#Its not a good or respectable need. But its one I have

[helioooss]

i was never there

synopsis: yu jumin joins novis corp as it’s head corporate lawyer, but her boss, y/n, remembers her eyes from somewhere else.

w/c: 3k+

warnings: 18+ minors dni!!! stripper by night, lawyer by day karina, swearing

a/n: a short one for the books, this is more a prompt

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

the sun had barely crept over the horizon when your sleek aston martin pulled up to the curb of novis corp’s headquarters; the tech conglomerate you had built from scratch. the building, a masterpiece of modern architecture with its reflective glass and sharp geometric lines, it stood as a monument to your success.

as you stepped out of the car, the valet offered a polite bow before retreating and you adjusted your tom ford suit — a deep charcoal grey that sat perfectly on your shoulders, tailored to a level of precision; its silk lining was monogrammed with your initials, a subtle mark of exclusivity.

in your world, every single detail mattered.

as soon as the glass doors opened into the lobby, the atmosphere shifted immediately. the soft murmur of voices hushed to a whisper and employees straightened their postures instinctively as they caught sight of you.

your presence demanded attention, not because you sought it, but because you simply carried an aura of authority. heads bowed as you passed, a wave of respectful acknowledgment rippling through the space.

“good morning, y/n,” someone greeted softly, their voice tinged with awe.

you simply offered a slight nod, your expression unreadable as you stepped into the private lift. the moment the polished steel doors slid shut, the world outside felt momentarily silenced. you allowed yourself a brief glance at your reflection in the mirrored walls, backing a strand of misplaced hair and smoothing down the lapel of your jacket before the lift opened to the top floor.

here, the energy was palpable. this was where the very lifeblood of novis corp flowed, where your senior executives and teams orchestrated the daily operations of the tech giant. the open floor was a hive of activity: assistants juggling tablets and documents, executives murmuring into headsets and a faint hum of urgency in the air.

the moment you stepped out, it was chaos aimed at you.

“miss l/n, the european market data is ready for your review.”

“legal flagged the merger contracts; they need your approval before noon.”

“the board wants confirmation on next quarter’s strategic pivot —”

amidst the shitshow that you specifically called ‘the everyday’, your personal assistant, claire, darted towards you, her heels clicking against the polished wood floor as she clutched a stack of files to her chest whilst her usually composed demeanour was slightly frazzled as she struggled to keep pace with you.

“y/n,” claire began, her voice soft but persistent, “i apologise for the interruption, but felix has been trying to reach you all morning. he said it’s urgent, and i tried to hold him off, but he’s really insistent.”

you glanced at her, stride unbroken whilst offering a faint smile that was more a gesture of reassurance than warmth. “i’ll take care of it, claire. thank you.”

she gave a slight nod, relief evident in her expression, stepping back as you pushed open the heavy oak doors to your private office. the room was a reflection of your meticulous standards: minimalist yet luxurious, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering an unparalleled view of new york city. a sleek, dark wood desk sat in the centre, flanked by leather chairs and a low cabinet housing bottles of vintage scotch.

oh, and the air carried the faintest scent of bergamot, a signature detail you had to have.

as soon as you set your briefcase down, you loosened your tie slightly and sank into your chair. the intercom blinked with pending calls, but you ignored it for now, reaching instead for your personal phone. scrolling through the missed calls, you found felix’s name and with a small sigh, you hit dial.

he answered right after the first ring. “finally!” his voice was a mix of relief and mischief, as it always was when he called you.

“what’s so urgent, felix?” you asked, leaning back in your chair.

“okay, hear me out,” he began, a tell-tale sign that whatever followed would likely test your patience. “there’s this club. super exclusive. like, billionaires-only exclusive. i’m talking black cards, champagne fountains, and the kind of entertainment that makes even the rich blush —“

pinching the bridge of your nose impatiently, you groaned. “just get to the point.”

“well, if you must insist,” he continued, “i need someone to vouch for me. someone who ticks the billionaire box. someone, you know, like you.”

“felix, why on earth would you want to go to a place like that?” you sighed, shaking your head. “everyone will just be as obnoxious as mum.”

“research,” he said, a little too quickly. “and before you ask, yes, it’s legit. i just…need to see it for myself. one night, y/n.“

“research,” you repeated, unimpressed.

“please, my dearest sister,” he pressed. “i promise it’s harmless. just one night, and then i’ll owe you. big time.”

he had always been the rebel — tattoos peeking out from beneath his sleeves, a penchant for bending rules and a charm that got him out of most trouble. he was your stepbrother, younger by five years and despite his antics, you couldn’t help but feel a soft spot for him.

he’d been your constant companion through a tumultuous childhood and for all his recklessness, his loyalty to you was unwavering.

you exhaled deeply. “if this turns into a mess, i swear, felix —”

“it won’t, i swear,” he interrupted eagerly. “you’ll barely even have to do anything. just show up, look rich — which is easy for you and let me in.”

there was a long pause. you weren’t one for foolishness, specially not something as absurd as this, but he had a way of getting under your skin and despite your better judgment, you relented.

“fine,” you mumbled; annoyance evident in your tone. “but this better not blow back on me — the press are already on my ass for not being present enough.”

“you’re the best!” he exclaimed, his relief palpable. “i’ll text you the details.”

shaking your head, you hung up and pressed the intercom button on your desk. “claire,” you began. “i need you to do something for me.”

“that’s my job, y/n,” her voice came through immediately.

“clear my schedule for tonight,” you carefully instructed. “reschedule all appointments and let the rest of the world know i’ll be unavailable after six.”

there was a brief pause from her end. “understood.”

staring out at the sprawling skyline, you heaved out a sigh. this wasn’t your usual scene, but something about it intrigued you nonetheless. tonight promised to be unlike anything you’d done before.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

the hum of the limousine was almost soothing as it glided through the city streets, the blacked-out windows shielding you and felix from the world outside. the interior was nothing short of opulent: plush leather seats in a deep oxblood red, a bar stocked with rare whiskies and chilled champagne and soft ambient lighting that cast a warm glow over the polished surfaces.

felix was seated across from you, his legs stretched out casually as he swirled a glass of whiskey he’d poured himself. his usual rebellious flair was subdued tonight, though the faint smirk on his lips betrayed his excitement.

he was dressed sharply, his dark green blazer and crisp black shirt a rare effort on his part. the tattoos that normally peeked from his sleeves were hidden, though you knew they were still there, a reminder of his defiant streak.

you, on the other hand, wore a simple white shirt and blue jeans.

“so,” felix began, his tone light but probing, “how’s the empire going?”

you gave him a sideways glance, your fingers lightly drumming against the armrest. “the empire is fine, felix. novis is on track to secure the venatrix deal by next quarter and the sirocco expansion is finally moving forward.”

“of course it is,” he said with a grin, taking a sip of his drink. “you’ve got the golden touch. everything you touch turns to money.”

“it’s not magic,” you replied, your voice steady. “it’s work. a lot of it.”

he shook his head, leaning forward slightly. “and that’s the problem, y/n. you work too much. when was the last time you actually did something for yourself? and don’t say this counts,” he added, gesturing around the limousine.

you gave him a small, wry smile. “this is for you, not me.”

“exactly my point,” he said, leaning back. “you need to live a little. have some fun. maybe get a girlfriend for once in your life.”

you raised an eyebrow at him. “a girlfriend?”

“yes, a girlfriend,” he said with a chuckle. “you know, someone to share your life with? someone to remind you that there’s more to life than spreadsheets and board meetings?”

you exhaled softly, turning your gaze to the city lights flickering outside the window. “it’s not that simple. i’ve got responsibilities. people rely on me. there’s no room for anything else right now.”

“that’s the excuse you always use,” he said, his tone softer now. “but you’re going to wake up one day and realise you’ve built an empire but never lived your life. is that really what you want?”

his words lingered in the air and for a moment, you simply let them. as the limousine turned down a quieter street, the glow of the city fading into the background, you thought about what he’d said.

was he right? was there something missing in your meticulously crafted life?

before you could dwell on it further, the car slowed to a stop in front of an unassuming black door, illuminated only by a discreet gold plaque that read elysium.

the driver opened your door and the moment you stepped out, you felt the shift in atmosphere. the door was opened from the inside by a tall, sharply dressed man who exuded an air of authority.

“miss l/n, mr. l/n,” he greeted warmly, his deep voice carrying just enough deference to make you feel like royalty. “welcome to elysium. my name is pierre and i’ll personally ensure your evening is nothing short of exceptional.”

“thank you,” you replied, your tone polite but guarded as pierre stepped aside, gesturing for you both to enter.

the interior of the club was breathtaking — sleek and sophisticated, with an undeniable air of exclusivity. red lighting bathed the room, casting a sultry glow over the rich leather furniture and dark wood accents. the faint hum of low music filled the space and the scent of expensive cigars and perfume lingered in the air.

pierre led the way, his posture immaculate. “we’ve limited the floor capacity tonight to ensure you have a comfortable experience. it’s not often we host guests of your calibre.”

your gaze flicked to your brother, whose smirk grew with every step deeper into the club.

“they’re really rolling out the red carpet,” he whispered to you, amusement lacing his tone.

there were silhouettes moving across the far end of the room. they were fluid, deliberate, their movements drawing attention like a magnetic pull.

it wasn’t until you caught the glint of polished metal — a pole, that the realisation struck.

this wasn’t just a private club. it was a strip club.

“i thought you said this was a fucking nightclub,” you muttered in that scolding tone of yours. “or whatever you said it was.”

he laughed at your comment and had deliberately chosen to ignore you, clearly revelling in the attention. as you passed, heads turned subtly, and even the staff seemed to regard you with a mixture of curiosity and respect.

“our girls,” pierre continued as he walked, “are among the finest in the world. each performance is curated to perfection. should you require anything — anything at all, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

“a dance costs a million for each hour,” felix raised his eyebrows playfully. “i can afford it, you have nothing to worry about.”

i’m going to kill him, you thought.

the corridor opened into a sprawling room bathed in deep red light, the glow casting shadows that danced across the rich leather furniture and polished dark wood accents. chandeliers hung from the ceiling, their crystal facets scattering faint prisms of light though the overall effect was moody and intimate rather than pretentious.

pierre, ever the professional, either didn’t notice or chose to ignore the exchange. “elysium prides itself on discretion and sophistication,” he explained, leading you toward the bar. “our performers are not only the best in the industry but also highly selective about where they work. we cater to an exclusive clientele and tonight, they are all eager to perform for you.”

the words hung in the air and while his tone remained formal, there was no mistaking the double meaning.

this wasn’t just about entertainment — it was about status, yours specifically.

“you’ve truly outdone yourselves,” you said evenly, though your tone betrayed nothing of the thoughts swirling in your mind.

“only the best for our esteemed guests,” he replied, stopping at the bar. “would you care for a drink before you settle in? our bartenders specialise in rare and exclusive cocktails.”

“i’ll take a manhattan,” felix answered, leaning against the bar as if he owned the place.

pierre turned his attention to you. “and for you, miss l/n?”

“call me y/n, please,” you requested, keeping your composure. “i’ll have a glass of champagne for now.”

felix shook his head, whilst pierre only nodded. “don’t worry, pierre, this is a good sign — champagne is telltale of the kind of night she plans to have.”

you gave him a look, one that could silence an entire boardroom, but it only made his grin widen.

as the bartender prepared your drinks, your eyes scanned the room. the performers were elegant, their movements slow and deliberate as they worked the poles or engaged in subtle conversations with other guests. the lighting accentuated every curve, every flick of hair, every step in towering heels.

it was seductive, but there was a sophistication to it.

felix clinked his glass against yours when your drinks arrived, his grin mischievous. “welcome to the real world, y/n. you might even have fun tonight.”

before you could respond, he disappeared into the crowd, leaving you alone with pierre, who gestured towards a hallway deeper into the establishment. “y/n, may i guide you to our private bar? we’ve reserved a section just for you.”

you nodded, offering a faint smile. “lead the way.”

he guided you through a discreet side door, the noise from the main hall fading into a low hum as you stepped into a quieter corridor. the lighting here was softer, the air perfumed with hints of amber and bergamot.

the sound of your shoes against the polished marble floor echoed faintly as you trailed behind him.

then, he stopped at a heavy door, its deep mahogany finish gleaming under the warm light. with a subtle bow, he pushed it open, revealing a private space that was both opulent and refined.

the room was bathed in a soft golden glow, with leather seating in a deep burgundy hue arranged around a bar made out of white marble. a crystal chandelier hung above, its light refracting into subtle rainbows across the room. the air was cooler here, yet tinged with the faintest trace of something warm and intoxicating.

“we’ve taken great care to ensure your comfort,” he gestured for you to step inside. “a selection of our finest performers has been prepared exclusively for this space tonight. as per tradition, all our vvip performers wear masks to preserve their mystique.”

your gaze shifted to the centre of the room, where a single pole stood illuminated by a spotlight. at its base, a woman danced, her movements fluid and hypnotic.

she was dressed in black, the fabric clinging to her graceful frame in ways that accentuated her every curve. a delicate mask adorned her face, its intricate lace design concealing her identity while leaving her eyes and lips visible.

and those eyes…

almond-shaped and lined with the faintest hint of shimmer, their depth was startling. they locked onto yours the moment you entered and for a second, it felt as though the world narrowed to just the two of you.

her lips were no less striking, painted a deep crimson that contrasted beautifully against her glowing skin. they moved subtly as she shifted her expression, curving into a faint smile that was neither coy nor brazen but perfectly balanced between the two.

you moved to one of the leather chairs directly in front of the pole, lowering yourself gracefully into the seat. a glass of something pale and sparkling had already been placed on the table before you — krug, if you had to guess.

she danced as though gravity held no dominion over her, movements slow and deliberate; her body bending and turning with an elegance that seemed almost otherworldly.

her eyes never left yours.

there was no touch, no exchange of words. only the silent conversation carried through her gaze.

you sipped your champagne, the crisp bubbles fizzing faintly on your tongue as you watched her.

“her name is karina,” pierre’s voice broke the silence, soft and almost reverent as he stood to the side. “one of our most gifted performers. she never agrees to private dances, but tonight, she insisted.”

you raised an eyebrow at his comment but said nothing, your eyes still locked with hers.

her lips curved slightly, a small but unmistakable reaction to his words. whether it was amusement or approval, you couldn’t tell.

there was a certain kind of power in her performance, an effortless command of the room that rivalled your own presence in the boardroom. it wasn’t just her beauty — it was the way she carried herself, the silent confidence in her every movement.

for the first time in a long while, you felt captivated.

as the music swelled, she climbed higher up the pole, her body arching and twisting with a grace that seemed to defy logic. the light caught her skin as she spun, casting shadows across her toned figure.

her gaze found yours again as if she had never looked away.

the song ended, the final note hanging in the air as karina stilled, her body poised and elegant as she held your gaze one last time. then, without a word, she stepped back into the shadows, disappearing as swiftly as she had appeared.

you leaned back in your seat, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of your lips.

“she’s…impressive,” you murmured, your voice soft.

“indeed,” he replied, his tone pleased. “shall i have her return for a performance, miss l/n? or would you like to see the next girl?”

you glanced at the glass in your hand, then back at the empty spotlight.

“perhaps,” you said, your tone deliberately nonchalant, though the way your thoughts lingered on those eyes and that smile betrayed you entirely. “i’d like to see karina again.”

he gave a slight bow, his hands clasped neatly in front of him. “i’ll leave you to enjoy the performance, y/n. if you need anything, don’t hesitate to call for me.”

you sent him a faint nod, watching as he quietly slipped out of the room — the air seemed heavier now, charged with something you couldn’t quite name.

the soft spotlight followed her, casting her in a halo of warm light as she emerged out of the shadows. her movements were deliberate, the sway of her hips measured, her body arching with the kind of elegance that felt effortless. the music swelled, a sultry melody that filled the private bar, wrapping itself around you.

the pole became an extension of her, her fingertips grazing it lightly as she spun effortlessly, hair cascading over one shoulder like silk.

pushing yourself up in the leather seat, you cradled the crystal glass in your hand, the crisp bubbles fizzing against your tongue were forgotten.

your attention was fixed solely on her.

her gaze was dark and unrelenting, as though she could see through every wall you’d ever built. it made you feel vulnerable in a way you weren’t used to, yet you couldn’t look away.

for years, your life had been a steady climb to the top. every decision and sacrifice you made — it had all led you to become one of the youngest billionaires in the world; a life of luxury and power, yet moments like this felt foreign to you.

you had never allowed yourself distractions. relationships had always been a distant thought, something you dismissed as incompatible with the weight of your responsibilities. and yet here you were, sitting in the middle of a dark room, utterly captivated by a woman you didn’t know.

as the music deepened, so did her movements. she slid down the pole with precision, her legs extending gracefully before she landed softly on the floor. then, she began to close the distance between you.

you stiffened slightly as she approached, her bare feet making no sound against the polished floor. her every step was a calculated mix of power and allure, head tilting slightly as her eyes burned into yours.

when she reached the edge of your seat, she leaned down, her hands bracing against the armrests on either side of you. the faintest scent of her perfume: something floral with a hint of musk wafted over you.

your breath hitched.

karina’s face was mere inches from yours, her lips curved into a subtle, knowing smile.

she tilted her head, her dark hair spilling over her shoulder and as she leaned closer, her lips brushed against yours — not quite a kiss, but enough to send a jolt through your body.

the touch was light, but it lingered. your hand tightened slightly around the glass, though you made no effort to pull away.

her eyes locked onto yours again, the corner of her lips quirking up ever so slightly. she didn’t move, staying close enough that you could feel the faint warmth of her breath against your skin.

“you’re full of surprises,” she murmured, her voice low and laced with amusement.

“you’re not what i expected,” you replied, your tone steady despite the way your pulse raced.

her smile widened just a fraction, her lips still hovering dangerously close to yours. “and what did you expect, miss l/n?”

you let the question hang in the air, unwilling — or perhaps unable to answer it.

she pulled back slightly, her eyes flickering over your face as if she were committing every detail to memory.

then, with a graceful turn, she returned to the pole, leaving you frozen in your seat, every nerve in your body alive.

but your focus wasn’t on the dance anymore.

it was on her.

the song reached its end, her final spin slow and graceful, her legs extended as she descended to the floor.

when the music ended, she stayed still for a moment, catching her breath, before calling out softly, “cut the music.”

the silence was deafening.

she stood up, reaching for a glass of water placed on the table near the pole. she sipped it slowly, her back turned to you, before setting it down and facing you again.

“you’re y/n l/n,” she said, her voice carrying an easy confidence, as though she were stating an undeniable fact.

you straightened in your seat, your composure returning. “i am indeed, and you’re karina.”

her lips curved into a small smile as she stepped closer, her mask framing her captivating eyes. “so, you’ve heard of me?”

“pierre mentioned your name,” you replied. “and according to him, you never agree to private performances.”

“ah, pierre,” karina chuckled softly, a low and melodic sound that sent another ripple through you. “that’s true, but you’re not exactly a regular guest.”

“why did you agree?” you asked, your voice steadier than you felt.

she tilted her head, her smile deepening. “curiosity.”

“about what?”

her gaze didn’t waver. “about you.”

you raised an eyebrow. “me?”

“it’s not every day the most eligible bachelorette in the world walks into a place like this,” she said, her tone light but pointed. “how could i not be curious?”

her honesty was disarming, and for a moment, you didn’t know how to respond.

“you don’t seem like the type to come here,” she continued, her voice softer now. “i wanted to see what kind of woman you are.”

“and?” you asked, meeting her gaze.

karina smiled again, enigmatic as ever. “i think you’re a woman who knows exactly what she wants, but you haven’t decided if you’re ready to take it.”

her words hung in the air, sharp yet tantalising. you swallowed hard, the weight of her observation pressing against you.

before you could respond, she glanced at the clock on the wall, her expression softening. “unfortunately, my time’s up — but i will see you again, hopefully.”

you watched as she stepped back, her movements as graceful as ever. “thank you.”

she turned back to you, her dark eyes glimmering. “the pleasure was mine, miss l/n.”

“please call me y/n.”

she nodded and then, just like that, she disappeared through the door, leaving you alone with the lingering scent of her perfume and the memory of her lips brushing against yours.

moments later, pierre entered the room, followed by an awestruck felix.

“holy shit,” felix yelled, his wide eyes taking in the space. “this room is insane. do you know how much this costs?”

you raised an eyebrow at him, still feeling the warmth of karina’s presence. “do i want to know?”

“five million dollars. per dance,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief.

you smiled faintly, your thoughts far from the number. “well, tonight was the most expensive night i’ve ever had then.”

he put an arm around you, ruffling your hair. “told you you’d enjoy it!”

-

the limousine hummed softly as it glided through the quiet streets. deeply in your thoughts, you sat stiffly in your seat, legs crossed, arms folded, the leather cool beneath you.

the night had been…complicated, to say the least.

felix, sitting across from you, looked far too pleased with himself, scrolling through his phone with a self-satisfied smirk that only irritated you further.

“never again,” you said sharply, breaking the silence.

he glanced up, the smirk widening as if he’d been waiting for this. “never again, what?”

“you know exactly what i mean,” you snapped, glaring at him. “you are never taking control of a night out again.”

he raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence. “elysium? come on, it wasn’t that bad.”

“felix,” you said through gritted teeth, “it was a strip club. a strip club. do you have any idea how bad that looks for me? if anyone had taken a photo of me, it could’ve been a PR disaster.”

he laughed, leaning back lazily against the plush seat. “oh please, that place is so exclusive. and anyway, it’s not like you were doing anything scandalous. you sat there, drank champagne and watched a performance. you didn’t even touch anyone. honestly, it was boring.”

you stared at him. “boring? you dragged me to a place where the floor alone costs millions to reserve and you think it’s fine because you had fun?”

“well yeah,” he said casually, shrugging. “and don’t pretend you didn’t enjoy yourself. i saw your face during that dance.”

heat rose to your cheeks and you looked away sharply, your fingers tightening around your arm. “that’s not the point, felix.”

“oh, it absolutely is,” he countered, leaning forward. “look, you’ve spent your entire life building this empire. you’re brilliant at what you do but you don’t live, y/n. you don’t even let yourself breathe. all i did was give you one night to do something out of the ordinary and now you’re acting like the world’s going to end.”

“because it could,” you shot back. “my name, my reputation — it’s all tied to novis. if anything jeopardises that, the fallout would be catastrophic. you don’t understand what’s at stake.”

he tilted his head, his expression softening slightly. “no, i don’t understand,” he said, his voice quieter but still firm. “because unlike you, i actually let myself live every now and then. when was the last time you did something just for yourself, y/n? when was the last time you let yourself feel something that wasn’t tied to work?”

his words hit harder than you wanted to admit. you glanced out the window, the city lights blurring as the limousine sped through the streets. “this isn’t about me,” you muttered, though the defensiveness in your tone betrayed you.

“oh, it’s absolutely about you,” he said with a knowing grin. “come on, admit it. you didn’t hate last night as much as you’re pretending to. i mean, you could’ve walked out anytime, but you didn’t. you stayed.”

you sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose. “felix, i can’t afford to have nights like that. my life isn’t like yours.”

“and that’s exactly the problem,” he said, his voice more serious now. “you’re so afraid of messing up, you don’t even let yourself enjoy anything. y/n, you’re one of the most powerful people in the world and you’re scared of living? what’s the point of all this success if you never let yourself have anything?”

you didn’t answer, his words settling uncomfortably in your chest. instead, you stared out the window, your reflection blurred against the city lights. he leaned back, clearly feeling like he’d won the argument, though he said nothing more.

as the limousine approached your building, you sighed deeply, finally breaking the silence. “this doesn’t mean you’re off the hook. no more clubs, felix. ever.”

he laughed softly, shaking his head. “we’ll see.”

as it rolled to a stop, you stepped out without another word, the weight of the conversation lingering as you made your way inside.

you couldn’t stop thinking about the way karina had looked at you — as if she saw right through the walls you had spent years building.

her eyes haunted you, dark and full of secrets you suddenly found yourself wanting to uncover. and for the first time in years, you wondered if there was something, or someone, outside your carefully constructed world worth stepping into the unknown for.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

the morning was as chaotic as ever, the hum of novis corp’s top floor vibrating with urgency the moment you stepped out of the private elevator. polished shoes clicked against a mix of wooden and marble floors, assistants and executives alike moved from desk to desk, each with something that required your attention.

“y/n,” the updates for the venatrix deal are ready.”

“legal has flagged the elara contract for revisions.”

“the team needs your approval on the new AI interface by noon!”

normally, you thrived in the controlled storm of your office. today, however, your mind was elsewhere. your focus wasn’t on contracts or product launches — it was on her.

the memory of last night lingered in sharp detail: the intoxicating crimson glow of the club, her sharp gaze, the brush of her lips against yours.

karina had left an imprint you couldn’t shake, no matter how much you tried.

the design meeting was supposed to centre you. the team presented mock-ups for novis’s latest AI interface, a sleek design meant to revolutionise smart tech, but as the lead designer droned on about user functionality, your attention slipped.

their words barely registered. your eyes were on the screen, but your mind was still in elysium. the feel of her perfume in the air, the way her eyes had locked onto yours: daring you to react.

“y/n?” samuel, the lead designer’s voice, broke through your thoughts, ultimately bringing you back to the present.

you blinked, shifting slightly in your seat. “yes?”

“we were asking for your feedback on the gradient colour scheme versus the flat monochrome,” he said, his tone careful.

you glanced at the screen, the options displayed clearly, but for once, the answer didn’t come easily. “the gradient,” you pointed after what seemed like at eternity. “it’s fine.”

a few of the designers exchanged surprised glances. it wasn’t like you to give such a vague response.

when the meeting ended, you stepped into the hallway, only to find giselle waiting for you, leaning casually against the wall with a look of exaggerated curiosity.

“well, that was weird,” she said, falling into step beside you.

“what are you talking about?” you asked, your tone clipped as you navigated through the bustling corridor.

“you,” she replied, waving a hand dramatically. “you’ve been off all morning. normally, you’re snapping necks and giving ted talks in these meetings. today, you were practically sleepwalking. so, spill. what’s going on?”

“nothing,” you said curtly.

she narrowed her eyes, clearly not buying it. “is this a felix thing? what did he do now? start a crypto farm in the middle of montana? buy a haunted house because ‘it looked cool’? or, wait — did he drag you to one of those ridiculous underground poker rings again?”

you gave her a sharp look. “felix has nothing to do with this.”

“so there is something,” she said, her smirk growing. “come on, boss, you can’t keep secrets from me. i’m like the human recourses version of sherlock holmes.”

“giselle,” you warned, stopping in your tracks and fixing her with a pointed glare, “drop it.”

she raised her hands in mock surrender, but her grin didn’t waver. “fine, fine, i’ll drop it; but if you spontaneously combust during the next board meeting, don’t say i didn’t warn you.”

as you started walking again, she called after you, “oh, by the way, your new head corporate lawyer is waiting in your office. yu jimin. punctual, sharp as a blade, and word on the street: dangerously hot. good luck!”

the name sent a jolt through you, stomach twisting as you reached your office doors, the memory of last night rushing back with startling clarity.

when you stepped inside, the first thing you noticed was the figure standing near the window.

she was dressed sharply in a black suit that fit her perfectly, the crisp white shirt beneath it undone just enough to convey confidence without stepping into arrogance. her posture was relaxed, one hand resting lightly on her hip, the other at her side.

her dark hair was pulled back neatly, accentuating the sharp lines of her face. when she turned at the sound of the door, your breath caught.

her eyes met yours, and for a split second, the world tilted.

it was her.

the woman who had unraveled you the night before, the one who had danced with the kind of precision and allure that left you spellbound.

karina.

no, yu jimin.

“miss l/n,” she greeted, her voice smooth, calm, and so painfully familiar. “it’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

you forced yourself to nod, gesturing toward the chair across from your desk. “miss yu, please, have a seat. and call me y/n.”

you walked quickly to your desk, avoiding her gaze as you settled into your chair. when you finally looked up, the intensity in her eyes was undeniable.

she sat with perfect posture, her hands resting lightly on her lap, her expression polite but unreadable.

“so,” you began, clearing your throat, “tell me about your experience. what drew you to novis corp?”

her lips curved into a faint smile, one that sent a chill through you.

“my career has largely focused on high-stakes corporate law,” she said smoothly. “mergers, acquisitions, billion-dollar lawsuits — you name it. novis corp stood out to me because of its reputation for innovation and precision. it’s a company that demands excellence; i happen to provide that.”

her tone was professional, poised. but then her eyes glinted, and her smile widened just slightly.

“but if i’m being honest,” she added, “it wasn’t just the company that intrigued me. after last night, the person behind it all captured me.”

your chest tightened, but you forced yourself to maintain a neutral expression.

“i’m not sure what you’re referring to,” you said evenly, though your voice wavered just slightly.

“of course not,” she said, her smile deepening, though she didn’t press further.

the rest of the meeting passed in a blur of questions and answers, though the tension in the room never dissipated. every time her gaze lingered on you, you felt your resolve crack, memories of her dance, her eyes and her lips flashing vividly in your mind.

when it concluded, jimin stood gracefully, smoothing her blazer as she moved toward the door.

just as she reached for the knob, you hesitantly called out, “and miss yu?”

she paused, turning back to face you. “yes?”

you met her gaze, forcing your voice to remain steady. “i was never there.”

her smile returned, slow and knowing, her eyes glinting with something that sent a shiver down your spine. “don’t worry — the only person in that room was karina.”

for the second time in two days, yu jimin had left you completely undone.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

the end.

[signanothername]

How do you feel about the fandom?

I’m assuming you mean Ut/utmv?

How can I say this in the most gentle way possible hmm..

I genuinely do love the creativity within the fandom, the beautiful art and stories and ideas people come up with, the different interpretations of these characters even when i don’t agree with them or have my own thoughts/opinions, cause that’s what fandoms are supposed to, it’s all of us showing our love for these lil blorbos of ours in each of our own unique different ways

Of course, each fandom has its good and bad side, but to say the ut/utmv fandom is so damn negative to the point it’s suffocating is an understatement

I’m especially weirded out by the pro harassment behavior within this fandom, like, a mf would say “i’m anti harassment!!!!” Then turn around and post/reblog a post with +20 people name dropped to “raise awareness” for whatever little that is worth, you can “raise awareness” by messaging people privately, not make a list where an asshole can easily use it to harass people, and no, saying shit like “don’t harass these people!!!” Does not alleviate any responsibility from you if they do get harassed because of your post

That’s why messages are a thing, and only messaging those who explicitly state they want to be messaged, not jump in into people’s inboxes or messages and telling them shit out of the blue

So many people within this fandom need to learn fandom etiquette, how to mind their own business, and to use the damn block button, you’re uncomfortable with a certain subject? Tumblr has the most handy filtering system, don’t like a person/find them uncomfortable? Block them, blocking them isn’t enough and want to complain? That is what you can use your blog for, feel free to complain on your own blog to your heart’s content (not on other people’s blogs or under their posts if it’s not the subject for it) that’s what friends are for too, go to their DMs and complain till the end of time

Being just a bit bigger of an artist follower wise in comparison to other artists means that I deal with very special cases sometimes, because I’m also puzzled by the way people can get super comfortable with commanding strangers to do things they want or to break basic respectful boundaries like not getting people involved in drama even when they specifically state not to include them (me, I’m starngers, every time I reblog my boundaries post, it’s me implying that I got something that broke my very basic bitch boundaries that day, which says a lot about the fandom, cause i literally only got 4 boundaries stated damn)

That’s why I opt to not get too close to people within the fandom, and am generally careful as to who I let close to me, I’m very certain people might think I somehow have my own social circle within the fandom or have some wide connections they can never get, when in reality I’m isolated af

That being said, idk if it’s young people not knowing any better, or adults who act like children, but the fact harassment is very prominent and also very normalized within the fandom is something that definitely made me seriously think of just getting back to the Transformers fandom (one of the most chill fandoms i’ve ever been part of)

Fandom is fandom, keep it for rambling about blorbos, and learn to mind your own business <3

[spicy30]

Modernness of 1400s 007

Pairing: HOTD x Fem!Modern!Reader

Extra: The reader is noted to be bilingual (Spanish speaking) and is familiar with the majority of Latin-based languages, No use of Y/N

Rating: 18+

CW: Child trafficking

Not proofread

Tags: @fan-goddess @meowmeowmothermeower @bunxia @your-favorite-god @coolalienstatesmansports @georgiatesulitsyeykite @qwerrtsworld @wegottastayfocus @dakota-rain666 @talilosha @the-deep-dark-abyss @101crows @agustdeeyaa @ggglich-exe @illjhhlisa @deepeststarlightmoon @cluelessteam @a-fruity-snack @i-zenin @justablondeeee @feyresqueen @yduimobsessed @pinkluv29

Side note: I think my writing style from my latest work accidentally leaked in, but oh well.

WC: 14.3k

As you and Helaena flew back to King’s Landing with the goods secured, your gaze drifted downward. The world below stretched out in an endless patchwork of greens and browns, but it wasn’t until you spotted that same spring again—hidden like a secret among the hills—that inspiration struck like a lightning bolt.

“The Romans,” you murmured, tightening your grip on Helaena’s waist. The idea was perfect. You’d introduce the Roman water system to Westeros and claim it as your own invention. Clean water would not only make you beloved among the commons but also mark a monumental step toward the progress you envisioned. A woman who brought both clean water and a functioning sewer system to all of Westeros? Invaluable.

The only issue? You didn’t know the exact formulas.

You began to mentally map it out, your thoughts racing as you soared over the land. A close water source would be ideal. The river running through King’s Landing was an option, but not a good one. Its waters emptied into the sea, and rivers like it were rarely suitable for clean drinking water—especially in a place like King’s Landing, where waste and pollution had long since claimed the current.

A spring, however, was pure. Untouched. Exactly what you needed. And now, you’d found one.

The next challenge was funding.

Your jaw tightened at the thought. Right now, you were broke—your entire fortune consisted of a single gold dragon. One. A pitiful sum that wouldn’t buy the loyalty of a stray cat, much less the resources for an ambitious engineering project.

This was of course thanks to your ‘business’ on the Street of Silk. 

But ambition wasn’t something you lacked, and you were nothing if not resourceful. 

The woman at the door stood firm, her thin robe clinging to her frame, revealing more than modesty allowed. Her voice dripped with disdain as she let a man pass.

“We do not serve women,” she said flatly, the faint smell of stale sweat and sex heavy in the air.

You squared your shoulders, ignoring the assault on your senses. “I’m here to speak with the madam.”

“It does not matter who you ask. We do not serve women.” Her tone remained cold, practiced.

Your eyes flicked over her, noting the hard set of her jaw, the hollowness in her gaze. She wasn’t much older than you. That thought disturbed you, but you pushed it aside. “I’m not here for service,” you said firmly. “I have a proposal for your madam.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed, but after a moment’s hesitation, she rolled her eyes and stepped aside.

Inside, the stench of sweat and perfume hit you like a slap. The air was humid, cloying, heavy with the sounds of grunts and moans from every corner. You blinked, taking it in—the writhing bodies, the shadowed alcoves where no act was too obscene, no boundary respected.

But it wasn’t the orgies that churned your stomach. It was the private rooms.

Your steps faltered as you caught glimpses through half-open doors: a boy’s small frame crushed beneath a man’s weight, the blank stare of a child too broken to cry. Your throat tightened, bile rising as you forced yourself to keep walking.

Savages.

The word seared through your mind like a brand.

Savages, all of them.

You lifted your chin, forcing your face into a mask of composure as you entered the madam’s chamber. The older woman sat behind a low table, her painted lips curling into a calculating smile as you approached.

“You have the product you promised? Or are you here to reconsider my offer?” Her voice was smooth, almost mocking.

“I have the product.” You placed the jar on the table with a steady hand. “But the conditions have changed.”

The madam’s brow arched. “Conditions?” She reached for the jar, turning it in her hands. “My price remains the same.”

“You don’t even know how to use it,” you countered, your voice cool. “I can teach some of your workers how to apply it properly, but you’ll abide by my terms.”

The madam leaned back, signaling for one of her girls—a nervous-looking young woman who couldn’t have been more than sixteen. “She’ll learn, and she’ll teach the others.”

You shook your head, your resolve hardening. “No. You will stop selling children. Anyone under fifteen comes to me. I will teach them.” You leaned forward, locking eyes with her. “If you refuse, our business is done.”

The madam’s smile faltered, just for a moment. “I’d lose considerable profit,” she said, her voice low, almost amused. “Women can still shave.”

Your nose twitched in disgust. “You’ll find other uses for this product. And if you don’t, the next whorehouse will. What happens when this becomes a trade, and you have to buy it back at a premium?” You sat back, folding your arms. “Stop selling the children.”

The room was silent save for the muffled noises from beyond the walls. Finally, the madam exhaled through her nose. “One gold dragon, then. Instead of two.”

Gold was gold. And if it saved even a handful of children, it was enough. “Done.”

She handed you the coin, and you pocketed it without looking. “Gather all your workers under fifteen. I don’t care if they’re in service—bring them to me now.”

The madam hesitated but eventually obeyed. A handful of children were brought into the room, their eyes hollow and frightened. But not all.

You scanned the faces, your stomach twisting. He wasn’t there.

Without a word, you stormed out, ignoring the madam’s shouts. Room by room, you searched until you found him.

The boy.

A man loomed over him, his hand gripping the boy’s hair as he forced him down. Rage boiled in your chest as you shoved the man off, pulling the boy to your side.

“Sinner,” you spat, your voice trembling with fury.

Behind you, the madam appeared, stammering apologies, but you didn’t care. You turned, the boy clutching your arm, and stormed out of the house, your jar tucked beneath your other arm.

It wasn’t enough. It never would be. But it was a start.

The turn of events was brutal—messy and unsightly—but it carved an opportunity. Now, you had eyes scattered throughout the city, keen and unblinking. If wielded correctly, they’d be more than informants; they’d become your personal choir, singing your truths to the masses. A better life than the squalor they came from, surely. It had to be. You wouldn’t allow yourself to doubt it.

As the dragon-carved gates of King’s Landing loomed farther, your thoughts spiraled to the tasks at hand. Your newly assembled web of spies awaited their first test. The Miswak shipment needed delivering, and the children would have hopefully grounded enough charcoal by now. Was that child labor? Perhaps. But you’d gifted them the tools to climb higher—the basics of English, etched into the same rudimentary book you had created for Dyana.

Reading. Writing. Seeds planted for the future, and one day, they would bloom.

…

“Any new developments?” Alicent’s voice pierced the quiet like a needle slipping through silk. Her watchful eyes held you in place, and you swallowed back the biting words that nearly leapt from your tongue. It had been a month, and you couldn’t hold off Alicent—or Otto—much longer. They were shadows at your back, waiting for the right moment to strike.

“Nearly finished,” you lied smoothly, then allowed hesitation to creep in, as though you were carefully choosing your words. “However, there is… something else I’d like to discuss.”

You took a deep breath, steadying yourself. This had to work. Ever since your reckless encounter with her son, Alicent had grown colder, more measured. You prayed to whatever gods might listen that Aemond was clever enough to keep his mouth shut. Still, the whispers of the maids lingered in the halls, their eyes darting toward you whenever you passed. Your carefully applied makeup covered the marks, but not the rumors. Not entirely.

Alicent raised a single brow, her sharp gaze unnervingly still. Your own eyes flicked to her necklace—a symbol of faith, of purpose. Religion had always been a distant, abstract thing for you. You’d been born into one but never truly embraced it. Still, what was one more belief to add to the list of masks you wore?

“As you know, I am not of this land,” you began, weaving threads of sincerity into your tone. “Yet, I find myself yearning for something greater. A connection… to the gods.” You paused, watching Alicent’s expression shift—a subtle softening. You pressed forward. “I do not know much about the Seven, but I want to learn.”

A flicker of approval lit her face. Strike.

“Do you think I could accompany you the next time you visit the…Sept, is it?”

Alicent’s brow smoothed, her lips curving into a faint, almost maternal smile. “You wish to turn to the Seven?”

“Yes,” you answered with measured conviction. “I want to cultivate a relationship with the gods. I know the Citadel… may not look favorably upon me. But I hold no malice for them.” A small lie. “I seek guidance. I fear I may become lost.”

A threadbare trope, perhaps, but one that never failed to tug at the hearts of saviors. Alicent’s posture shifted; her gaze softened.

“Sweet girl,” she said, smoothing a hand over your hair. “I am glad you have turned to the Seven. I go to the Sept once a week. On the morrow, you shall join me. I will guide you.”

Perfect. You smiled demurely, lowering your head in feigned gratitude. If you couldn’t infiltrate the seediest corners of the city to keep them under your thumb, you’d dismantle them entirely. The parallels between this world and your own were sharp as blades. The Sept—like the medieval Church of your history—wielded untold power, with its followers hanging on every whispered word.

If the Citadel wouldn’t accept you, the Seven would. You would start here, under the Queen’s banner. Her blessing would open doors, and soon, the citadel and the Septons would know your name—not as an outsider, but as a force of change, anointed by faith.

And when the time came, you’d see to it that your web of influence didn’t just spread—it consumed.

With the matter settled, you bowed gracefully and took your leave from the Queen’s chambers. As the heavy doors closed behind you, Otto strode in with his usual air of self-importance. You offered him a polite smile, masking the unease his presence always stirred, and quickly made yourself scarce.

It had been two days since your return to King’s Landing, and time already felt like a double-edged sword. Waiting for your plant to dry had been maddening, leaving you stuck in limbo. Meanwhile, King Viserys, to your surprise, had resumed his seat in the council room, much to Otto’s visible displeasure.

You’d been avoiding the Targaryens as much as possible. Rhaenyra had taken Jacaerys, Lucerys, and Rhaena back to Dragonstone during your absence—a disappointing turn. You had hoped to visit Dragonstone again, at least once more. And as for Jacaerys? So much for his promises. 

Well, it couldn’t be helped. It was time to make new alliances.

Friends in high places, you thought. Yet the options were limited.

Helaena? Too peculiar, her words often tangled in riddles you had no patience for. Aegon? Transparent in his intentions and utterly repugnant. Daemon? He hated you, and the feeling was mutual. Rhaenyra? Impossible, not with her husband hawk-like vigilance. Viserys? A King’s favor could be a double-edged sword, and you had no desire to invite further burdens.

Alicent and Otto? Neither seemed genuinely invested in you. Alicent only saw someone she could shape into her ideal, and Otto viewed you as a piece on the board—disposable when no longer useful.

That left…Aemond.

The very thought made you shudder. Aemond Targaryen, the one-eyed prince. A bitter regret clung to the memory of that night, a reckless mistake you’d been running from ever since. It was half the reason you had leapt at the chance to join Helaena in the Riverlands. Facing Aemond again was a prospect you were still too cowardly to confront, though you suspected it would be unavoidable. If handled carefully, though, he might not be the worst option.

Later. That could wait.

Right now, your mind was preoccupied with the daunting task ahead: the water system. You needed to figure out the formula, but where to begin? All you knew was it needed a steady decline for gravity to carry the flow. Underground would be ideal, but if forced above ground, arches would save on materials. The bricks needed to be durable, made with marble cement. And getting it into the city? That would require tearing apart King’s Landing itself.

Reconstructing an entire city—it could take years.

Years.

The word hit you like a falling stone. Years you would spend here, in this medieval nightmare. You froze mid-step, the weight of realization crashing over you. This was the first time you truly thought about it and let it set in. You would never see your family or friends again. Never watch another movie or binge your favorite show. No degree. No cars, planes, or air conditioning. The life you once knew—the future—was gone, slipping further away with each passing day.

Could you even build a life here? Marry? Have children? The thought was sobering. You could survive, but what would survival cost? Medicine here was archaic at best. Pain relief during childbirth would be nonexistent. Vaccines, nonexistent. Plagues, inevitable. You had always fought to survive back home, but this… this was a different beast altogether.

A pang of homesickness rippled through you. How you longed for a lazy afternoon in bed, reading with music playing softly in the background. Scrolling through social media, catching up on sports, watching the Olympics or the news—or even just indulging in Animal Planet for a moment of calm.

You sighed heavily, rubbing the bridge of your nose as you stopped outside a pair of large doors. The library. Maybe you’d find something useful here—anything to distract you from these spiraling thoughts.

Focus, you reminded yourself. Stay focused. Keep your head above water. Make yourself invaluable. You could mourn the loss of modern life later. For now, you had work to do.

The library was a sprawling maze, the shelves seemingly organized by no discernible system. Scanning the spines, you felt the weight of frustration settling in. No math books. Certainly no physics. You scoffed, shaking your head.

“Why would they have math formulas written down?” you muttered. “Wishful thinking.”

As you prepared to give up, a title caught your eye: “Book of Coin - Crispian Celtigar (First Master of Coin) Aegon I ‘The Conqueror’ Targaryen. 1-37AC.”

Your lips twitched into a smile. Of course. The economy here was primitive at best—a loose network of trade and agrarian reliance. Taxes funneled from the smallfolk to lords, and from lords to the crown. Laughably inefficient.

An open market, ripe for the taking.

If you could establish a proper economy, it would mean wealth beyond imagination—and perhaps a system that bore your name. A fully realized, capitalistic economy. It would take years for anyone else to grasp the concept fully. But you’d need to tread carefully; monarchies and capitalism rarely coexisted peacefully. Then again, when had monarchies ever worked well?

Your grin widened. The pieces of a plan were starting to form. The library hadn’t given you what you’d sought, but it had handed you something far more valuable: an idea.

The idea of modern monarchies intrigued you. Weak relics of bygone eras, their grip on power was tenuous at best. Take Spain, for instance—a nation with a king who held no real authority while a president governed the people. Monarchies, by their very nature, stood in direct opposition to the principles of democratic equality, the very ideal you found yourself gravitating toward. Yet here you were, sitting in a castle steeped in the bloodlines of a dynasty that would scoff at such ideals.

You flipped through the book in your hands, letting your mind wander.

The thought of devoting your entire life to dismantling the monarchy felt exhausting. And really, was it even worth it? Life expectancy here couldn’t be much past the thirties—what a chilling reality. Building an egalitarian society would be an uphill battle, and some changes, you reasoned, had to come organically, from the collective understanding of society itself. A leader could nudge the masses in the right direction, pipeline ideas, and light the way, but the responsibility would ultimately fall on those who came after you.

Then there was the media—a double-edged sword you understood all too well. In capable, ethical hands, it could inform and inspire. But unchecked? It could mislead, manipulate, and turn progress into chaos. The thought was sobering.

Still, you couldn’t ignore the monarchy’s unique allure. For all its flaws, it offered something a democracy couldn’t match: continuity, a living link to the past. Monarchs embodied history, culture, and heritage, grounding a nation in its origins while carrying it forward. The public’s attachment to royalty wasn’t logical—it was emotional. They cried for a royal death, cheered for a wedding, and celebrated the birth of heirs they’d never meet. The late Princess Diana was proof of this—her influence enduring even decades after her tragic death.

You grinned, the beginnings of an idea forming. Perhaps the media wasn’t such a bad tool after all, not if wielded correctly.

Otto and Alicent were closing in, you could feel it. You needed something to turn the tide in Rhaenyra’s favor. Numbers alone might confirm the legitimacy of Jacaerys, Lucerys, and Joffrey, but public opinion was another entity entirely. People doubted what they saw with their own eyes; they’d cling to rumors if given the chance. But with the right narrative, a loyal following could be built around Jacaerys, the future heir. A fan base so devoted, so unwavering, that whispers of bastardy would fall on deaf ears.

Even if the worst happened and the truth came out, a beloved figure could weather the storm. A king who won the hearts of his people would render lineage irrelevant. It wasn’t just about legitimacy—it was about loyalty, influence, and the ability to inspire unwavering devotion.

You leaned back, smiling to yourself. Maybe, just maybe, you’d found your strategy.

You pursed your lips. Yeah…get Rhaenyra on the throne and make her children beloved. Those at the bottom are what keep those at the top standing. A country is not made of just numbers. That’s how should be.

First, you’d have to create a source of constant and neutral information. A reliable source. A true neutral source.

Something simple. 

 A newspaper! 

You snapped the coin book shut, grabbing a piece of paper and a quill, heart pounding with excitement. You sketched the first rough outline of something new, something revolutionary. Journalists. Editors. Writers. You’d need them all, but first, you’d start small. One piece at a time. It didn’t matter that Westeros wasn’t ready for it. They’d need it. You’d make them need it.

People, no matter the time, love gossip. You’d have to recruit someone for that. Actually, let's start thinking of the jobs that need to be filled. 

‘Journalists, senior editors, assistant editors, editorial assistants, staff writers, printers, Painters?’ Then of course you’d have to do one for every subject you choose, politics, gossip, health, fashion (you needed to start pants or something. These skirts were too much.), travel maybe (You really needed to get out more), business, science, lifestyle, sports. Hell, maybe you’d even start the Olympics here. Make your own city and it will be the capital of progress. Call it Olympus, home of the Olympians, and have major athletes living there and universities there so you’d have the brightest minds. Wouldn’t that be something? Actually maybe… “Ugh! This is so much work already!” You threw your head back and your jaw slackened. Above you was standing the last Prince you wanted to see. 

Aemond stood there, his presence suffocating, cutting through your thoughts like a blade.

You shot to your feet, heart thudding. Not now. Not when your mind was on fire. You gave him a tight smile, forced but polite. “Perfect timing,” you muttered. Time to go.

“Journalists?” Aemond spoke and you gave a smile. Definitely time to go! Once this newspaper was started it couldn’t be linked back to you. It wouldn’t give it the fair and neutral reputation you wanted, especially once you started making headlines and you would. The whole of Westeros would know your name once you were done. 

You smiled, but it was a wolfish thing. “Just playing with words…” Your heart raced. It was a lie. A flimsy one. But it wasn’t like he’d ever heard of the word before.

He raised a brow, clearly unimpressed. His gaze flickered to your lips, then back to your eyes, unreadable, as always. "What does it mean?"

You looked around, feigning thought. The heat of his stare burned into you. "I don’t know yet. Would you like to help me give it meaning?" You let your words hang, soft but charged with a promise. You ignored the way his eye darkened as they lingered on your collarbones.

“Help you how?” His voice had an edge now, dangerous and tantalizing. It sent a shiver down your spine.

You turned away quickly, trying to steady yourself. No. Not again. You couldn’t fall into that trap again, especially not after making peace with Alicent. You forced a smile, playing dumb. “Figuring out what the word means. I just said that.” Your voice was light, almost too light.

Aemond stood still, his gaze on you sharp and unrelenting. The air between you thickened.

He stepped closer, his presence a magnet pulling at every nerve in your body. You instinctively took a step back, but the intensity in his eyes held you in place. “I thought you were a man with no taste for depravity.” You threw his own words back at him, the challenge in your voice unmistakable.

Aemond said nothing as he leaned in. A sudden and sharp pain hit the left side of your brain making your eye sting. You hissed and covered your eye. Aemond lifted a brow and your jaw slacked for the second time that day. Damn. This second time you’ve probably offended him about his eye. To your credit, you really did get hit with a sharp pain which was now forming into a headache. The worst thing that could happen and it’s happening. Rather break a bone than another migraine. However, your migraines usually come with a side of vomit, but that wouldn’t be till much later. You knew you shouldn’t have eaten anything here. It was a miracle nearly two months and with no sickness, hopefully, it was a simple upset stomach.

“Excuse me.” You barely managed to breathe the words, your senses assaulted by a pungent smell that seemed to grow stronger with every heartbeat. Your head throbbed, a sharp pulse blooming at your temple, and you instinctively pushed past Aemond, ignoring the startled lift of his brow.

The moment you stepped into the corridor, the pain in your head flared again, forcing you to slow your steps. Each movement sent another spike of agony through your skull, and you clenched your teeth to keep from groaning aloud. Behind you, Aemond followed in silence, his measured steps too close, his gaze too heavy. You could feel it trailing you, scrutinizing your every falter. Thankfully, he seemed wise enough not to speak.

You finally reached your chambers, but the moment you opened the door, a sickly sweet smell hit you like a punch to the gut. Your stomach churned violently.

“Shit,” you hissed, slamming the door shut and turning away as a fresh wave of nausea rose to your throat.

“What are you doing?” Aemond’s voice broke the tense silence, his tone edged with curiosity and the faintest trace of irritation.

“Headache,” you gritted out, squeezing your eyes shut as you pressed your fingers to your temples. The small circles you rubbed brought only the barest relief. “Strong smells make it worse. Please—I’m terrible with pain.” The words tumbled out unbidden, desperation seeping into your voice. The sharp, stabbing sensation on the left side of your head had morphed into a vise, squeezing tighter and tighter. It was unbearable. At least with a broken bone, the pain had a clear source. This—this all-encompassing torment—was driving you mad.

“Should I call a Maester?” Aemond asked, his voice steady, though you thought you detected the faintest flicker of concern.

You shook your head sharply, regret washing over you as the motion worsened the throbbing. Another wave of nausea rolled through you, and you turned away, swallowing hard to keep your stomach’s rebellion at bay.

“Unless they have fucking painkillers,” you snapped, the words slipping out before you could stop them, “then they can’t do shit for me.” You barely registered the silence that followed, too consumed by the relentless pressure in your skull. But a part of you imagined Aemond’s reaction—his sharp features drawn in surprise, maybe even offense. You’d never spoken like that to anyone here, least of all a prince.

“I need air,” you muttered through clenched teeth, hoping he wouldn’t press the issue further.

“Breathe,” he said simply, placing a hand on your back. The gesture, though likely meant to comfort, did little to ease the suffocating pressure in your chest.

“No,” you groaned, shaking your head weakly. “Clean air. Fresh air. Not the sweet rot in my room or the filth of King’s Landing.” You turned to him then, desperation flashing in your eyes. Another sharp wave of vertigo hit, and you reached out instinctively, gripping his arm for balance. “Please.” The word escaped as a plea, raw and unfiltered.

“Where?” Aemond’s expression was unreadable, his voice calm despite the urgency in yours. Perhaps, if you weren’t so consumed by the pain, you might have noticed the faint crease of his brow, or the subtle glance toward the nearby shadows where watchful eyes lingered.

 “Dragonstone,” you whispered, the word barely audible over the pounding in your skull. It was the first place you could think of—cool, constant, and untouched by the suffocating air of this place.

Aemond’s brows furrowed, his expression sharpening with intrigue. “Dragonstone?” he echoed, as though the name itself warranted suspicion. He hadn’t known you were even aware of the place, let alone familiar with it. Has Aegon taken you? His brother had often bragged about his soon to be conquest of you. Fucking you atop Sunfyre’s back whilst you both flew above King’s Landing. Though it did little to bother Aemond. He had already beaten his brother to it in any case. Aemond had dismissed it as a typical Aegon bluster, but now…

“You’ve been to Dragonstone? On dragonback?” he pressed, his eye narrowing as he studied your face.

You nodded weakly, your eyes still closed, every movement threatening to unleash another jolt of pain. The invisible belt tightened further around your head, and you winced.

“How?” he asked, his voice remaining flat, though the edge of curiosity softened his tone. Perhaps it was your vulnerability that tempered his usual sharpness—or perhaps it was something else entirely.

“Does it matter?” you managed to mutter, each word a struggle. “If you’re worried about Aegon, I promise you it wasn’t him.” Your voice cracked with desperation, your patience shredded by the unrelenting pain. “Please, Aemond—my head is killing me.”

He hesitated, his jaw tightening as if debating whether to press further. His gaze lingered on you, an unreadable storm behind his eye, but your words seemed to settle something in him.

Aemond’s lips pressed into a thin line as he stepped closer, his towering presence both grounding and overwhelming in your current state. “Very well,” he said at last, though the question lingered in his gaze. “But if not Aegon, then who?”

“Not now,” you hissed, cradling your head as a fresh wave of pain pulsed through your skull. “I’ll tell you later. Just… please, Aemond.”

For a long moment, he said nothing. You could feel the tension in the air, his curiosity warring with some other unspoken instinct. Then, without another word, he extended his arm toward you, his fingers brushing your elbow with a touch so surprisingly gentle it made you open your eyes.

“Come,” he said simply. “We’ll take Vhagar.”

You blinked, your breath catching. “Vhagar?” What the hell was a Vhagar? You didn’t have time for riddles—what you needed was fresh air so you could follow your usual migraine routine: a restless nap where you’d feel every pulse in your head, waking up nauseous and dizzy, throwing up, and finally, one last nap to reset. But that wasn’t happening in King’s Landing, not with the air reeking like it did. Yeah, you really needed to figure out those formulas for the sewer system.

“My dragon,” Aemond clarified.

Oh. He had a dragon. Right.

Wait—Vhagar. The name tugged at a corner of your memory, but the pounding in your skull made it impossible to chase the thought down. Whatever. You’d piece it together later.

You gave a stiff nod and started walking, each step down the stairs making your head throb like your brain was ricocheting off your skull. Damn migraines.

You took each step carefully, gripping the railing as though it might steady the pulsing in your skull. Aemond followed silently behind you, his presence a heavy shadow against your increasingly unsteady footing. The scent of the city—a sickly mix of sweat, rot, and filth—clung to the air like a physical weight, and it was all you could do not to gag.

As you reached the courtyard, a sharp wave of vertigo hit. You paused, eyes squeezing shut, willing the world to stop spinning. Behind you, Aemond’s voice cut through the haze. “Are you sure you can manage this? You look—”

“Like hell,” you finished for him, waving off his concern. “I’ll manage if it gets me to fresh air.”

Vhagar was there, looming like a mountain brought to life, her sheer size making your breath catch for reasons entirely unrelated to your headache. Her massive head turned toward you, eyes gleaming with an intelligence that made your stomach twist with both awe and unease. The migraine and nausea suddenly felt like the least of your problems. Nearly made them go away actually.

“That’s Vhagar?” you managed, your voice cracking slightly. Great. Just great. Show no fear, right?

Aemond stepped beside you, his posture as effortlessly poised as ever. “She won’t harm you. Not unless I command it.” His tone was calm, almost casual, but you caught the faintest flicker of amusement in his gaze. Of course he was enjoying this.

“That’s…reassuring,” you muttered, not feeling reassured in the slightest.

Aemond extended a hand toward you. “Come. If it's the fresh air you need, Vhagar will take you there.”

You stared at his hand, then at Vhagar, then back at him. The last time you’d been on dragonback was with Helaena, and even then, it had been an ordeal. Now, with your head pounding like a war drum and your balance barely holding steady, climbing onto the back of the largest dragon in Westeros felt like a death wish.

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” you said, but even as the words left your mouth, you felt the heat of Vhagar’s breath as she leaned in closer. The air was hot, yes, but surprisingly clean—free of the acrid stench that seemed to saturate King’s Landing. You inhaled deeply, and for a fleeting moment, the tension in your head eased.

“You said you needed air,” Aemond reminded you, his hand still outstretched. “Trust me.”

The words lingered between you, heavy with unspoken meaning. You looked at him, his face unreadable but unwavering. Normally this would be a no-brainer to get on but right now you weren’t feeling the best, but nonetheless, against your better judgment, you placed your hand in his.

“Fine,” you relented. “But if I fall off, I’m dragging you with me.”

Aemond smirked, but said nothing, keeping his grip firm as he helped you up toward the saddle. 

As Vhagar shifted beneath you, her scales scraping like thunder against stone, you squeezed your eyes shut and muttered a silent prayer to whichever god was listening. Fresh air. That was all you needed. You could survive this. Probably.

And if not…well, there was always the chance that you’d get home somehow. 

Vhagar’s sheer size made her every movement feel monumental. As she shifted beneath you, you clung tightly to the saddle, your fingers white-knuckling the leather straps. This wasn’t like flying on Vermax or even Dreamfyre—those dragons, while mighty, felt agile, almost playful in the air. Vhagar, by contrast, was an ancient power given form, each step and breath a reminder of her dominance. She felt…unrelenting, as if the sky itself bent to her will.

Your head still pounded, but as Vhagar began to rise, the ground slipping farther and farther away, the faint breeze turned into a steady rush of air. It was cool, fresh, untainted by the filth of the city below, and for the first time in hours, you felt a thread of relief unwind through your body.

Your stomach, however, had other plans.

“Ginger ale,” you murmured under your breath, your voice barely audible over the growing wind.

“What?” Aemond called back, glancing over his shoulder as Vhagar’s ascent steadied into a glide.

“I need ginger ale,” you repeated, louder this time, though the absurdity of the request hit you even as you said it. “Helps with nausea.” You groaned softly, pressing your forehead against the saddle, hoping the coolness of the leather would soothe your migraine.

Aemond gave you a look—half incredulous, half bemused. “What is ‘ginger ale?’”

“Doesn’t matter,” you muttered, clutching the straps tighter as Vhagar tilted into a sharp turn. The motion made your stomach lurch, and you pressed your teeth together, determined not to vomit. “I’d settle for anything that doesn’t taste like wine or rot.”

The Prince said nothing, though you thought you caught a flicker of something akin to concern in his eye. If he had a remark, he wisely kept it to himself, focusing instead on guiding Vhagar.

As the dragon soared higher, the wind whipped against your face, stinging your skin but bringing with it that precious, unpolluted air you’d been craving. You tilted your head back, letting it wash over you, even as your grip on the saddle remained ironclad.

Every movement of Vhagar felt heavier, more deliberate than Vermax or Dreamfyre. Where their flights had been smooth and almost playful, Vhagar’s was a commanding march through the skies. You could feel the weight of her wings as they sliced through the air, each beat a reminder of her power. The vibrations resonated through your body, making your migraine pulse in tandem.

“Hold tighter,” Aemond called, his voice steady but edged with a warning as Vhagar banked again. You didn’t need to be told twice. Your arms ache from holding on, but letting go wasn’t an option. Not here, not on this dragon.

“Does she always feel like she’s trying to knock you off?” you yelled back, a mix of fear and awe slipping into your tone.

“Only if she doesn’t like you,” Aemond replied, and you swore you caught the faintest trace of a smirk.

Great. Just great.

“Tell her I’m very likable,” you shot back, though the trembling in your voice probably undermined your point.

“You’re still alive, aren’t you?” he countered, turning his gaze forward as Vhagar leveled out.

Alive, yes. Comfortable, no. But as the air cleared and the scent of saltwater reached your nose, you couldn’t bring yourself to care. It wasn’t King’s Landing. It wasn’t the suffocating sweetness of your chambers. It was fresh, untainted, and as the horizon opened up before you, you allowed yourself a moment to simply breathe.

“Oh god.” You gripped the saddle though through the sound of the harsh wind your ears sounded a high-pitched, almost "cackling" roar, with a mix of screeching and whistling sounds. “What was that?” You squint your eyes looking forward, almost forgetting you had a migraine in the first place. Your eyes try to adjust to the blinding white of the clouds. A small figure flies through a cloud. “Is that?” 

Was it Vermax? No. Vermax’s deep green coloring would strongly contrast the clouds. No this one blended in with the brightness of the clouds. Was it white, maybe gold? Do they come in those colors? Clearly they came in green (Vhagar and Vermax) and blue (Dreamfyre). 

For a couple of seconds you were able to clearly see a smaller yellow dragon with a familiar face riding on top. 

Rhaenyra Targaryen.

“Goodness, do all Targeryens have dragons then?” You asked, watching and turning back as you watched Rhaenrya go to land her dragon at a bay. Was that the bay where you arrived? 

“Majority.” Aemond answered and you nodded. 

“What about the King?” If all Targeryens and dragons you would like to see all of them. Study them if possible or to simply interact with them. Jacaerys had spoken of bonds, you like to understand these bonds and how they work. 

“My father rode Balerion the Black Dread once before it passed away from old age.” As Aemond spoke, you furrowed your brows. “It was the last creature who had seen Old Valyria in all its glory.”

“Old Valyria?” You asked. What was that? Or more so where was it? Was this like ancient Rome or something?

“Are you not from the East?” Aemond asked and you simply looked back at him over your shoulder with a brown lifted. 

“No.” 

“Not the Shadow Lands beyond Asshai?” Aemond looked down at you while keeping a steady hand on Vhagar’s reins.

“No. I’ve never even heard of it. Now what is Old Valyria?” The more you spoke you saw suspicion in Aemond’s eyes. Maybe you should’ve just said yes. You weren’t in the best spot right now for you to provoke such things. Yes, you might go home but y’know, you’d rather not fall more than what seemed 200 ft like last time. What if you didn’t fall into water? Regardless you weren’t in a good place to warrant any kind of reaction from Aemond that was not positive.

“Where are you from then?” Aemond asked and you noticed Vhagar’s speed notably decreased and you bit the inside of your lip.

You hesitated, your fingers tightening instinctively on the saddle as Vhagar’s wings beat slower, her flight becoming almost lazy. Was it intentional? Aemond's way of stalling until you answered? Or maybe Vhagar simply felt the change in his mood.

“Far away,” you finally said, deflecting as best as you could.

“Clearly,” Aemond murmured, his tone skeptical. “But ‘far away’ is not an answer.”

You sighed, your mind scrambling for a plausible explanation. Something that could at least buy you time, but your thoughts felt jumbled, your headache dulling your ability to think quickly.

“It’s… not a place you’d know,” you muttered, hoping the vague answer would suffice.

You purse your lips, keeping your gaze forward, trying to keep the dizziness from making you look weaker than you already felt. “Well, the first time I told all of you, you looked at me like I was crazy, so clearly you don’t.” The words slipped out sharper than you intended, but it was too late to reel them in now.

Aemond’s expression didn’t change, but you could feel the slight shift in the air, a sharpness that hadn’t been there before. Something between you was changing, but you couldn’t decide if it was good or bad. Whatever it was, it was pulling you deeper into something you weren’t sure you could control.

“Old Valyria is the place of origin for the Targaryen bloodline.” Aemond spoke moving past his attempt to figure out where you were from. You gave a small sigh of relief. 

Targaryen men. Always so unstable. Maybe it was just the white haired ones.

“Daenys Targaryen or otherwise known as Daenys the Dreamer, predicted the doom of Old Valyria twelve years before it happened. Her father, Lord Aenar Targaryen, heeded her dream and sold his holdings in the Valyrian Freehold and moved his family and all of their belongings to Dragonstone.” You stayed silent as Aemond spoke, trying to focus on his words instead of an uncomfortable feeling in the back of your throat. “With them, they took five dragons, including Balerion. When the Doom of Valyria came, House Targaryen was the only family of dragonriders which survived. Daenys was married to her brother Gaemon, who followed their father as Lord of Dragonstone. Their children were Aegon and Elaena Targaryen. Elaena married her brother, Aegon, and together they had two sons: Maegon and Aerys Targaryen and from them continues the line until the line reached Aegon and his sister wives.” 

At this point the Targeyen family tree is a circle. Why is there so much incest!? Whats with the sibling marriages!?

You couldn’t help but blink, the confusion clouding your thoughts for a moment. "So, the whole bloodline... it's just... incest?" The words slipped out before you could stop them. You bit your lip immediately, regretting it.

Aemond, ever composed, didn’t seem taken aback. His gaze, however, darkened slightly. "In our family, the bonds of blood are sacred," he said, his voice still smooth but edged with something harder. "It keeps the power of the dragons pure."

"Pure?" You repeated, the word feeling strange in your mouth. "What’s pure about it? That’s not... how it really works or at least from what I know." You barely managed to keep your voice steady, the migraine pressing heavier behind your eyes, like a constant hum beneath your skull.

"You speak of customs I do not understand," Aemond remarked coolly, his eyes narrowing as if searching for something in your expression. "But I will not apologize for the Targaryen way."

You met his gaze for a moment, feeling the tension thick in the air. "No one’s asking you to apologize," you muttered, turning your attention back to the sky. The rush of wind felt cold, too cold against the feverish heat inside you. "But it’s hard to understand... that."

“Not all Valryians were dragon lords. We are the last of our kind. Only those with our blood may command a dragon. Marriages within bloodlines are necessary.” Aemond spoke firmly and you nodded trying not to let your biases control even though, from what you know incest is wrong both morally and ethically. 

You hummed and turned back to him. “So say I want to claim a dragon, I can’t because I don’t have Valyrian blood?”

“You would be burned alive the second you stood in front of a dragon attempting to claim it, not just because you don’t have Valyrian blood but because you do not have Targaryen blood.” he spoke with an air of self-importance. You suppose it does warrant that kind of feeling. If only your bloodline can control dragons, you’d be pretty self-absorbed too. “There are those who still have Valryian blood but are not dragon lords. Those in the free cities for example. Many came from Valyrian colonies thus many have some Valryian blood though diluted. Lys has the purest, one can tell by the silver-gold hair and violet-purple eyes, characteristics not found amongst any other people of the world. This can vary from white to silver-gold to blond hair, and from lilac, to deep purple, and pale blue eyes.”

“Okay so your blood is magic and because of that you can control dragons. I understand, I suppose that would warrant…incest,” It was a hard pill to sallow. Admiting to yourself that incest was okay. That was something you never thought you’d say. “So do the people of Lys also have incestual…traditions?”

Aemond was quite seemingly thinking while you tried to keep your ‘little’ headache at bay. “I do not know. They say even the small folk have Valyrian features. I do not think they would. Many call Targaryen customs..queer.” There was a small hit of exasperation in his voice. 

Understandable. 

(Again you’d never thought you’d be justifying it.)

“I thought you had a headache.” Aemond chastised and you simply looked forward. 

“I do. It’s not as bad anymore. The fresh air is always nice.”

It wasn’t long before Dragon Stone came into view. A small smile came to your face. Cold winds. Finally. 

Vhagar's landing is definitely a lot smoother and if you’re being honest preferable to any other dragons you’ve been on, despite the fact that she’s as tall as the bridge you fell from. 

“I’d like to stay near the beach if it’s not too much trouble.” That was probably the nicest way you had spoken to him today.  

Aemond said nothing but Vhagar’s body shifted and you held on tight. Finally when she landed you sat still. 

“How does one get off?”

You watched Aemond slide off his dragon. 

You took thirty minutes trying to climb down. 

Finally on the ground you took off your coat and laid it out before you. Finally to take the first step into getting better. A nap. 

“What are you doing?” Aemond asked you as you bent down to lay down. 

“Take a nap. My head still hurts. I need to sleep.” You looked up at him as if it was obvious before you laid on your side with your arms to prop up your head as a makeshift pillow. 

“You begged me to bring you here to nap?” Aemond spoke unamused and you looked up at him half offended. 

You never begged. “I never beg.” 

“You begged.” Aemond said and normally you’d go back and forth but right now getting rid of this headache took precedence. You went to close your eyes trying to focus on numbing the ache in your head.

Some ginger ale. It was all you wanted.

As you focused on the sound of the waves an Vhagar’s loud breaths you felt as if Aemond was watching you. Listen you knew that both you both knew each other in ways that were not appropriate for the relationship you’re supposed to have but you’d rather not have him watch you while you sleep.

Speaking of you’re glad he has the decency to bring it up. You’d rather not deal with it now. 

“You don’t have to stay y’know. I’m fine, you can even go back to King’s Landing.” You spoke without opening your eyes. 

“How would you get back?” He asked and you shrugged. 

“I’d figure it out. Besides, I probably won’t be better till tomorrow morning, and her grace, Princess Rhaenrya, will have questions as to why you’re here.” Wow, look at you, using titles when it’s not necessary. 

“My half sister has no jurisdiction over me.”

“Is this not her land? Prince Jacaerys told me he has been living here for the past couple of years.” Before Aemond could answer you Vhagar laid her head on the ground not too far from you. The thud of her head landing on the floor made you jump a bit. She was enormous. It was amazing to see just how big a dragon can get. 

“If I were to leave you’d stay here all night all by yourself on the beach?” Aemond questioned and you paused. 

You…actually hadn’t thought about that. You had been so focused on the pain. You’ve been camping before. Besides these dresses were compact. “I’ll be fine. While I could do with a blanket, I can manage.” 

Aemond didn’t respond immediately, but you could feel the weight of his stare, heavy and considering. You kept your eyes closed, refusing to let him see even a flicker of hesitation. If he wanted to hover, fine. That was his prerogative, but you weren’t about to entertain his protectiveness.

“I should leave you here then,” he finally said, though his voice betrayed no intention of actually doing so.

“Please do,” you muttered, shifting slightly to get more comfortable. The cold sand beneath your coat was a relief, soothing compared to the relentless pounding in your head.

Aemond huffed lightly, the sound almost amused. “And if wild animals find you?”

You cracked one eye open, staring at him with as much conviction as you could muster in your current state. “I’m sure Vhagar would scare off anything stupid enough to wander close.”

His lips twitched, though whether it was amusement or annoyance, you couldn’t tell. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re still here,” you retorted, closing your eyes again.

For a moment, there was only the sound of the waves lapping against the shore, the distant caw of seabirds, and Vhagar’s deep, steady breathing. It was peaceful, almost enough to lull you into sleep despite Aemond’s looming presence.

“I’ll stay,” Aemond said after a while, his tone softer now, though no less resolute. “In case you try to do something foolish.”

You exhaled sharply through your nose, half a laugh, half frustration. “Suit yourself.”

Silence fell again, but it wasn’t entirely comfortable. You could still feel his eyes on you, sharp and unyielding. You shifted slightly, pulling your coat tighter around you.

“I’m not going to disappear into the waves or get eaten by some mythical beach monster,” you said, not bothering to open your eyes this time.

“No, but you do have a habit of finding trouble,” Aemond replied smoothly.

You grunted in response, too tired to argue. He wasn’t wrong.

The sound of shifting sand caught your attention, and you cracked your eyes open just in time to see him settle down a few paces away, leaning back against a smooth boulder. His sword was propped up beside him, his posture as regal and composed as ever, even in the wild.

“Are you really going to sit there and watch me sleep?” you asked, incredulous.

Aemond smirked faintly, his one good eye gleaming in the dimming light. “You begged me to bring you here. Consider this my penance for indulging you.”

You groaned, throwing an arm over your face to block him out. “I didn’t beg,” you mumbled again, your voice muffled.

His quiet chuckle was the last thing you heard before the sound of the waves carried you into uneasy sleep.

Your routine continued in a haze: ‘sleep,’ though it felt as if you were awake the entire time, struggling to control the relentless headache. Then you’d wake to throw up.

Now, it was dark, and the biting chill of the night cut through the air. Your eyes adjusted slowly to the shadows, a groan threatening to escape as every movement sent sharp, echoing pain through your skull.

Finally standing, you glanced around. Aemond was nowhere to be found, though Vhagar’s hulking form still loomed in the near distance, her steady breaths the only sound apart from the waves. That was fine. You didn’t want anyone to see you like this anyway.

With slow, deliberate movements, you stripped off your dress, leaving yourself in the thin white gown customary beneath it. Normally, you’d mutter endless complaints about these heavy, cumbersome period costumes. But tonight, the layers, even the flimsiest ones, offered some semblance of protection from the icy winds.

You shuffled toward the waves, whimpering occasionally as the pain throbbed with each step. The cold water lapped at your feet, a sharp contrast to the feverish warmth that always radiated from your skin. You pressed on until the waves reached your waist, your body trembling as the chill seeped into your bones.

Lowering your head, you gagged, and your stomach heaved violently. Your meals from earlier surfaced, leaving you choking and gasping as tears streamed down your face. It was disgusting, humiliating even, but slowly—mercifully—the iron grip of the headache began to loosen.

“I hate medieval food,” you murmured, rinsing your face with the salty water. The thought of submerging yourself entirely lingered for a moment before you gave in, diving headfirst into the cold waves.

The shock of the water stole your breath, but you stayed under, letting your body adjust to the temperature. When you surfaced, the fresh air of Dragonstone filled your lungs, sharp and briny. You wiped your eyes, ignoring the sting of the salt. This was the first time you’d been to the beach since arriving here, and despite everything, it felt... nice.

You let yourself drift, floating on your back, the waves cradling you like an old friend. The nagging thought that something might be lurking beneath the surface tugged at the back of your mind, but you shoved it aside. The dull ache in your skull was finally easing, and for once, that was enough.

The water around you grew warmer—too warm to be natural—but your exhaustion dulled your caution. A small voice in the back of your mind screamed at you to get out, to flee the dark, unknown waters of a world filled with magic and monsters. But you stayed, the pain in your head too fresh a memory to relinquish the relief now washing over you.

You don’t know how long you floated in the water shivering in the waves. The water seemed to grow warmer around you, almost unnaturally so, but the relief in your skull dulled your caution. A part of you screamed that this was a terrible idea—floating in magical waters under a night sky that might hide anything, especially in a world like this.

Had you been in a better state of mind, you’d have bolted from the waves the moment you stepped in. Unknown waters, magical creatures, the dark—none of it boded well. But the pain had been unbearable, and now that it was subsiding, you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

You rinsed your mouth with seawater, grimacing at the salty sting as you tried to erase the acidic taste clinging to the back of your throat. It was crude and far from what you were used to—damn, how you missed a toothbrush—but it would have to do.

The waves carried you lazily back toward the beach. With your ears submerged, the world grew muffled, as though the ocean had swallowed all sound. And yet, it felt as if you could hear every secret the water held—a low hum beneath the surface, ancient and endless.

Above you, the night sky stretched impossibly vast, the stars scattered like shards of broken glass across a dark tapestry. No matter how long you’d been here, the skies of this world never failed to leave you breathless.

It was beautiful in a way that almost hurt.

You stared up at infinity, caught in its embrace, swaying in the currents of another. Forever trapped between two infinities.

Forever was a long time.

The thought pressed heavy on your chest. You were a long way from home, farther than distance could measure. Your family, your friends, your world—they were all an infinity away, unreachable, untouchable.

And for the first time tonight, the ache in your chest felt sharper than the one in your head.

Still, a nagging thought crept into the back of your mind, one you tried to suppress as you stared at the horizon. The warmth of the water wasn’t normal. The fact that you felt better wasn’t normal. And standing alone in the dark with Vhagar’s massive presence behind you wasn’t particularly smart and Aemond wasn’t here if she decided she wanted a midnight snack.

But the pounding in your skull was gone, that alone, at least to you, was more than enough for you to stay.

You stayed in the water a while longer, letting the gentle rhythm of the waves soothe what was left of your frayed nerves. The cold wind nipped at your cheeks, sharp and biting, but it was a welcome change from the suffocating heat that often clung to your skin.

Finally, with a deep breath you dove under the water swimming with the rhythm of the waves until you rose from the waves. The thin fabric hung tightly to you leaving nothing to the imagination. As you walked the weight of the waves wore you down  making the trek more arduous than it should’ve been. By the time you reached the beach, your toes were numb, and a deep shiver rattled through your body.  

As the wind blew you felt your hardened buds against the wet fabric. It was cold. 

Vhagar shifted slightly, her massive head lifting just enough to acknowledge your presence. Her glowing eyes tracked your movements, unblinking, as you wrung water from your gown and sat on the cold, hard sand near the waves lapping at your feet. It was strange how something so immense could feel so alive, so keenly aware.

“You’re not very subtle,” you murmured, glancing her way. “I know you’re watching me.”

The dragon let out a low rumble, the vibrations coursing through the ground beneath you. It almost sounded like understanding.

You sighed, running a hand through your damp hair, pushing it back from your face. Above, the stars blazed brighter than you’d ever seen. You’d heard stories of a time when Earth’s skies had looked like this—before light pollution, when you could see Saturn and its rings with the naked eye. But that world was gone, and this one was an infinity apart.

Your thoughts wandered as they often did. There was so much to accomplish, but would there ever be enough time? Could you even manage it on your own? Lately, it felt like you were spinning in circles, chasing impossible dreams. Maybe it would be easier to give up, to settle into whatever semblance of a normal life this world allowed.

You imagined it for a moment: marrying some minor lord, living quietly far from King’s Landing. 

Dragon Stone really was perfect for you.It was remote, beautiful, and peaceful in its own austere way.

Too bad Jacaerys was already betrothed. Not that you wanted to be queen—what a nightmare that would be. Still, the idea of staying here, on this island, far from the chaos of the realm, was tempting.

Your musings drifted to Aemond. Where had he gone? Had he truly left you here alone for the night? Or was he somewhere nearby, watching? Perhaps he was inside the castle, receiving the hospitality due a prince, while you were left out here with the dragon. You could only hope he’d given Vhagar strict orders not to burn or eat you.

Your eyes flicked toward the dunes, half-expecting to see the pale glint of his hair in the moonlight. But there was nothing—only the quiet rhythm of the waves and Vhagar’s occasional huff.

The headache that had plagued you earlier was gone now, leaving behind an odd hollowness. It wasn't a relief, not exactly. It felt more like the eerie stillness that follows a storm.

Hugging your knees to your chest, you rested your chin atop them and whispered to no one, “This place is beautiful. But it’s not home.”

Vhagar rumbled again, softer this time, and for some inexplicable reason, it felt like a response.

You sat in silence for a while, soaking in the world around you. The air carried the sharp tang of salt and seaweed, the waves shimmering silver beneath the starlight. It was peaceful in a way that almost made you forget the strange, perilous world you’d fallen into.

Almost.

The cold eventually drove you to move. You stood, wrapping your arms around yourself, and eyed the faint outline of a cave further down the beach. It looked shallow, but it would block the wind well enough. Glancing at Vhagar, you asked, “Don’t suppose you’d let me sleep under your wing, huh?”

The dragon huffed, almost dismissively, and shifted her massive body to face the sea.

“Didn’t think so,” you muttered. You waded back into the waves to rinse off the sand clinging to your skin, then retrieved your clothes and trudged toward the cave.

The cave wasn’t much warmer, but it was shelter. You spread your coat on the ground and folded your dress into a makeshift pillow. The chill seeped into your bones as you lay down, shivering, but exhaustion overtook you anyway.

Sleep came fitfully, filled with dreams of fire and shadow. Unfamiliar voices whispered in the darkness, speaking words you couldn’t understand but felt in your very core.

When you woke, the sky was a faint, pale blue, dawn creeping over the horizon. You sat up, shivering, your body stiff and cold, and froze when you saw him.

Aemond stood at the cave’s entrance, silent and imposing. His sharp gaze pinned you in place, unreadable as ever.

“You’re back,” you rasped, your voice rough with sleep.

“I never left,” he replied evenly, stepping closer. His eye glinted in the dim light. “You’re more impulsive than I gave you credit for.”

You shivered slightly as you stretched, your limbs still stiff from the cold. Your hair, now dry from the saltwater, felt rough and brittle beneath your fingers—its natural state enhanced but worsened by the seawater. “How much did you see?” you asked, running a hand through the unruly strands.

“I saw you dive into the water, swim in it, and parade yourself nearly nude.” Aemond’s lone eye never left you as you reclined back on the sand, stretching lazily.

“Is that all?” you asked lightly, masking your relief. If he had been far enough away, he wouldn’t have seen the more private parts of your ordeal—the headache and the mess you had to "resolve."

“You are reckless,” Aemond said, his voice sharp with disapproval.

“Reckless?” you echoed, the word sitting oddly on your tongue as you rolled your shoulders, joints popping with every motion. “That’s rich coming from you. And, may I add, I wasn’t ‘parading myself.’ I was walking.”

Aemond’s expression didn’t waver, though there was the faintest twitch at the corner of his lips—amusement, maybe, or something close to it. “I am reckless with purpose,” he said evenly. “You, however, seem intent on tempting fate for no reason. What if someone had seen you in such a state, leaving little to the imagination?”

You scoffed, pulling your coat tighter around yourself against the chill. “Then they’d have seen,” you said with a shrug, as if the idea was hardly worth considering. “It’s not like I have anything to hide, but besides ‘parading myself’ what else exactly did I do to offend your sense of self-preservation this time?”

His eye narrowed slightly, the movement subtle but telling. “Swimming alone in the dark when you’ve no idea what lurks beneath the surface. Lying exposed on the beach with nothing but Vhagar to protect you. Shall I continue?”

“You already mentioned the second one,” you said, tilting your head as though to soften the bite in your voice. “As for the first… Well, life without a little danger is a little boring, don’t you think?”

Aemond’s silence stretched for a moment before he tilted his head, his tone suddenly laced with something more cutting. “Do you always allow others to see what you hide beneath your clothing?”

As you stood up there was a faint pop that punctuated the tense air that your legs gave. “No,” you replied, meeting his gaze evenly ignoring the slight dull paint that was beginning to seep into the bones of your legs. “But if someone happens to come across me… what am I supposed to do about it? It’s not the end of the world.”

Aemond’s jaw tightened, his eye flickering with something you couldn’t quite place. “Then our… encounter,” he began, his voice quiet but firm, “I assume it was not an uncommon occurrence?”

You flinched at his words, quickly looking away. So much for never speaking about it again.

“No,” you admitted after a long pause, your voice quieter now. “That was… out of character for me.”

The air between you grew heavier, the distant crash of the waves filling the silence. You shivered, tugging your coat tighter and debating whether to pull on your dress for more coverage. Aemond, as always, was impossible to read, his gaze steady and unwavering even as you avoided it.

A heavy, pregnant silence filled the space, thick with unspoken tension. You felt the ends of your hair being tugged by the breeze before the warmth of hands settled on your shoulders.

“You smell of the sea,” Aemond murmured, his voice low.

You instinctively stepped away, narrowing your eyes. “In a good way or a bad way?”

Aemond’s expression remained inscrutable. “In the way you always smell.”

His gaze lingered, and you suddenly found yourself thinking of that night—a memory that had lingered too close to the surface.

“Well,” you pressed, shifting uncomfortably and picking up your belongings, clutching them against your chest to guard against the wind’s sharp bite. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

Aemond didn’t answer. Instead, his eye bore into you with a look that felt far too knowing, though unfamiliar in its intensity. You rolled your eyes and strode out of the cave, the wind whipping against you like a sharp rebuke.

“Me duelen los huesos,” you muttered, the ache in your legs creeping higher with each step.

“Where are you going?” Aemond’s voice carried over the sound of the wind, and you turned back to see him still standing in the cave’s shadows.

“To Vhagar,” you replied, your tone curt. Where else would you go? There was work to be done, and indulging in any more moments of weakness was a luxury you couldn’t afford. You had responsibilities—stressful ones that, if neglected, could mean far worse than wrinkles or gray hair.

“She’ll burn you,” Aemond said flatly, turning his back to you as if dismissing the conversation entirely.

“Excuse me?” you called, incredulous, but he disappeared further into the cave. Huffing, you marched back after him. “Hello! I’m better now. I need to get back to King’s Landing—some of us actually have things to do. Things that, I might add, very much determine—”

You cut yourself off, biting your tongue before you said too much.

Aemond turned, his smirk sharp enough to cut through stone. “Like what? What could you possibly have to work on? My father has resumed his place on the Small Council. Isn’t that the extent of your duties?”

His mocking tone, paired with that damned smirk, lit a fire in your chest. He had backed you into a corner, and he knew it. You glanced toward the beach, considering the slim possibility of escape. Jacaerys might be able to help if you found him, but would Aemond even let you leave?

Frustrated, you slipped off your shoes and stomped out of the cave. Vhagar loomed ahead, her massive form outlined against the horizon, her ancient eyes gleaming with something that felt unsettlingly knowing.

“Let me through?” you muttered, stepping cautiously toward her.

Vhagar didn’t budge. Instead, steam hissed from her nostrils in warning, stopping you in your tracks. The heat singed your exposed skin, and you hissed in pain, though the cool wind quickly soothed it.

Meeting her gaze, you felt a shiver run down your spine. There was no getting past her. With a sigh of defeat, you turned back toward the cave, glancing briefly at Aemond, who now watched with a smug, satisfied look that only worsened your irritation.

Once inside, you sat down heavily on the sand, wrapping your cloak tightly around your legs and hugging your dress close for warmth.

“When can we go back?” you asked, your voice heavy with displeasure.

Aemond leaned against the cave wall, arms crossed, his sharp eye glittering with amusement. “When you answer my questions.”

You furrowed your brows. “What questions?”

He paused, tilting his head slightly, almost predatorily, before pivoting back toward you. “What exactly is it that you do, besides tend to my father?”

“Nothing.” The response left your mouth too quickly, too defensively.

Aemond’s lips curled into the barest hint of a smirk. “You’re lying. I’ve heard rumors of your... misdoings.”

You crossed your arms, lifting a brow in unamused defiance. “That’s hardly a reliable source. If you’re going to accuse me of something, at least have the decency to find the evidence yourself.”

He leaned back slightly, gaze sharp and unrelenting. “I’ve seen you use the secret passages. How is it that you discovered them?”

The memory made you smile despite the tension. “Funny story, actually. I leaned back against a wall one day, and it just... opened. Coolest moment of my life. Felt like a super-spy. Like Carmen Sandiego.” No actually you were listening to music and you were being dramatic while acting out whatever imaginary scenario you had that day and just so happened to open the wall.

The name, foreign and bizarre in this time, had no effect on him.

He said nothing, his expression an unyielding mask.

“You’ve gone to a whorehouse.” It wasn’t a question; it was a declaration.

God, the spies here really were everywhere. You winced, trying to recover. “Well, I’m avidly against human trafficking—”

“What is a journalist?” he interrupted, cutting you off with no patience for your deflections.

You blinked. “Rude. But as I said, I was messing with words.”

“You invent words, then?”

“Yup. That’s me. An innovator. Ahead of my time,” you quipped. Quite literally, but he didn’t need to know that.

“A journalist.”

“Why are you so caught up on that? Look, it’s just two words smashed together—actually, no, scratch that. I thought of someone who makes journals. Hence, journalist. Boom. Genius at work.”

He didn’t look impressed.

“That night,” he pressed again.

You groaned loudly, leaning back and throwing your arms up. “Ugh! What more do you want from me? My soul? I’m tired of your interrogation.”

“You’ll answer until I am satisfied,” he said flatly, his tone brooking no argument. “What was on the table?”

The seriousness in his voice made your stomach tighten. You hesitated, weighing your options before sighing. “Do you really want to know? It’s the reason I need to get back. My life quite literally depends on that sheet of paper.”

He pushed off the wall, stepping closer to you and sitting down. Instinctively, you scooted back, putting a safer distance between you.

“What is it?”

“It’s... not as interesting as you think,” you deflected.

“What is it?” His voice was sharper this time, cutting through your weak attempt to delay.

You sighed, knowing there was no escape. “It’s an equation.”

“For what?” he demanded, his impatience evident.

“You said earlier—what purpose do I serve other than tending to the king? Truth is, I don’t have one. The second your father dies, I lose the little protection I have. Your uncle isn’t particularly fond of me, and the feeling is mutual. I have to build my value to stay alive.” It was a half-truth, but it would keep him at bay.

His expression didn’t change, but there was a flicker of interest in his eye. You swallowed hard and continued. “I’m no one here. No family name to lean on. The Citadel despises me because I’ve accomplished in a month what their ‘maesters’ haven’t managed in decades. And, of course, that leads to accusations—witchcraft, blasphemy, what have you. So I’ve earned the ire of the Faith as well. No wealth. No rights. And worst of all, I’m a woman. What value do I have that guarantees my survival?”

“None,” Aemond said without hesitation.

You nodded grimly. “Exactly. So I’m creating one. That project you saw on the table? It’s my ticket to longevity.”

“What project?”

You hesitated again, knowing how dangerous this could be. Otto and Alicent had been clear. No one was to know of their request, and you couldn’t agree more.

“To find the pH balance of the spring near King’s Landing,” you lied smoothly.

Aemond furrowed his brows, confused. “What?”

“I’m creating a water system to deliver clean water to the people of King’s Landing,” you explained, hoping the truth buried within the lie would be convincing. “And to establish a sewer system to reduce illness. It’s basic sanitation, really.”

He was silent for a moment, watching you closely, his expression unreadable. “You mean to do what the maesters have failed to achieve for centuries.”

“Precisely,” you said with a small smile, leaning into the absurdity of it. “Like I said—innovator. Ahead of my time.”

You shivered again, warmth creeping unbidden up your face as you and Aemond locked eyes. The silence between you stretched, heavy and unspoken, until you broke it with an awkward cough, quickly averting your gaze.

“Anyways,” you began, your voice a touch too loud in the stillness. “I need to go back. I haven’t figured out the equation yet, and there are people breathing down my neck.”

Aemond tilted his head, his expression unreadable, though his single eye seemed to pierce straight through you. “And how do you intend to fund it? Do you expect the crown to pay for such an undertaking?”

His words carried a subtle edge, and you couldn’t help but roll your eyes. “The crown?” you scoffed lightly. “Please. If I even hinted at asking for funding, the Hand would have me thrown out on principle.”

Aemond’s lips twitched, though whether it was amusement or disdain, you couldn’t tell. “Then how will you manage it? A project of that scale requires significant resources.”

You avoided his gaze, staring instead at the fire crackling nearby. “I’ll find a way,” you murmured, your voice softer now. Heat flushed your cheeks, and despite the chill in the cave, a fine sheen of sweat began to gather at your temples. “Where there’s a will there’s a way.”

Aemond studied you in silence, his sharp gaze catching the faint tremor in your hands as you brushed them over your arms. “You’re unwell,” he stated flatly, his tone more matter-of-fact than concerned.

“No, I’m not,” you shot back, your voice cracking slightly as you tried to sound composed. Clearing your throat, you added, “It’s just cold in here.”

“Is it?” he asked, arching a brow. “You seem flushed for someone who claims to be cold. You were foolish to go into the water.”

You rolled your eyes, waving him off. “I’ll be fine. I’m not sick.” You couldn’t be sick. Not here, of all places. Your immune system couldn’t fail you now. Still, the growing ache in your bones hinted otherwise.

No, you decided. You were just dehydrated. At least, you hoped so.

You stood up, but your legs wavered beneath you, and the chill seemed to cut deeper. A disbelieving laugh escaped your lips. No, this couldn’t be happening. You only got sick once a year, and you’d already had your turn. Right?

Aemond’s eye flicked to you, unamused. “You need more clothes,” he remarked, his voice cool and matter-of-fact.

You sank back down, pulling your cloak tighter around you. “I’ll be fine.”

“You need to be inside. Somewhere warm,” he insisted, his gaze shifting toward the castle.

You shook your head stubbornly. “No, I’ll be fine right here. Just a little more rest.”

Aemond stepped closer, deliberate and measured, his presence imposing. You stiffened, refusing to meet his gaze as his shadow fell over you. “Rest won’t help if you’re running a fever,” he said.

“I don’t have a fever,” you muttered, though the unsteady wobble in your voice betrayed you.

His eye narrowed as if testing your words. Before you could pull away, he reached out, his fingers brushing your forehead. The coolness of his touch against your overheated skin was both a relief and an unwelcome confirmation.

“You’re burning,” he observed, his tone devoid of sympathy.

You said nothing, pulling your cloak tighter as you curled up on the sand. Closing your eyes, you hoped he would leave, though the faint ache in your bones refused to relent.

Then came the rumble.

Your eyes shot open, heart leaping as the ground seemed to quake beneath you. You turned just in time to see Vhagar looming over the cave entrance, her massive jaws parting as an ominous red glow flickered in the depths of her throat.

Panic overtook you as you scrambled to your feet, legs shaking beneath you. “Okay! Okay! I’ll go! Please!” you shrieked, stumbling forward in a half-run, half-crawl. Your limbs felt like lead, each step a monumental effort.

You collapsed onto the sand, gasping as heat surged behind you. Bracing yourself for the worst, you closed your eyes and waited for the fire to consume you.

But it didn’t.

The warmth grew, yes, but it was strangely gentle. Tentatively, you turned back, expecting an inferno but finding Aemond standing before Vhagar, his figure shadowed against the glow of her fire.

He looked at you with a near-mocking smirk, one brow arched in that way that made you want to slap him. “What are you doing?” you demanded, your voice hoarse.

Aemond’s smirk deepened. “You thought she’d burn you?”

You hesitated, feeling the heat of embarrassment join your fever. “Well, yeah! She had her mouth open and everything!”

The deadpan look he gave you only made you feel more foolish. Slowly, you stepped closer to the dragon, your legs still trembling. Vhagar’s warmth washed over you, and despite yourself, you leaned into it, feeling the tension in your body start to melt away.

“You could have said something,” you muttered, refusing to meet Aemond’s amused gaze.

“And miss the show?” he replied, his smirk never wavering.

You pressed your cloak closer to your body, trying to stave off the shaking that you hoped he didn’t notice. “You’re so funny I forgot to laugh.”

Aemond raised a brow but said nothing, his gaze lingering on you as you slumped against a nearby rock, the heat from Vhagar providing some relief. The silence between you stretched for a moment before your vision swam slightly, and you squeezed your eyes shut.

The ache in your bones had worsened, and the clammy sweat that clung to your skin was impossible to ignore. Your head throbbed with a dull, persistent pulse, and the warmth you’d sought now felt suffocating, as if it was seeping into your very core.

“You’re getting worse,” Aemond said, his tone cool but edged with something unreadable.

“No, I’m fine,” you replied weakly, though even you could hear how unconvincing you sounded. You shifted uncomfortably, trying to find a position that didn’t make the ache in your muscles more unbearable.

“You’re a terrible liar,” he remarked, stepping closer. “Your stubbornness will only make this worse.”

“Thank you, Maester Aemond,” you muttered sarcastically, your words slurring slightly.

He crouched beside you, his sharp eye scanning your face. “Your fever is worsening. You need proper care.”

You shook your head, immediately regretting the movement as dizziness overtook you. “I can’t. I told you, King’s Landing is crawling with sickness. If I go, I’ll—”

“You’ll what? Die there?” Aemond interrupted, his voice colder now. He tilted his head, regarding you with what could only be described as irritation. “Your logic is as flawed as your health.”

You opened your mouth to retort, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, a wave of exhaustion hit you like a crashing tide, and you found yourself leaning against the rock behind you, your body too heavy to fight gravity.

Aemond’s expression shifted, his usual stoicism faltering for a moment. He reached for you again, this time his hand resting against your cheek. The coolness of his touch was a stark contrast to the fire coursing through your veins, and you found yourself leaning into it despite your better judgment.

“You’re burning up,” he muttered, his voice lower now, as if speaking to himself.

You shook your head, even though you didn’t believe it anymore.

“You’re not staying here to prove a point,” Aemond countered sharply, his tone leaving no room for argument.

You pushed his hand away, forcing your eyes open to meet his. He was closer than you liked, his presence crowding you against the unyielding rock behind you. Your instinct was to retreat, but there was nowhere to go, so instead, you averted your gaze, focusing on the flickering shadows cast by the fire.

“King’s Landing or Dragonstone,” he pressed, his tone firm. “Either way, you’ll be treated by a maester.”

The ultimatum hung heavy between you, and you glared at him, lips pressing into a stubborn line. After a moment, you relented, lifting a shaky hand to gesture toward the mouth of the cave.

“Speak, woman,” Aemond snapped, his frustration palpable as he leaned in closer. You stiffened at the proximity, your discomfort now twofold—his nearness and your mounting fever. Last night’s tension still lingered between you, and you couldn’t forget the distance you’d carefully maintained.

And, of course, your toothbrush was miles away. Oral hygiene was non-negotiable for you, even now.

You shook your head, stubbornly pointing outside again.

“You were speaking fine a moment ago,” Aemond said, his voice low with irritation. “Speak!”

But you ignored him, leaning back against the rock and closing your eyes. The fever had sapped whatever energy you had left, and the only thing you could do now was focus on conserving warmth.

“King’s Landing it is, then,” Aemond muttered, the words barely audible but enough to make your eyes snap open.

Your hand shot out, grabbing his wrist before he could make a move. You didn’t have the strength to argue, so you simply shook your head and pointed toward the cave’s entrance again.

“Dragonstone?” he questioned, his voice softer now.

You nodded, releasing his wrist and pushing weakly against him to create some space. His steady gaze lingered on you, but you avoided it, focusing on the task of standing.

Aemond extended a hand to you, his sharp features unreadable. You glanced at it briefly before shaking your head, lifting your trembling hand in polite refusal.

You pushed yourself to your feet, your legs wobbling dangerously beneath you. Each step felt like dragging lead, and soft groans of discomfort escaped your lips despite your efforts to suppress them.

You’d get over this. It was just a cold—nothing more. Right?

Aemond’s gaze followed you closely as you staggered forward, his expression unreadable. He didn’t offer another word, but the intensity of his scrutiny made it clear he wasn’t about to let you falter.

For now, you trudged on, stubbornness and fever battling for dominance, with only the distant promise of Dragonstone to keep you moving.

You walked outside, swayed by the harsh wind that bit through your coat like it wasn’t even there. The salt in the air stung your nose, and every gust seemed to leech more warmth from your fevered body.

Tilting your head back, you took in the towering heights of Dragonstone looming above you. Its jagged cliffs and forbidding spires seemed endless, cutting sharply into the gray sky. You let out a dejected sigh, your breath visible in the cold. There was no way you were making it up there in your condition.

You turned your gaze to Aemond, who stood just behind you, the firelight from the cave catching on the sharp planes of his face. His lips curved into a smug smirk as he regarded your shivering figure, his eye glinting with something close to amusement.

“Do you admit defeat so soon?” he drawled, taking a deliberate step closer.

You turned, keeping close to Vhagar's massive frame, using her bulk to shield yourself from the relentless wind. Each step was a trial, the cold gnawing at you, and every ache in your body screamed in protest. Your arms felt as heavy as your legs, your fever-fueled fatigue dragging you down with each passing moment.

By the time you reached the stone stairs leading up to the castle, your breaths came in shallow gasps, your chest burning with the effort. The journey that should have been manageable felt insurmountable, and yet you pushed forward, dragging your feet up the uneven steps.

You managed only a handful more steps before your legs finally gave out beneath you, crumpling like they’d forgotten their purpose. The cold stone bit into your hands and knees as you fell, but you barely registered the pain. The icy wind whipped past, tearing through your coat and into your fevered skin like knives, making you tremble violently.

Leaning back against the cold, unyielding stone wall, you closed your eyes for a moment, trying to gather what strength you had left. Your body felt like it was on fire, each pulse of your heart sending fresh waves of heat through your veins, only to clash with the icy air around you.

This fever—so sudden and all-consuming—had never taken you like this before. You’d been sick before, of course, but never under these conditions. Then again, you’d never tried to climb a mountain of stairs in freezing winds while your body waged war against itself.

Your breathing slowed, each exhale a visible puff in the chill. Despite the danger of the cold and the impossibility of your situation, your exhaustion was overwhelming. Just a small nap, you told yourself, just enough to regain your strength.

The stone at your back felt harder and colder with every passing second, but you couldn’t summon the energy to care. Your eyelids fluttered, heavy and unwilling to stay open. You let your head tilt back, your shivering starting to subside—not from warmth, but from sheer weariness.

Somewhere distant, a voice—sharp and commanding—called your name. But you were too tired to respond, too drained to move. Surely, just a moment of rest wouldn’t hurt.

Would it?

Note: This is in honor of me getting sick for like the first time in a year. Anyways lemme know what y'all think! Also So sorry for the delay. Finals are ass.

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[jarl-deathwolf]

I figured that was exactly the case - no matter the language, one does not simply call oneself Bardic Truth by itself! Although she is supposed to be one of (if not the) greatest bard of her generation, she has too much respect for the craft to just name herself "The Muse." I ended up giving her a place name attached afterwards, which also serves to tie her closer to the very legend she will be living. A nice reference and five second foreshadowing.

Its the exactly that trend of non-Welsh people making her almost a cryptid type being that stopped me from using her in the first draft. I intended for her to be more of a jovial trickster spirit, but even so I wanted to be sure I wasn't furthering a bad trend before I put the scene in.

Honestly I really love the idea of multiple Mari Lwyds with only one as the real one - probably the one that is actually really good at the competition. She's slowly drinking the village dry of booze when our bardic hero steps up and bests her through wit.

Ooo, very interesting with the seasonal names. It'll be a trick to work them in since the convention I'm working with is that everyone is speaking Fellish (Fantasy Welsh) by default in this story, and I specifically note when people switch to other languages. It is still good to know, though, and having the option available gives me more to work with. Naturally the English over there trying to get out of paying their rain dues. I might need to look up some of those bridge faerie stories (presumably there'd be some in the ebook you sent me), if only to give Llywela another opportunity to prove her cleverness.

That's a very good point with the instrument crafting! Llywela's crwth is locally made, of course, but I could see Fellish harps and lyres and flutes being prized beyond its borders. The waterfall tradition especially grabs me - its got a mystical quality to it that gels well with the magic system of the story. I'm familiar with the river fuckery. Straightening out the Mississippi has done pretty much the exact same thing over here, especially lately. There was a pretty good sized town that was half wiped off the map not too far from me - a decade later and they are *still* recovering. I'm noticing that the natural disasters seem to mostly stem from land (and river) mismanagement, which brings me to the next question. A major antagonist faction in the story are the Marcher Lords (or just Marchers) - foreign nobles that were awarded land in the Fells for their role in the Conquest.

They tend to see their authority over their part of the Fells as a means to gain power and wealth in more "important" lands. As a consequence, they are doing all they can to rip what wealth they can out of their slice of the Fells to fuel these gambles.

This is intended to be contrasted to local rule - especially by the reborn Arthur - which is centered more on proper care of the land.

So the question is - What does that look like? What are some traditional and effective means of land management (woods, rivers, hills, etc)? What would it look like on a local level (villages), and on a higher level (kings and chiefs)? You mentioned the moorland controlled burning of heather as one such thing

As for the Marcher (mis)management... unfortunately that is pretty easy to imagine. Chopped down swathes of woods, emphasis on deep mining, Highland Clearances style evictions and overgrazing (admittedly, more of a Scotland thing).

As a heads up, I'll probably send any more questions I have through an ask since this post is getting pretty long even with the read mores. I believe I saw someone in the notes call this the 'Do you Like the Color of the Trees' post

Hi hello! I'm writing a story in my original world, set in a Fantasy Wales. A King Arthur Returns type story, if that matters.

I was wondering if I could ask you some questions about Welsh ecology? And possibly also some cultural details?

Thanks ahead of time! And I understand if you decline or don't respond!

YES OH MY GOD YES HELLO

[specialagentartemis]

I’ve increasingly seen the take that Gurathin, being the only one of the PresAux group originally from the CR, understands SecUnits better than the others and understands corporate greed and underhandedness and violence better than his idealist space socialist leftist colleagues… which always rings odd to me, because it’s well established that Mensah and Pin-Lee understand what they’re dealing with as intelligent, savvy professionals!

Mensah is the Planetary Administrator of Preservation; she is very nearly the President of the Whole Planet. It’s hard to believe she could get there and be regarded as a good leader of a small planet with neither military nor economic power in the galaxy and remain unaware of how the Corporation Rim works and how to deal with them to keep her polity safe. The company executives presented Murderbot to Mensah directly in their pitch for why the team needed to take a SecUnit; her multiple objections to this indicate that she does, in fact, know how unethical (and likely dangerous) SecUnits are.

Pin-Lee, meanwhile, is a corporate lawyer; she’s described as CombatUnit-like, and based on the fact that she went not only with this scientific survey but also with Mensah at the end of Network Effect on this short-notice and desperate chase across the galaxy, seems to be the go-to person to deal with off-world legal issues. Murderbot notes early on that being under the Company’s surveillance seemed to affect her more than the others. It’s pretty reasonable to assume that’s because she knows what shit companies put in their contracts, and what they do.

They aren’t naïve leftists who don’t understand how the Real World works, they are well-too-aware of the abuses and surveillance and callousness of companies!

(Ratthi watches Sanctuary Moon, evidently a CR production—Preservation aren’t isolationists. The whole Preservation backstory is of a community’s escape from callous, profit-driven corporate abandonment of their grandparents’ generation to die. I would think Preservation people would be, as a society, aware and very wary of CR corporations.)

Their trust they place in Murderbot in All System Red is very likely influenced by Preservation’s cultural values of dignity, support, freedom, responsibility to each other, bot citizenship, all that good stuff—but it’s certainly not blindly, naïvely unaware of alternative possible perspectives. And that’s why it’s powerful: they’re making a conscious choice, measuring its actions and its rights as a person against the propaganda and fear, that Murderbot deserves that respect and dignity and freedom and trust as a person and not just as an arm of untrustworthy corporations.

(And like. Also the fact that “Gurathin is from the CR” is not explicitly canon, either. We don’t know where he’s from originally; the CR is a reasonable interpretation, certainly, it fits the facts, but it’s still an interpretation that fans have to make rather than actually being text. And I think in these discussions that ought to be remembered too. )

[novaursa]

Legacy (contingency)

- Summary: Tywin was the man who saved you from Robert's wrath. He was also the man who doomed you.

- Paring: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: dragonfire

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @luniaxi @alkadri-layal

Rich banners of crimson and gold draped from the high vaulted ceilings of the Great Hall, the sigil of House Lannister roaring above the gathering. The long tables overflowed with food: roasted boar glazed in honey, fragrant spiced wine, golden loaves of bread, and sweetcakes decorated with little sugar lions. Music filled the air—a lively tune played by minstrels whose strings and pipes accompanied the hum of conversation and laughter.

At the center of it all sat King Tommen Baratheon, his crown polished to perfection, seated proudly at the head of the royal table. Beside him, Queen Margaery looked radiant in a gown of green silk embroidered with golden roses, her bright smile lifting the mood of the hall. To Tommen's left sat Cersei Lannister, though her face was a mask of cold disinterest as she stared pointedly at her cup of wine, refusing to so much as glance toward her twin brother Jaime, who stood behind the king as his sworn protector.

Farther down the hall, the laughter of ladies mingled with the squeals of a happy child.

You stood near the far end of the hall, where a small play area had been set up for your son. Damon, now a year old, was surrounded by noblewomen who cooed and fussed over him as if he were the very center of the world. He sat on a plush blanket, his chubby hands reaching for the wooden lion and dragon toys set before him. His silver-gold hair shone under the light of the great chandeliers, and his bright eyes sparkled with curiosity as he looked from one lady to the next.

“My, but he’s a handsome little boy,” cooed Lady Tanda Stokeworth, bending down slightly to smile at Damon. “And clever, too, I’m sure.”

“Very clever,” agreed Lady Falyse, her hands clasped before her. “He has his mother’s eyes, but I daresay the strength of his father will be in him as well.”

“And the fire of a dragon,” added Lady Taena of Pentos, her dark curls spilling elegantly over her shoulders as she smiled warmly. “The realm will speak of him for generations to come.”

“Enough fluttering about,” came the sharp voice of Lady Olenna Tyrell, who sat nearby, cane resting against her chair. “You’ll have him thinking he’s a lord before he can even string a full sentence together.”

The ladies fell silent momentarily, though some tittered softly behind their hands as they moved away. You sat down beside Damon, brushing a hand gently over his soft hair as he giggled, delighting in the attention he’d received. “It seems you’re already a favorite,” you murmured with amusement.

Olenna sniffed, though there was a faint, approving smile on her lips. “That’s the way of things with babes and dragons. Give them a pretty face and a silver mane, and everyone flocks to them like flies to honey.” Her gaze softened faintly as she looked at Damon. “But he is a fine boy, I’ll grant you that.”

Damon responded by dropping his wooden lion and reaching for his dragon toy, gnawing happily on its tail. You smiled faintly, brushing your fingers over his chubby cheeks. “He’s my heart,” you said softly.

“Let’s hope he has a good head on his shoulders, then,” Olenna remarked, though her tone was lighter. “He’ll need it, surrounded by spiders and vipers alike.”

You looked across the hall, your gaze landing on Tywin Lannister, who stood tall near the royal table. The Lord of Casterly Rock looked as proud and imperious as ever, his crimson and gold doublet immaculate, his presence commanding the respect—or fear—of every lord who circled him. They spoke in hushed tones, each vying for his attention, trying to curry favor with the lion who now had a dragon under his roof. Tywin listened with polite indifference, his face betraying none of the irritation he no doubt felt at the incessant politicking.

You caught his eye across the hall, and for a fleeting moment, his gaze softened ever so slightly as he looked at you and Damon. He inclined his head a fraction, a silent acknowledgment of the family he had built—a momentary respite from the endless droning of opportunistic lords.

Nearby, Varys, the ever-watchful Spider, lingered in the shadows. His gaze flicked toward the small gathering where you sat with Damon, his expression unreadable. It was no secret that Varys knew more than most, and the way his eyes lingered on your son made your stomach tighten with unease. You had no doubt the whispers of Damon’s first nameday would soon travel across the Narrow Sea and beyond.

At the royal table, Tommen’s young laughter rang out as he watched one of the performers juggle apples. Margaery leaned close to him, smiling warmly as she spoke softly, no doubt ensuring the boy king enjoyed the celebrations.

Cersei, however, sat rigid, her fingers curled tightly around the stem of her goblet. Her face was pale with irritation, her lips pursed as she stared at nothing. When she finally spoke, it was low and bitter, though loud enough for those nearest to hear.

“A feast for a babe,” she sneered. “One would think we were crowning him king.”

Margaery smiled sweetly, not missing a beat. “Perhaps we celebrate because it is a moment of joy, Your Grace. Something rare and precious in these times.”

Cersei turned a cold glare on Margaery, though she said nothing more, her expression souring further when her gaze landed briefly on Jaime, who stood silently behind Tommen, his golden hand resting lightly on the pommel of his sword. He offered her no support, no comfort, his eyes fixed instead on the room at large, detached and quiet.

“Your Grace,” said Varys softly, suddenly at Cersei’s side, his voice as silken as ever. “The realm rejoices at unity, no matter how small the occasion.”

Cersei looked at him sharply. “And what unity do you see, Spider? The kind bought with dragons?”

Varys offered his smooth, enigmatic smile and said nothing, his gaze drifting briefly to where Damon sat.

Across the hall, Tywin watched the exchange with the faintest flicker of disdain in his eyes, though his mask of control never slipped. He turned his attention back to the lords surrounding him, his tone clipped and final. “Enough of this,” he said coldly, brushing them aside as he moved away.

He approached you and Damon, his steps measured and deliberate, cutting through the murmurs of those who watched him move. When he stopped before you, Damon immediately looked up, his bright eyes wide as he recognized his father. He cooed happily, waving his dragon toy as though offering it to Tywin.

The corners of Tywin’s mouth twitched ever so slightly as he regarded his son. “He grows quickly,” he said, his tone softening just enough that only you noticed.

You smiled faintly, lifting Damon into your arms. “Too quickly,” you replied, brushing a kiss against the boy’s head. “Soon he’ll be running through these halls, terrorizing everyone.”

“I expect nothing less,” Tywin replied, his gaze lingering on the boy before shifting back to you. “The feast is a success.”

“For you, perhaps,” you teased lightly. “The lords seem eager to bow before the man who holds a dragon’s leash.”

Tywin’s expression turned cold, though his words were measured. “A dragon bows to no one. But appearances must be maintained.”

You glanced toward Varys, who still watched quietly from the shadows. “And the whispers?”

Tywin’s jaw tightened slightly. “Let them whisper. Whispers are meaningless unless we let them become something more.”

You nodded, though a flicker of unease remained in your chest. For now, though, you pushed it aside as Damon squirmed in your arms, reaching out toward Tywin with chubby hands.

Tywin hesitated for the barest moment before extending a hand, allowing Damon’s small fingers to curl around his thumb. It was a brief gesture, but one that spoke volumes. The Great Lion of Lannister stood proud, the boy in your arms his legacy, his triumph.

And as the hall rang with laughter, music, and the clinking of goblets, you allowed yourself to smile. For tonight, at least, the future felt secure.

The air in the Red Keep’s halls had grown cooler as the feast carried on in the Great Hall, but here, in the shadowed passageways away from the celebration, the silence was heavy. The distant echoes of music and laughter barely carried this far, and the flickering torchlight did little to soften the cold stones of the castle walls.

Cersei Lannister walked with purpose, her gown trailing behind, though her movements were sharp, her face still drawn with irritation. Her goblet of wine, long emptied, dangled carelessly from her fingers as she turned a corner and found Jaime Lannister where she expected him: standing near an open window, his white Kingsguard cloak a stark contrast to the gloom. The faint breeze tousled his hair as he leaned one elbow against the stone ledge, staring out toward the darkening sky.

“You always find the quiet places,” Cersei remarked, her voice breaking the stillness as she approached.

Jaime turned his head slightly, though he didn’t look at her. “Perhaps I prefer them,” he said simply, his tone disinterested.

She frowned faintly, stopping a few paces away from him. “You missed half the feast.”

“And yet,” Jaime replied dryly, finally turning to face her, “you followed me here. Did the wine run out already?”

Cersei’s face tightened, though she ignored the jibe. “No. But you’ve sulked long enough tonight. Or is it that you can no longer stomach these celebrations?”

Jaime exhaled through his nose, his green eyes sharp as they met hers. “Is it sulking to prefer the quiet over the spectacle?”

Cersei’s lip curled faintly. “And yet you remain, standing guard over Tommen like a dutiful knight. Always at a distance, always watching.”

Jaime’s expression didn’t change. “I do what I must.”

“And is that why you say nothing?” Cersei shot back, her tone edged with frustration. She stepped closer, dropping the empty goblet onto the stone ledge with a hollow clink. “You stand there, silent and cold, while Dorne sends me nothing but empty words. ‘Myrcella is well.’ Those are their only replies to my ravens. No assurances. No promises.”

Jaime’s eyes narrowed slightly, though his voice remained calm. “And you think I have the answers? You were the one who sent her there.”

“She was safer in Dorne than in King’s Landing!” Cersei snapped, though her words lacked the conviction they once carried. “Father would not listen, you wouldn’t listen—no one would listen to me.”

Jaime shifted, his gold hand resting lightly against the stone ledge. “And now you want me to do what? March to Dorne and demand Myrcella’s return? Or simply assuage your guilt?”

Cersei flinched, though she masked it quickly with anger. “I don’t need your lectures, Jaime. I need your support.”

Jaime looked at her long and hard, the silence stretching between them like a chasm. “Support for what, Cersei? Myrcella is well, or so we’re told. If something had happened to her, you would know.”

“And what if they lie?” Cersei pressed, her voice quieter now but no less fervent. “What if Doran Martell sends nothing because he’s toying with us? He despises our house—do you think he has forgotten Oberyn?”

Jaime’s jaw tightened slightly. “What I think is that worrying aloud will not change anything.”

Cersei glared at him, her frustration bubbling to the surface. “You sound just like Father.”

Jaime’s lips pressed into a thin line at that, but he didn’t rise to her bait. Instead, he turned his gaze back out toward the night sky, his voice low. “If you have nothing to say beyond paranoia and blame, then perhaps you should return to the feast.”

Cersei stepped forward, the shadows deepening around her. “Do you remember, Jaime?” she asked, her voice quieter now. “Do you remember our own namedays?”

Jaime’s brow furrowed slightly, though he didn’t turn to look at her. “Why bring that up?”

“Because Father never threw us feasts,” Cersei replied bitterly, her tone carrying the weight of old wounds. “Not after Mother died. There were no celebrations, no music. Just silence, year after year, as though we didn’t matter.”

Jaime finally looked at her then, his expression softening slightly. “You know why.”

“Because he couldn’t bear the memory,” Cersei answered, her voice sharp. “But what of us? We were children, Jaime—children who wanted to be seen. To be celebrated.”

Jaime studied her carefully now, his face unreadable. “What are you implying, Cersei?”

Cersei took a breath, her voice trembling ever so slightly. “Do you not find it curious that our father throws such a grand feast for his new son? Yet for us, there was nothing. Nothing.”

Jaime shook his head faintly, though his voice was tinged with exasperation. “You’re reaching for something that isn’t there. Damon is a babe; he means the world to his mother, and through her, to Father. That is all.”

Cersei stepped closer, her eyes blazing. “No, Jaime. It’s more than that. Can’t you see? That dragon—her dragon—flew across the Narrow Sea to her. To her. And Father—our father—stands at her side as though she were his queen, as though she has replaced us.”

Jaime stared at her for a long moment, his features hardening. “And what would you have me do about it? Challenge her? Challenge him?”

Cersei’s gaze flickered with something desperate, something unspoken. “You’re the only one who listens, Jaime.”

Jaime’s shoulders sagged slightly as he looked at her, his voice low and tired. “I don’t know what you want from me, Cersei. But whatever it is, I can’t give it to you.”

Cersei’s lips parted, as though she might say more, but the words died on her tongue. For once, her twin brother had no answer for her, no comfort to offer. Jaime turned away again, his gaze drifting back to the distant lights of the city.

“Go back to the feast,” he said softly. “Tommen needs his mother.”

Cersei stood still for a moment longer, her hands trembling slightly at her sides. Then, with a sharp exhale, she snatched up the goblet she’d abandoned and turned on her heel, the silk of her gown trailing behind her as she stalked back into the shadows of the corridor.

Jaime remained where he was, alone beneath the stars, his expression etched with something far darker than silence.

The sounds of the feast began to ebb and swell like the sea, the lively music and laughter punctuating the occasional clinking of goblets and roar of cheer. Yet away from the revelry, in a quieter alcove of the Great Hall, Tywin Lannister stood tall and still, his expression as unyielding as the walls of the Red Keep. Lords and sycophants continued to circle near him like moths to flame, eager to curry favor or win a moment of his time.

But when the soft, measured footsteps of Varys approached, the subtle murmur around Tywin dissipated, as though even the air itself sensed the Spider’s presence.

Tywin’s stren green gaze flicked toward Varys, who approached with a serene smile and hands tucked neatly within the folds of his flowing lavender robes. The Master of Whisperers stopped a respectful distance away and inclined his head. “My lord,” he said smoothly, his voice as silken as ever. “Congratulations are in order, I believe.”

Tywin’s face betrayed nothing, though there was a faint narrowing of his eyes as he studied the eunuch. “And what congratulations do you offer, Lord Varys?”

“For your son’s first nameday, of course.” Varys’s smile didn’t falter as he tilted his head. “Young Damon is a remarkable boy—strong and spirited, like his parents.” His gaze briefly flickered across the hall to where Damon sat on your lap, still surrounded by noblewomen and cooing servants. “The realm watches him closely, my lord. A lion born under the shadow of a dragon. It makes for an extraordinary tale.”

Tywin’s lips curled faintly, though it was more a tightening of his mouth than a smile. “The realm has a penchant for tales,” he said curtly. “I deal in truths.”

“Indeed,” Varys replied smoothly. “And it is truths that bring me to you now, my lord. Truths carried across the Narrow Sea, where the fires of another dragon burn.”

Tywin turned his full attention to the Spider then, his presence looming even more than before. “Speak plainly, Varys. I’ve little patience for riddles tonight.”

Varys inclined his head once more. “Very well. It seems your younger son, Tyrion Lannister, is alive.”

The words landed like a stone dropped into a still pond. Though Tywin’s face remained unreadable, there was a sharpness to his posture, a flicker of something dangerous in his eyes. “Alive,” he repeated, his voice low and cold. “And where?”

“In Essos,” Varys said softly, as though revealing the answer to a carefully guarded secret. “To be more specific, he is now serving as an advisor to your wife’s younger sister, Daenerys Targaryen—the Queen of Meereen.”

Tywin was silent for a long moment, his piercing gaze fixed on Varys as though trying to unearth the depths of his machinations. “Should I believe you had nothing to do with his escape, Varys?” Tywin asked at last, his voice a blade honed to perfection. “Or with this news?”

Varys’s smile never wavered, though there was a faint flicker of amusement in his pale, watchful eyes. “I would be lying, my lord, if I claimed to be entirely blameless. I may have… facilitated certain circumstances during his escape from the capital. After all, chaos often creates opportunity.”

Tywin’s jaw tightened, though his voice remained measured. “You’ve spent your life weaving webs, Spider. I wonder how much of this one is yours.”

“I assure you, my lord,” Varys replied calmly, “Tyrion’s path has been his own. I merely find it curious how Lannisters are so often drawn to flame. First you, with your Targaryen bride and her dragon… and now your younger son, whispering counsel to her sister.”

Tywin’s expression darkened, the weight of Varys’s words settling heavily between them. “What is your aim in telling me this?”

“My aim?” Varys echoed softly, his voice feigning innocence. “My aim is only to keep you informed, my lord. Knowledge, as you well know, is power.”

Tywin regarded him with a cold intensity, his mind already working through the implications. “A Targaryen queen rising in Essos is no secret. But Tyrion’s involvement complicates matters.”

“As it often does,” Varys replied with a faint smile. “Your son has always had a penchant for surviving where others would not. And now, it seems, he has aligned himself with a queen who bears the blood of Old Valyria and speaks of reclaiming the Iron Throne.”

Tywin’s eyes narrowed. “Daenerys Targaryen is a child playing at power. Her sister has proven far more pragmatic.”

“Perhaps,” Varys said mildly, “but the young queen across the sea has grown formidable. Her dragons are a little bigger than Viserion, and with Tyrion at her side, her ambitions gain focus.”

Tywin’s gaze turned icy. “Then it will be dealt with—like every other threat.”

“Of course,” Varys murmured. “I have no doubt of that, my lord. Though I would suggest keeping your eye firmly on both sisters, lest fire burn unchecked.”

Tywin’s stare lingered on the Spider for a long, silent moment, unblinking and unyielding. Finally, he inclined his head ever so slightly, dismissing Varys with a flick of his fingers. “Go.”

Varys offered a smooth bow, his robes whispering against the stone floor as he turned to leave. Before disappearing fully into the shadows, he paused just long enough to add, “It is curious, isn’t it, my lord? How the lion and the dragon always seem destined to meet.”

Tywin said nothing, though his expression was carved from stone.

When Varys was gone, the Lord of Casterly Rock turned his gaze back toward the feast, where the sounds of music and laughter carried on without pause. Across the room, you cradled Damon in your arms, a faint smile on your lips as you whispered to him, oblivious to the storm now brewing in Tywin’s mind.

The Spider’s words lingered like smoke in the air, and Tywin’s jaw tightened as his thoughts raced. Tyrion. Daenerys. Dragons.

Whatever flame had drawn his family to it would soon demand reckoning—and Tywin Lannister would ensure it was met on his terms.

The hum of the feast carried on in the Great Hall, but here, on the far side of the chamber, where the air was quieter and the firelight softer, you sat with Damon cradled in your arms. The plush cushions around you provided comfort as Lady Olenna Tyrell remained seated close by, her sharp gaze scanning the room like a hawk watching prey. Damon cooed softly, his fingers grasping at the edge of your sleeve, his bright eyes filled with wonder as he looked around at the grand surroundings.

You smiled faintly, brushing your fingers through the boy’s curls. “You’ve quite the audience tonight, haven’t you?” you murmured to him softly. Damon giggled, clutching at your hand, his laughter like a balm amidst the constant thrum of the hall.

Olenna sniffed lightly, tapping her cane against the floor in idle rhythm. “They’re all waiting for the child to do something miraculous, no doubt,” she quipped dryly. “As if every noble babe doesn’t giggle and drool all the same.”

You chuckled, adjusting Damon in your lap. “Let them look. He’s a child born into a world where lions and dragons share a room. That alone makes him a marvel to them.”

“Indeed,” Olenna said with a smirk. “They’ll either worship him or fear him in time, depending on which beast roars loudest.”

Before you could reply, a shadow swept across the edge of your vision. You looked up, and there she was—Cersei Lannister, gliding toward you with a goblet of wine in hand, the golden silk of her gown flowing like liquid sunlight. Her face was composed, but there was a hardness in her gaze that was impossible to ignore.

“Lady Olenna,” Cersei greeted coolly, though her eyes barely brushed the Tyrell matriarch before settling on you. “And you, mother,” she added, the word “mother” dipped in a faint edge of mockery.

Olenna raised a brow, her expression sharp as ever. “How rare to see you so far from the royal table, Cersei. I was beginning to think you’d been fused to that chair.”

Cersei’s lip curled slightly, though she ignored the barb, her attention fixed on you and Damon. “You seem content tonight,” she said, her tone light but with an undercurrent of something darker. “The proud mother, adored by all.”

“I have every reason to be content,” you replied smoothly, glancing down at Damon, who stared curiously at Cersei with his wide, violet eyes. “He is my joy.”

Cersei’s gaze lingered on Damon for a moment longer than necessary, her expression unreadable. “He looks like father,” she said at last, though the words carried no warmth. 

You raised a brow at her. “You sound almost complimentary, Cersei.”

She tilted her head, swirling the wine in her goblet. “Perhaps I am. After all, your son is a Lannister—is he not? My father has made that abundantly clear to all of Westeros.” Her voice was calm, but there was venom beneath it.

Olenna’s voice cut through the tension like a blade. “It’s rather amusing, isn’t it? How quickly the world forgets old grudges when dragons return.” She tapped her cane sharply against the stone. “But here you are, Cersei, nursing one still.”

Cersei turned her gaze on Olenna, her expression hardening. “And why should I forget?” she countered, her voice dropping slightly. “A Targaryen sits where my mother once did. Her dragon looms where my son should reign without shadow. Should I smile and clap like the rest of you?”

You shifted Damon slightly in your arms, your tone calm but firm. “I sit beside your father because he chose me, Cersei. And this dragon you so despise would burn those who would harm your family—just as I would.”

Cersei’s eyes narrowed, her voice sharp as she leaned closer. “Do not pretend that your fire is for us. You serve your own blood first and the rest of us second.”

Olenna let out an exaggerated sigh, clearly enjoying herself. “Oh, do calm down, girl. You sound like a fishwife.”

Cersei shot Olenna a glare before looking back at you. “Tell me,” she continued, her voice deceptively soft, “do you think this peace will last? That my father will dote on you forever, while the realm holds its breath over your son and your dragon?”

You met her gaze evenly, your fingers brushing gently over Damon’s hair as his small hands clutched at the edge of your gown. “I think that the realm will endure so long as we do not tear it apart out of jealousy and spite.”

Cersei’s jaw tightened, her knuckles whitening around her goblet. For a moment, you saw the flicker of something deeper—loneliness, fear—but it vanished quickly, replaced by her steely veneer.

“Jealousy?” she echoed softly. “No, Y/N, you mistake me. I do not envy you. I pity you.”

Olenna laughed sharply, breaking the tension like a slap to the face. “Pity? How very charitable of you, Cersei. What next? Will you hand her alms like some poor beggar in Flea Bottom?”

Cersei turned on Olenna, her voice icy. “You should hold your tongue, old woman. You’ve meddled enough in my family’s affairs.”

Olenna merely smirked. “And yet here you are, meddling in hers.”

You shifted Damon in your arms, his small yawn breaking through the animosity. “Enough,” you said softly but firmly, your gaze steady as you looked at Cersei. “If you wish to speak of jealousy and pity, do so elsewhere. My son will not grow up hearing such poison.”

Cersei’s gaze flicked to Damon once more, lingering as though searching for something in his innocent face. Finally, she straightened, her expression smoothing back into icy composure. “Enjoy your moment, Y/N,” she said coolly, turning to leave. “Moments rarely last.”

As she walked away, Olenna muttered under her breath, “What a tiresome woman.”

You exhaled slowly, pressing a kiss to Damon’s head as his small hands curled against your chest. “She is a lioness protecting what she thinks is hers,” you murmured, more to yourself than anyone else.

Olenna leaned back in her chair, her sharp eyes watching Cersei’s retreating figure. “She’s a lioness who doesn’t yet realize the cage has been locked behind her.” She paused, her voice turning thoughtful. “Watch her closely, my dear. Women like Cersei are most dangerous when they feel cornered.”

You nodded faintly, your gaze drifting back to Damon, who had finally begun to drift to sleep in your arms. His quiet breathing, soft and rhythmic, grounded you against the undercurrent of tension still lingering in the air.

For now, the feast continued, the music played, and the Great Hall hummed with life. But somewhere deep in your heart, you knew Olenna’s words were true.

Cersei Lannister was dangerous—and her resentment burned just as brightly as any dragon’s fire.

The moon hung high over the Red Keep, its silver light spilling across the stone walls and bathing the castle in a cool, ethereal glow. The festivities of the day had finally come to an end, and silence reigned where music and laughter had once filled the air. The halls were empty save for the faint footfalls of a passing guard or the soft flicker of a torch burning low.

In your chambers, the fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting long shadows against the walls. The room smelled of lilies and warm candle wax, a comforting presence as you stood before the tall mirror, unpinning your silver hair. Damon had long since been carried off to the nursery, fast asleep after the excitement of the day. Now, the only sounds were the pop of the fire and your quiet movements.

The door opened with the faintest creak, and you glanced up as Tywin entered, his presence as commanding as ever, even in the stillness of the night. He had already shed his formal doublet, his crimson tunic and dark trousers immaculate, though his shoulders bore the faint weight of the long day. His gaze swept the room before settling on you.

“You’re still awake,” he observed, his tone calm but expectant.

You turned slightly, offering him a faint smile. “I wasn’t expecting you tonight.”

“I decided to retire here,” he said, moving toward the desk where a decanter of wine and goblets had been left for you. “The rest of the castle is far too restless for my liking.”

You nodded, returning to unpin the final strands of your hair. “The feast was a success, by all accounts. Though it seems you had little patience for the lords that circled you.”

Tywin poured himself a small measure of wine, his movements deliberate as he spoke. “They are drawn to strength, like carrion to a fresh kill. They think proximity to me will bring them power. Fools.” He turned, taking a slow sip of his wine, his sharp green eyes lingering on you.

You finished with your hair and moved toward the large bed, sitting on its edge to unlace the ribbon at your sleeve. “And yet you endure them.”

“I endure many things,” Tywin replied coolly, though something in his voice hinted at the weight of what lay beneath. He watched you for a moment longer before setting his goblet aside and approaching.

You could feel his eyes on you as he neared, the faint creak of the floorboards under his measured steps. His silence, though not unusual, felt heavier tonight. When he finally spoke, his tone carried the careful weight of deliberation.

“What do you know of your sister?”

The question caught you off guard. You paused mid-motion, turning your head to look up at him. “Daenerys?”

Tywin’s face betrayed nothing, though his gaze was unrelenting. “Yes.”

You tilted your head slightly, frowning faintly. “I know probably what you do. She was born on Dragonstone, after I had already been taken north to be a ward of the Starks. I never met her.” You paused, as though searching for fragments of memories long buried. “We exchanged letters, a handful over last year—most of which were formal, polite. There is little else I could say.”

Tywin regarded you carefully, as though dissecting your words for any trace of deceit. “And you never wondered about her? About the sister who shared your blood and hatched dragons?”

You narrowed your eyes slightly, your voice calm but firm. “What is this about, Tywin?”

He exhaled through his nose, crossing his arms as he stood before you, his towering form framed by the firelight. “Tyrion is alive.”

The words seemed to hang in the air, heavier than the silence that followed. You blinked, the revelation settling into you like a cold weight. “Alive?” you repeated softly. “How?”

“Varys,” Tywin said curtly, the name like poison on his tongue. “The Spider facilitated his escape after the trial.” His voice dropped lower, sharper. “And now my son sits in Essos as an advisor to your sister, Daenerys Targaryen.”

You stared at him, absorbing the full weight of his words. “Daenerys,” you said slowly, realization dawning. “She means to push her claim.”

“She will,” Tywin replied with certainty, his gaze unyielding. “A Targaryen queen with dragons at her back cannot be ignored. She will come for the Iron Throne.”

You shook your head faintly, your voice steady. “And you think she’s a threat to me? To Damon?”

“Not yet,” Tywin answered, though his expression remained hard. “But she will be. Your sister carries the blood of Old Valyria, as you do. She has armies, she has dragons, and now she has Tyrion whispering in her ear.”

You frowned, searching his face. “Why tell me this now? Why tonight?”

Tywin’s jaw tightened, his voice deliberate. “Because one of the dragons she hatched flew to you. Not to her. That matters.”

You rose from the edge of the bed, the tension in your body unmistakable as you stepped closer to him. “Viserion came to me, yes, but not because I called for her. She came for reasons beyond my understanding—perhaps instinct, perhaps fate.”

Tywin’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You speak as though that makes no difference. But it does. To the realm, to your sister, to me.”

“And what of my claim, then?” you asked sharply, your voice rising slightly. “Is that what this is about? You would pit me against her because the blood of kings runs in my veins?”

Tywin did not flinch, his voice calm but firm. “You are a Targaryen. Your son is a Lannister and a Targaryen. That blood gives you a claim that will be undeniable to many—more so than hers. You could unite the realm, secure its future.”

“And at what cost?” you countered, meeting his gaze without wavering. “My sister is not my enemy, Tywin. She has never been.”

“Not yet,” Tywin said coldly. “But blood has turned to fire before. It will again.”

For a long moment, the two of you stood there, locked in a silence that crackled with unspoken anxiety. The fire in the hearth danced wildly, casting fleeting shadows across the room.

Finally, you exhaled softly, your voice quieter but no less firm. “Do you fear her?”

Tywin’s face remained impassive, though his tone betrayed a flicker of something deeper—calculated pragmatism, perhaps even unease. “I fear nothing. I prepare for everything.”

You shook your head faintly, a bitter smile tugging at your lips. “Dragons do not bow, Tywin. Not even to lions.”

“And yet,” he said, stepping closer, his gaze holding yours, “Viserion flew to you. And now you bow to me.”

The words stung more than you cared to admit, though you refused to show it. Instead, you lifted your chin, holding your ground. “I chose this path—for my son, for myself.”

Tywin studied you for a long moment, the flicker of the fire reflecting in his green eyes. When he spoke again, his tone was softer, though still edged with purpose. “Do not forget the world we live in, Y/N. It will not tolerate two Targaryens. When the time comes, you must decide where you stand.”

You stared at him, your heart heavy as his words sank in. Tywin Lannister, ever the pragmatist, had laid the truth bare. And though you knew the fires of your blood would burn brightly in the days to come, you could not yet see which flame would consume the other.

The winds howled around Dragonstone, whipping against the cliffs with the fury of an ancient beast. The grey skies above the island hung low and brooding, heavy with the salt of the narrow sea. Below, the waves crashed relentlessly against the jagged rocks, echoing through the labyrinthine halls of the Targaryen stronghold.

Within the belly of the island, deep in the Dragonmont, the air was heavy with heat, thick with the scent of sulfur and ancient fire. The men of House Lannister—armored in crimson cloaks and polished steel—moved with uneasy steps as they followed their lord through the dim passageways. The sound of their boots echoed ominously against the black stone, though not a single man spoke.

At their head, Tywin Lannister strode forward with his usual measured calm, a figure of unwavering authority even in the heart of this dragon’s lair. Beside him, Jaime Lannister walked in silence. Unlike the other soldiers, Jaime’s face remained composed, though there was a flicker of doubt in his gaze as he looked toward his father.

“Is this wise, Father?” Jaime finally broke the silence, his voice low but clear. “Approaching the beast without her rider? Without your wife?”

Tywin did not slow his pace, his green eyes focused ahead on the faint glow that grew brighter with every step. “My wife is attending to our son,” he replied coolly. “She is not needed for what I intend to do.”

“And what is it that you intend?” Jaime pressed, though his tone carried the weight of caution.

Tywin glanced at him briefly, his expression unreadable. “To remind the beast of who I am.”

Jaime’s brows furrowed as they stepped into the vast, torchlit cavern that was the Dragonmont. The air was sweltering here, filled with the heavy pulse of something ancient and alive. The black stone walls shimmered faintly with heat, their edges glowing with the faintest ember-like gleam.

And there, at the center of the chamber, lay Viserion.

The she-dragon’s cream-and-gold scales reflected the torchlight like molten metal, shimmering with every slight movement. Her massive wings lay tucked against her sides, rising and falling gently as she breathed. Viserion’s head was curled over her claws, her eyes closed, though even in sleep, the slow rumble of her breathing filled the cavern like a distant storm.

The Lannister men froze where they stood, their faces pale as they took in the sheer size and power of the dragon before them. One of the soldiers murmured a prayer under his breath, though the words were swallowed by the cavern’s silence.

Jaime hesitated. “Father—”

Tywin raised a hand, silencing him with a single gesture. Without another word, he moved forward alone, his polished boots striking the stone floor with deliberate precision.

Viserion shifted. The great muscles along her flanks rippled as her wings twitched slightly, the air around her growing hotter. A low, warning growl vibrated through the chamber, deep enough to rattle the bones of every man present. The sound was primal, unmistakably a sign of her awareness.

“Father—” Jaime hissed again, his tone sharper now, though Tywin did not stop.

Tywin stepped closer still, his face a mask of calm as he approached the massive creature. Viserion’s growl deepened, and her golden eyes snapped open, locking onto the man who dared intrude upon her rest. Her pupils, slitted and sharp as blades, narrowed dangerously.

The men behind Tywin tensed, gripping their weapons instinctively though they knew they would be of no use against the beast. Jaime cursed under his breath, his hand hovering near his sword despite its futility.

Tywin stopped mere paces from Viserion, unflinching as the she-dragon lifted her massive head, her teeth bared in a display of power. Her wings unfurled slightly, casting vast, jagged shadows across the chamber walls.

“Viserion,” Tywin said, his voice steady, unwavering, as though he were addressing a courtier rather than a dragon. “I know you understand me.”

The growl from Viserion deepened into something more—half warning, half challenge. She loomed over him now, her neck arching as her throat began to glow faintly with the embers of fire. Her breath was like a furnace, a searing gust of heat that washed over Tywin as she let out a roar so loud the walls themselves seemed to tremble.

Still, Tywin did not move.

The Lannister men stumbled back in fear, one dropping his sword with a clatter. Jaime stepped forward instinctively. “Father, enough! She’ll—”

Tywin lifted a hand to silence his son once more. His sharp green gaze never left Viserion’s molten gold eyes. “You know who I am,” he said evenly, his voice cutting through the dread like steel. “And you know that I am not your enemy.”

Viserion bared her teeth again, her throat glowing brighter as smoke curled from the edges of her mouth. The heat was unbearable, the air thick and stifling. Tywin took another step forward, close enough now that he could see the faint flicker of the fire within her.

“You are fire made flesh,” Tywin said softly, his voice carrying across the cavern. “But you are also her dragon. You know that. And through her, you know me.”

Viserion’s gaze flickered, her growl hesitating for the barest of moments. Her massive claws scraped against the stone floor as she shifted slightly, her wings folding back closer to her sides. The light in her throat dimmed just enough to hint at restraint.

Tywin stepped forward one last time, his hand lifting slowly, deliberately. The men behind him murmured in shock and disbelief, but Tywin ignored them. Viserion watched him warily, her head lowering ever so slightly, her growl softening to a deep, vibrating rumble.

The moment stretched unbearably long, the firelight flickering against the metal of Tywin’s rings as his hand brushed against Viserion’s snout.

The she-dragon let out a deep, guttural sound—not quite approval, but not rejection either. Her massive body shifted again, settling against the stone floor with a huff as she allowed the touch, her eyes half-lidded and watchful.

Tywin let his hand linger for a moment longer before withdrawing. He turned on his heel, facing the men who had watched the impossible unfold before them. Jaime stood frozen, his face a mixture of shock and disbelief.

Tywin’s voice rang out, calm and authoritative. “I want armor made for her—Valyrian-inspired, reinforced and worthy of her size.” His gaze swept over the soldiers, cold and unwavering. “She is to be well-fed and kept under watch. This dragon is not some wild beast. She is a weapon, and like all weapons, she will be sharpened and honed.”

The men exchanged stunned glances but nodded quickly, murmuring their assent.

Jaime finally found his voice, stepping forward as Tywin approached. “You mean to arm her?” he asked, incredulous. “Father, why—”

Tywin cut him off with a sharp look. “Because I will not leave the fate of this realm to chance, Jaime.” His gaze flicked back toward Viserion, who now watched them with wary stillness. “Her fire is ours to wield. And we will wield it.”

Without another word, Tywin strode past Jaime and the men, his footsteps echoing through the cavern. Jaime lingered for a moment, glancing back at the she-dragon as she settled herself, the fire in her eyes watching them all with quiet menace.

He exhaled sharply, muttering under his breath as he followed his father out of the Dragonmont.

Behind them, Viserion’s growl rumbled softly, a sound that seemed to promise that no one—not even Tywin Lannister—could ever hope to fully control the fire she carried within.

[therealcocoshady]

Request please🤗: Marshall x Reader, he's extra protective of her while she's pregnant

A/N : Hey ! I know you posted that Ask a while ago but I recently found it while sorting through them, and I wrote a little blurb. I hope you like it 💕.

Shields Up

CW : Pregnancy - Mention of past miscarriage - Marshall Mathers being protective

As a public figure, you were used to rumors. You had chosen this life and you were fully aware that it came with the territory. As a content creator, your job was literally based on your ability to get people’s attention, after all. After years of hard work, you had gathered a pretty huge following and you had quickly learned that the bigger you were, the more rumors would emerge. Collaborations, alleged feuds, made-up drama and, of course, dating rumors. Nothing seemed to be off the table for the media outlets and, even though it hadn’t been easy to navigate at first, you had grown accustomed to it. In fact, most of the time, you didn’t go out of your way to confirm nor deny anything. You just focused on doing what you loved, making good content and your fans were used to you being private on some parts of your life and you were often praised for your ability to be honest, sometimes vulnerable, without giving too much away. People seemed to like the fact that you weren’t ready to commodify your privacy and your relationships for engagement and clickbait.

So, when rumors started to emerge about you dating Eminem, no one was exactly surprised that both of you stayed silent. After all, you were both known to be notoriously private, focusing on your careers and preferring that the attention remained on your work you put out. That being said, none of you got out of your way to hide the relationship either, so anyone who was looking out for subtle clues could probably find them. You followed some of his friends and family members on Instagram, were sometimes spotted to events he would perform at… It was that kind of situation of something basically being public knowledge without ever being broadcasted.

After years spend together, you were in agreement that it was better that your relationship was kept separate from your professional, public personas. Both of you were known to have a strong work ethic and, though you didn’t have any expertise in music and he didn’t understand much about content creation, you respected each other’s career too much to let your relationship overshadow anything. You knew full-well that, no matter how good you were at your jobs, some of the attention would inevitably be focused on your personal lives. Detroit being a fairly small city, it wasn’t rare for you to attend the same events as him, but you always made sure to arrive separately and not engage in PDA. At most, you’d been spotted chatting on a couple of occasions over the years, but nothing in your demeanors indicated that there was any intimacy between the two of you. Until you got pregnant, at least.

As soon as you handed him the positive pregnancy test, Marshall instantly became more protective of you. You were both overjoyed by the news. Emotional, too. Almost a year prior, you had accidentally gotten pregnant. It wasn’t planned by any means, but you both agreed to keep the baby. Sadly, you ended up miscarrying a few weeks later, still in the early first trimester. Before then, you had always said you didn’t need to raise kids to feel fulfilled, and Marshall had been pretty adamant about not wanting more kids. But the event changed everything, stirring something deep within you, and it didn’t take long before you started actively trying. The miscarriage had been a tough pill to swallow, at first, but none of you really addressed it. After all, you knew it wasn’t a rare occurence, and that these things happened. But you didn’t realized how badly it had left its marks on Marshall until you got pregnant again.

He did not become overbearing of controlling - it just wasn’t him - but there was a new, unmistakable layer of attentiveness and protectiveness. It started with him making sure you were alright throughout the day, reminding you to eat, hydrate and rest, often checking in on how you were feeling. The second you expressed any discomfort, such as fatigue or nausea, he would step in, ready to do anything to make it easier for you. The thermostat would be perfectly adjusted, the fridge always stocked with your favorite snacks and he even got some of the specific teas the doctor had recommended. Of course, he absolutely refused to have you carry anything remotely heavy - not even your oversized tote - and whenever you started talking about deadlines for your projects, he reminded you that the last thing you needed was stress.

You thought he’d keep on maintaining his distance at public events - at least as long as you kept the pregnancy hidden. However, you were proven wrong when you both attended a fundraiser for some Detroit charity. As usual, he skipped the red carpet while you did the photo call but, as soon as you were done, you spotted him, waiting for you. Usually, he’d be in some corner of the room, talking to Paul or some acquaintances, but his attention was unmistakably on you. Throughout the night, he didn’t hover or smother you, but he kept closer than usual, and when you walked through the crowded room, he guided you with a hand placed on the small of your back, shielding you from jostling bodies.

« Are you alright? » you asked quietly, to which he hummed and nodded. « You don’t have to stay so close, you know, » you gently reminded him, your tone teasing and affectionate, a smile tugging at the corner of your lips. « Just looking out for you both » he murmured with a faint grin. Your heart swelled and you couldn’t help but find him adorable, so much so that it took a lot of self-control on your part not to kiss him right then and there. Instead, you simply stood there, smiling at each other. As the night event on, you were both solicited by friends and acquaintances, but you could still feel Marshall’s sharp gaze on you, scanning each and every individual that engaged with you, as if to make sure they weren’t a threat. As the night wore on, Marshall’s vigilance didn’t waver. He made sure you always had a glass of water nearby and checked in with you subtly, asking if she needed to sit or if you were getting too warm under the venue’s lights. At one point, when he noticed the press swarmed near the entrance, he positioned himself slightly in front of you, a silent barrier that made it clear you weren’t to be overwhelmed or bothered in any way. By the time you left, you were both exhausted and grateful. You expected to leave in separate cars, as you always did, but instead of sticking to the usual routine, he opened the door and helped you in. Cameras flashed, capturing the rare moment, but none of you really cared. You were simply looking forward to the perspective of heading home for some much-needed rest, and you could tell that he needed to have you close, at least for his own peace of mind.

By the next morning, the Internet was ablaze. Photos and videos from the fundraiser were everywhere, showing the two of you together in ways that left no room for ambiguity. People were notably crazy about one picture, where he could be spotted guiding you through a small crowd, one hand on your back. Twitter threads speculated wildly. « We’ve seen him with her before, but this? This is different, » one user wrote, linking to a clip of him helping her into the car. « I’m telling you, they’re not hiding it anymore. ». The speculation grew more intense with every passing hour. Was this your way of confirming the relationship? Were you going public after years of silence? Marshall, as always, ignored the noise. He spent the morning in his home studio, tinkering with beats, while you scrolled through your phone, half-amused and half-exasperated by the Internet’s obsession. You walked over, wrapping your arms around him from behind. « You know, you’re kind of bad at the whole ‘keeping a low profile’ thing lately. ». He tilted his head back, looking at you with mock indignation. « I’m just making sure you’re good. They’re the ones reading into it. » You laughed, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. « Well, for what it’s worth, I think you’re pretty amazing. »

[voraciouspangolin]

Thread of my second read through The Days Have Worn Away

his stupid smile . I want to put him through a food processor

ok one of them came out wearing an eyepatch i think soldier got cheated on and zhanna had a kid with demo

he proposed with a grenade. and. and he pulled the pin and put the ring on zhanna's finger. and threw the grendade

tbh I fear for the person who becomes the centre of her devotion next

she is willing and ready to use her powers for evil

new sniper lore dropped too. He can fly bush planes

hes so real for this

i think these are the team classic characters... There's a plaque missing on the stone statue at the bottom, I wonder what was on it.

I like how everyone at… Administrator HQ is wearing purple

So earlier we got miss pauling's first name initial, f. Pauling.... so this is a confirmation that her name starts with F, and she's on first name basis with engie. Flo- like, Florence? Florida?

This might be a stretch but I think that these paintings on the wall, I think they're like, the BEST of the best mercernaries of their respective class. Pyro is looking at a hard to make out person surrounded by flames, and demo is looking at a high tech looking demoman

look at all these stupid idiots. i love them

she's SO done dude. SO DONE

also this whole thing. Love the detail that spy is checking his watch pompously . and how everyone else is lined up waiting for them to continue walkign

And this one... god, that smile she gives scout. The way scout beams

The art in this comic has improved so so much, its absolutely gorgeous. The way its layed out, the emotion it conveys without needing dialogue.... magnificent. I like how Miss P's undone hair shows itself as more messy. She's at her wits end- she's past the point of anxiety, past the point of tightening and adjusting her hair so that no strand sticks out.

I think this is the most creature like I've seen pyro and I'm so here for it. E's got eyebrows over the mask lol. Also medic's stupid ass tippy toeing to see over heavy

I love the placement of this context we're getting for how Helen became involved with the Manns. It immediately makes you think to the place where The Naked and The Dead ended, with Helen fully perked up on the final bits of australium she had. Yet its a look into the past

big fan of this painting. Three rifles... and these book titles. So silly i love it

New competitor for Most eyebrows, Zepheniah has two eyebrow spikes, beating medics mere one spike

A whole graveyard of Manns.... I like the one thats just a giant M. Really hammering in the notion that the Mann last name is an identity of immense value, that takes over your whole life. oh, and that panel before the final one, its so full of tension... so good

And here's the actual moment we get to see her in all her insanity. What a woman. I like that the screens all face him, constantly displaying the products of redmond's and blutarch's failure to follow the family line of succession. His eyelids constantly forcefully open, unable to speak, yet his brain still processes the information his body is percieving. He's like if Mr House (fonv) had a dominatrix

me too, scout. me too

big fan of how heavy's eyes are the only ones that are dots

her and miss pauling both, they share the Devotion, the ability to pour their entire beings and lives into one single thing

I bet that thing felt like jerky. who said that

Absolute cinema. Amazing. Magnificent. Wonderful. No notes

[wardentabriis]

A letter to First Warden Jowin Glastrum, delivered to Weisshaput via raven:

First Warden Glastrum, I won’t stand on ceremony with you. I’ve been in this position for more than two decades, and I’ll be damned if you’re going to kick me out of it now. I’d love to see how you explain firing the Hero of Ferelden to the other Wardens. You have one bastion of Wardens left in the South. The remaining Orlesians have retreated with me to Amaranthine, and other than a handful of stragglers, my men have not moved to answer your summons to Weisshaupt, nor will they. You need an army to fight the blight, and you have one. If we leave, the South will be without an organized force of Wardens to combat a darkspawn army more than twice as large as any I saw during the Fifth Blight. Should my Wardens join you in the North, we would leave our land to die without us. I cannot, in good faith or conscience, order loyal Wardens to abandon their positions and their homes. To be completely honest with you, Ser, I have little faith in your judgment. You may stand for Weisshaupt, but for many Wardens, your reach does not extend far past the Anderfels. Ask the average Junior Warden at Amaranthine, and most will hardly know your name. Do you know what they know the First Warden for? Adamant. Your approval of Clarel's actions. The Orlesians especially, but believe me, the Order remembers. I lost a dear friend during that siege, a hero of the Fifth Blight, and countless other Wardens lost more. Were it not for Inquisitor Lavellan’s mercy, the Orlesian branch would have been exiled to Weisshaupt. Maybe that’s an outcome you would have preferred, all things considered. Not to mention the courtesy you’ve shown Warden-Acolyte Thorne recently. Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. You had access to a man who knows more about the blight and ancient elven magic than almost anyone in our Order, and not only did you exile him for doing his duty and protecting innocents, you still refuse to believe his warnings, and you refuse to listen to reason. Let me be abundantly clear: I was told, when I first took this position, that I could not count on support from Weisshaupt. For more than twenty years, you have been little more than a figurehead to me, my superior in name only. At every turn, all I have seen from you is thwarted efforts to protect Thedas, and Wardens dying needlessly with your approval. You may hold sway at Weisshaupt, but you have no authority in Ferelden. My units stationed with Warden Velanna and Warden Howe are under orders to hold their positions, regardless of your posturing. Warden Cousland, despite her place at our Queen Anora’s side, has returned to the Order after the fall of Denerim, a tragedy you have conveniently chosen to ignore. If the Queen-Consort of Ferelden herself can put on a Warden’s armor and lay down her life for her country, you have no excuse to disgrace our Order with your inaction. The South will stand strong against the blight. I made a promise to my Order and my people, not to you. I wish your Wardens victory against the horrors these risen gods have inflicted on us, but if you make another move to undermine my command, I will not lie down and take it. Ferelden is my home, and its Wardens are my responsibility. I hope I’ve made myself understood. With all the respect due to your office, Warden-Commander Aurelian Tabris of Ferelden

[gokyrts]

your carlos fic was amazing... can you do a mafia au carlos?

hiii nonnie! thanks for putting in a request<3 there were many thoughts about mafia Carlos, so here’s my take on this AU 🤭 this contains both SFW and NSFW thoughts, the latter will be under the cut!!

wc: 1.2k

SFW

—Mafia boss!Carlos would be a tantalizing mix of calculated behavior deluded with kindness:

Being under the wing of a local mob had its perks even with the risks that came from inside the organization. A risk you realized you took accidentally when you walked in on a family meeting, the boss himself sitting at the head of the table. The voices died down, everyone was staring and you gulped. A shiver ran down your spine when Carlos stood up, silently walking around the table to you.

“W-What’s going on?” You squeaked out, but that was the wrong kind of question to ask.

“I cannot tell you, preciosa…” Carlos’ voice wrapped around you like the first gust of wind in late autumn — chilling amidst the warmth.

“If I tell you, I’d have to kill you… and I don’t want to do that.” And you saw the cold honesty in his eyes which, despite their depth, seemed hollow and loveless. Yet it juxtaposed the warmth of his voice in your ear, the sweetness of the petname he used for you…

You nodded meekly, understanding your place and feeling a strange sense of gratitude that he took mercy on you, despite your intrusion. Carlos tilted his head at your reaction, a hint of a smile on his lips. He brought his hand up to your cheek, caressing the soft skin with the back of his fingers.

“Good girl… now, back to your duties.” He ordered you like he would a servant and yet you found yourself happily obliging, scattering from where he held a meeting with the family.

His smile fell when you rounded the corner and he turned around to go back into the room you so unfortunately stumbled into.

—Mafia boss!Carlos would not tolerate his men disrespecting you:

No matter which position you held in the family, you were always respected… only on occasion, someone dared to do the opposite. A new young man joined the family not long ago, he noticed you around the estate and nearby bar the family owned. He made the unfortunate mistake of assuming you were a local escort. Before he was able to further dig his own grave, he caught a hand upside his head.

“Oi! Cabrón, this isn’t some whore you can chat up!” One of the capos scolded, trying to save the new guy’s ass before the boss would notice but Carlos was watching the entire exchange. He clicked his tongue, catching the attention of the rest of the men in the bar, and beckoned the new guy with his finger. He was already sweating and slowly approached the boss.

“Y-Yes, boss?”

“What is your name?” Carlos asked, his tone indifferent, yet the look in his eyes told everyone they were about to witness a lesson being taught. The young man in question told Carlos his name, to which Carlos repeated it, letting out a hum as if in thought before continuing.

“How would your mamá feel if she knew you were treating women this way?” The distaste for others seeing you as less than you were was clear in Carlos’ tone and you watched with interest as the guy stammered.

“S-She wouldn’t be happy, boss…”

Carlos nodded in acknowledgment before leaning forward.

“She would give you a worse beating than I ever would so I suggest you apologize to the señorita before I get your mother on the phone.”

In mere moments you had the new guy at your feet, apologising for his behavior and a promise he’d never dare assume who you were or any other woman for that matter. Carlos could only watch on with a smirk on his lips.

—Mafia boss!Carlos would make sure you have everything you need:

You want a new dress? Boom, it’s laid out on your bed. You like a particular piece of jewelry? Boom, it’s sitting in a pretty box for you to take. Anything and everything you wanted, the boss provided. A shopping spree? There are three bodyguards with you, carrying your bags, holding the doors open, driving you around. You really got the princess treatment from their leader. When you returned, Carlos would of course have you model it for him since he bought all of it, in some cases, the dresses had to be returned because his hands were too eager trying to take them off of you and he ripped them. Worry not, he made up for it.

NSFW 18+ under the cut

—Mafia boss!Carlos would have you at his beck and call:

You would know when he snapped his fingers, when his gaze intensified, that was your call, your call to drop to your knees and serve your boss. He loved how perfectly you fit under the table in his office, how easy it was to thrust into your mouth, watching you take every inch of him. He especially loved the look in your eyes when one of his men came in and Carlos didn’t stop, he held you there, nose buried in his pubic hair as you gagged, till he let you come up for a breath.

“That’s it, preciosa… you like it, huh? I can see you rubbing those thighs together…”

Your cheeks only reddened at his words, making him grin. He stretched his leg, sliding it between your thighs.

“Come on, be a good girl for me… get yourself off on my boot.”

Of course, you’d be licking the mess you made off the expensive leather of his boot later when he allowed you to cum.

—Mafia boss!Carlos would do his occasional inspections:

You nearly yelped when you felt someone step up behind you but the warmth of Carlos’ big hands on your waist soon put you at ease.

“Shhh, it’s just me…” He cooed, humored by your startled behavior. His hands traveled lower, hoisting up your skirt. You bit your lip, thighs trembling in anticipation as you realised Carlos’ curiosity got the best of him again.

“Mmm, I like this pair on you,” He praised, his thumbs digging into your lower back slightly, forcing your forward, making your ass stick out as he appreciated the sight of you in a particular set of panties. You gasped when he smacked your right cheek, your reaction earning you a warm chuckle from the Spaniard.

“Beautiful…” Carlos continued, his fingers hooking in the waistband and pulling it down. You obediently stepped out of them, your skirt falling back in place. The piece of clothing looked tiny in Carlos’ big hand and you could see him smirk as he noticed the patch of wetness on them. But it wouldn’t be Carlos if he didn’t do something to make you yearn more for him. He pocketed the underwear and you could feel your heart racing.

“I—” He didn’t let you finish the thought, putting a finger against your lips.

“Shhh, you can come earn them back later, hmm, how does that sound, preciosa?”

Carlos didn’t wait for an answer, he knew you would come so he just left, with your soaked panties in his pocket, letting you walk around bare underneath your skirt the whole day.

want more thoughts on mafia boss Carlos or do you have your own? lemme know in my askbox!! <3

2024 @ gokyrts . do not distribute or translate my work on other sites.

[icarusredwings]

Welcome to Tonys Pizza

Tonys is used to having heros (and likewise) frequent their joint. Mr. Laufeyson want a pie? Got it. Peter want a slice? A comin right up. Hell! A cocker spaniel and a mutt wanna kiss out back over a meta balla? Fuck it. This is new york! As long as dem dogs aint from jersey.

But one of their longest, and possibly weirdest customers is- you guessed it. Wade.

Here at Tonys we got one saying. You make miya mama cry? You getta slap with da pie. Unfortunately this was true until a lawsuit in '17.

But the point still stands.

So one day, when their friend comes with a bit of extra peperoni on him? Who are they to judge? However, They DO heavily judge the fact that he just ordered a large supreme minus everything except the olives and pineapple.

"What!?? Wade you're gonna make me ma cry!" Tony jr (Tony, being his father, who tragically passed when a group of fellas thought 'pizza' was code for dope and not actual pizza) yells, throwing his hands up.

"I know, I know, but you did it for me last time!"

"Last time, my father also kept pineapples just for you in the fridge! Can't be doing that anymore, bad for business."

"Oh but the rat manning the brick oven isn't?"

"Wha!- Who told you bout- cha know what? Fine. Fine!! Aye Vinny! Our pal Wade here wants the usual!"

"WHAT!?" Came from the kitchen before a man comes out, a long rat tail in the back under his hat. You can take this literally or metaphorically.

I don't care. Im just tellin this story not writing it.

"You want me a go buy a whole pineapple just for one pizza!?"

"Yes."

He sighs, loudly taking off his apron and slammed it on the counter, muttering under his breath. "Why always the crazy ones? Move to new york ma said. Its good buisness ma said. ALWAYS the crazy ones!"

"Love ya vinnnyyy~" Wade cooes, watching him leave. Just as he does, The bell rings again. He leans on the counter with a happy grin.

"Welcome to Tonys! Ya make my mama a- c-Cry?!"

"What's taking so long?" Logan grumbles, having just wanted to go home already.

"You're the wolverine.. ThEE wolverine! Aha!! I need to call my mom! She's not gonna believe this! The Wolverine is in OUR shop!!"

Wade giggles, watching as Logan tilts his head at the attention. "Whats with him?"

"You're the Wolverine, bucko. That's a big deal around this place. Now, what do you want on your pizza, big boy?"

".. they do chorizo?"

"Mhmmm~ why? In the mood for some sausage?" Wade teases, smirking more as he coud hear Tony on the phone in the back.

"Ma! Its him! Its really him! Yeah- no, Im lookin at him!"

"....people like you Logan." Wade smiles to him, seeing him frown. "..They like the old Logan.. they think im him."

Wade's toothy grin expands, standing and leaning against him. "With all due respect, Loagie? You're nothing like him. And I love that."

"Hm."

_____

"Alright thank you guys!"

"No problemo, extra pepperoni!" Tony calls, smilin because his tip jar was now full.

"What the fuck did he just call you?" Logan turns. It wasn't hard to tell he was nicknamed this after his skin.

Putting a hand on his forearm, Wade giggles. "Easy tiger. It's an inside joke. When I first came back- like this" he gestures to his face" I asked them for extra pepperoni. They asked how much, and I said as much as I got on my face. Ever since he's called me extra pepperoni. Hey why do you get to be "super cool wolverine" and im just extra pep?"

Logan shrugs, taking the pizza box as he looks at the label, stopping on a fairly not busy side walk a few houses from the apparentment.

"Wait a sec... Wade.. you did tell them one of these were mine right?"

"Huh? What do you mean? I.. I thought I did?"

Opening the boxes, there stood two perfect pinapple olive, chorizo pies. Steaming and ready to be devoured.

The label on the receipt said "Poolverine special"

Logan cringes. "You put pineapple on our pizza??"

But Wade gasps, eyes lighting up. "Sweet salty AND spicy!! Logan, you're a genius!!"

Lets just say.. Wade picked off all the pineapple from Logan's half of the pizza, and he definitely would be returning for more poolverine specials..

Inspired by @sirwadewilsonfromimgur

Enjoy your very stereotypical ficlet

[ephie-om]

Ever since MC was little they always knew they wanted to be a menace

CW: violence, rough language

Day 20: MCs and OCs

MC has adapted incredibly to the Devildom. You were more than a quarter of the reason that Diavolo’s exchange program had been deemed a roaring success. You’ve been nearly poisoned by food, almost killed by demons, actually killed by a demon, and had your privacy invaded at every turn. But somehow you have come to call the House of Lamentation a home. You blossomed into one of the most respected creatures in the Devildom by demons and humans alike.

You throw a pile of clothes into your suitcase haphazardly. Lucifer raps on your doorframe loudly, “We need to be out of the door in ten minutes.” You nod your understanding. The house thrums with a buzz of noise, brothers calling out to each other. MC can hear Beel accuse Mammon of stealing one of his shirts and Mammon’s vehement denial. You smile to yourself as you struggle to close your suitcase and roll it out of the room.

Lucifer’s voice rises above the din. “Does everyone have everything they need? Once we leave, we’re not coming back!” A murmur of assent rises from the foyer. “Alright, let’s go.” Cheers fill the building as you all file out carrying your luggage. Beel’s arms are filled with several of Asmo’s suitcases as well as his. Your group makes its way to a stone circle crackling with magic. Barbatos has just finished preparing the incantations, and Lucifer directs all of you to pack into the circle with nothing sticking out. An elbow jams into your stomach and knocks the breath out of you. You wheeze a curse, and the magic rising makes the space behind your eyes buzz. A powerful hum fills your ears and you close your eyes.

When you open them again, a light wave of nausea passes over you, mostly from the journey but also from the light. The warm sun beats down on you, a welcome feeling. The demons beside you flinch and shield their eyes, and you chuckle. Barbatos has set you outside of a Hotel Corvo branch, and your group piles in as the demons take in the human world from the lobby. Lucifer gets everyone checked into their rooms and tells you to drop your things at the door and reconvene near the front desk. He pulls out a paper schedule from his unseasonably warm coat, which immediately gets crumpled as his brothers spot more interesting things on the street through the glass doors.

You find yourself dragged along with Mammon and Satan to a coffee shop across the street, both nagging you for flavor recommendations. They’re both talking a mile a minute and you finally give up, telling them that you’ll just order for them. Satan gets an iced white mocha and Mammon gets a disgustingly sweet blended caramel drink. You order your own drink of choice and sip idly while they browse the mugs for sale. Another customer bumps into Satan from behind, and he shoots the back of her head a withering glare, remembering Lucifer’s strict instructions to act like humans. That meant no violence unless absolutely necessary and no demon forms, both rules that Satan felt like were personally targeted.

Mammon splits off from your group after spotting a high-end department store and Satan elects to try and find a thrift shop. You’re fairly sure that an affluent area like this wouldn’t have one, but you accept the challenge anyway. It’ll be a good way to see more of the area, if nothing else. You wander down sidewalks here and there at Satan’s insistence, happily taking in the familiar smells and sounds.

He spots a dingy-looking building down a side street, grabbing your hand to tow you along with him. You duck into the door and the heavy scent of patchouli hits your nostrils. You cough from the smell and the person at the front desk glances up at the two of you. “Welcome in,” he drones, looking back down at his phone. Satan stands there for a moment, looking over the variety of clothes for sale.

“Satan, I don’t think this is a thrift store. I’m pretty sure this is just a sketchy regular store.” He shrugs and wanders to look at pants, and you wriggle your hand out of his. You’ve made it a mission to get gifts for all the brothers, and the streetwear style sold here would probably suit Beel or Mammon perfectly. You catch movement out of the corner of your eye, another employee exiting the back room. He’s tall but skinny, slightly hunched over. You go back to browsing, trying to find a good pair of sunglasses for Beel while he’s up here.

A pair with burnished orange frames stands out to you from the back of the rack, and as you circle around to grab it, you notice the same employee again. As you look at him, he hurriedly turns back to a rack of shirts. You pluck the sunglasses out and keep them securely in one hand, trying to show you aren’t stealing anything. Satan waves to grab your attention and holds up an armful of clothes as he heads to the counter, and the tall employee follows. He rings up Satan’s purchase with a smile that looks out of place on his face, and Satan tries to politely smile back. You browse a jewelry rack near the counter just in case you need to stop Satan.

“So, are you two together?” he asks a perturbed Satan.

“No, we’re visiting with family,” he replies cautiously.

“Well, that’s a shame. Two pretty people like you would make a good pair.”

Satan narrows his eyes. “We aren’t.” He grabs his bag from the employee with a little more force than necessary, but he just smiles back. You walk up to the register with the sunglasses for Beel and a thick golden ring for Mammon. He watches closely as you set them down on the counter and takes his time entering the product information into his computer. “So, have you had any work done?” he asks you casually. Taken aback, you stutter for a moment.

“N-no, never.”

“Wow, I’m impressed. You’re telling me all of that is natural?”

You start to feel the annoyance rise in you as you give him a short nod back. The shop door creaks as it opens to reveal Lucifer. Satan turns to him as they hold a quiet conversation, and as you look over at them, the man at the counter takes the opportunity while you're distracted to reach out and stroke your cheek. You whip back around, incredulous, but he doesn’t move.

Wrath bubbles up from inside of you. How dare he touch you without asking? Your eyes blaze green and your animal, or maybe demonic, instincts take over.

He screams as you sink your teeth deep into his hand, and the demons by the door jump. The tall man tries to pull back, but you won’t let him get away so easily. You bite down harder until your jaw pops from the effort. You smell blood, and he howls in pain. “G-GET IT OFF!” he screams to Satan, who doesn’t move a muscle. Feeling like you’ve accomplished enough, you open your mouth. He drops to the floor, tears flowing, and you grimace at the taste in your mouth, like cheap cigarettes. Mission accomplished, you take your purchases from the counter.

You turn to leave, facing Lucifer and Satan, who are standing there in complete shock. Lucifer swallows hard and motions to his mouth. “You’ve got a little, um…” You wipe your lips with your hand and it comes away red.

“We can stop at a bathroom and I’ll get cleaned up. Are we going to dinner?”

Lucifer nods. “I was coming to get the two of you, seeing as you wandered off.”

You shrug. “It’s not like we were in any danger.”

Satan chuckles softly. “I guess not.”

[cryinhell]

No one asked, but here's my updated top ten hellaverse ships (both canon and not)

10) Stella x Striker

What can I say? I love an evil couple. I think these two look pretty hot together, and it's interesting how Striker seems to respect Stella despite hating blue bloods. These two aren't canon, but I wouldn't mind if they were

9) RadioRose

Despite having mixed feelings on Alastor, I think these two are just so cute. Either as a couple or just queer platonic partners, I don't care. Rosie seems to be the only person to make Alastor genuinely smile, and she's the only one who can touch him. There's a special bond there I really like

8) Verosika Mayday x Wally Wackford

So this is the biggest crack ship on this list, but I think in theory, it's so cute. I really want Verosika to be happy, and Wally, despite being a bit of a scammer, is really sweet. I'm totally cool with Verosika ending up with Barbie as well, but I slightly prefer Wally. I wonder if they will have more interactions in future episodes.

7) Fizzmodeus

Is this controversial? Probably. I know Fizzarolli and Asmodeus are so loved in this fandom, so putting them at number 7 is awful...but they aren't my favorite. I do like them, and I think they're really cute! I just have ships I like more, but that doesn't take away how sweet these two can be. Sometimes obnoxiously sweet heh. So yeah, no disrespect to these two

6) M&M

So these two were at first kinda meh for me, but over time, I've grown to love them. They have a pretty healthy relationship, and I always hate when someone bothers Millie for marrying Moxxie or saying Moxxie isn't a good enough husband. These two clearly love and respect each other and clearly grow together with every episode.

5) Staticmoth

Like I said, I love an evil couple. Valentino is a monster, and Vox is deplorable. That doesn't stop me from loving them as a couple and thinking they are cute. I think they both should die, but also would be sad cause come on, they're cute together.

4) Cherrisnake

I love Sir Pentious, I love Cherri Bomb, so obviously, them together is a fun pair. I shipped these two before the show came out and was so excited to see Pen having a crush on Cherri. They kinda remind me of the early versions of M&M, but they need a lot more time. Cherri isn't ready to accept love, and Sir Pentious is well...in a different world. I can't wait to see these two develop and become an actual couple.

3) Adamsapple

So this and Lucilith could be here. Lucifer being happy is the main objective, and its Adamsapple is so fun. They clearly have a history, and there's a lot of feelings. If Adam comes back in season 2, I'd love to see this be fleshed out. I doubt they'd be a couple, but maybe friends? Who knows. I'm fine with this one not being canon, and just something fun in the fandom

2) Stolitz

Stoltiz is pretty important to me because it really got me involved in the fandom. I've been watching Helluva Boss since the beginning, but episode one of season two had me from casual watcher to actual fan. Blitzø is one of the characters I really relate to, and Stolas is just a really well written character. I love the development of these two and they are worth waiting for. I really gotta draw some fanart of them because they are everything

1) Huskerdust

Are you surprised? You must be new. These two are my everything and all time otp in the Hellaverse. I've talked so much about why I love them, and I will continue to do so until I can't any longer. Angel and Husk are not only my favorite characters individually, but their growing friendship and eventual relationship are just so ughhhh. I love these losers, and they will always be number one.

Thanks for reading my nonsense

Have a good one 💜💜

[loycos]

How do you think Ekko feels about Caitlyn and Vi, separately and as a couple? Reed Shannon (Ekko's VA) stated in a post on how Caitlyn found her humanity and grace through her struggles; plus he resposted(?) a meme of Caitlyn alongside Ekko, Jinx, Vi and Isha from that gangster family meme; I don't know if you know the meme, it was the best way I could describe it.

again diving into personal headcanon territory, with a little bit of support from League lore (idk if its still relevant). i feel like i need to explain what my post canon vision for caitvi is to articulate what i think ekko would think of them. ramble incoming:

i think caitlyn and vi are gonna be enforcers again, caitlyn as the sheriff and vi her second-in-command (deputy). caitlyn will try to reform the enforcers with a stricter hand, and a watchful eye. theres a reason she didnt take her seat in the council- caitlyn is all about doing the hard job on location, seeing reality through her own eyes- she doesnt want to help by sitting in a tower and discussing things in theory, shes practical and realistic and she wants to experience the real thing. her job as sheriff will allow her to make that change while still giving her the access to do things on the field.

vi joining tbe enforcers will mainly be done to stay close to caitlyn and protect her if needed. vi never had a big direction in life other than the people she loves- she would jump on the opportunity to spend more time with cait and have the chance to punch people with her big gauntlets. her position as deputy is absolutely unearned in terms of experience or even commitment to the cause- but caitlyn is the sheriff and she put her there, so vi and her can stay close. which other enforcers, and pilties, and zaunites, are extremely aware of. it is corruption, even if relatively unharmful one. having a zaunite as the deputy made a lot of pilties upset, especially when shes so underqualified, and made them question caitlyn's ethics, for good reason. mega especially when vi is known to overall act out of line, cause unnecessary property damage, show overall disrespect to the reformed enforcer protocol and not bind herself to schedules, and yet get absolutely no punishment, let alone acknowledgement of her misdeeds by her boss, who turns a blind eye (wink wink) to her shenanigans.

so yeah, other enforcers are fuming, the pilties arent happy, and zaunites? well, despite caitlyn trying her best to solve the issues that ran years before she was born, there's only so much changing the protocol can do for her. she is harsher on enforcer violence and the prison under her watch has changed to be more humane, but its not like she can control every single enforcer personally. so its not perfect but its slightly better than what it used to be. caitlyn herself has the exact same attitude towards both pilties and zaunites- kind of cold, calculated, no bullshit taken, unapologetic, yet with a layer of empathy underneath the surface. kind of similar to what grayson was. this attitude doesnt win her people's favor on either side, but it does earn her respect- and especially in zaun, where her family status means nothing, that means a lot. she's definitely not a "champion of the people"- i think most people in the city actively dislike her, and the (true) rumors of corruption arent helping.

as for vi, zaunites see her as a traitor. she is known to be kind of a bulldozer that can be quite trigger happy, especially when it involves caitlyn (who we already discussed people dont really like) being in danger or disrespected. she has a dismissive "and what about that" attitude that is very zaun in nature, but since shes now wearing a badge, zaunites get annoyed with. pilties, of course, absolutely hate that attitude. so she isnt seen very favorably either, on either side of the river, just like her girlfriend.

the relationship between them is kind of an open secret. every enforcer in the force knows vi is only in her position cause she "gives caitlyn favors under the table", and those rumors reached topside and bottom as well. and again, they arent untrue, theyre just a relatively mean and shallow reading of the actual relationship between the women. neither caitlyn nor vi ever acknowledges these rumors. they stay at a 6 feet distance from each other while working, but the fact they are so interlinked really leaves no other answer. they know everybody knows, everybody knows that they know, and it's never addressed directly by either of them. their relationship is kind of an anigma to people on both sides- pilties think caitlyn settled for a street rat, zaunites think vi sold her soul to be with a rich pig. no one really knows the history or intimate details about their relationship, for obvious reasons, and thats what it looks like to them on the surface.

righttttt, this ask was about ekko. i got carried away. so ekko. how does he play into all of this? while he's not entirely on the average zaunite camp, he is reluctant to work with caitlyn, but does so anyway because ultimately they share similar goals. while he understands vi better than most people, and knows she always puts her loved ones before any political cause, he can't help but feel a little betrayed by her choice. i think he doesnt really see what vi sees in caitlyn, and since he doesnt "get" that, vi's choice to stay with her at all costs looks odd. especially since caitlyn on the surface just looks like a cold, authoritarian bitch. with good intentions! but still a bitch.

in the end, it all comes down to masks. i imagine post canon caitvi are both sporting masks for protection, and have their walls really high up in public. and can you blame them? they actively wear their weakest spot, their achilles heel- each other- on their sleeve. theyre in public positions, have a lot of eyes on them, and their "professional" relationship is extremely looked down upon. so caitlyn acts colder and harsher, and vi puts on a bravado of "i dont give a shit" and uses violence as a threat to deter people from seeing her as weak. the walls are there to ensure their safety. but like we saw in the series, when its just the two of them, all those walls crumble, and they allow themselves to just be vulnerable.

[nicnevans]

Every character I have for GW2 was made this year I'm new I got here like a month and a half ago hiiii and their lore and stories are all still forming but I'm very fond of all of them TvT so thank you OP for this opportunity to "formally introduce" them all

Duilliche

AKA The Main Character boy. He's doing the plot pretty much as-written, and the guy I spend most of my playtime on. (He's currently loitering at the start of LWs2 while I work on some fics and let the plot-so-far simmer for a while, what's in store for him in future? That's a problem for future me) He's a necromancer with a heart of gold, unflinching belief in the general goodness of the world and its people, and an earnestness that is either extremely endearing or extremely annoying depending on your perspective. He walks almost everywhere he goes, and he walks slowly, unless there's some reason he needs to go fast; as far as he sees it, his memories will impact the Dream and show future generations of sylvari about the world, so he wants those memories to be vivid and qualitative. One key part of his lore so far is that he wasn't actually autumn-coloured when he awoke. He scared the daylights out of everyone in the grove instead by starting off green and slowly fading out to autumnal reds and oranges over time. A lot of people probably thought he was dying 😂

Callainn

The first of several "companion OCs", Cal is like... the direct opposite of Dill in a lot of ways. She's a guardian, stern and aloof, and although her sense of justice is very strong and she places a high value on bravery and valour, my running HC is that when push came to shove and the fight against Zhaitan was getting real, she ran away. It's something she struggles to forgive herself for; that was her moment, as a warrior and protector. She had one job, and instead of doing it, she gave in to fear and fled. I've not yet decided what she's been doing since then (she's gonna have to redeem herself at some point, but I have yet to decide what path she's going to take to it.)

Dreaghann & Lusanaisig the twins

A mesmer and a ranger respectively, Drea and Lus shared a pod and a dream (although Drea actually awoke several hours after Lus, a fact she's forever frustrated by; she's now the most insufferable morning person you'll ever meet, determined never to oversleep again) They're rarely seen apart from one another and very protective of each other. Neither wants to learn how it feels to lose someone who's been by your side since before you were born. Dreaghann is sharp-witted and sharp-tongued. She's highly intelligent and refuses to back down when she knows she's right, or that her plan is the most effective one, even when dealing with someone who outranks her. Lusanaisig is much more easy-going and far more concerned with keeping the peace than his sister, but also far more naive. He smooths out the jimmies she rustles, and she saves him from getting scammed by unscrupulous traders in Lion's Arch.

The whole gang is sort of coexisting in my world state, with Cal, Drea, and Lus taking supporting roles because I Do Not have enough braincells for multiple AUs for different commanders, and all of the lore is still a bit in a foundational/still-forming state while I-the-player acclimatise to the world and its lore, but I'm very fond of the little collection of shrubberies I've accumulated. I don't RP really, I just play with my little guys and their stories like dolls in my head, so none of them have particularly interesting or novel backstories, but they're fun To Me :>

I did this last year and it was pretty fun. So let's do it again.

Not that you need a reason to talk about your characters, but I know some people can be a little bit shy about holding their kids up to the sun and going "Look what I made!". Reblog and show off any characters you made this year. Tell us their story, why you made em, where they fit in to your Tyria!

<3

[minnlahzz]

Silver Relationship Headcanons.

requested.

yo! this is apart of a very biiig request that I've procrastinated with for a long time. I think this is the time I can write, since it's my break. trying to get the hang of things is hard, please bare with me! I don't have ANY of my old themes aside from the divider and pictures, sooooo it may look unaesthetic/horrifying until I decide to fix something. even if they didn't request this, this is also gift to @amethiosspouse !!

— NOTE LOWERCASE INTENDED.

silver is… complicated. some people might think he’s cold and distant, but he’s really just guarded and doesn’t know how to express himself. he’s not the type to be overly affectionate, but his loyalty runs deep. if he’s with you, he means it. silver wouldn't just date anybody because of hersays or looks, he'd have to KNOW and like somebody forrealsies.

he'd most likely be with a person who is patient, but not a pushover. silver respects strength and independence, but he doesn’t want someone who’ll bulldoze over his opinions either. he values emotional maturity—he needs someone who can handle his quiet moments without taking them personally. sometimes he just needs some peace and quiet.

silver's love language is quality time, he has a soft spot for quiet moments together. just sitting in silence, watching the stars or listening to the sounds of the forest, is his idea of quality time.

sneasel is always around. it’s like glue. like its trainer sneasel doesn’t trust people easily, so earning its approval is a big deal. once you do, though, it’ll start bringing you random “gifts” (like berries or shiny rocks).

but just because you're dating him doesn't mean it's all sunshine and rainbows, like I said silver is complicated. be patient with him, and understand him for who he is! there are many pros and cons when dating this tomato.

there are many pros he has, silver is mature and that's what makes him a good partner.

he’s fiercely protective. silver might not always say the right thing, but his actions speak volumes. if you’re in trouble, he’ll be there, no questions asked. you've got your own batman.

he’s surprisingly thoughtful. he remembers little details about you, like your favorite food or your favorite ice cream flavor. it’s his way of showing he cares. silver is attentive, he listens to people even when it looks like he isn't. he'd listen to your complaints and responds to it with clear answers.

silver will always help you, if you're a trainer he'll tell you tips you've never heard of. if you wanna battle, you've got yourself one!

there's never a perfect character, silver has alot of cons and things to consider. he's still his own person, and sometimes there are things you can't control.

silver struggles with vulnerability. it’s hard for him to open up, and sometimes it feels like he’s keeping you at arm’s length. no matter how close you guys are, there will always be something he will keep private.

it takes him a long time to truly trust someone, and even when he does, there’s a part of him that’s always prepared for betrayal. this can lead to moments where he questions your intentions, even if you’ve done nothing wrong.

when things get tough, silver’s instinct is to deal with it alone. he doesn’t mean to shut you out, but it can leave you feeling like you’re not part of his life during the moments that matter most.

his intensity can be intimidating. he doesn’t mean to come off as harsh, but he’s not great at softening his words.

-

over all 7/10 he’s loyal, protective, and will stick by you through thick and thin, but his emotional unavailability and trust issues make the relationship a lot of work. if you’re patient and willing to deal with this, he’s worth it—but don’t expect a fairy-tale romance. expect a cynthia champion battle difficulty romance... do you get it? (probably not)