 years old! I live in a happy happy family! Tho sometimes i think they are a bit crazy, on how my brother draws big purple ants and giant purple knights with these other tall purple guys around me and my family. The other day I even caught him drawing himself and me surrounded by tall scary looking purple guys! kinda freaky huh ? Even my brother kept asking me and telling me how I can't see what he sees .... Sometimes I feel like my brother can see ghosts, I can always feel a lot of people around us everywhere we go but, it’s just I can't see them… am i a freak too??…anyways! I’m way better at socializing than him…haha take that suhoo blee! People seem to always be scared of him, dunno why tho… anyways, people often confuse me and my brother as twins, but does having a one year age gap come off as twins??? Adult world sure is weird! Anyways….Miss Unnie has assigned my class an assignment to write about my family! So I have to interview them one by one! 

“Jinwoo, Suhoo, come here for a second would you boys? Sohee has an interview she needs to do with us all.” Cha Hae In the mother asked as the boys came down from the stairs sitting together in the sofa with Sohee sitting facing all three of her family members holding a pencil and a paper. The mother, sensing her daughter’s eager gaze, nods motioning her to start the interview.

“Hmm soo I’ll go with Dad first!” the girl faces her dad with stars in her eyes, seemingly excited “Alright Sohee, go ahead what do you want to ask?” The father answers with a loving gaze towards his one and only daughter. “Okay! Dad , what do you do for work?? and how does it feel to work with your friends??” “Hmm i work as a detective Sohee, and it feels great to have people to rely on when you work, teamwork is important after all..” The Father answers with certainty. 

The girl wrote her discovery in the paper as she nodded, satisfied “Okay!! Hmm and for big brother Suho! How does it feel to be a big brother to this great little sister??” “Huh great?? you are not that great at all Sohee! And to answer your question, it feels nice to have a sister to play with!” The boy said as he grins and pinched the girl’s cheek. “Ouch ouch! Big brother Suhoo please stahp!” as she turns to her mother next, “As for mama, How does it feel like to be surrounded by a family together??”

“A family? It is what keeps us strong, to be with each other along the way and protect each other.” The mother replies with a sweet smile as she leans to kiss her daughter’s head. The girl nods again as she hums in satisfaction before standing up and saying “I think that's all!” “That's not all!” Suho interrupts as he points towards the empty space behind the couch of the living room, "you forgot mister knight, mister ant, and the others!” 

The girl tilts her head in response, “Huh mister ant, mister knight, and the others? you mean the ones from your drawing?” Meanwhile Cha Hae-In turned towards her husband Jinwoo looking for an explanation, as he smiled knowingly. Suho nodded as he said, “Come on, give them questions too!” Sohee in response, “Um okay!” as she nods enthusiastically. 

As time passed by with Sohee asking questions to mister ant and mister knight, while Suho and Jinwoo answering Sohee’s question in favor of answering mister ant and mister knight’s questions… The clock strikes 8 indicating bedtime for the little girl as she writes her answers with a yawn and drowsy eyes. 

Cha Hae-In, looking at her daughter’s tired form, smiled as she stood up before signaling to her husband to take Sohee to bed while she prepared her room for sleep. "Jinwoo mind preparing her for bed? I'll tidy up her bedroom.." The husband replied as he kissed his wife in the cheeks, "Mhm of course honey.."

Suho sensing her sister’s sleepy eyes took a seat beside her and let the girl’s head lean on his form, sitting in silence with only soft breathes of the girl audible. Jinwoo, seeing this, smiled as he carried her daughter gently, rocking her to sleep well. The girl, noticing that she is in her dad’s arms, hugs her father’s neck in comfort of sleep as she states in a sleepy manner…”Hey Dad…”

Jinwoo replied, “Hmm? what is it Soohe?” …. “Even if i can’t see mister ant,  mister knight, and the other misters…Can i still take them as family?....I’m not imagining things, I can sense them with me Dad, It’s just I can't see them…even if it freaks me out…having them beside me is comforting…” The girl answered slowly as she drifted off to soft snores not realizing the shocked face of her father’s and the pure joy of her brother’s.

“Look Mister knight, Mister ant, and everyone!! Sohee finally sees you guys as family!!” The boy turns towards the used to be empty corner of the living room now filled with a giant ant and a giant knight standing behind them. Jinwoo laughs as he comments on this, turning to face two of his shadow soldiers, “Beru, Igris, everyone.. looks like my daughter had taken a keen liking towards you all..”

"My liege! kekekekeke how sweet the young princess! hik kekekeke” the ant cried on an emotional basis as he felt touched by the girl in his father’s arms. “It would be an honor, my king…” the knight bowed as he felt a sense of loyalty towards the child. 

Jinwoo smiled in response, his eyes dims a hue of purple, as he turns towards his son stroking his daughter’s hair gently “Even if she can’t see any of you soldiers, she would always believe you are all there for her……so now it is our job to protect her, right Suho?” “Yes Dad! Anything for Sohee!” The son replied with determination in his eyes. As the soldiers of the shadow monarch silently pledge their loyalty to protect their young princess no matter the cost. That night, the sung’s household is filled with warmth like always.

Sohee woke up in the next morning with a big smile on her face, excited about the assignment she is going to share infront of her class.

“Good Morning everyone! Today I’m going to share about my family! They are my father, mother, brother, mister ant, mister knight, and much more!” The class cheered with comments of curiosity and amazement as the presentation finished. “I never knew ants can be a part of a family!” “Hey so fairytales do come true!!” “Can I meet your family Sohee??” The teacher just shook her head in disbelief as she thought to herself, ‘ah kids have such wild imaginations..’

Meanwhile her father and his shadow soldiers watch her from a distance, cheering as Sohee finishes her presentation. “Kekekeke way to go young princess, crush those useless humans with the grandest presentation!” The ant laughs maniacally as the knight stands beside him silently cheering for the girl.

This was a wholesome chapter all in all askjdnsakj i love thinking of the dynamics between a human little sister and a overprotective monarch of a father and big brother, tho i'll try to include hae in more in the next scenario

[overheadforecast]

"pulling me every which way"

rating: teen and up audiences

archive warnings: graphic depictions of violence

category: gen

fandoms: honkai star rail, honkai impact 3rd

relationships: welt yang & march 7th & boothill

characters that speak: welt yang, march 7th, boothill, caelus

characters mentioned: otto apocalypse, stelle, welt joyce

wc: 1.8k

link to the ao3 post of this

! not beta read !

Welt let out a yell of pain as he slammed into a wall, having been thrown by a mechanical dinosaur. Distantly, he searched his brain for the creature's name and classification, but the pain in his ribs made it nearly impossible to focus. For fuck's sake, the thing had targeted him, of course. Even though there were other people in the memory zone, it'd chosen to attack him specifically. And as Welt sunk down against the wall, he noted with great dismay that the monster had summoned companions, the dreamjolt troupe dog creations.

He hadn't meant to get into a fight, really. He was trying to follow Caelus' directions to the bar he'd ranted and raved about. The drinks were apparently top quality, and by using memoria techniques, they could quite literally make a drink of your dreams. Ever since the day he'd crossed into this world, he'd been missing the tea his wife used to make him. So, when he heard about the technique, he had practically begged Caelus to tell him where it was. Sue him, he was a man of wordly desires!

But he'd gotten lost in a memory zone. A memory zone infested with monsters. Hence, fighting.

Welt held up the Star of Eden to create a barrier of Honkai particles, catching a blow one of the hounds had aimed at him. He couldn't do shit, he was stuck where he was. He was 80% sure he had broken multiple ribs, not to mention his shattered glasses. He couldn't see. He was at such a great disadvantage that he mused in grim humour that the last time he'd been this challenged was Otto, who'd damn near killed him. Maybe the creature would finish the job?

Welt tugged his phone from his pocket, opening the messenger app, and entering the "Astral Express Family (+ BS&BH)" chat.

[Mr.Yang] 22:07:13

> Need help. In the dreamscape Reverie, got lost, can't fight enemies. In the foyer room memory zone. Help.

[Trash Panda Male Edition] 22:07:26

> fufkc stelland i are on herrtas space station

> marhc & bh should be at tbe bar, theyll be closest

[cold capture] 22:08:03

> on my way!

> i'll bring hilly with me

> hang on, mr yang!

With that, Welt turned his phone off and tucked it into his pocket, focusing all his strength and attention onto the Honkai shield he was maintaining. The telltale purple had begun to creep up his arm - he wouldn't be able to keep this up for long without dipping into his Herrscher Core. Well, half of it. The Bronya he'd once known still held the other half, as she was the active Herrscher of Reason.

Welt gripped the Star of Eden tighter, ignoring the pain shooting up his arm. Just a few moments more, and March and Boothill would be here to help. Those two were reliable, March could shield them all and taunt the enemies, and he and Boothill could chip away at the enemies' toughness to defeat them. He thought, at least. The pain through his body made it tough to remember what these damn things were weak to.

Welt's eyes shot up as he saw an arrow shoot through the air, sticking itself into the main robot's hat. He followed the path, and layed his eyes on both March and Boothill standing on the railing of the stairs. His fatherly instinct screamed at him to get them down, but he had other things to think about.

Boothill jumped off the railing and aimed his gun between his legs, propelling himself forward with the blast to stand next to the barrier Welt had made. The man's stance as Welt looked up at his back reminded him of that man that had saved him all those years ago, his Hero. And, well, he was playing the role of Welt's hero in this situation.

March slid down the railing, surrounding the three with a wall of six-phased ice as a shield. Welt let out an audible sigh of relief, sealing the Honkai power within his cane and smiling up at her. "Thanks, you two."

Boothill made a noncommital noise of acknowledgement, keeping his eyes on the enemies he could still see through the ice. "What's the plan, strategizer?"

Welt was silent for a moment, before he realised March was looking at him. "Am I the strategizer?"

March scoffed and raised an eyebrow at him, tilting her head. "Who else would be?"

At that, Welt paused and thought for a moment. Usually, he did come up with battle plans... "Fair point. March, do you think you could alter your shield to give RES-PEN? It would play to both mine and Boothill's strength."

March's eyes lit up as she nodded, pointing her finger at Boothill then Welt. Six-phased ice crept across their bodies as the shield took effect, acting as armor. "Yeah! Stelle's been teaching me some of her tricks from when she picked up the Harmony path!"

Boothill turned his head around to look at them, and nodded. "Good. These overcooked fudgers aren't weak to any of our types, so I'll need as much respen as I can get to put them down like the dogs they are."

March looked between the two, narrowing her eyes. "This doesn't play to any of our strengths... Mr. Yang, I think we need a new plan."

With a nod, he looked wistfully at the Star of Eden, closing his mouth as he thought. "...Explosions?"

Both March and Boothill tilted their heads at him, Boothill raising an eyebrow. "And how the heck are we meant to do that?"

Welt paused, his mouth twisting into a cruel smile. "The dogs. Their armor is coated in potassium to allow them to self-destruct as needed. Potassium is highly explosive when it comes into contact with water and air, the water part including ice."

As she listened, March's eyes lit up. "That's brilliant, Mr. Yang!"

Boothill blinked a couple of times, looking between them. "What the heck is the plan? I don't know any of that nerd shirt."

Welt stood, grimacing as he braced himself against the wall. "My cane allows me to make miniature black holes that can group the dogs together and put them in a sort of stasis-bubble, that's weak to physical attacks. March coats them in ice, and then you shoot the static field to break it. Potassium comes into contact with water molecules and air molecules, and..."

March giggled, a strange giddy joy in her eyes. "Boom."

Boothill looked between the two, a mix of confusion and concern gracing his features. "You two are scary as shirt."

In return, both of the Nameless grinned at him.

"Okay, so I take the walls down now? It is taking a lot of energy to continuously keep this barrier up, the monsters are still attacking it." March looked to Welt for guidance, and when he gave her a thumbsup, she let the wall drop. Instantly, the dogs lunged forward, and Welt caught them in a black hole forcefield just an inch away from colliding with Boothill.

Thank fuck he did it, because Boothill's reaction speed was mediocre. He jumped back a breath after the enemies were trapped, yelping as he did so. "Son of a nice lady- fork these motherforkers!"

March brought her hand to her head, frowning. "You- can you two hold them off? Coating the hounds is going to take a bit longer because I'm drained from the wall."

"Course, sugarpie. Old man, got it in you?"

Welt nodded, and thrust the Star of Eden forward. The force of the imaginary tree encircled the large dinosaur mech, trapping and slowing it momentarily. Boothill grinned and pointed up, giving a command; "Black hole up there, pops."

With another movement of his cane, Welt summoned a black hole 2 meters above Boothill's head, to which Boothill jumped and let the gravitational pull elevate him. "Drop!"

The black hole vanished, and Boothill brought the heel of his foot down on the Beyond Overcooked's head. The creature let out a yell and tried to throw him off, but when it did, Welt just summoned another black hole above it. The force pulled Boothill up again, and subsequently dropped him onto the monster again. This time, Boothill brought his foot down on the creatures back, straddling it. He clamped his thighs down around the mech's neck, leaning forward to hook his hands under its chin. He snapped its neck back, and pointed to the floor behind him. At the command, Welt summoned another black hole at the location, and the monster fell backwards. Boothill rolled away at just the right time, barely avoiding being crushed by the enemy. He knelt next to it, pressing his knee onto the place where its sternum would be if it were an actual dinosaur.

March finally spoke, pointing at Boothill. "Shoot."

So, he did. He shot the sphere in the middle of the battlefield, the ball that contained the explosive force of 4 lbs of TNT, and shattered it. A moment of absolute silence passed, then an explosion threw everyone back (except Welt, who was still against the wall). The energy released vaporized the houndlike creatures, leaving only one enemy on the field.

Welt looked at March, frowning deeply. "No more bow, summon your blades."

March complied, closing her eyes for a moment to align herself with the Hunt, before she opened them again and caught the twin blades that had materialized from the ether. Welt pointed to the creature, and summoned a black hole above its thrashing body. March lept forward at the command, and when Welt dropped her onto the creature, she sliced its head clean off. Boothill slid around to shoot inside the thing's neck, activating the self-destruct module.

The force threw both Boothill and March in the air, and Welt sighed heavily as he conjured a black hole to catch each of them and prevent them from slamming into any walls. He'd already done so, and it was rather unpleasant.

Once the impacts were prevented, Welt waved away the summons, dropping both March and Boothill to the ground. Both of them rushed forward towards him, March hugging him. "Ow- March, no, I broke a rib, letgo-"

Boothill grabbed March's hair and yanked, pulling her from the man. "He needs medical attention, not sunshine and glitter and friendship, little plum."

March yelped and nodded, letting herself be pulled from Welt. "Sorry Mr. Yang!"

Welt waved his hand and smiled apologetically at the two. "Sorry for pulling you two away from your drinks."

SMACK!

With a screech, Welt looked at Boothill confusedly. "The fuck was that for?"

"You're much more important than any goshdarn drink, old man. Don't apologize." March nodded along as Boothill spoke, frowning at Welt.

"Plus, that was like, super fun. It was like I was fighting on a trampoline with the black holes pulling us every which way!" Just as March had done when he spoke, Boothill nodded while listening.

"I'm gonna bother you to do that with me again, by the way. It was forking awesome."

Welt looked between the two, then sighed, sliding back down against the wall. "Well fuck."

[radiowallet]

Promise

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x Marcus Moreno Summary: Dieter gets a gift while away on location. WC: 1.9K Warnings: 18+ MDNI Sexual content. Exclusive M/M dynamics. Written in third-person POV, male protagonists, allusions to smut, and dirty talk. Mentions of food and drug use. Small angsty moments. Yearning. So much yearning. AU Marcus Moreno (no wife, no Missy). A lot of purple prose and waxing poetic in this one, besties.

A/N: We're back with more of these boys. What can I say? I am obsessed with their dynamic and as long as my broken brain keeps sending me ideas for them, I intend to keep writing them down. Big thanks to @magpie-to-the-morning and @jazzelsaur who are patient as patient can be while I barge into their DM's to screech about these two soft, vulnerable boys. I love you both.

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--------------------

The bouquet had been delivered to set, the candy cotton pink petals hard to miss amidst the cranes and cameras and all the rest of the hardware it took to put a film in the can. Everyone had fawned over the flowers from the moment they arrived, their delicate shape a marvel beneath the heat of the Moroccan sun. 

But when the courier called out Dieter’s name, the room almost erupted, everything from squeals of elation to nosy questions being tossed his way. Dieter couldn’t help himself, cheeks warming and chest puffing, as he accepted the vase, the increased attention not only from the crew but also his fellow actors, stroking his ego in a way he couldn’t help but relish in. 

Maybe some would be embarrassed at the sheer honesty in that one single thought but Dieter found peace in the sentiment. Hell, he was an actor. What else was there to say other than the truth in validation, hoping that enough of the attention could one day fix the broken pieces inside his heart. 

“One of your many admirers sending you flowers now, Bravo?” A well-meaning production assistant asks in passing. 

“Something like that,” he hums, taking care to tuck the card into his pocket for later. 

After that, the flowers find a place on the craft service table, and if an extra take or two is needed because Dieter’s eye line strays just a tad too far left no one makes mention of it.

The day is called just as the last of the light is lost, the sun setting far behind the rows and rows of beautiful blue houses. There’s an offer for drinks and dinner brandied about, a few cast and crew breaking away. Dieter quietly bows out, and again, if anyone notices the once infamous party boy choosing a quiet night in over a raucous night out, not a word is said. 

Once back in his hotel room, Dieter is instantly restless, the flowers moving from room to room, the vase twisted left, then right, then right again. Self-doubt starts to dig at the base of his spine, the very beginning of a panic attack creeping up his back, tight and hot and painful, a wicked whisper telling him he should have just gone out, damn all and any consequences. There is only a bouquet of pink peonies in this hotel room to keep the loneliness at bay tonight, and not for the first time, Dieter feels the icy cold fear that he’ll forget all he has waiting for him back home.  

He does his best to ignore it, breathing slowly around the rubber band across his chest, counting each second with the tick of his fingers. One, two, three, four, in. Five, six, seven, eight, out. Twice more is enough to chase the feeling away, giving Dieter the space he needs to finally breathe fully, his head clearing just enough to ground him back to the moment. The blossoms finally find a home right beside his bed, the low light of the bedroom illuminating the pretty pink petals, and only then does he actually start to settle down for good. He fishes the card from his back pocket, dragging his thumb across the seal.

It’s nothing remarkable; a white envelope, only his first initial scratched across the front. But it’s enough to have his cheeks warming all over again, the tip of his nail finally piercing through the thick paper. The card is equally unassuming, but when he opens it up, the words are anything but. 

Dieter reads it over once, then twice, then one more time for good measure, lips moving along with the lines, one promise after another infused to each and every one. It’s enough to have him scrambling for his phone, dialing with shaky hands and a breathless laugh. It only rings once before it clicks over. 

“Hey, baby.”

“The flowers…” Dieter starts, his mind racing faster than he can manage to speak, any sort of coherency lost at the sound of Marcus Moreno’s soft baritone on the other end of the line. 

“They were too much.”

“No! Fuck no!” Dieter is quick to cut the other man off, refusing to let him think that for even a second.  “No, sweet boy. I love them!”

Marcus would do this from time to time, doubt himself and his place by Dieter’s side. It always brings him back to the moment in that lavish hotel room, Marcus’s warm breath painted across his cheek, lips bruised and fingers grasping, when the heroic had admitted that most couldn’t handle it. To this day Dieter can’t help but wonder if he was maybe talking about more than just superpowers.

He thinks maybe Marcus doesn’t realize. That he doesn’t see what it means to possess a heart so big. Bigger than anyone deserved, the weight of it nearly dragging him down, away from the light and into the shadows. The very ones he tries so hard to protect the world from. And Dieter knew that when the man fell, he fell fast. Fully. All of him hanging out on a precarious line, waiting for the other inevitable shoe to drop. 

Dieter wishes he could figure out a way to convince him that both of his feet were firmly planted on the ground. 

There’s a beat of silence and he swears he can hear the words neither of them dare to say. Not yet. Not with things so new. But he can feel them. Always feel them. With each kiss Marcus pressed into his skin, every drag of his fingertips, each scrape of his teeth, there was the promise of an affection too great to imagine. It was there, on the tip of the other man’s tongue, quietly unspoken but still so very very present.

“I love them,” the actor says again, determined to make his point stick this time. 

Marcus hums, and Dieter can almost picture him then and there as if he was sitting beside him on the 1000 thread count duvet in Morocco instead of miles and miles away, in an empty apartment, his only plans for the night a crappy tv dinner. He could chide the heroic, remind him to have fun, take more chances, but that’s a sticky subject all its own. 

It had been a running theme of the last few months of their lives, the two of them stealing what little time together they could. Marcus would plan, meticulously, weekends away explained under the guise of training or intel or some other bullshit excuse. Dieter would make a stink to his manager on those days, stomping his feet and demanding a mental health break. Maybe it was the fact that he returned from those weekends brighter and lighter than ever before, but Marissa never fought him too hard. 

They would lose track of the hours as easily as they lost themselves in the other, tangled sheets and broken sleep bookending their pleasure. The give and take between them deepened with each weekend that rolled around. Dieter delighted in Marcus’s company, preening beneath the wonder of having him all to himself. The way his whole heart became the center of the universe, genuine affection and care feeling better than any late night or black out bender. 

Marcus would watch Dieter paint, only a sheet around his waist as his eyes traced the curves and colors inspired by his own tender touch. And Dieter would marvel at the bend of the other man’s form, following his steps to the gym, his own eyes wide as twin blades cut through open air. They stayed in. Always in. The pair of them forgoing even ordering in, digging through Dieter’s freezer in search of mini pizza bagels and knock-off taquitos rather than risk breaking the peace of their privacy. 

And if he showed up to the set of the big budget action movie with his belly still soft, it hardly mattered. His heart was full, his mind at peace, and even as the director rolled his eyes, all Dieter could see was Marcus dropping to his knees, nuzzling into the patch of coarse hair smattered across the swell of his stomach, before swallowing him down to the base. 

Those days gave them both something to cling to when life and work and reality would push them back to opposite sides of the country. Memories they could remember in the between, when it was only phone calls and FaceTimes the touch of their own hand to chase away the anxieties hiding around the corner.  

Dieter learned in great detail how to coax those little whines from the heroic, memorizing the ragged sound of his cries as he whispered all manner of filth into the crease of his skin. Marcus matched the energy in kind, splitting up inside the actor, lips on his throat and hands in his hair. Dieter called him sweet boy and Marcus declared him his whole sky, a promise of more following every goodbye. 

And Marcus always keeps his promises. 

When it came time to leave for Morocco, six months of loneliness looming in the distance and one awkward farewell party behind them, Dieter did his best to remind Marcus to not linger in his solitude. It would be too easy for him to fall back on old habits; long nights on rooftops chased by haggard days in the gym, but Dieter hoped the hero would make time to tend to his heart in ways he had forgone for so long. 

Marcus took care to meet Dieter where he stood, urging him to hold onto every word he ever said, his whole heart following Dieter, even when he physically could not. The actor clung to the sentiment, doing his best to remember every weekend spent wrapped around the other man. He held onto every ripple of pleasure and each drip of afterglow. 

Dieter shakes his head, refocusing on the present, even as he wishes for all the little things he so desperately wanted here and not there. Plush lips and dimpled cheeks, brown eyes wide as he nods and quietly accepts the truth in Dieter’s words. 

“I’m glad.”

The silence is back, but more of a comfort now, the blend of their breath lulling the last of the sun and sand and stress away from Dieter’s heart. His eyes are heavy in the best way, his fingers loose where they curl around the phone, still matched to the curve of his cheek. 

“You should shower, Dee. Then sleep,” Marcus prompts, his voice somehow even softer. 

“Mmm, jerk off with me first,” he half whines, free hand already pulling at the threadbare sweats he had worn from set. 

There’s a chuckle, low and sweet and steady, one that Dieter has learned means a promise is about to be made. 

“I’m at the office now, mi cielo, but call me when you wake up and we will.”

It’s enough for now, Marcus’s gentle voice in his ear and the catch of pink petals in the low light, giving Dieter the push he needs to let sleep find him. In a few hours' time he’ll wake up, his stomach empty and his neck sore, but the fresh scent of peonies and an aching promise have something else curling deep inside his belly. And when he dials, the answer comes on the first ring. 

After all, Marcus always keeps his promise. 

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For any new writing follow @radiowallet-writes and turn on notifications.

[simonnebethel]

Moodboards for Our Demonic Hearts Characters + Some Info

I realized I haven't talked much about my urban fantasy novel, Our Demonic Hearts, as much as AoC so here's some moodboards I made back in November <3

Ana Kravens

Ana is the protagonist of the story. She is a first-born cambion, daughter of an ancient demon known as Marchosias. Mississippi-born and raised, she spent most of her life with her human "dad", Alex Kravens, before being sent to live with her mother in Florida when Alex became terminally ill. While there, sixteen-year-old Ana met not only the Motloes but her real dad, Marchosias, and learned the truth of what kind of magic courses through her veins. She had momentarily become friends with Judas Motloe, but that friendship ended when she learned he had killed her then girlfriend, Ophelia. After that, something happened that left her with a blank space in her memory and unfathomable rage whenever she tries to remember what happened. All she knows is that the Motloes are to blame for ruining her life.

Six years later, she is living in her late human father's house, recovering from a smoking addiction and looking for a part-time job just to appease her worried mother, when a certain Beau Motloe shows up on her door...

Ana is bisexual ^^ I think she is one of my first queer characters. All of these characters are quite old!

Beau Motloe

Beau Motloe, first-born son of Regan Motloe and Emily Motloe, descendant of a reclusive demon only known as Phenix, was perfect in everything. Perfect in school, perfect in magic, perfect in everything else in life...until a chance encounter with Ana Kravens. Living across the street from her mother, Margaret, he knew he would at some point see her cambion daughter, he just didn't expect Ana to somehow steal chunk of his magical core, a cambion's "second heart", and fuse it with hers. He knew it wasn't intentional and purely by accident, but he still couldn't help but feel like she was to blame for turning his life upside down. While he tried to work through his complex feelings for the cambion girl he was forbidden to talk to because of who her father is, his own father deemed him a disappointment and worked desperately to undo his son's mistake, which ultimately led to the traumatic event that led to both physical and mental traumatic scars on Beau's body, hindering him from doing any spells with his hands. Six years have past, and he still fears the purple eyes that haunt his dreams.

He shows up on Ana's doorstep one fateful day, believing he could make things right with her. Despite his chronic anxiety, he agrees to tell Ana what she wants to know about the traumatic event, in exchange for a location spell to help find his missing mother. Remembering what happened that night in the basement often sends him into a panic, and he fears that he would be unable to tell Ana and that she will learn quick enough that he is too fearful to say a word.

Beau is asexual, and his father comes from the Seminole Tribe of Florida. I don't have a face reference for him like the others because I haven't found a good one for him 😅

Judas Motloe

Since the age of ten, Judas Motloe has known that he is the product of his mother's affair with a demon named Crocell. The whole family knows it, the secret hanging above them at every single family dinner. Regan Motloe feels betrayed by his wife, but treats Judas like his own son, believing his real father to be a dangerous demon.

Judas spent most of his teenage years getting into as much trouble as possible, dealing with behavioral issues that Mr. Motloe described as merely being 'teenage hormones', despite Beau not going through the same things as him. During one chilly spring, he met Ana Kravens, a fellow cambion with an estranged father. He ignored Mr. Motloe's warnings and became fast friends with her, going to parties together and sneaking off into the woods to smoke weed late at night. It all seemed to end abruptly, as Ana started a relationship with his middle school nemesis, Ophelia, and stopped hanging out with him. He believed Ophelia did this on purpose to get back at him one final time, and he confronted her one night. One stupid mistake led to another, and Ophelia ended up dead next to a river. Ana caught on quicker than he realized, and their confrontation led to the incident that left him just as scarred as her and Beau.

Six years later, he followed Beau when he visited Ana, believing that Beau's plan was a stupid idea and felt the need to protect him from Marchosias' wrath. The present Ana was different than Ana from six years ago, and so to Judas' disappointment they were still enemies. Ana's anger for what he did to Ophelia only ignited his own, and so every conversation turned into an argument. Ana can't tell how exactly he was affected by the incident, but she has noticed a strange hum following him wherever he goes...

Judas is gay ^^ his father, Crocell, is one of my fave characters. He doesn't show up until the end of book 2 tho 😭

Also, this book is available to read on Wattpad and Royal Road if you're interested. Planning for book 2 will begin sometime during the summer ^^

[cassiopeiasara]

Please know that even though my posts have dwindled in number for like a year and a half, I’m still here, I’ll always be here probably.

I’m not writing much due to various life things (acquiring a third tiny human, trying very desperately not to need surgery again, my wife switching jobs, and just trying to stay afloat) but I’m thinking very deeply about it and I’m hoping with my updated approach to fandom in general I might accomplish at least one fic by the end of the year.

Also I’ve been watching pushing daises and having a glorious time. I read the color purple for the first time and I’m feeling all sorts of things. We’ve discovered we have rose bushes, day lilys and a groundhog in the backyard so that’s fun. Also I built the most delightful little fairy gardens in the yard if there’s any interest to see them.

I’ll be trying to say things or post more often as I can. I miss engaging in a space fully mine to be my weird little self apart from all the various family roles I play. We’ll see how it goes.

[wtf-a-psychoanalysis]

Calm Cool and Collected 5...

...That's what Miyamoto was trying to be while seeing the older red eared slider at his door. It was well into the after noon and quite hot, so instead of the old warrior style look that Miyamoto had seen him less than a week ago, Leonardo-san wore an unbuttoned guayabera and board shorts that were a bit shorter than expected. Miyamoto felt a void in the turtle’s presence as Leonardo-san was missing his large prosthetic arm. 

“Hi Mr. Usagi, I hope I’m not interrupting you” said Leonardo-san holding up the remaining part of his right arm as if the phantom part was to be placed behind his head in a laid back manner. 

“Not at all. Welcome, Leonardo-san. You just missed Yuichi, he was in such a hurry after training.” Said Miyamoto, who just noticed the the large amount of bags hanging off of the older turtle's left arm. “Come in and have a seat , I will help you set your bags down,”

“Thank you, just wait, one moment,” Leo said turning down to Raph, who was at the bottom of the flat’s stairs, “Hey bro, I have something to do, you can do some shopping if you like, here use Don’s credit card, I don’t think they’ll mind.” He tosses the card to the alligator snapping turtle mutant. 

Leonardo-san was much taller than Miyamoto realized, a good half foot taller than his friend Gen, the bounty hunting rhino, and maybe a bit broader. Standing across from the turtle was the only time he felt small talking to someone.

It felt a bit ridiculous to have a crush at his age, being in his late 30’s. Then again his love life was complicated and he was treading uncharted waters openly asking out a man. He has had close encounters with other men but something about Leo-san was different.

 Maybe it was that he was next in line to be head of his family, the Hamato Clan, which was odd because the ancestral Hamatos were human like their cousins, the Hikiji clan. Maybe that was the case, he was related to an enemy, however Miyamoto also had close encounters with a neko ninja clan member named Chizu and…. The rabbit mind trailed off, a trait all Usagi’s share, given the conditions.

“Hello, Earth to Space Usagi.” Leo-san said, waving his left arm in front of the samurai, snapping the rabbit from his trance, “Oh good, anyway thank you for inviting me. I really need a friend my age. I don’t know if I can listen to Dad Draxum’s lecture on calligraphy.” 

Yes, Friends…

“I like calligraphy.” said Usagi. “Its a beautiful discipline…”

“As it helps one focus on the art in ones words and the words of ones art.” Leonardo-san and Miyamoto. Leo continued as Miyamoto stood impressed, “Thats why samurai must also master the are of the brush as they do the sword. Thats what Draxum said anyways. So you fancy yourself a Samurai.” 

“I don’t know, do you fancy a samurai.” Responded Miyamoto.

“Oh” Leo said, his eye markings a bit redder than before. Though Miyamoto thought he somehow insulted the turtle. 

“Chikushō. This man wants a friend, not a cheap replacement for his dead wife” Thought Usagi. In a hurry, the older rabbit gestured to the low table, “Here take a seat while I prepare tea.”

The technology of this age never ceases to amaze Miyamoto, staring at the electric kettle on the counter, he gasps in awe seeing how fast the water is boiled to the perfect temperature for tea. Despite his attention focused on the kettle, he could tell that Leonado-san shared the same fascination from across the room. 

“Is this your first time seeing an electric kettle in action” said Usagi

“Oh, nah, my dad had this old kettle he would always use and it turn out to be an evil helmet of an evil suit of armor so we had to destroy it, I got him an electric one, lets just say Donnie made it evil too.”

Miyamoto’s deep chuckle resonated in the flat, “I’m guessing the purple one and the blue one give you the most trouble,” bringing the tea to the low table. 

“Yeah, they are twins after all, and I should know I was a twin too.” said Leonado

Was is a very common word here

“I never had any siblings of my own but there was a boy in my village, Kenichi, who would cause as much trouble as one, he later became village magistrate after my father passed, then he married Mariko, my childhood sweetheart…”

Leonardo-san made an audiible gasp, “ YOUR childhood sweetheart, whoa, I would have never done that to Donnie.”

“Donnie, isn’t that the name of your son.” Miyamoto cocked his head in confusion before understanding, “Oh Donatello is named after your brother.” 

This must have struck something in the older turtle as a bit of pain flashed across his face. Miyamoto then reached over from his seated positon to place a hand on his shoulder and said, “I’m sorry for your loss,”

“If you did this everytime you hear about what I lost, might as well keep your hand on my shoulder,” Said the turtle, then he places his hand on the rabbit's shoulder, “I’m sorry for your loss. I could never imagine losing a son,”

“It hurts me more that I wasn’t there for him as much, Kenichi was more of a father to him than I” replied Miyamoto, his ears drooped down in regret.

“Wait, he raised your kid.” Leo said in shock.

“Guess I got back at him some how for marrying Mariko.” the rabbit chuckled throught the sadness. 

“You sly dog, does that mean Yuichi is Mariko’s too?” Asked Leonardo-san, shaking Miyamoto a bit .

“No,” said the rabbit flatly 

“Me and Don were like that too… Not in the way that our dad placed his egg in different baskets like you” 

“What do baskets have to do with my previous love affairs, speaking of which, do you mind if I ask what Madonna was like?” Usagi questioned. The turtle loosed his playful grip on the rabbit's shoulder. 

What was she like indeed, know one knows,

Catching a glimpse at the TV placed in the living room the low table was located, Leonardo found his answer, “She loved telenovelas.” Leo lied looking straight into Miyamoto's eyes. The word confused the rabbit, Leo’s heart began to race with excitement given this opportunity to finally share with someone his love for the genre.

Leonardo continued his mission to teach Miyamoto the fundamentals of telenovelas and hispanic television, grabbing the remote and sweeping the rabbit off his feet in order to plop themselves onto the sofa. This small but astonishing moment took the rabbits breath away. 

“Do you know spanish?” asked Leonardo-san. Miyamoto, still silent out of awe, shook his head. “Well its a good time to learn,” Leonardo continued. Flipping through the channels he found one that he had yet to finish.

Despite not understanding the language yet, he understood alot through Leonardo-sensei’s riveting commentary. Now both rabbit and turtle are hooked on the show's curious plot involving twins, forbidden love, clones and what honor means in one's culture. Before they knew it they spent two whole hours curled up against one another.

The chime of Leonardos phone told them that their time together was up. “Oh, Raph's back, looks like I have to go, you understand right Miyamoto”

Miyamoto nodded, “If you must, I had a wonderful time with you and…” He froze, trying to figure out the puzzle of his love confession, yet out came his love language, acts of service. “Let me help you with your bags.”

Now Leonardo-san was gone

Miyamoto stares at the doorway for a bit longer. “I should have told him.” the rabbit said to himself.

Raph was waiting outside of the apartment with the rest of the groceries. Leo-san offered to hold the more than he had already and Raph let him. She knew something was up with him, and it was a bit alarming how he knew a lot about her. Leonardo was the first to know Raph was genderfluid, even before she came out to him. 

Raph despite being in her late teens and towering over most people at six feet, Raph felt comfortable acting like the younger sibling for once around Leo Sensei and that still means calling him out. “You like him don’t you.” She said.This statement caused a very obvious “What! No…” Come out of Leo-san and him almost dropping the groceries. 

Raph continued, “Come on, You can tell me, and it's really obvious.”

“Like your crush on Cassandra”

“Shhh! How do you know about that!?”

“ I’m from the future, remember.” The older turtle chuckled, “To be honest I was kind of jealous when you married her and then became a parent. I always felt like I could never fit the role you had in Jr.’s life.”  

This made Leo-san tear up, remembering how happy his Raph was when she saw Casey Jr. for the first time. The time they taught Casey parkour, that was the day he lost his last baby tooth. All those milestones that Raph witnessed before her life was cut short around the time Casey turned twelve. But this Raph didn’t see death in her future, what she saw is what she said out loud, stars twinkling in her eyes, “We end up together.”

“Yeah, When you're ready to tell her, tell me and I’ll be your ultimate wingman.” Leonardo-sensei said. Once they reached the entrance of the lair, Raph stopped him, offered to carry the rest of the Groceries and said “Go tell him big bro.”

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