#Let us all rejoice in the Lord

[vigilantkilliforniakatholixxx]

[emmaofnormandy]

Imagine Aegon is the father of your children.

Warnings: fluff all the way; canon divergence; long post.

( @dracaryxzs for you! One hopes you might like seeing Aegon happy here)

***

• How it all began…

You are his twin, his other half… What one feels the other feels it too. Naturally, as a result, bond came. Courtiers like to say how “wherever the Lord Aegon goes, Lady Y/N is after him like a loyal puppet.”

What they don’t understand is that you and him are two sides of the same coin, blood of dragon, despite the prince calling you his sun, to which he himself gravitates.

“I cannot not believe you are never bored whenever we are together”, says Aegon.

You both are blossoming into youth. You are the only one he trusts, the one he is naturally charmed to. But something about his age doesn’t let him admit there are feelings too.

“I am unlike any other”, you tell him in turn, a smile on your rosy lips. “We came together to this world, Aegon.”

He gives you a shy smile, lowering his gaze—you tamed him, like, it is said, your grandmother had tamed her husband, your grandsire, when they were both the same age.

Lively and so full of life, not even Aegon can deny you anything.

“Let us ride, shall we?”

And not waiting for a response, he takes you by the hand and in between giggles and chuckles the two of you go after your respective dragons.

Sunfyre has been enamored by Dreamfyre and as a result the female dragon has put some eggs. As soon as you are told this, you tell the object of your affections that:

“See, Egg? Evident signs that we are bonded right here”, and you show him the different coloured eggs.

Aegon smiles at you. How can you make him forget the scars of his troubled soul? How can you even sweep away grey clouds, making it seem that it is possible to find happiness?

When looking at your serenity, at how beaming you are before the eggs you cling yourself to, the prince sees himself in you.

You are the light of my world, Y/N.

As if you feel the tenderness his thought emanates, you turn your head at him and give him an egg.

“We are grandparents now, I’m afraid.”

That makes him cackle. A sound so rejoicing, full of life. Few could tell to have ever heard Lord Aegon laugh merrily.

“Too young for that. Come, Y/N!” And then turning to Sunfyre, Aegon is the image of a boy who finds love and happiness where at home such were taken from him.

You smile warmly when seeing the golden dragon almost smiling itself the moment he welcomes his rider.

A bond as strong as the one I have with my beloved.

Then you are distracted by nearly losing balance when Dreamfyre comes at you, resting her head against your face.

“Calm down, girl. I am not as heavy as you are”, you giggle, gently laying your head over the scales of your dragon, whom you claimed when you were ten years old. “Ready to fly high? To some adventures, eh?”

A sound comes from your dragon’s throat. It’s almost as if she speaks excitedly: “Aye, let us go! I’m ready for it!”, which only increases your good mood.

Now here you two are, flying synchronized, one being the extension of the other. Skies may have some clouds, but sun shines high with some warm breeze that announces summer.

“I suggest we could fly atop Dragonstone”, you tell Aegon over your shoulder. “There’s a spot no one goes there.”

“Rhaenyra is settled there with her children”, says Aegon with an unread expression.

You shrug your shoulders.

“So what? I’ve been there frequently and not once she scoffed me off. I doubt she ever knew I flew to this spot.”

And you flash him a mischievous smirk.

Aegon laughs in turn, realizing he’s unable to deny you anything. Flying as high as he could, there’s little need to tell Sunfyre where to go. As if the creature captured the rider’s thoughts, he flies exactly to where he wants… as does Dreamfyre.

It is almost as if both dragons suspect something may come up… even if you and Aegon don’t know that yet.

*

There is a lake in the midst of vast forests, where silence reigns and there is no sign of any living being. A few hills here and there separate the spot of the rest of Dragonstone.

“How did you come here?”, Aegon inquires you, intrigued by this unusual place. Hardly a man acostumed to wild life, his eyes scan these new surroundings with a mix of suspect and curiosity.

You are untying your hair and loosening your gown—you often ride Dreamfyre in your feast gowns, much to the Queen’s dismay— when you say:

“I don’t think I fit very well at court. I tend to flee whenever I can.”

Aegon is somewhat distracted by your curves, and how poorly hidden your curves are beneath the fabric you dress. He swallows hard, then says:

“We are betrothed. One day you’ll be queen.”

You flash him another of your typical mischievous smirks.

“When have I never performed my duties, brother?”

Aegon shakes his head, but he’s chuckling when he comes next to you.

“Well?”, you tilt your head and the prince seems to notice how handsome you look, wild and free—the way you are born to be. “Aren’t you going to swim with me?”

“Is that a challenge?”, he asks you in a whisper.

You like how he looks at you. Maybe this makes your nipples hard. And maybe this makes him burning inside.

“Perhaps.”

And without waiting for a response, you jump in. Aegon smirks, soon following you.

***

• Summer Children.

His kiss is indescribable. No words can do justice to the warmth his breath gives you, to the bliss it inspires you, to the affection it craves in you. Oh, where are the words when we need most?

Whispers at court regard you and Aegon as the “Baelon and Alyssa” of your age, perhaps two souls reincarnated. Whatever the truth, all you can think about is the taste of his lips against yours.

Not only that, there is more to inspire. As you are riding Dreamfyre in the absence of your lover—he’s been summoned by your father to attend the council—, summer breeze cannot cool down the heat in your heart. And you still recall that night.

Where no living being is found amidst corridors, when, for a moment of weakness, no guard lies awake; when unprotecting is at stake… Here he comes, visiting you.

Boldly so, his steps are silent—right under his demeanor there is a haunted boy, famine for affection, filled with desire to please… but above all, a very insecure man who needs to play pretend before all.

Even though you are not like any other, being in fact the only one who’s witnessed his fragility, he remains blunt in his manners.

Yet when the door opens… and you stand there in your line nightgown with your hair loose, his confidence dies.

“I feared you’d not come”, but there is nothing blunt or arrogant in how you welcome him; but rather tenderness from the moment he’s engulfed in your arms. “I missed you, Aegon. Too much I long for you.”

“My dear Y/Nickname…”, he buries his head against your neck and from the moment he inhales your scent, no pride is strong enough to resist the obvious. “In vain have I struggled to repress my sentiments for you.”

Hearing these words give you the reassurance you’ve been longing.

“Oh you took long enough, didn’t you? I’ve been kept in waiting, but it was worth it.”

One kiss and you are doomed. Aegon waits no longer, not anymore. He takes hold of your face and presses his lips against yours, biting your bottom lip and slamming the door as he leads the way.

“You must promise, though”, you push him away gently, much to his frustration. But you need to be sure… just in case.

“Anything”, his voice comes out in a plea.

You raise your eyebrows and Aegon, though sensing what might be asked of, is willing to pay the price. He is not letting go of you.

“No more whoring. I am no woman of sharing”, you tell him seriously.

Aegon smiles warmly, but you spot relief behind his eyes. He grabs you by the waist and says:

“I am yours and yours alone, Y/N. We came out to this world together, didn’t we? So we are dying together as well.”

“That is some drama you put in there, love”, you smirk before clashing your lips against his.

That night you came to learn you loved riding your dragon and we are not talking about Dreamfyre.

*

Nine moons later, the results of you and Aegon’s indiscretion comes to the world with a very strong pair of lungs.

“Here comes a very strong prince”, so announces the midwife.

You are exhausted after almost 12 hours in labour, a puddle of sweat and blood, but from the moment you are told you delivered a boy, you beamed proudly:

“I performed my duty well.”

Aegon, in the meantime, is left waiting outside, pacing impatiently in the corridors.

“One wonders what witchcraft has Y/N used to keep you in this state”, muses Aemond in his unusual show of sense of humor.

The prince of Dragonstone doesn’t bother answering Aemond, rather limiting to shooting a glare. It’s when Princess Helaena comes with a smile on her lips.

“My brothers.”

“We salute you well, sister. But pray tell us the news soon: is Y/N well? How’s the child?”

“She is doing great, Aegon. She’s recovering and getting some rest. As for the child… congratulations! You have a healthy baby boy!”

Aegon is paled by the news and even Aemond gets somewhat concerned with his older brother, holding him by his elbows.

“Are you well?”

“A boy”, he mumbles. “Y/N gave us a boy.”

“Our line is safe”, Aemond agrees. Then turning at Helaena, he asks: “Has the name been chosen?”

“Well, Y/N wants a traditional name… so she decided to have the boy named after you, Aegon.”

No one had ever seen the prince Aegon this overjoyed. The way he smiles… who wouldn’t be captivated by this sight? Even Aemond smiles too at this sight. Of all the misadjusted family, at least two of them found happiness… though when Helaena looks at him, he’s not too far from it himself.

“I must see her!”

Ignoring Helaena’s advice that no man is allowed in these chambers, Aegon, tradition-breaker, storms inside, demanding to see you.

You have just left your privy quarters dressed in a line nightgown with your hair wet and recently brushed when he comes at you.

“Husband!”, you giggle quietly when you are engulfed by his strong arms. “You should wait for me. I am not churched yet and we must…”

“Fuck traditions. I wanted to see my wife”, says he, peppering your face with tender kisses before looking at you with the devotion of a lover. “Are you well?”

You cast him the most infatuated glance to him, locking your hands around his neck as if there were no witnesses in the room.

“I am, thank you. Nothing that I could not handle myself”, you assure him. “Aegon, I performed my duties. I gave you a son.”

“Even if it wasn’t, as long as the child is healthy and you are healthy too, nothing else matters”, he whispers in your ear.

The prince cannot state enough his relief in seeing you well and safe. By how he holds you close, it is as if he needs another reassurance that childbirth will not steal you of him.

Feeling his fears, you raise your chin and give him that blunt gaze that marks your lively personality which he’s familiar with.

“I have no intention in leaving you alone in this world, unless you choose another to be in my place.”

Aegon gives you a meaningful look before snorting and scoffing at the same time.

“For fuck’s sake, Y/N! How could you possibly consider I’d find a substitute for you? I thought you knew me better, woman.”

You both share a quiet laugh before kissing as if to seal an unspoken vow. Not too far from the scene is the Queen, with her father by her side.

“Who’d know this was coming?”, she sighs, content with the merry scene that rolls before her gaze. “I may have been deprived of happiness myself, but on the other hand… thankfully such a burden is not placed on the shoulders of mine own offspring.”

“Do not be so dramatic, Alicent. This match is as fruitful as yours was”, says Otto, nonchalantly like usual. “But at times even I admit that I can see Baelor and Alyssa once more.”

A struggle he keeps to himself, since Otto and Baelor never saw eye to eye. Leaving such personal haunting aside, eventually this summer prince also named Aegon is seen placed in the arms of his mother.

“He’s a lovely child”, murmurs Aegon, whose head is now resting over your shoulder. “I cannot stop looking away of his delicate features.”

“Perhaps you should hold him”, you suggest in a whisper since the regal baby is asleep in your arms.

“I do not wish to wake him up”, says your husband, though you may detect a degree of panic in his voice.

You find his concern adorable, respecting his time. This afternoon, you and him watch over your newly born soon in great delight of how your love produced a handsome baby.

“Our summer prince”, you beam at him.

Aegon shares a smile with you. He looks thrilled before kissing your forehead.

“I cannot believe I am his father.”

“A doting father as I’m sure you will be.”

At times he doubts it, but this is a shadow he is unwilling to cast in such a bright moment. All Aegon can say is:

“Thank you for believing in me.”

He does blush though when you kiss his cheek and tell him in turn:

“How could it be otherwise? As my other half, you shall burn as bright as any dragon, my sun and stars.”

***

Little Egg, as he is called, is getting every attention Aegon’s father never bother doting his son. Whilst you are breast feeding, just nine months later his birth, a baby girl whom you named Alysanne after your favourite ancestor, father and son are found together at the nunnery.

“Your mother told me she plans to take you and Dear Alys to fly our dragon. I am not discouraging her, but we should best wait for a litttle bit, uh?”, says the protective father whilst rocking his lively and often chuckling boy in his arms. “Oh so you think this is funny? Are you planning to take after your great-grandparents?”

Aegon is holding him still, playing with the boy when the moment is interrupted by a maid.

“Excuse me, sire. His lordship must be fed. And your lady wife has summoned you.”

“Very well”, he stands, with the prince in his arms. “Before I handle you my precious jewel, Lady H/N, I must be certain you have been fed well. After all, you are responsible for feeding my child.”

“Indeed, lord. I am healthy and robust from the day I started the service”, the woman says seriously.

“Good. I appreciate it”, he nods before kissing his son’s temple. When seeing he’s about to weep, Aegon softens: “Do not cry, my prince. This is not a farewell. I shall go back later, I assure you.”

Reluctantly, he parts, though he does wish to go back when hearing a cry. Aegon pauses at the door but when looking back, Lady H/N has taken little Egg inside the quarters.

*

“How is mine faire ladies?”, the soon to be king asks you the moment he steps inside.

“Looking better than you”, you giggle quietly. “What happened, love?”

“I had to leave him with those women”, Aegon grumbles.

“I know. I don’t like leaving him there either, but thanks to you I can only feed one child now”, you laugh quietly.

Alysanne, whose hair is as silver as her parents’s, makes noises and Aegon, now more confident in how handling babies, carefully holds her.

“If I remember well, you were climbing on me when I was trying to sleep just the day you were churched”, Aegon chuckles.

“You keep saying that to yourself”, you lean to kiss his cheek. “You have been blessed with a handsomeness that makes me difficult not to merrily engage in marital affairs.”

Again, your bluntness makes him blush, a deed only you could brag in succeed doing so. Aegon gives you a long, meaningful look.

“Watch your tongue, woman. You don’t know what you are saying.”

But his mischievous smirk tells you precisely otherwise. The connection you two share has never grown stronger…

***

• Midnight Sun.

Little Egg is barely three when Aegon takes him for a ride in Sunfyre and you take two year old Alysanne with you as you mount Dreamfyre. It’s late night and since this family is restless, there’s no obligation to stop them in doing so—as if any would do in other period of the day.

“Fly high, Dreamfyre”, you whisper the command in High Valyrian and the dragon doesn’t need much before taking impulse and… weeeee, you and your excited child finally get to the skies.

“Let us do this, S.”, Aegon tells his beautiful golden dragon, resting his face against the creature’s forehead. “Look, this is the son I told you about. He gets my name, and Gods hope that he takes after my best traits. Not that I have many, but…”

Sunfyre buffs as if saying: oh please, you may not be perfect, but you have great qualities! To which Aegon blushes and smiles.

“You are a great friend, Sunfyre.”

“Daddy”, says Little Egg. “Fly!”

“Calm down young man. Are you in a rush?”, Aegon chuckles at his demanding son.

“Mommy… flew.”

“Oh. She’s always in a rush that woman you call your mother. Let’s do it then.”

And soon Aegon’s smile would spread larger if possible as Sunfyre finally spreads his large wings and begins to fly, the reason why Little Egg is happy.

When they are finally getting higher, Aegon makes sure his son is enjoying it. He wants to create this memorable moment that shall reinforce the bond father and son has.

It’s working since little Egg turns his head to his father and says:

“Amazing!”

“Are you enjoying that, my boy?”

“Yes! More, more! Please!”

Aegon laughs happily and does as requested. They fly as high as possible before diving below to meet you and Alysanne. The scene makes the prince emotional. His wife is looking as beautiful as wild as the day he realized he loved you to an unbearable point.

Sensing his gaze, you turn your head to meet him. And feeling your feelings, Dreamfyre is instantly drawn to Sunfyre.

“How’s it going?”, you ask him, eyes sparkling with delight for making it possible an old dream where you and Aegon, together with children of your own, would fly with your respective dragons.

“Just the way you wanted”, so Aegon tells you as if he’s read your mind.

You and him exchanged loving gazes and sweet smiles, letting the dragons taking the reins of the situation.

Indeed, as your children beam, Dreamfyre and Sunfyre dance.

Such is the dance of the dragons.

**

The toddlers are snoring by the time you and Aegon land.

“They should sleep with us in bed this night”, he suggests you, as he passes an arm around your waist and pulls you closer to him, placing a kiss on top of your forehead.

“I agree”, and then you instantly pause before the door of the red keep. “Aegon… I would like to thank you.”

“What for?”, he asks you, intrigued.

“For giving me these lovely children, for being the partner I’ve always known you’d be. For being my other half.” You smile softly. “I’d die for you, I hope you know that. You deserve to be loved, to all that you are given.”

“Y/N…”, he’s surprised to hearing these words of you, even though Aegon never needed proof of how you felt for him.

You stroke his face, wiping away his tears. Both of you know that you only have each other, and yet it’s enough. Specially now you have children of your own.

Resting his forehead against yours, the prince closes his eyes and kisses you.

“Whatever our souls are made of…”

“…mine and yours are the same.”

***

• Epilogue.

Alysanne is fast asleep when she dreams of dragons. Dragons that fight, dragons that die, dragons that survive. In the midst of chaos, she runs after her father.

Where is he? She calls out his name only to find another who is not in his throne. She wakes up thus, unable to remember the usurper’s identity, a mere shadow. But it’s enough to scare the seven year old princess.

She leaves her privy chambers. It’s still dark, but she needs to be sure he’s there somehow. Alysanne runs barefoot to her parents’ chambers. She opens its door, holding her breath but praising the Gods there’s some fire in the fireplace.

She sees you’re sleeping next to your father, but when seeing he’s there…. what a relief. Yet, the princess is scared to go back to her chambers.

“Papa”, she pokes him. “Papa, wake up.”

Aegon groans lightly, but when seeing it’s his oldest daughter calling him, he only rubs his eyes and makes sure to sit properly, careful in not waking you up.

“Lys”, he calls her affectionately and is probably thankful for wearing some proper garments after early copulating with you. “What’s wrong?”

Alysanne quickly throws her arms around his neck.

“I am scared. I don’t want to lose you”, she sniffs.

Aegon rocks her in his arms, smiling quietly for doing so.

“You’re not losing me. Who told you this nonsense? Has Little Egg been teasing you again?”

“No. He’s been good, actually”, she tells him, holding tightly against his neck. “I had a nightmare.”

For some reason, this gives him shivers. But Aegon isn’t inclined to dig into this deeper.

“A nightmare is just a nightmare. Come. Do you want to sleep with mama and papa today?”

Alysanne smiles brightly. She then kisses his cheek just as you are waking up.

“What happened?”, you ask, worried. “Are you well, my dear Alys?”

“She had a nightmare”, Aegon tells you as if this doesn’t mean anything, but one exchange of glances tells you this isn’t anything. Yet neither should feed it. And you agree. “So I’m letting her sleep with us tonight.”

You nod discreetly before kissing your daughter’s forehead.

“Of course. Like the good old days uh?”

And you watch as Alysanne makes herself comfortable in between you and your husband. Aegon strokes her hair as you cover her.

“Do you think…?” Aegon leaves the question in the air.

“Let us leave to concern about it tomorrow. It’s late.”

Aegon agrees. But neither looks forward to go back to sleep. As he casts a fond gaze at the princess, you take his hand and give it a small squeeze.

“It’s going to be all right. Helaena is doing well with it.”

“I know. But…”

“And at the same time she’s not like Helaena”, you tell him. “Let us not confuse things. It’s going to be well.”

“I just worry. I do not wish…”

Aegon looks away, remembering the wounds of his neglect childhood. There’s little need to explain since you can feel what he feels.

“Aegon, my love. We are not like them”, you tell him firmly. As he looks at you, you stroke his hair and place a lock of his messy hair behind his ear. “We are not like our parents. We are better than them. I’d not say so if I believed otherwise. Just look at how Egg seeks to impress you, how Alysanne came after you tonight… or how our twins Jaehaerys and Jaehaera often run after you.”

Aegon smiles quietly.

“How can you convince me that easily?”

“It’s the truth I speak. Besides… I have to tell you something”, and here you whisper. “I conceived again.”

“Oh how fertile we are!”, Aegon chuckles merrily.

You both kiss, before settling to lay down, careful now with your daughter fast asleep in between you. Shadows for once are pushed and in late night midnight sun comes to shine bright.

Oh these delights…

[girl-in-the-chairs-void]

Kinslayer

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Tyrell!reader (fem pronouns used)

Word count: 2k (she’s a baby)

cw: hurt, comfort, soft aemond, mentions of being naked? ANGST ANGST ANGST, the pov switches between aemond/third person and second person soo if you notice it going into “her” and “you”, it’s on purpose please don’t kill me.

a/n: I really wanted to make the little Drabble into a full fic soo here it is!! Not proofread. Let me know your thoughts!!!

Kinslayer.

That’s what they’ll call him. Rejoicing in celebration after Vhagar mercilessly attacked Arrax and Lucereys Velaryon. His nephew, his kin.

The cold had already seeped through his leather settled in his bones. He felt nothing but the chill of the air as he landed with Vhagar into the dragon pits. The roaring amber of the castle doing nothing to add even an ounce of warmth through him. His eyepatch wet and leaking its colour onto his scar- poorly made for a prince- it seared through him. He took it off immediately, throwing into one of the torches on the wall.

Servants rushed his side, trying to assist him in any way possible but he dismissed them with a stern look before walking towards the small council room. Gods be good, he wanted nothing more than to hide away in his chambers, away from everyone, away from peering eyes of the lords and councilmen, away from Alicent, from Aegon.

But near you. In his chambers where he could be Aemond. Not second son, not ‘The One Eyed Prince’. But only Aemond, your husband. He would take that title to his grave if he could, leaving all his other titles because those titles were given to him on a silver platter, he didn’t ask for them. However, he craved the title of being your husband.

Ever since you were kids. Aemond had taken a liking in sitting in the library with you and talking about history. Sneaking out and taking walks in the Red Keep or the gardens to distract himself from the political side of his life.

You- a simple Tyrell girl who came to Kings Landing when you were only two with your father, Lord Tyrell. Aemond only being three years old had taken a liking to you even when you were only capable of padding on your little feet across the castle. Getting to grow up in Kings landing with the prince and his siblings.

It wasn’t a shock to the realm when King Visereys announced your betrothal to the young prince when you were only eight. Having no idea what the prince held for you in his heart, but you knew he was not one to easily open up. And after what happened at Driftmark, it had taken you quite some time to walk his maze. He’d shut himself out to the rest of the world. Not meeting up in the library or in the courtyard for your usual routine.

So you took it upping yourself to knock on his door every morrow, and supper. Threatening to break in if he didn’t at least take the food into his chambers and eat it.

The first time you saw him after the unfortunate incident, you didn’t flinch. You didn’t scare away in a corner. You smiled at him, slowly approached him and gently ghosted your fingers over his new forming scar. His eye now replaced with a beautiful sapphire- your touch burned, but it burned with a feeling that he wished to experience a thousand times over.

The two children were found sound asleep in Aemond’s bed when the maesters came around to check on the princes health the next morning; wrapped around each other like dragons protecting their kin.

Even years later, he was grateful to have you. He wouldn’t tell it to anyone’s face but his actions always speak for him.

He always seeks you first in large gatherings. Following you like a guard dog wherever he’s in the castle and not away on Prince business across the seven kingdoms.

But today. It was different. You felt it as soon as you heard Vhagars roars through the air, crawling their way through the open window in your and Aemond’s chambers.

You rushed to the dragon pits carefully. The maids trying to assist you but you insisted on going by yourself only to find no one there but the dragons. Your husband nowhere to be seen.

You sighed, an eerie feeling brewing deeply in your gut as you walked back to your chambers and buried yourself in a cloak and settled onto the settee, hoping Aemond would show up.

He didn’t show up, much to your dismay. You had a hunch that he had probably made his way to the small council to report of his business at Storms end.

And so you waited while he spiralled.

…

Aegon looked…proud?

After breaking the news of what happened tonight on Storms End; the small council’s reaction were rather mixed. Alicent shook her head, getting up from her chair abruptly and making her way out of the room. Suddenly finding it suffocating.

His grandsire looked as though he was about to faint right that instant. Holding onto the armrest as he sighed in defeat.

The lords- your father being one of them, looked disappointed as ever. The death of a kin is never a way to settle for peace.

“You did well, brother.” Aegon speaks, the lords and the Hand turning their heads towards him with wide eyes. The death of a child and he did- well?

“I call for a celebration! A feast, tonight!” He declares, arms wide as he gets up from his chair and reached his brother at the end of the table in three long strides. Patting him on the back.

Aemond feels sick, grotesque. He hates this feeling.

He hasn’t uttered a word since his reporting, hasn’t met anyone’s eye and doesn’t want to either. He simply nods, fixing his head up yet not making eye contact and sternly walks away, exiting the room before running to a small corner to empty out his stomach’s content.

He didn’t mean to. He didn’t want to. He was just…

Just what?

There was no simple explanation to why he acted tonight on Storm’s End. He was angry, furious even. But he, a man who is the perfect picture of composure, let his emotions get the worst of him. He was only trying to scare him with Vhagar, a dragon that chose him. He only wanted to show Lucereys how he felt that night on Driftmark when the boy stabbed his eye and left him to whither in his own blood. Vhagar chose him that night on Driftmark, a dragon known for its great size and strength all over the seven kingdoms chose the white haired boy after its rider’s death.

…

He doesn’t return to her, to you. The news of Lucereys must’ve reached you by now, or at least of the feast that Aegon has arranged for tonight.

He should be celebrating, with his brother- the king. But it feel wrong. So, here he is, standing in the corner of the Throne room with a chalice of wine. His mind going a thousand times faster.

Kinslayer.

Kinslayer

Kinslayer.

Kin-

Soft thumbs invaded his hands, plotting a coup and attacking their way into his palms, a finger, then another, weaving through his hand and taking over. His breathing stopped for just a second before he realised it was her, immediately feeling pints of blood shoot to his heart that thrummed erratically through his chest, he could feel the blood seep into his bones, replacing the chill of the rain he had experienced mere hours ago.

You had this effect on him, even after all these years. Of knowing you, through and through. Even the parts of you that are only meant for his eyes, you always managed to quietly make way for yourself in his heart. Not that his heart wasn’t laid out for you in a platter. He’d do it if you asked, rip his heart out and give it to you on a silver platter, it was yours to have ever since his third name day.

He focused back to you, not looking at you but rather feeling the ridges and lines of your palm that was connected to his. The way your thumb traced over his. Your other hand sneaking its way to his arm, up and down, up and down. A steady rhythm that he remembers and tries to match. He took a breath, then another. In and out- up and down. He tensed his feet, held by his leather boots, digging the heel into the concrete ground of the grand hall before your hand squeezed his bicep, once again pulling him back before he could drown in the cold noises of the feast.

He doesn’t say anything, or meet your eyes. Fearing what you might hold in them. Fear? Disappointment? Distaste? Does she see me as a monster now that I’ve hurt one of my own? One of her own?

You don’t. Unknown to him. You don’t know what happened exactly on Storms end, but seeing the way he wanted to be anywhere but here was a clear indication that your husband didn’t mean it. The fear in his eyes was buried deep but you saw it the moment your eyes lay on his tense back and ridged composure.

He never liked Lucereys, but he knows you did. There were only a few people in King’s Landing you truly despised. But oh the Sevens know how much you love those boys. The bastards only have the name Velaryon, yet they don’t carry even an ounce of resemblance to their supposed father. But you didn’t care, you never did.

You loved luceyres like a little brother. Even if you had little time to spend with the Velaryon boy, and Jace and Joeffrey. They were sweet to you. Having looked up to you as an older sister. And you loved them like your own, so when the news of Lucereys passes by you. You don’t think twice before running to find Aemond. He wouldn’t do that to you, right? He knew you love him, and the boys that were like brothers to you.

He never liked them, but he loves you. Gods, he loves you.

They don’t say anything to each other. Not for the rest of night. She keeps a hold of his hand, squeezing it once, pausing, then two and three. A secret language- a code.

I still love you. It dawned on him. Crashed through his chest and broke every bone in its wake.

This fucking war, you curse in your mind. If only Visereys hadn’t died such a death. If only he hadn’t named Aegon as King as his dying wish rather than announcing it at his first name day. If only Rhaenyra wasn’t named heir first.

If only. She knows wishing won’t do her good but the thoughts still linger in her mind like a plague.

She keeps a hold of his hand. Feeling the coldness that he carries, the warmth of her own hand travelling up his arm. Dragons blood in a Tyrell, he’d said once. That’s a rare sight. To which you dismissed as only having warm hands. But your hands had only became warm and dragon like after him. After having to carry his child.

A swollen belly of a princess. You were a sight for sore eyes. But the Gods had blessed you with this child- his child and you nurture them gracefully.

One hand on your belly and the other holding his, you both make your way to your chambers as the feast comes to a close, Aegon, once again, drunkly congratulates his brother for the up tenth time as he exists.

Not a single word has been said between the prince and the princess, yet they both find it more than comforting to not say a word because the heavy tension could be shattered with even a single sound.

As they enter their chamber, Aemond takes a deep- shaky breath. Knees buckling before he composes himself- not wanting to fall on his wife, not wanting to cause further damage.

You notice the way he’s staggering towards the bath. Quickly taking his leather soaked clothes off. He hadn’t changed, you note, it required him to come to the chambers. You walk to his side. Silently, he allows you to undress him, politely gesturing to the servants to bring hot water for his bath. Taking out his night garments for him before standing behind him as he settles into the warm bath.

You’re mothering him, something he’s only experienced with you and not his actual mother.

You quietly ask the servants to leave. Taking the wet rag and washing up the prince yourself. It’s an awkward move sitting on your knees while almost seven moons pregnant, but you don’t mind.

He doesn’t fight it, doesn’t try to meet your eyes. He lets you tear down all his walls and see him naked. Not like you hadn’t seen him naked before. But this- this is a level of vulnerability you haven’t seen in him since Driftmark.

You dress him up, brush his hair and take off his eyepatch and sapphire, noticing that it wasn’t the same one he wore on his way to Storms end.

He kisses her forehead that night, not a single word uttered even then, his lips lingering as he cradles her head. Ever so carefully, like she’s porcelain, breaking at any given moment. He hopes she can’t hear his screaming heart that threatens to burst as he pulls her into his chest.

Feeling the way her breathing becomes more shallow. It pains him to not be able to look at her. To look into her beautiful eyes, look at the bright smile that he wishes she wore. But he knows he can’t.

And you’re the cause of it, his mind screams.

The mother of his child lets her tears escape onto his chest. Silent sobs raking her body and his heart chips and eats him from the inside, not wanting him to see the next sunrise.

But he stays still, he stays because he knows he’s at fault. He stays still when her silent sobs become audible and he closes his eye to let her punch and claw at him- but she doesn’t. Instead she stays too. Her arms like ivy curling around him as he hugs her- squeezes her, once then again.

I’m sorry.

Anddd that is it!! I hope you guys liked it. I am a sucker for soft Aemond and his wife, so what better moment to let him be healthily venerable than this? They’re both a lil fucked up but who isn’t? Let me know what yall think!!

@delusionsofnostalgia ; since you liked the Drabble. This is for u <3

Random tags: @endless-ineffabilities @aemonds-sapphire @firebornfables

[thewordfortheday]

Surely, this is our God; we trusted in Him, and He saved us. This is the Lord, we trusted in Him; let us rejoice and be glad in His salvation.' Isaiah 25:9

The word " trusted" appears twice in this verse. The word trust means, you have faith in Jesus, in your waiting, in your pleading, in your praying. It basically means to rest, trustfully, in God at all times.

Perhaps you are waiting for God to do something in your life. You don't understand why things are not happening in the way you expected it to happen. I want to encourage you, God knows everything and He sees everything. He knows your fear , He knows every anxious thought.

It may not make sense now, but He will cause you to see the salvation of God, the goodness of God, the greatness of God, and the wisdom of God, in ways far greater than you could think or imagine. Don't lose heart. Be of good cheer.

[dinogoofymutated]

SFW!Nightcrawler/GN!Reader - Part 1 - part 2 - Part 3

kdhbcjshbc I know I said I was gonna work on my Wolverine fic rn but I got sidetracked. This was originally going to be one long ass fic but since the first half ended up already over 4k works I decided to split it into two! It's basically a friends to lovers fic and I know the beginning is a bit of a jumpscare but they're both adults by the end of the fic I promise!! Edit: I totally forgot to add!! Another special thanks to @blue-devil-of-the-lord for their help with german translations!

Tws: Mentions of animal cruelty in the circus. The ringleader is an asshole. I might have made Kurt's brother a bit of an asshole too sorry. Kurt's backstory is going to be kinda a combination of all the shit I've read/know so please be patient lol. I'll go back and add more tags if I think of any.

    You were sixteen when you first met Kurt Wagner, although, he went by Kurt Szardos back then. You had never been to the circus before, and you hadn’t really paid to be there anyway. The show had already started when your father had taken you into the tent, sitting you down in an absent seat near the front. You didn’t want to get in trouble, but he had assured you it was fine. He had business to attend to, and told you that his future employer had given his blessing for you to sit and watch as your father handled business. After all, the two of you were a combo deal, and if you were to be working for the circus, you might as well know just what you were getting yourself into.

    The circus tent was loud with laughter and the sounds of an awed crowd. It was a little overwhelming, to be honest. There were simply too many voices, too many lights- and yet when you finally set aside your grievances to try and enjoy the show, you still struggled.

    The monkeys were annoyed with their handler, and every shout towards the crowd was an insult. The lion was young, and still afraid he wouldn’t make the jump through that vicious ring of fire- still healing from the burns he earned by brushing against the flames during the last performance. The doves from the magician act were a bonded pair, rejoicing the time and attention they were being given in the spotlight- and yet the male was already dreading their moments after the show and the dark, dirty cage they would kept in. The female was trying her best to cheer him up. Every animal was unafraid to keep their voice down, and you had never heard animals speak so loudly before. Part of you wonders if it was simply because they were so used to being ignored, they had grown used to letting their voice free- speaking from the heart and yet always being unheard.

    You didn’t like this part of the circus much- and although the tricks these animals did were beautiful and amazing, you couldn’t manage to enjoy it like all the others around you did. You were frowning while all others were smiling and laughing so joyously- perhaps that was what drew him to you in the first place. 

    “And now, Ladies and Gentlemen, may I present-” All but one of the spotlights have started to circle around the tent, the ringmaster standing completely within the only lingering light. “Our Flying Fiend… the Daredevil Demon… The one and only, Nightcrawler!” Every moving spotlight lands on a single man standing on one of the high beams. He’s smiling so brightly that you can see it from where you stand feet below him. He’s… strange. Elf-like ears, yellow eyes, and blue skin. A pointed tail sways eagerly behind him, and he takes a deep bow in front of you. His yellow eyes peer open as he does so, and for a moment, you swear he looks straight at you. You’re not entirely sure if he was wearing a costume or not anymore. 

    The performance starts out with one hell of a beginning. Every flip and jump is an incredible act of athleticism- and you find your eyes following Nightcrawler throughout every trick. Two other acrobats join the fray, and yet he’s the only one who catches your eye. At one point, they bring out these long swings- ones that sweep right above the audience with every swoop. There’s one swing for every side of the audience- and the acrobats switch with a dramatic flare every few swings. 

    On the very last switch, Nightcrawler is the one who swings over your seats. 

    He’s much more handsome up close, you realize, blushing even where you are now. You swear with every swing, he’s looking at you. It makes your heart flutter a bit, and on the very last swing of the night, he takes out a rose, pretending to throw it to multiple groups of screaming fans, before he swings again with a dramatic flair. Unlike the other times, he’s holding onto the swing with his feet and tail. He’s so close to the audience without touching a single hair on anyone's head- and then he gets to you.

    You could have sworn that time had slowed, no matter how quickly it happened. The two of you finally lock eyes, and his hand stretches out. The rose falls into your lap, the air whooshing by your face as he’s gone just as quickly. You pick up the flower, a genuine smile finally on your face, and you find that all the other voices of excitement around you have finally drowned out.

    That was the first and last time you had watched the show at Herr Getmann's Traveling Menagerie. After that, you and your father were behind the scenes instead of in the stands. 

    It had been about a week and a half since you and your father had been walking to the circus to work. He knew every path and every road like the back of his hand, insisting the two of you walk instead of drive to save money on gas, and he just so happened to know a few shortcuts through the woods. Usually, you were able to rely on him to guide you, but today you woke up late. Your father had already left without you- which you’re not entirely sure wasn’t intentional. He did leave a note for you, giving you instructions on how to get there on your own. 

    Needless to say, that didn’t actually work out too well. A thirty to forty-five-minute walk had quickly turned into an hour, and then an hour in a half. You were trying your absolute best to follow the instructions, but this was hardly a cohesive path in the middle of the woods. It wasn’t exactly easy.

    You’re beginning to give up at this point, stumbling through the brush as you try to find the general direction you think you’re supposed to be going. Your feet have started to ache and blister, and you find yourself beginning to lose hope.

    “Hello!” If the sound of the voice hadn’t scared the shit out of you, the strange man hanging upside down from the branches of a wild Crab apple tree certainly did. You shriek in terror, your feet slipping as you fall back on your butt. You hold your hands over your heart as the strange acrobat from the circus jumps down in a panic, holding his even stranger hands out in front of him.

    “Oh- Es tut mir Leid! I am so sorry! I had not meant to startle you!” He says frantically, kneeling down to help you up in a very gentlemanly manner. You’re wide-eyed as you look at him, letting him help you up without a fuss. Up close and in broad daylight like this, it was very clear that he certainly was… Blue, to say the least.

    “I-it’s okay.” You stutter. He smiles warmly at you, tail swaying excitedly behind him, and it simply confirms to you that he wasn’t wearing a costume at all. You open and close your mouth a few times, trying to find some words. He blinks at you as you do so, patiently (if not obliviously) waiting for you to speak.

    “You’re from the circus, aren’t you?” Is what you finally land on, still a little startled from before. The acrobat nods eagerly.

    “I am. I'm happy that you remember me! I’ve been told I leave a bit of an impression.” He jokes, and you find yourself smiling again. He was charming, for someone so strange. “The farrier is your father, right?” He asks, taking you by surprise. You didn’t think that anyone had taken the time to notice you, your father’s shadow in every sense of the word. It makes you feel a little funny, but surely he didn’t remember you from that first performance, right? Maybe he’s just very observant of those who come in and out of the circus stables. 

    “Well, yes.” You affirm, starting to anxiously fiddle with your fingers. “I didn’t really expect you to know who I was, to be honest.” He lets out a happy chuckle at that.

    “Of course, I know! A face like yours is hard to forget.” He chirps, sending you a wink. “But I must say, You’re a bit far from the circus, Meine Freundin.” You make a bit of a grimace at that, and he sends you a questioning smile.

    “Yes, well… To be frankly honest, I’m a bit lost.” You admit, eyes locked solely on the ground, taking the time to notice the various fruits that had fallen from the tree and gone bad. You can see the acrobat’s tail swaying in your peripheral vision, and still feel his eyes on you. It makes you blush a little from embarrassment, a little flustered that you had become so lost.

    “I’ll gladly show you the way, I was just about to go back myself.” Your head snaps up to look at him in bewilderment at that, before you realize just how lucky you are to have found him out here. He picks up a basket of crab apples that you hadn’t noticed before, and you offer to carry it for him as a thanks for guiding you back. He won’t let you no matter how hard you try, certainly the first gentleman you’ve met in quite a while. He tells you that your profuse thanks is more than enough for him.

    The two of you get to talking while you make the long walk back to the circus, and he tells you about his mother, Margali Szardos, and how she had asked him to wander over this way to pick the fruit from the crab apple tree for her. She was fairly adamant about him doing so, telling him that it was of great importance, but he didn’t quite understand why fruit could be such a pressing matter. He’s very funny, and you find yourself greatly enjoying his company. The two of you feel like close friends already, and you hadn’t even realized that you didn’t even know his real name until you’ve already arrived at the plethora of brightly colored circus tents.

    “I’m so sorry, I don’t believe I ever asked for your name.” You say, the awkwardness of the question not even registering with how happy you are to simply be in his company. He sends you another dazzling smile before he holds his hand, offering it for you to shake.

    “I’m Kurt.” He tells you. You introduce yourself as well, happy to have made a new friend today. You hear someone calling your name from not too far away, and spot your father waving his hand at you, calling you over.

    “I have to go, but thank you so much for your help!” You say, once again thanking him adamantly.

    “Walking with you was lovely. I hope to see you more often.” Kurt says, right before you go. You can’t help but blush a little, unable to keep yourself from smiling widely. You couldn’t help it! He was just so handsome in both looks and personality, the strangeness of his skin color and three-fingered hands being something you easily begin to care less and less about.

    “Likewise.” You agree, almost completely flustered. Your father calls for you again, and you quickly say your goodbyes before you rush off to him. You find yourself in a rather good mood for the rest of the day, despite your sore and blistered feet from the long journey here.

    Many months flew by very fast while you and your father worked for the circus, and you and Kurt had grown very close. He visited you when he could sneak away from practice and performances, and although you were more concerned about him staying out of trouble, you began to appreciate the company beyond the way a simple friend would, finding yourself blushing and flustered while around him.

    A fact that hadn’t changed throughout your time there was the treatment of many of the animals. All of them had a grievance or problem of some sort, and it broke your heart to have to stand by without the ability to help them. In the eyes of the circus, you were just the Ferrier’s assistant, nothing more. At first, you were, in the very least. Some of the animal trainers had noticed how good you were with the horses, and how even the most skittish of the equine animals would calm around you and let you handle them without any trouble. Things like that don’t go unnoticed, and soon enough many of the animal handlers had heard about your “gift” with the live attractions. Part of this was due to your Father’s constant bragging about your special skill with animals, although you were the only one who knew the truth about it all. After a while, the frustrated animal trainers began to ask you to assist them with the other animals as well, noting how it hadn’t taken very long before they were at ease around you. The size of cages and the attitudes of the trainers were something you couldn’t change very much, but even if you could only help out with a few things here and there, you were happy- and the animals were too.

    Today, you were doing your best to handle an absolute disaster. 

    Tonight’s animal show was a new set, with lots of loud noises and the pops of fireworks launching far, far above the tops of the tallest tent. With so many new lights and colors, they should have known something was bound to go wrong- and boy, did it. The smallest pony in the show was a stunning Blue Roan mare named Bubbles- and unlike many of the other mares in the show, she was very skittish. Her trainers mostly knew to be careful around her, but that consideration slipped under the radar when it came to all the new changes. Her show went by relatively seamless, with only a few issues here and there- but it was enough to put her on edge. When the fireworks finale went off as she was being led out of the main tent, it was just her last straw.

    I don’t like them. I don’t like the loud noises. Bubbles is pacing anxiously in the back of her tiny stable, still having trouble settling down. Every bump or noise from outside and even the neighboring stables sends her spiraling again. You’re standing at the gate, giving her a cautious amount of room to pace and worry so that she doesn’t feel trapped by you. 

    “I know, Bubbles, It’s okay.” You whisper. You’re so concerned for her, and angry with her trainers, too. It makes your blood boil to remember how one of them had gotten frustrated with her tonight, eventually giving up on settling her completely and thrusting her reins at you, telling you to “take this stupid thing somewhere else!”. The lack of patience and understanding makes you rage, but you know you can’t say a thing if you want to keep this opportunity to work with the animals.

    Please don’t be mad at me. I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m so scared. I’ll do better, I promise. Bubbles says again. The words almost bring tears to your eyes, hurting for her. You hate seeing her so scared.

“Hey, hey. Easy, I’m not mad at you, I promise. You’re safe with me, okay?” You tell her, starting to slowly approach her as her pacing begins to slow. She whinnies once, huffing as she tries her best to calm herself down. Eventually, she begins to settle, letting you get close enough to reassuringly pet her nose and flank. She leans into the comforting touches, finally beginning to relax after being high-strung for so long. The two of you sit in a comfortable silence for a minute, enjoying each other's company as you hear the sounds of the circus begin to dwindle and die.

     I’m sorry for all the trouble. Bubbles apologizes quietly.

    “You haven’t been any trouble, Bubbles, I promise.” You say soothingly. “Do you want to talk for a bit before I go?” She nods her head, and that’s all the answer you need.

    The two of you talk for a long, long while as you take off her tack and brush her down, pampering her as you ready her for bed. You talk about food, trainers, the new horseshoes she’s getting next week- anything at all. Even Kurt comes up in conversation, eventually.

    I like him. She says decisively. He sneaks me leftover apples. You can’t help but giggle at that, already having a hunch that he had been giving the horses treats while no one was looking. Not that you really mind, it was nice to know that they had someone other than you and your father looking out for them.

    “I agree. He’s very nice.” You say, smiling brightly. She noses you in response.

    I think he likes you, too. You instantly blush at her words, shaking your head at her with a flustered smile. You honestly doubted he saw you as much more of a friend, even if the two of you have had somewhat sensitive moments sometimes.

    “I really don't think-”

    “Guten Abend!” You can’t help but shriek at the greeting, knowing just who it was as you whip around in the stable, spotting Kurt leaning against the gate with a cheesy smile.

    “Kurt! You have got to stop scaring me like that!” You scold, throwing the dandy brush at him. He pretends to be wounded, holding a hand over the spot it hit him dramatically as he laughs.

    “I’m sorry. Seems I couldn’t help myself.” Kurt says, and you lightly slap his arm again for good measure when you can reach him, trying and failing to keep yourself from smiling at his antics.

    “You could have startled Bubbles. It took forever for me to get her settled after the show today!” You scold him again, smile not letting up for a second. Kurt smiles a little nervously at that before he looks behind you to see the completely unbothered Bubbles.

    He wouldn’t have- I saw him come in. She says. You wave her off discreetly. That’s not the point, Bubbles! But even without being able to understand her, Kurt seems to get the hint that she wasn’t even a tad bit bothered and jumps the gate with such ease you can’t help but be a little jealous of his athleticism. 

    “Then I’ll apologize to you too, Bubbles.” Kurt cooes, lavishing her forehead and muzzle with pets and kisses that she happily receives. You watch him with a smile, a warm feeling spreading through your chest. You knew you were absolutely gone on him, this little crush of yours having developed into true and deep feelings of affection. But how could you not? Even watching him right now it’s clear to see the kindness and support he gives to every living thing regardless of status or species. That meant more to you than you think he might ever know.

    “How was it out there?” You ask eventually, leaning against the side of the stable.

    “So-so. The crowds have started to react less to our sets. Mother says that we’ll get better reactions if we change the performance a little.” Kurt shrugs, tail tucked tightly around his own waist- something you noticed he did every time he entered the stables so that he wouldn’t startle the horses with the snake-like limb. You frown, eyebrows furrowing at the news. You knew that they had been trying some new things for the animal shows, but the acrobatics had always been so incredible and immaculate. It’s strange to you that anyone would look on at that part of the show with a straight face.

    “And how does Ringmaster Getmann feel about that?” You ask. Bubbles huffs through her nose angrily at his name, and you join Kurt by her side, petting her shoulder. You can see that Kurt is frowning, not responding to your question as his eyes stay squarely on Bubbles. 

    “...Kurt?” You’re really worried for him now, knowing that the look on his face can only mean that nothing good will come of it.

    “It’s nothing for you to worry over.” Kurt responds after a minute. “He wants us to do riskier tricks, but Mother keeps telling him it’s not the best idea. He’s rather adamant about it though.” His voice is soft while he delivers the news, and it makes you wonder how on earth he’s not angry about the blatant disregard for both his and his adoptive siblings’ safety.

     I knew I had a good reason to hate that man! Bubbles speaks angrily as she flicks her tail, Kurt being the only reason she hadn’t bucked or stopped in frustration. Your worry begins to deepen as you think everything over.

    “I- You won’t get hurt, will you?” You ask, worry clearly spilling into your tone. “The animal injuries are already bad enough, but if he starts risking human lives-”

    “I’ll be fine, Schatz.” Kurt cuts you off, stepping away from Bubbles to take your hands in his own. The nickname had a tendency to make your heart flutter, but right now all you could feel was the anxiety of an impending disaster. “Please don’t worry for me.” He tells you, brushing a lock of hair away from your face. You’re breath catches at the act, and when you look at him there's a fond, reassuring look on his face. Still, it did not ease your worries in the slightest. Kurt takes a step closer to you, his hand cupping your face now instead.

    “I can’t help it. I worry because I care.” You whisper. Kurt smiles softly at you, leaning in to rest his forehead against your own. The two of you sit in silence for a minute, reveling in the fond moment. Still, your lips tingled with how close the two of you are, eyes darting down to the shape of his lips as you ran your tongue across your own. Kurt’s pretty eyes don’t let the action go unnoticed. He begins to lean in to close the gap between the two of you, and your eyes flutter closed as he does so.

    “Kurt.” The voice startles the two of you, separating immediately. It’s Stephan, Kurt’s adoptive brother. He’s not only startled you and Kurt, but Bubbles too. She spooks in the tiny stables, rearing up before you immediately turn to her, doing your best to calm her down once again. She’s breathing a little hard, but she’s not pacing again, which was much better than before, although you were certainly peeved to have backtracked already.

   “You know you’re not supposed to linger around the stables after the show,” Stephan says to Kurt, who only frowns. The two had begun to form a rather strained relationship as of late, but neither of you would have expected him to go out of his way to catch Kurt like this. You glance back at them as you finish settling Bubbles, staying silent as the two of them share a look. Kurt’s tail sways a bit, and you can see Stephan roll his eyes at Kurt before he nods his head to the door and begins to leave. Kurt sighs deeply before he turns to you with a remorseful look.

    “I’ll see you soon- promise,” Kurt says, taking your hands in his own and giving them a reassuring squeeze. You’re frowning, unable to help it at this point due to the moment being ruined. Kurt leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead before he leaves, and you smile a bit. He gives you another quiet goodbye before he jumps the gate again, and follows his brother out.

    You're left standing there with Bubbles, and despite Kurt’s promises, you have an uneasy feeling in your chest. You want to blame it on the disappointment of the night, but you can't help but wonder when you'd actually get to see him again.

[bridenore]

HD war setting fic recs : less than 30k words

Here are a few drarry wartime fic recs that are less than 30k words. Posted in alphabetical order, as always.

And I Know the Spark by @firethesound [15k]

All Draco cares about is keeping Potter alive, and he’ll do whatever it takes to make sure that happens.

The Boy Who Died by @magpiefngrl [26k]

Harry dies in the forest. Sixteen years later, he comes back to life.

Coins by Inell [5k]

Coins make a certain jingling sound whenever they are tossed onto the top of a wooden bureau.

Death Comes for Us All by @lumosatnight [5k]

Burying his face in Draco’s hair, he can smell the smoke from the cigarette, can taste the ashes lingering in his mouth. Harry finds it comforting, a reminder that Draco has seen his worst and still chooses to stay.

Dissonance by BummedOutWriter [17k]

Draco met Harry’s eyes directly, and spoke to him for the first time in eleven months, “Avada…” The rest was muffled in trauma as Harry felt a familiar warmth of magic, a flash of emerald light descending rapidly as he squeezed his eyes shut, and braced for— Or: In which Draco becomes a death eater, has a daughter, and tries to forget about her.

The Doll and the Puppet by @heyitsamorette [2k]

Harry is trapped in a cell, but Draco is trapped somewhere far worse.

Eight Days in November by @emmagrant01 [8k]

Harry hides Draco form Death Eaters during the war. A lot can happen in eight days.  (Written pre-Deathly Hallows.)

A Fruit Tree in Winter by bryoneybrynn [29k]

After failing in his task of killing Dumbledore, life doesn’t go as Draco expected. Sometimes just surviving takes everything you’ve got. And sometimes healing is something you can’t do alone. Story goes AU/AR from the end of Half-Blood Prince.

Hands Open by mizBean [5k]

Harry likes to remember.

Home Is Him by flightinflame [2k]

Harry doesn’t regret letting Draco escape, even though he’s alone. The chances they can steal together and the life growing within him are more than he ever thought he would get.

In Plain Sight by @pennygalleon [4k]

Harry doesn’t tire of this. It’s a sense of belonging he’d never even dared to dream of having back when he was living with the Dursleys. So it’s probably too good to be true…

Into the Unknown by @drarrelie [4k]

It’s been echoing within him for months, like an annoying song that gets stuck in your head and refuses to let go. A nagging feeling in his core, telling him to say something, to do something, to go somewhere. Last night it finally happened. He did it. And it felt good; right. “I can’t be sure.” Four words, easy as that. It had been almost impossible to smother the sudden burst of joy rushing through him as that deep-seated urge rejoiced his unexpected act of rebellion. You’d think the Dark Lord’s punishment would’ve taken the exhilaration out of him, but no. Here he is, countless Crucios later, beaten and bruised, and never has the voice sounded this clear. He’s said something. He’s done something. And now he just has to go somewhere. He has no idea where, but he’s certain it will come to him. All he has to do is get out of here, then trust magic to do the rest.

The Longest Night by coffeejunkii [3k]

Draco discovers that waiting doesn’t equal hoping, and that some wishes do come true.

Marbles Lost and Found by Saras_Girl [5k]

All Draco wanted was a cup of tea. Now he has to find out what Potter is doing with all of those purple things.

Never the Same Again by dragon_charmer  / Frances Potter [22k]

The war is over … in fact it never really got started because the Dark Lord proved to be the more powerful. Now five years after Dumbledore’s death, Draco Malfoy has something else to worry about besides being a spy. 

Not That Kind of Lovers by @alpha-exodus [5k]

The only thing Draco knows is that at the end of this, one of them will be dead.

The Precipice Beyond by bsmog [5k]

It was just sex, this thing with Malfoy. Until one day, it wasn’t. The morning after the night before, and the day that follows, which, as it happens, is rather an important one for Harry Potter.

Spinner’s End by SilentAuror [18k]

The war is in full swing when Harry is forced to spend an unexpected stint in Spinner’s End.

Take Me Down (War Is Hell Remix) by mizbean [3k]

Draco is practiced in the art of self-deception. He learned from the best.

Tent Secrets by RurouniHime [2k]

Draco, Harry, and a few minutes to themselves.

The War is Over by valinorean [10k]

The war ended years ago, but some people are still living in it.

Whose Was That Gentle Voice? by @writcraft [1k]

When the Dark Lord turns against the followers he no longer trusts, the Malfoy family are the first in line. Fenrir gets a plaything and Draco waits for Harry to save him.

Without Sound of Bells by scarlet_malfoy [20k]

What would the world be like if Harry and Draco and been friends since the beginning?

You See Through My Disguise by @aibidil [9k]

Bellatrix’s knife flew across the room, but Harry leaped, pushing Dobby and Griphook to safety but stranding himself at Malfoy Manor. Now he and Draco are locked in the cellar with Wormtail’s corpse and a rat, waiting for Voldemort to return and decide their fate.

I hope you enjoy these stories as much as I did!

[shanklin]

For the very sad realitivity falls au

I was thinking it really needed some comfort.

Which got me thinking about Soos, if Soos became like a son figure to Stan, maybe the opposite in realitivity falls?

Maybe Soos becomes like a father figure to Stan (dear lord that poor boy needs it especially with the whole Filbrick situation)

Stan: *sighs* Look I better go, I don’t want to burden you anymore than I already have.

Soos: Nah it’s fine dawg, c’mon, sit down with me. This cool new show is about to come on!

Stan: But, aren’t I selfish for wanting to spend time with you? Wouldn’t you rather do it with Ford?

Soos: Dude, you are being too hard on yourself. I want to spend time with you dawg, because you’re an awesome dude! *ruffles Stan’s hair*

Stan: *trying to hold back tears* I uh-have dust in my eyes.

Soos: There, there dude, let it all out. *hugging Stan*

Stan: *sobbing* I just want to be loved, but I—

Soos: I’ll be here for you

Selfish Shellfish AU - Masterpost

Rejoice, dear Anon! You’re getting out of prison early on good behavior!

Soos becoming a father like figure for Stan broke me. Haven’t stopped thinking about this since. I love it dearly.

This ask also made me realise a couple of things

I have no idea what Soos’ role usually is in Relativity Falls AUs

I don’t care. Don’t tell me. Soos is Soos. Maybe a tiny bit older than in canon. 30ish?

I imagine Stan to be like 15 in this for extra angst. He still hasn’t gotten a proper growth spurt yet and definitely has no drivers licence.

…I forgot what number four was. I was too preoccupied in outlining a fic in my head that I’m totally never gonna write. Don't look at the word count

Okay so, comfort? Sure! Dad!Soos! Perfect! Tonal shift with slight crack components incoming? More likely than you’d think!

Where did we leave off?

Filbricks dead, yaay!

Mabel, Dipper and Ford are currently having multiple breakdowns over how much they failed Stan.

And Stan? Stan’s on the run. He’s a murderer now and certain the police are after him and actually let’s say he’s right about that one. It doesn’t help that Filbrick had friends in the police force or at the very least used to pay them off on the regular.

One moment Stan stands above his fathers unmoving body looking at his hands - he really needs to wash his hands.

The next he's a state over in the middle of nowhere in a stolen car that's running out of gas with no money, no food and only the clothes on his back.

He’d curse himself for not taking supplies with him but what the point? He deserves this. He’s a murderer. A selfish, rotten, evil person. He should turn back and surrender. Get himself locked up and pay for his crimes.

But that would mean he’d have to face Ford and the rest of his family. They would come and judge him. See how bad he really is. He can’t do that. He can’t face them. He’d rather die than face their disgust and disappointment.

And yet somehow. Something in him still wants to live. The selfish part of him that refuses to shut up and let him be. That makes him do awful things and hurt others.

Everyone was right about him. So there is no point anymore in trying to be better. He might as well embrace it. It’s easier than thinking about Pa staring at him with dea-no no no no. That doesn't matter. Nothing matters except his own survival.

His car runs out of gas near the woods. It’s dark and cold and the wind howls in the distance. Stan's fight or flight instinct goes into overdrive. He desperately looks for a weapon to defend himself with. After a couple of minutes of frantic searching he finds a small pocket knife in the glove compartment. This will have to do.

There are headlights in the distance coming ever so slowly closer and Stan grasps the knife tighter.

Go away go away go away, Stan silently begs but the car comes to a halt behind him and a large man steps out.

Stan gulps and tightens his resolve. He's a criminal. A- a- murderer. He’s already done the worst thing imaginable to survive. And he will continue to survive. 

Even if that means he has to hurt and kill others. Stan steels himself and decides to do the unforgivable once more. He will kill this man, take his car and money and only live for himself.

A knock on the window. Stan lowers it, ready to strike. One swift stab in the neck and it will alll be over.

“Sup little dood! Need some help there?”

Stan falls over, he drops the knife and stumbles back shaking.

The man chuckles and picks up the knife. This is it. This is how Stan will die. Killed in the middle of nowhere by a gopher like serial killer. No one will never know what happened to him

“Here you go dude. You lost your knife. You need to be careful with these things. Could’ve accidentally stabbed me or something.”

The man holds out the knife and Stan snatches it up and moves back further, holding it protectively over his chest.

“What- what do you want?”

Stan's voice is hoarse. He hasn't used it in days, he realises. And the last time he did, he was shouting before before-

“Saw your car parked here in the middle of these creepy woods and thought you might need some help.”

"Well, I don't. So f-fuck off.” 

Stan flinches. It never ends well when he gives adults attitude. Shit. Shit, why did he do that?

Luckily the man doesn’t react to his mistake. Maybe he didn’t hear him?

“Aw dude. I’d feel bad leaving you all alone. Is your dad here somewhere?”

The man looks around for Stan's…dad. Stan's throat feels like sandpaper.

“No. He’s gone.” Stan whispers and the man's eyes soften.

“I’m sorry du-”

“Gone to get some gas!” Stan exclaims all of a sudden, shoving all his terror, anxiety and guilt into a dark corner in his mind. He needs to put on an act if he wants to survive.

“He’ll be back soon so you can just. Go.”

“Ah no. That’s alright. I’ll wait with you until your dad comes back. It’ll be great. I’ve got some snacks in my car and we can play I spy. See, I’ll start. I spy something green!”

“A tree?” 

"Woah, Dude! You’re like super good at this.”

Is this guy for real? He’s clearly mocking Stan, only. Not. He seems way too sincere. Stan hates it.

“Well this was fun, but you should really go. Stranger Danger and all that”

The man's eyes widen in shock.

“Totally forgot! Sorry, Dude! I’m Soos.”

He holds out his hand. Stan eyes it suspiciously.

“You’re not going to leave are you?”

“Not until you’re safe. Can’t leave a kid like you out here all alone. Your dad, like, shouldn’t have done that. That’s not cool dude.”

Stan might be stupid, but he's not an idiot. The guy is most definitely gonna turn out to be a creep and/or serial killer. The moment Stan lets his guard down around him he’s done for. He should insist the guy leave or better jump out of the car and run away. As starved and tired as Stan is he’d be no match for a big dude like Soos, even if he uses his small pocket knife, but he could probably outrun him in the woods.

There is no way for Stan to come out of this alive.

Either he will piss the guy off by insisting he leave and get murdered or he runs into the woods, gets lost and dies of exposure far away from civilization. 

His only other option is to wait with the guy and play his stupid games until he realises no one will come for Stan and he’s free to do as much axe murdering as he pleases.

No matter what he does. He’ll end up dead, abused and broken with no one to grieve for him. He’s sick and tired of feeling like this. Helpless. No, he needs to stay strong. Strong and selfish.

Stan takes the outstretched hand and shakes it firmly. Just like Pa taught him to do. The firmer your handshake is, the easier it will be to make a deal in your favor.

“Steve Pinington and actually I don’t think my dad will come back anytime soon. He probably got lost and is waiting for me in the next town over. Would it be okay if I hitch a ride with you?”

It was surprisingly easy to convince the man of his lie. Apparently if you get lost you should always stay exactly where you are until you’re picked up. Stan is pretty sure it doesn’t work like that for adults but he won't look a gift horse in the mouth.

New plan.

Make the creep think Stan is just a helpless, innocent and naive kid

Wait until he falls asleep and slit his throat

Take all his money and leave the country. Or something. Stans will figure it out later. Maybe he could  steal a boat…

The drive is nice. There’s food, water and warmth. It makes his hands tingle. He didn’t notice how cold he was before.

Stan gets forced into playing silly road games and when his answers become slower and he feels his eyes droop Soos turns down the music and puts a blanket around him.

Stan tells himself he's just keeping up the act and will only pretend to fall asleep but is out cold a moment later anyway.

***

He wakes up with a scream and swings fist at the nearest object which happened to be the face of his kind of kidnapper.

A crunch. Blood. A body lying at his feet. His hands. He needs to wash his hands.

“Sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to. I’m sorry-” Stan can’t breathe. There’s blood on his hands. Where is he? He’s sorry.

“Hey, hey, it’s fine dude. I Shouldn’t have woken you like that. It’s just a nosebleed, see?” 

Soos smiles and holds his hands up as the blood drips down his face, over his teeth and onto his shirt. It’s not a pretty sight. Stan looks away.

“You know, one time I tried to see how many hot dogs I could eat at once but I choked and pieces got stuck in my nose. I bled out sausage chunks for like a week straight.”

A weak chuckle escapes Stan's throat. “Eww that’s disgusting.”

Soos clumsily wipes off the blood from his face and holds out some fresh tissues for Stan. He takes them gratefully. It’ll have to do until they find a proper bathroom to clean up.

“I’m really sorry.”

“It’s alright little dude.” Soos replies and ruffles his hair. Stan tenses up but lets it happen. He feels the phantom touch long after it’s gone and it takes all of Stan's self control not to trace it his head. He flashes in embarrassment. It felt…safe.

Oh, the guy really knows what he’s doing. Stan will do the world a favour by killing him.

***

To the surprise of no one Stan’s “lost dad” is nowhere to be found. They spend the whole day exploring every inch of the town and asking people if they’ve seen Stan's dad. Stan makes a game out of it, trying to see just how outrageous he can make the descriptions until people think he’s lying.

Soos never once questions his stories.

Eventually they have to give up their search and get ice cream instead. It's the best day Stan had in years. He feels sick.

***

Soos gets them a motel room and opts to sleep on the floor when it becomes clear that only single bed rooms were available. 

His kidnapper is really bad at this, Stan ponders as he watches the man snore. At this rate he’s going to develop Stockholm syndrome and fall in love with him or something. Stan grimaces in disgust. Yep. That’ll do it. He needs to kill him now and proof once and for all that he can survive on his own.

He sneaks out of bed and quietly leans over the man, knife in hand. There’s drool on Soos' face and his nose looks swollen. Stan did that. He hurt him. And Soos didn’t care. He laughed it off with a silly story and distracted Stan until he could breathe again. 

Soos grunts and Stan flinches. The knife falls out of his hands and onto the carpet, nearly missing Soos’ neck. For a moment Stan's heart stops and when it beats again it's racing. With shaking hands Stan pushes the knife into the farthest corner of the room and curls up next to Soos.

He failed.

***

The next morning he wakes up in bed all wrapped in a warm blanket.

Soos greets him but Stan isn’t listening. 

It's all over. He can’t do it. It makes no sense. Why can’t he do to a stranger what he did to his own father, intentionally or not. He can't remember. It doesn’t matter. It changes nothing.

Stan is stuck. He knows, logically, he could just make up an excuse and escape, but he doesn’t want to. Soos feels - it's not safe. No one is safe. But he feels harmless and he's a good distraction. As long as Stan focuses on Soos won’t have to think about anything else.

“Hey, Soos.”

"Yeah?"

“I don’t think we’ll find my father here. He probably left town already. So, eh, can I just come with you?” Stan fiddles with his hands. They always look wrong. Always a finger short. “It’s to look for my dad of course. I’ll be gone before you know it. I promise I won’t be a bother and I can help out with things! I’m good at following orders and I-”

“Dude! Dude! Say no more. I’ve so gotchu. We’re totally the same. I’m also looking for my dad.”

“What?”

At Stan's befuddled expression Soos picks up the briefcase he's been carrying around and sits now next to Stan.

“You see, my dad left as well when I was little. Littler than you even and I’ve always wanted to meet him, but he never came. All I got were some postcards.”

Soos opens the briefcase and pulls out a card. Stan ignores it in favour of staring at the rest of the content in the case. Holy shit. That's a lot of money. Soos continues undeterred.

“Well, it’s always been my dream to play catch with my dad and I almost gave up on it but then I got this!”

Soos hands Stan a plain looking card.

“Son, 

I’m in a bit of a pickle and I could really use some help. Meet me at this address and bring 50 grand with you. You’re the best, champ.

Love, Dad.”

Stan stares at the card. Then back to Soos. Then back at the card. 

“You know this is a scam, right?” Stan waves the card in front of Soos who, stands up, grabs it and puts it back in without meeting Stan’s eyes.

“Perhaps,” Soos mutters. “But I still gotta try. It’s all I’ve ever wanted. I mean I had my Abulita and she was great, but it wasn’t the same. And now she’s in heaven and I’ve got no one else left besides him. Maybe he needs the money for a fresh start and will come back home with me!”

Soos sniffles and rubs his eyes. “So yeah. Maybe it’s not the smartest thing to do, but I have to try.”

Stan hugs his knees and is quiet for a long moment.

“In my experience, money is the only thing that will make a dad like you, so it might work out after all.”

Stan peeks at Soos but it looks like his attempt at comforting the man failed. He looks even more heartbroken than before. 

***

Despite Stan's failure Soos agrees to take Stan with him and even suggests their dads might be at the same place. Who knows. They could be part of a secret run away dad club and play a very long and drawn out game of hide and seek.

Stan manages to muster up a smile at the suggestion and helps Soos pack their things. Not that they have much to begin with. Most of Soos things are still in the car and Stan suddenly becomes acutely aware that he still only has the clothes on his back with him. He’ll need to find a way to steal some while Soos isn't looking.

They’re about to leave when Soos spots something in the corner of the room and moves to pick it up. It’s the knife.

“Here you go. We almost forgot it. Be careful not to lose it. You never know when it might come in handy!”

“Thanks…”

Stan almost tosses the knife out right then and there, but instead he puts it back into his pocket. Soos is right. He should stay vigilant.

***

The next couple of days pass by like a dream. Most of the time in the car is spent playing silly word games and arguing about music. Apparently Stan has the taste of an old man. Which is ridiculous. He just prefers the classics, which are classics for a reason! They won’t be forgotten in two weeks like Soos top 20 hits.

[When was the last time Stan listened to music just because he can? How come he’s feeling so strongly about it? Music should be just a way to attract customers and nothing else. Certainly not fun. STOP HUMMING BOY]

At some point the car breaks down and Soos has Stan help him with the repairs. He makes a show of opening the hood and explaining what he’s doing. 

It’s awkward and the nervous energy Soos gives off as he keeps checking if Stan is still listening puts him on edge.

He briefly wonders if Soos is trying to place a bomb inside, but then he holds the tools out to Stan and asks him to give it a go.

Confused about the whole thing Stan does as instructed and finds himself grinning as the engine roars back to life.

“Well done!” Soos cheers and holds his palm out into the air. “Up top!”

Stan blicks and lightly taps the hand in a high six, blushing at the praise.

Soos throws an arm around Stan and guides him back into the car.

Maybe this isn’t a dream. Maybe the last three years were just a bad nightmare and he’s actually been travelling with Soos and having the time of his life, while Ford is off studying weird stuff with Grunkle Dipper.

So Stan pretends he’s just on a fun extended road trip with his friend Soos. It’s great! They eat all the junk food they can get their hands on, sing loudly to bad songs, stay up and sleep as long as they want to and visit every bad tourist trap they come across.

Those are Stan's favourites! The attractions are clearly fake and nonsensical but also the best things Stans ever seen!

Some are just a normal object but big while others try a bit harder to keep your attention with fake curiosities and stories.

There even was one Tax Education Center and Fun Park where you learned everything about the history of taxes and how to file them correctly. Or how to avoid them, if you’re like Stan and know how to read between the lines. 

Eventually, Stan managed to piss off another kid hellbent on becoming the most esteemed IRS agent the nation has ever seen. 

The fist fight that ensued will be retold for generations to come! 

Or at least got them both a lifelong ban from the museum. Stan forgot how much fun fighting was when the opponent is not double your size and responsible for your basic needs.

He leaves the kid with a short “See ya!” and starts running as the kid shouts after him in rage.

“I won’t let you get away with this, Steve Pinington! Mark my words! THIS ISN’T OVER!”

Stan is full on belly laughing when he meets up with Soos.

“Made a new friend?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

Stan grins through his split lip. That felt amazing.

***

“Here Soos look!” Stan exclaimes as he shows off his fake abominations that he made out of junk from a nearby trash can.

This tourist trap thing is easy!

He gives Soos the grand tour around the little stand he built on the car and makes up fantastical and true stories of wonder and mystery about the items and tops it all off with the little broken toaster he found. He gave the toaster some cardboard eyes and legs that move with the help of hidden strings and voilà!

The Footbot 9000!

It even talks! Stan’s bad attempt at ventriloquism earns him some snorts and a wonderous “Woah, mommy mommy it speaks!” from the little toddler at the front of the crowd.

Wait. When did that happen? Where did all the people come from?

Stan looks around in alarm and finds Soos farther in the back watching him with glistening eyes. Is Soos crying?

Stan needs to get out of here but there's no good opening and then clapping starts courtesy of Soos.

With no escape in sight Stan takes a bow and thanks his audience.

“How much for the Footbot?” The mother of the toddler asks.

“30 Bucks.”

“10”

“20”

“Deal.”

One firm handshake later and Stan is the proud new owner of a crumpled 20 dollar bill with more to come as more suckers have already shown interest in some of the other junk he put out.

In the back there are people whispering and pointing at Stan. He better hurry up and get out of here before he gets them kicked out of town for selling broken toasters and literal trash.

***

“You know I think I’ll open my own tourist trap in the future” Stan says and takes another bite of his burger. “That was fun.”

“You were amazing! I was totally entranced by your wondrous tales of mystery. You’re like a genius at this, dude!”

A genius? Him? Stan’s not a genius.

Then agaaain. Ford is supposed to be a genius and he wouldn’t be able to put on a show like this.

A giggle escapes him and he kicks his legs under the table.

He can’t wait to tell Sixer and see his dumbfounded expression. Stan the genius. HA! That'll show him for staying home and missing out on the road trip of a lifetime!

***

Stan hands over the money he’s earned as soon as they arrive at the motel. Stan did so well today. He’s still giddy about it.

He found himself a plan for the future, made money AND got praised. The day couldn’t have gone better.

It’s almost a shame he has to go to sleep. But alas. Them's the rules. With a quiet hum under his breath Stan starts to get ready but is stopped by Soos, who is still holding the money.

“What’s up?”

“You don’t need to give me this.” Soos looks pained. 

“I don’t understand. What else am I supposed to do with it? The room has already been paid…”

“No, little dude. You can keep it for yourself. Your company is payment enough.”

Stan shakes his head. This isn’t right. Soos is taking care of things so Soos gets to keep all the money Stan makes. It’s only fair.

“No! You keep it. I don’t want it” 

“It’s fine dude here” Soos takes Stan’s hand and pries it open trying to return the bills. They fumble around and Soos won’t let go forcing it back into Stan’s hands. Stan can’t have the money! It isn’t right. But Soos is stronger than him and refuses to let it go.

“It’s yours. I don’t want it!” Stan repeats, runs to the bathroom and turns on the shower to cancel the noise from the outside.”

Stan needs to pay Soos back for taking care of him. He already wasted so much money on Stan. On food and clothes and sightseeing. Oh. Oh no. Was the money not enough? That's why he didn’t want it, right? It was basically an insult. Here I give you two drops of water back so forgive me for tuning the ocean into a desert and wasting it all on me.

There’s a knock on the bathroom door. Stan flinches with every bang. 

BANG

BANG

BANG

“Just come in!” Stan shouts to make the noise stop.

The shower turns off and in the absence of water pouring down on him he becomes acutely aware of the wet clothes sticking to his body, dragging him down.

Soos wraps him in a towel.

“I’m sorry dude for pushing. I’ll keep the money for now and we’ll talk about it later, okay?”

Stan nods and hopes later never comes. 

Soos gets him a change of clothes, helps him dry up and guides him to bed. Stan lets it all happen. He’s too tired to think and following orders is easier. More familiar. 

Stan falls asleep to a comforting hand stroking his hair.

***

Life is great! Stan decides as he jumps out of bed the next morning with renewed vigor. Yesterday evening was just a bad dream and he’s ready for a bright new day.

Who knew food, sleep and good company was all you needed to be happy?

Soos throws him an odd look before leaving to get them some breakfast.

Stan shrugs it off and turns on the TV. Soos is a weird guy so weird looks aren’t out of the ordinary.

He flips through the channels not looking for something particular. It’s been a while since he last had time to sit down and watch something.

He’s about to give up and do something else when the picture on the news is stopping him dead in his tracks.

It's him. It's Stan. 

15 year old Stanley Pines wanted for questioning in relation to the murder case of Filbrick Pines. The authorities ask the public to be vigilant as he is suspected to be armed and dangerous.

There's even a reward out for tips leading to his whereabouts.

The world around him shatters.

His little game of make belief turns into shards cutting into him and leaving nothing but sharp and cold reality behind.

Just what the hell has Stan been doing?

A fun road trip? Making plans for the future? Is he actually insane?

He fucking killed his dad. Let him bleed to death on the kitchen floor as he just watched in silence.

Exactly like he planned to do to Soos.

There is no future for Stanley Pines. Or Steve Pinington. Or any other name he’s going to come up with in order to trick people into liking him for a short while.

The moment Soos finds out what Stan has done it will all be over. Soos will be just like the rest of his family and see Stan for what he really is. A rotten and selfish child. A murderer. Someone not deserving of the love and care Soos showed him.

Maybe he can trick him into believing it’s some other child on the news. Soos is pretty naive sometimes. He could make it work!

Stan shakes his head. 

No. Stan is done pretending.. Eventually someone.will recognize him and then Soos will be in trouble as well for harbouring a criminal.

Steps in the hallway. No time to think. Stan needs to escape. Now!

He puts on his shoes, grabs the jacket and Soos’ briefcase and sprints out of the door.

If the money goes to waste on a good for nothing criminal anyway it might as well go to Stan instead. Really he's doing Soos a favour.

Someone runs after him but Stan is faster.

“Dude, wait! It’s alright, don’t go. Stan, STANLEY WAIT!

Stan is already out of town before he realises that Soos called him by his real name.

To be continued

This was supposed to be just a quick summary or a couple of bullet points about how Stan and Soos could become family in this AU.

And it was also supposed to be a bit more unserious and ha ha, so what if Stan tried to constantly kill Soos and couldn’t get rid of him. But it turned out quite different and not as bullet pointy as I set out to do.

I’m still a little bit in denial about that. But Stan is in denial for most of this as well. So it fits.

I wanted to completely finish it before posting but that’s gonna take too long and I've got no time. So for now have a sad ending for the sad relativity falls AU.

Don’t worry though. It will have a very sweet happy end. With lots of comfort. Maybe.

But for now let's all imagine Stan once again all alone and on the run :D

[half-of-a-gay]

Armor Between Us

(NSFW kinda... a little smutty, but not super explicit. I'm not great at writing smut, this is my first time. Just a heads up 😘)

Knight!Sevika x princess!reader

When political corruption, forbidden love, and an old enemy threaten the realm, Sevika must navigate her loyalties, her growing feelings for the princess, and the ghosts of her past to protect everything she holds dear.

Masterlist

Chaper 9

The Weight of Duty and Sin

While the kingdom rejoices while the future queen finds solace in the arms of her knight—not in duty, but in devotion.

---

The great hall had been prepared for his arrival—golden banners draped from the towering pillars, the royal crest shining proudly in the candlelight, tables laden with the finest offerings of the kingdom. The court was alight with eager whispers, nobles craning their necks to catch a glimpse of the man who would soon stand as their king.

The princess stood at the head of it all, poised, unreadable, untouchable. The weight of the crown she did not yet wear pressed against her like iron shackles. She had not wanted this. But she had no choice. For a brief moment, she turned, just enough to meet those familiar grey eyes. Sevika, her anchor in a storm she could not escape. But there was nothing either of them could do now.

A hush fell over the hall as the great doors swung open. He stepped inside, and the world seemed to still.

Lord Edric Vale.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, with golden hair that fell just past his collar in waves, his face sculpted into the very image of nobility. He carried himself with a confidence that was neither arrogant nor humble, but something precisely balanced between.

And his eyes—sharp, assessing, knowing—locked onto hers the moment he entered the room.

He smiled.

The court swooned immediately.

The princess held her ground as he approached, his stride even, unhurried, deliberate. He bowed low, one knee nearly touching the ground, and when he rose, he reached for her hand with the practiced grace of a man who had charmed a thousand women before her.

"My lady," he murmured, his voice smooth as silk, brushing his lips lightly over her knuckles. "It is an honor to stand before you again."

The princess did not tremble, did not pull away. She only watched him, unblinking, unreadable. "The honor is mine, my lord," she answered coolly.

The court watched them with rapture. The perfect match. A golden prince and a future queen, standing before them like figures in a fabled painting.

Sevika, standing just behind her, did not move. Did not blink. But her hands curled into fists behind her back.

Over the following days, Lord Edric played his part to perfection. He never pushed. Never overstepped.

Where other noblemen might have seized her waist or whispered sweet nothings with the assumption that they were owed something, Edric only watched her carefully, offering only as much as she would take.

He was polite, intelligent, and charming. He spoke of the kingdom, of its people, of his admiration for her mind, her strength, the stories he had heard of her. He let her speak first, let her dictate the pace of their conversations.

And yet—she hated every second of it.

She hated the way he looked at her like he was studying her, like she was something to be unraveled. She hated the way his voice was always smooth, his words always measured. There was no warmth there. No real care. Just patience. Calculating, endless patience.

And patience was what set him apart from the rest.

The princess, despite herself, felt a strange sense of relief. He was not repulsive, not a brute who would demand things of her. If she had to wed, if she had to submit to this future, at least it was to a man who appeared to be reasonable.

But Edric was not a fool.

He watched everything. Not just her—but the people around her.

He saw how she steeled herself before every meeting with him. He saw how her shoulders only ever relaxed in the presence of one person.

Sevika.

At first, he thought nothing of it. The princess’s knight was fiercely loyal—that much was obvious. She stood closer than she should, watched too carefully, tensed every time he moved near the princess. But he had seen this before. A well-trained hound, protective of its master.

It was nothing overt. Nothing he could name outright. But it was there—a familiarity, a quiet intensity that did not belong in courtly formality. At first, he dismissed it. Perhaps it was just loyalty. Perhaps the princess simply trusted her knight more than others.

But the longer he watched, the more it began to gnaw at him.

Too many glances. Too many silences charged with something unspoken. Too much… closeness. And while he couldn’t yet put his finger on it, Edric was beginning to suspect that Sir Sevika was not merely a guard. She was something else entirely.

Still, he said nothing. He kept playing his part and he kept watching.

And as the palace bustled with preparations for the wedding, and courtiers whispered of blooming affection between princess and suitor, Edric simply smiled—charming, polite, patient—while quietly, his eyes never left the knight and the princess.

And behind closed doors, far from prying eyes, Sevika and the princess were unraveling entirely, while silk was being measured, gold thread stitched into ceremonial gowns and nobles whispered behind fans about the most anticipated royal wedding in decades. But in the center of it all stood the princess—distant, and utterly disinterested. She had not spoken much of the wedding preparations. She let the seamstresses take her measurements and the court advisors drone on, but her eyes often drifted toward the door. Toward Sevika.

Sevika, who lingered just outside the threshold more often these days, half-shadow and half-ghost.

That evening, the princess retreated early to her chambers, exhausted by the weight of everyone else's expectations. The air in her room was still, quiet, and blessedly empty—until a quiet knock broke the silence.

She already knew who it would be.

“Come in,” she said softly.

The heavy door swung open. She had expected a servant there to discuss more plans for the wedding.

But it was the king. Clad in his deep crimson court robes, his golden signet rings catching the candlelight, he walked in with the slow, deliberate gait of someone who came not to speak, but to gloat. The princess didn’t bow. She stood tall, chin high, even as her stomach turned with unease.

“My dear,” he said, voice slick with mock affection, “I thought I’d find you here, brooding in the shadows while the servants string garlands and the kitchens roast for your celebration.”

She said nothing.

He took another step inside, surveying the room, the gown laid carefully across the dressing screen, the bouquet on the table—a quiet reminder of everything that was being taken from her.

“You should be smiling,” he continued smoothly. “After all, you’ve secured such a promising match. Edric is strong, well-bred, admired by the court… and patient, from what I hear.” He turned, eyes narrowing slightly. “A rare virtue, given how difficult you’ve made things.”

The king stepped closer, his gaze cold despite the polite curl of his lips. “You should be grateful, daughter. Some women would kill for such a match. And here you are, sulking like a child denied her favorite toy.”

“I didn’t ask for this match,” she said quietly.

“And yet you’ll have it.” His smile sharpened. “Your duty is not to ask—it is to serve the crown and your people.”

She turned her face away, afraid of what might escape her tongue if she kept looking at him. The king’s voice dropped, the steel beneath the velvet now unmistakable. “Play your part well, daughter. Smile. Obey. Breed heirs. Keep the people entertained with your kindness while Edric handles the rest. That is what queens are for.”

He looked around the room once more, then turned back to the door. “Your groom awaits.”

And then he was gone.

The door clicked shut behind him, and the silence that followed was deafening. The princess didn’t move. Her throat burned, her fists trembling at her sides. She had held her composure, but now the anger clawed at her chest, raw and choking.

She didn’t hear the second set of footsteps until the door opened again—more urgent this time.

“Your Highness,” came the low, familiar voice. Sevika stepped in frantically. “I know I shouldn’t have—” she started, her voice tight with restraint, “Did he hurt you?”

The princess didn’t answer at first. She turned to Sevika slowly, her eyes distant, defeated.  “No. He just said what he always says. That I should smile, open my legs, breed an heir, and pretend it’s a privilege.” The words sat bitter on her tongue, and her voice cracked with the weight of them.

Sevika’s expression twisted—rage simmering beneath the surface. She stepped forward,  reaching up with her gloved hand, cupping the princess’s face. Her thumb brushed along her cheek, as if to smooth away the filth of those words.

“He’s vile,” Sevika muttered, almost growling. “He doesn’t deserve to speak your name, let alone decide your future.”

The princess leaned into her touch, her breathing shallow. Her eyes fluttered shut for a moment. “You truly are the only thing keeping me sane,” she whispered. “I swear, Sevika… without you, I would have lost my mind.”

Sevika swallowed hard, her hand still cradling the side of her face, her fingers slipping slightly into her hair. She was so close now—so impossibly close. The princess tilted her head, eyes finding Sevika’s again. Their lips met without hesitation this time. The kiss was hot, hungry—fueled by the fresh sting of another man daring to claim what Sevika had never truly allowed herself to reach for. The princess melted into her, fingers curling around Sevika’s collar, dragging her closer, chasing more.

“You’re mine,” Sevika murmured before she could stop herself—more breath than words, but the truth was there, stripped bare in her voice. “You’re not his. You never will be.”

Sevika’s other hand found the princess’s waist, gripping hard—possessive, desperate. She kissed her like she was trying to erase Edric’s touch from her skin, to stake a claim she could never say aloud. She kissed her like it was the last time she’d ever get the chance.

The princess moaned softly into her mouth as Sevika pushed her back gently against the nearest wall, her hands wandering now—sliding down her waist, over her hips and lower still.. Her fingers pressed through layers of fabric, not delicate, but needing. The princess gasped, arching into her, fingers tugging at the leather straps of Sevika’s chest plate like she needed to feel more of her, to have something solid under her hands.

Sevika kissed along her jaw, her hand sliding up again to palm the curve of her breast through her gown—rough, reverent, hungry. “He looks at you like you already belong to him,” she muttered against her throat, lips brushing her pulse. “Like he’s already won.”

“He hasn’t,” the princess whispered. “Neither of them will.”

Sevika’s teeth scraped gently against her skin at that, and her grip tightened. She hated herself for how good it felt to hear that—how much she needed it. She kissed her again, like the taste of her was the only way to quiet the riot in her mind. And the princess gave back everything—matching her pace, chasing her breath. Her hands roamed with more confidence now, like she had decided if the world was going to end, she’d go out worshiping the woman she loved.

The princess’s hands tangled themself in Sevika’s hair as if afraid she’d vanish and this had all been a figment of her imagination.

But Sevika didn’t vanish. She sank to her knees instead.

The princess froze, her breath hitching as Sevika looked up at her from where she knelt, her hands reverent on the fabric of her skirts. There was something wild in her eyes—hungry, desperate, but above all, devoted. It wasn’t lust alone—it was worship, adoration and need. “Let me,” Sevika rasped, voice ragged, her hands gripping the fabric tighter. “Please. Let me have you, my darling.”

The princess’s heart stuttered at the name—so soft, on Sevika’s tongue—and she nodded without a word, her hand reaching for her, fingers brushing through her hair again.

Sevika wasted no time. Her hands were steady as they bunched the princess’s gown higher, inch by inch, revealing more of the soft skin she had only ever dared to touch in her dreams. She moved like someone handling something sacred, her breath catching each time another inch of skin was bared.

She didn’t rush.

She leaned in slowly, pressing a kiss just above the princess’s knee—a soft, reverent thing that made the princess’s breath stutter. Then another, higher this time. Sevika’s lips moved in a trail up her inner thigh, slow and deliberate, as though she were memorizing her with every brush of her mouth. Her calloused hands held her gently, thumbs stroking against delicate skin, grounding them both.

Each kiss was a vow—tender, possessive, worshipful.

She tasted her like she was something holy, her lips dragging slowly along every inch of newly exposed flesh, as if she were imprinting her devotion there. The princess’s hands twisted in the sheets, her body trembling beneath the weight of that worship.

When Sevika reached the soft curve where thigh met hip, she paused—looking up at the princess one last time, her breath warm against her skin.

And then she gave in completely.

The princess gasped, as Sevika lowered her mouth onto her—hot, unrelenting, reverent. Her head fell back against the stone wall as pleasure surged through her, unfamiliar and overwhelming. Her hands flew to Sevika’s shoulders, holding on like she might come apart. Sevika worked with relentless focus and worshipful hunger, like she was trying to carve her name into the princess’s body with her mouth alone.

It was all too much. And not nearly enough. She whispered Sevika’s name like a prayer, again and again, until the world blurred at the edges. Her breath came faster now—ragged and shallow, her fingers clenching in the fabric of her dress as Sevika continued her slow, worshipful work. Her thighs trembled, drawn taut around Sevika’s shoulders, the heat building so sharply it was nearly unbearable.

Sevika held her steady, strong hands gripping her hips with just enough pressure to anchor her. Her mouth moved with purpose now, each stroke of her tongue deliberate, coaxing rather than demanding, relentless in its reverence. She worked with aching precision—reading the tremors in the princess’s body, chasing every sigh, every gasp, every shift of her hips like she was following sacred instructions.

The princess’s head tipped back, lips parted, a soft moan escaping her—breathless and broken. Her pulse thundered in her ears, the world blurring at the edges, nothing real except the sensation of Sevika’s mouth between her legs, the cold press of metal from Sevika’s armor against her thighs heightening every brush of tongue and breath.

Her hands flew to Sevika’s hair, fingers tangling there, not to guide but to hold on—to ground herself in something solid as the wave built higher, sharper. She was unraveling beneath her knight’s touch, every nerve pulled taut with an aching need.

Sevika had found that perfect rhythm to make the princess shatter. Her breath caught, body arching, a cry escaping her lips—raw, helpless. Her thighs clenched, trembling around Sevika’s head, her hands tightening in her hair as pleasure surged through her, sharp and molten and all-consuming. She rode the wave with a desperate gasp, her body pulsing in Sevika’s hands, in her mouth, every thought drowned in the white-hot bloom of release.

She didn’t come down gently. She sank into it, trembling and breathless, every inch of her boneless with satisfaction. Sevika held her through the aftershocks—gentle now, kissing her through the slow ebb of sensation, the soft press of her lips a balm to the fire she had kindled.

When the princess’s body finally stilled, Sevika eased back, her breath unsteady, her lips still tinged with her devotion. Their eyes met—something silent passing between them in that moment.

Then Sevika leaned up, kissed the inside of her mound once more tenderly, before finally standing up. Carefully, she helped the princess out of the heavy layers of her gown, trailing kisses along her collarbone and shoulder. She gathered her into her arms and carried her to the bed like something fragile and precious. She laid her down gently, pressing one last kiss to her forehead.

“My little Swallow,” she murmured, her voice rough with emotion, “what have you done to me?”

The princess barely stirred—eyes half-lidded, a dazed, blissful smile on her lips.

Sevika stood, her movements reluctant. “Sleep,” Sevika said softly, voice low and thick. “I’ll be just outside.”

Before slipping out the door to take up her post, she paused at the threshold, stealing one last glance at the woman sleeping soundly in the golden spill of candlelight.

She would guard her always. Even if she could never truly have her.

—

The next morning, as she slowly roused from sleep, she lay still for a moment—wrapped in warmth and in memory. The space beside her was empty, as she had known it would be. But her body still tingled with the ghost of Sevika’s hands, her lips, the feeling of her between her thighs, the heat of her mouth and the cool press of armor against her skin. She turned onto her side, burying her face into the pillow with a breathless sound—half sigh, half muffled laughter. A foolish little smile pulled at her lips. Her cheeks were warm with remembered pleasure, her body still humming with it. She pressed her legs together, savoring the slow ache that bloomed between them.

It had been real. Every kiss. Every moan. Every whispered word against her skin.

She curled a little tighter into herself, as if trying to keep the memory close, to press it deeper into her bones. Gods, she hadn’t known it could feel like that—with Sevika, everything had felt like worship, like surrender, like something just shy of holy.

Her hand slipped beneath her pillow, searching. Her fingers closed around smooth wood.

She pulled it out slowly, the carved swallow warm from where it had slept beside her. She rolled it in her palm, smiling as her thumb traced the shape of its wings, the delicate lines of its tiny body. Sevika’s handiwork—rough, imperfect, beloved. She clutched it to her chest, exhaling softly. For one beautiful moment, she let herself believe it was hers to keep. That Sevika was hers to keep.

But then her gaze shifted—to the far side of the room, where her wedding gown had been laid out across the chaise. Ivory silk and heavy brocade, laced with gold thread and pearl beading. The weight of a kingdom stitched into its seams. The dress looked more like a shroud than anything else.

The warmth in her chest curdled.

She looked down at the swallow in her hand, suddenly trembling. It felt fragile now—too fragile to protect her from what waited just beyond these doors.

Her fingers curled tighter around it. She would carry it with her. Hidden in the folds of her dress or clutched tightly in her hand, somewhere no one could take it from her.

A reminder.

Of who she was before this day. Of who she still was beneath the crown they would force onto her head.

There was a knock at the chamber doors.

“Your Highness,” came a muffled voice, one of her ladies-in-waiting. “Preparations have begun. The dressers are waiting.”

She stared at the door for a long, heavy moment. Then she stood. It was time.

—

It was the wedding day and the palace buzzed like a hive. A celebration and Sevika could feel the weight of it crushing her from the inside out. She had stood guard in silence for years—unseen, unnoticed. But never had it felt so suffocating. She stood near the great stairwell, just close enough to hear the tolling of preparations from the ballroom, far enough to be forgotten. Her armor was polished to a shine, her sword belted at her hip, her posture perfect. Just another guard on duty.

But inside, she was unraveling.

Her throat ached with words she could not speak. Every step someone took toward the chapel was a drumbeat counting down the final moments before Sevika lost her for good.

She thought of last night—the way the princess had tasted, the way she’d gasped against her mouth, how she'd clung to her like she was the only thing in the world anchoring her to it. And now, she would be married to someone else before the day’s light faded.

She didn’t regret what they had done—gods, she couldn’t. But it made everything worse. It made the ache sharper, the jealousy colder, the guilt heavier. She had touched something she could never truly keep, and now it was being handed to someone else.

Lord Edric.

Sevika’s stomach turned at the name.

Polished, charming, clever. The perfect suitor. The perfect husband.

He had played his part well—Sevika would give him that. He had gained the court’s favor, spoken of duty and legacy as though he gave a damn about either. But Sevika had seen the gleam in his eyes when he looked at the princess. Not reverence, not love. It was possession.

And still—still—he would win. Because Sevika had nothing to offer her but devotion whispered in the dark and the calluses of war-worn hands.

She shifted her weight, rolling her shoulders under the tension locked there. Her gaze turned toward the far corridor—the one that led to the princess’s chambers.

Was she dressed by now? Was she looking in the mirror, forced into silk and pearls, thinking of Sevika’s mouth on her skin the night before?

Or was the world already pulling her away?

Sevika couldn’t breathe. She wanted to run to her. To fall at her feet and tell her to stop this, to run away, to damn the throne and every cursed tradition that came with it.

But she didn’t. She stayed where she was.

Because this wasn’t a story where the knight got the princess. It never was. Not for someone like her. Not when the entire kingdom stood watching.

And still—

Her heart beat only for her. Even now as the bells began to ring.

The deep, echoing toll vibrated through the stone walls of the palace, a call that summoned every noble tongue and titled head to the grand chapel. The doors were thrown open, and the scent of lilies and incense wafted through the air like smoke from a pyre.

The princess stood in the antechamber, just behind the heavy chapel doors, flanked by handmaidens in pale satin and attendants adjusting the long, ornate train of her gown. The silk shimmered with every breath she took. Gold embroidery curled like ivy along the hem and bodice, stitched in the likeness of the royal crest. Her hair was woven with delicate pearls, twisted into a crown of delicate white flowers. But she barely felt any of it. Her hands, hidden beneath the folds of the gown’s wide sleeves, were clenched around the small wooden swallow. Rough wood, worn smooth at the wings from how often she had held it. Sevika’s carving—her gift. Her promise.

Now, as the music began, as the doors opened and a thousand eyes turned toward her—she held onto it like a lifeline. She didn’t look at the guests. She looked only ahead, past the gilded archway at the end of the aisle, past the towering altar draped in banners.

She looked for her.

Sevika stood at the side of the chapel, clad in her polished armor, stationed precisely where the king had placed her—close enough to be seen, far enough to keep her in her place. She stood rigid, but her eyes found the princess the moment the doors opened.

And the princess saw it—that flicker of something, just beneath the surface. Pain. Admiration. Longing.

The princess took her first step forward. Every movement of her feet down the aisle felt heavier than the last. Like her body knew it was walking toward something final. Something that would take everything from her and call it duty.

She gripped the wooden swallow tighter. Its edges bit into her palm, grounding her.

She didn’t look at Edric. She didn’t want to see the satisfaction on his face, the polished smile he wore so easily now that the crown was nearly in reach. She didn’t want to see the man who would soon have the right to touch her, to claim her, to stand beside her in public while Sevika was forced to stand in the shadows.

No.

Her eyes stayed on Sevika.

And Sevika’s stayed on her.

The moment stretched unbearably as she approached the altar, her hand trembling slightly beneath the weight of her gown and the hidden token she refused to part with. She held the carved swallow even as she took her place beside Edric. She kept it in her fingers even as the priest began to speak.

Even as vows were exchanged, and golden rings brought forward on velvet cushions.

She didn’t let go.

And when she said “I do,” her voice rang clear not for Edric, not for the crown—but for the woman watching her from the shadows.

The woman she loved. The woman who carved her birds from wood and kissed her like she was something holy.

The ceremony ended in cheers and applause, petals thrown like blessings, the throne’s future secured. The kingdom rejoiced.

And the princess smiled through her tears, as she was expected to. But beneath her silk sleeves, her fingers still curled around the wooden bird. She held it like a promise she refused to let the world take from her.

—

After the wedding, the feast had stretched late into the night. The laughter still echoed in the grand halls. 

But the princess could barely breathe.

She sat alone in her chambers now, the last of her attendants dismissed, her wedding gown exchanged for a lighter nightdress, her hair loosed and falling in gentle waves. And still, she felt trapped. 

Her heart thundered in her chest.

Any moment now, she expected the door to open. For Edric to arrive or to summon her to him. To claim what was now “his,” as if her body had become part of his dowry. 

Her palms were sweating. Her throat tight.

She couldn't do it. She didn’t want his hands on her. She didn’t want his lips. She didn’t want to pretend. Her body didn’t belong to him—it never had.

Without thinking, she rose, slipping her feet into soft shoes and wrapping herself in a cloak. Every movement was quick, quiet, instinctual.

She had no destination in mind at first. Only the unbearable urge to escape. But her feet knew where to take her. Down the servants’ stairwell, through the quiet stone corridors of the east wing, past the flickering torches. Until she reached the place she had no right to be—the wing where the guards and knights resided.

It was a miracle she remained unseen. It had seemed Sevika was the only other person in the castle not occupied by the wedding feast.

Her heart was pounding by the time she reached Sevika’s door. Her hand trembled as she raised it. She knocked.

Then, the door opened.

Sevika stood there, eyes shadowed with surprise and concern. She was in a linen shirt and loose trousers, half-dressed for rest, her armor nowhere in sight. Her hair was down for once, slightly tousled from the day’s duties.

The princess’s voice cracked. “I couldn’t stay there.”

Sevika’s brows drew together. “Did he—?”

“No,” she interrupted softly. “Not yet. But he will. I just… I couldn’t. I didn’t want him to touch me.”

Sevika’s shoulders dropped slightly, her jaw tense, her body already moving aside to let her in. The door clicked shut behind her. Sevika pulled her into her embrace instantly, holding her close, steadying her trembling form. Her hands curled around the princess’s waist, one rising instinctively to cradle the back of her head. She said nothing, just anchored her there, letting the princess press her face into her chest.

“I couldn’t stay,” the princess whispered after a long moment. “I couldn’t bear it.”

“I know,” Sevika murmured, her voice low, rough with tenderness. “I know.”

The princess didn’t need to say anything about the marriage, or of what the court would expect of her tonight.

What mattered had already passed between them the night before—quiet and sacred.Not just the claiming of a body, but something far deeper. Her choice. Her trust. Her heart. That truth lingered between them like a secret vow.

“I just needed you,” she said quietly, lifting her face to meet Sevika’s gaze. “Only you.”

Sevika exhaled shakily, her forehead resting briefly against hers. “You have me.”

Sevika cupped her face in her hands, their lips meeting softly at first—a slow, searching kiss that carried none of the heat from the night before, but something deeper. Something sweeter. Something sure. Sevika’s thumbs brushed just beneath her eyes, grounding them both. And the princess melted into her. 

Her hands moved instinctively, gliding over Sevika’s broad shoulders. She'd touched her before but not like this. Never with Sevika so bare to her, without layers of steel and duty between them.

The fabric beneath her palms was soft, worn thin in places, and it clung to the muscle beneath it. Her fingers traced the curve of her shoulders, the heat of her skin seeping through the shirt. She wanted more.

Her hands slipped lower, tentative at first, memorizing the shape of her, the way her chest rose and fell beneath her fingers. The kiss deepened, slow and molten, and the princess felt Sevika’s breath catch when her fingertips brushed over her sensitive brests.

She moved without thinking, hands dipping beneath the hem of the shirt, seeking more. But the fabric was in the way, keeping her from her goal. Frustrated by the barrier, her hands fumbled at the laces blindly between kisses, tugging them loose with a quiet urgency.

Sevika broke the kiss to help her, chuckling low in her throat as the princess grew impatient. “Easy, little bird,” she murmured, her voice warm and hoarse.

“I want you,” the princess breathed, her fingers still working. “Now.”

Sevika let her take the shirt, lifting her arms slightly so the fabric could be pulled over her head and tossed aside. And then she stood before her—bare from the waist up, the firelight painting golden shadows across skin and scars.

The princess stared, breath caught in her throat.

This was the first time she had truly seen Sevika. Her gaze swept across her full chest, her shoulders, the scattered marks and faded wounds carved by years of battle. She noticed the way one arm held far more muscle than the other, how the injured side was leaner, the muscle faded from disuse and pain. But she didn’t see weakness. She saw survival. She saw the story etched into her skin—the price of devotion, the burden of loyalty, the life Sevika had lived in service to everyone but herself.

Her fingers reached forward, slow and reverent, brushing over a long scar across Sevika’s ribs. Then another, near her collarbone. She traced the difference between both arms with gentle care, her lips parting like she wanted to speak but couldn’t find the words.

“You’re beautiful,” she said softly instead.

Sevika flinched, almost imperceptibly. Her eyes dropped, jaw tight. “Don’t say that,” she murmured. “Not when you’re looking at this.”

The princess leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to the center of Sevika’s chest—just over her heart. She tilted her head back up, looking into her gray eyes “Especially when I’m looking at this.”

Sevika swallowed hard.

“You carry every mark with dignity,” the princess said. “You’ve never hidden them from me. Don’t start now. Let me see all of you, Sevika.”

And then she leaned in again, lips brushing over the curve of her shoulder, then lower, kissing a faded scar with reverence. A trail of affection and acceptance. She didn’t shy away from the asymmetry, didn’t flinch at the worn muscle or the jagged lines. If anything, she loved her more for it.

Sevika closed her eyes, breath trembling. She let out a slow breath, as if trying to steady herself, but each time the princess kissed her—slow and sure, lips brushing softly against her jaw, her neck—she crumbled just a little more.

The princess pressed close, her hands still resting on Sevika’s bare waist, her thumbs brushing slow, lazy circles into her skin. She kissed her way down the column of Sevika’s throat, pausing to feel the way her pulse quickened beneath her lips. Sevika’s hands flexed at her sides, uncertain, overwhelmed. But she didn’t pull away.

When the princess reached her chest, she paused, looking up. Her eyes met Sevika’s—dark and stormy, vulnerable in a way they rarely were.

Sevika nodded, as if reading the princess's question from her mind.

The princess dipped her head again, kissing slowly across the curve of her breast, her mouth gentle, reverent. Her hands followed, gliding along the taut lines of Sevika’s torso, her ribs, the subtle curve of her waist. She took her time—worshiping with lips and touch, savoring every reaction Sevika gave her. Every hitch of breath. Every tremble of muscle. 

Her lips trailed lower, her hands sliding to cup the back of Sevika’s thighs and pull her trousers down to let her step out of them. She pressed a kiss just below her navel, and Sevika let out a quiet, shaky sound—a sound that made the princess's heart tighten with want. The princess wanted Sevika to feel how deeply she was wanted. Not in spite of her scars. Because of them. Because every mark told the story of how fiercely she had lived, how fiercely she had protected—and now, how fiercely she was loved.

The princess kissed her way back up slowly, trailing her mouth along the knight’s side, her ribs, her collarbone, before reaching her mouth again. When she finally pushed Sevika back into the bed, easing her down with a tenderness that made her heart ache, she climbed over her, straddling her hips and taking in the sight of her—flushed, breathless, bare.

It was the first time Sevika had ever looked so undone beneath her.

Sevika’s breath was trembling now, her head tipped back, fingers buried in the sheets behind her for something to hold onto. 

Their lips met once more, deeper now. The princess’s hands roam freely over Sevika’s body, exploring every inch with reverence and growing hunger. She shifted, letting her thigh press between Sevika’s legs, drawing a sharp gasp from the older woman. Sevika clutched at her waist, trembling.

“You’re shaking,” the princess whispered between kisses.

“You’re cruel,” Sevika rasped back, her voice low, thick with emotion and arousal.

The princess only smiled—bold and wicked and adoring all at once. And she kissed her—again and again, until Sevika was gasping her name against her lips, until every inch of her skin felt claimed and cherished.

Sevika had never felt so bare. Never felt so wanted. Not like this. 

They moved together slowly at first, a rhythm of reverence and aching tenderness.. The princess guided Sevika down with her, their bodies pressed close beneath the dim light, warm skin against skin.

The princess shifted, rising slightly to tug the nightgown over her head. She bared herself without hesitation, like offering a gift meant only for Sevika to see.

Sevika stared for a heartbeat, breath caught in her throat, as if the sight had undone something deep inside her. Her hands trembled slightly as they reached for the princess, tracing the slope of her collarbone, the softness of her curves, the steady rise and fall of her breath.

“You’re beautiful,” she murmured hoarsely, almost reverent.

Their mouths met again, hungrier this time, lips parting with gasps and sighs. The princess moved against her, slow at first, letting her body find Sevika’s. The warmth of her pressed down, and Sevika’s hands found her hips instinctively, gripping her tight as she guided their rhythm—rocking, grinding, rolling together in a breathless wave of tension and want.

Their bodies found a rhythm, hips moving in tandem, breath tangling in the small space between their mouths. The princess whimpered softly, her forehead pressed to Sevika’s, her nails dragging down her back, needing more, needing all of her. Sevika groaned low and deep, hands trailing the princess’s waist, fingers splayed wide against her skin.

The friction built with each movement—slow, steady, devastating. Sevika’s composure unraveled thread by thread, until there was nothing left but the feel of the princess’s body rocking against hers, the wet heat of her pressed close, the overwhelming pleasure winding tighter and tighter in her core.

Their bodies slid and tangled, slick with sweat and need, the princess riding the edge of her own pleasure. Their moans grew softer, breathier—Sevika’s hands splayed at her hips, guiding her as she moved, as their mouths met in frantic kisses and the world narrowed to the ache between them.

And when it finally crashed through her like a storm Sevika’s back arched, her breath caught in her throat, her fingers digging into the princess’s skin as her release hit. The princess followed her over the edge, trembling and gasping in Sevika’s arms, her lips parted in a quiet cry, her whole body clinging to her like she was the only solid thing in the world.

They stayed like that, chests rising and falling in ragged unison, foreheads pressed together, lips brushing gently in the afterglow.

Sevika reached up, brushing damp hair from the princess’s cheek, her voice barely audible. “You ruin me,” she whispered.

The princess only smiled, eyes soft and heavy-lidded with affection. “Good,” she breathed, kissing her again—slow and lingering.

For a long time, they simply lay like that—quiet, hearts still racing, libs tangled together beneath the soft flicker of candlelight.

The princess reached toward the nightstand absentmindedly, intending to grab the water pitcher—and paused.

Her hand froze mid-reach.

Because there, neatly folded and placed within reach, was the handkerchief. The one she’d given Sevika all those months ago.

Her heart clenched. “You still have this?”

Sevika turned her head, the tips of her ears flushed. “Of course I do.”

The princess lifted it gently, running her fingers across the stitching. “You left it out.”

Sevika hesitated. “I… was thinking of you. Of you and him. I couldn’t stand it.”

The princess looked down at her, a soft smile curving her lips. “Do you… hold it? When you think of me?”

Sevika looked away, flustered. “Sometimes.”

The princess's heart melted. She leaned down, kissed her shoulder, and whispered, “I do the same with the swallow.”

Sevika looked back at her, startled.

“I kept it with me,” the princess murmured. “I held it when I walked down the aisle. … Because it was you I wanted,” the princess said softly, cupping her face again. “It’s always been you.”

Sevika closed her eyes, holding her tighter. The candlelight flickered gently in the silence between them.

And for a moment, despite the crown she wore and the vows she’d been forced to make—she was free.

--------------------------------------------------------------

Taglist: @imheadintothemountains @meow8119273 @theflyingforklift @Boom58 @kittyk-14 @theuclid @lovesickdreamer @thesevi0lentsdelights @furrytaesss @Jiungmcvv @clydethesnake

[gotranting]

Currently replaying the Stark theme in the "All Must Choose" song from the finale and a short story appeared:

Imagine Y/N going with the Greybeards without saying anything to Cregan. She rides towards the march, joining them only after they were far enough from Winterfell - as the soldiers already knew the girl and her skill, they welcomed another pair of arms in the fight to come.

"Does he know?"

The commander asks as he steers her to the side, glad to see the girl he trained here with them.

"No, but he will soon enough."

"...We are marching to death lass. Not much of a chance of us returning."

She turns to look upon The North once more.

"Aye...I know."

Cregan found out when he came knocking at her door in the village. There was no answer, no smell of strange herbs, no mischievous smile he so loved to see. The door creaks open, freezing air being the only thing to greet him. The fire has been put out, and all the windows are sealed shut. It all leaves a foreboding feeling in him, as he begins to realize what she has done.

His thoughts become a reality when he notices a hastily scribbled note on the table.

"I love you" are the only words left on it.

Cregan's eyes become stormier each time they fall on her handwriting. He wanted her to say it for so long, but not like this.

The paper crumbles in his fist as he rushes to his steed, trying to follow any tracks in the snow. Knowing well it is far too late.

Her horse is the only one he finds near the river that leads further South.

Going after her means leaving his own people to die in the Winter. He cannot abandon them. And she would not turn back, no matter what he did.

She went to fight for him. For the North. For the Blacks. To aid her kinsmen, even if she dies trying.

His hand trembles as he brings the note to his lips, his gaze torn between South and The North.

May the Old Gods protect them.

Let her fight and win.

Let her come back to him alive.

Does he call her foolish upon her return, kissing every part of her bloodied face - refusing to let this stubborn, magnificent woman out of his arms. Do tears fall freely, as they murmur "I love you" to each other? Do the smallfolk rejoice for their Lord and future Lady of Winterfell, when they see how much care the young pair clearly holds for one another? And do they rush to wed under the Weirwood, not wanting to keep apart any longer? Cregan whispers to her that from now on, they fight together. For there are many battles to come. Ones they will face side by side.

2. Or does he hold on to her note, barely keeping himself standing for the sake of his own people, as the funeral pyres burn one by one. He tells her still - how much he loves her. His brave girl. He calls her foolish nevertheless. Only, Cregan wishes that she would reply. He crumbles down in the solitude of his own chambers. The note never leaves his side after that day. Rickon is his heir, he needs no more children. Not if they aren't hers as well. He wishes for no other wife, for the one he wanted is with the Old Gods now. He can still hear her in the wind, or when the ravens fly over him. Protecting them, as she always did. A thought that might bring him comfort one day. Now, he wishes that she were standing here with him.

[kyoukamybeloved]

Chuuya looked at his face, then broke out into laughter. “You really are the worst. Don't let your plan fail and kill us both or I'll kill you, Dazai.” Dazai laughed as well. “Sounds good. Let's go, Chuuya.”

soukoku webweaves: 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8

creds:

normal people - Sally Rooney// I know the end - Phoebe Bridgers// Part II - Paramore// the song of Achilles - Madeline Miller// art by @taxolotl// bloodsport - Yves Olade// please stay - Lucy Dacus// the night we met - lord huron// unicorn - Angela Carter// art by @thornedarrow// I set it in stone - Venetta Octavia// panel from bsd: beast drawn by Sango Harukawa// He Held Radical Light: the Art of Faith, the Faith of Art - Christian Wiman// eat your young - Hozier// never love an anchor - the crane wives// spring, the apple trees at olema - Robert Hass// the notebook// art by @taxolotl// Joan Tierney// snow and dirty rain - Richard Siken// house of hunger - Alexis Henderson// the moon will sing - the crane wives// waiting room - Phoebe Bridgers// I had a dream about you - Richard Siken// art by @marrewis// phlebotomy, as told by the blood - Torrin A. Greathouse// art by @twilicidity// Cassandra - Christa Wolf// rejoice - Julien Baker// take me to church - Hozier// the encounter - Louise Gluck// art by @yomeiu// a garden, swallower - Lyric Hunter// alone with you in the ether - Olivie Blake// allies or enemies - the crane wives// like real people - Hozier// strawberry moon - Franny Choi// official bsd art by Sango Harukawa// until is started choking on our memories - Tina Tran// art from @/mizumoe_ on twitter// Pavana Reddy// art by @carrotkicks // Friedrich Nietzsche, from a letter to Mathilde Trampedach// cosmic hero - car seat headrest// born to die - Lana del Rey// Giovanni’s Room - James Baldwin//

consider this your halloween treat ;)

tagging lovers of this series (thank you sm for all your love) :

@philzokman @dinosaur-mayonnaise @amagami-hime @vivid-vices @bunglegaydogs @vinylbiohazard @underthetree845 @ghostsinacoat @lotus-reblogs @zamxii @themultifandomdisaster @whiteapplesandblackblood @i-eat-mold @gorotic @sigskk @pastel-paramour @the-gayest-sky-kid @galaxitic @shroombunnies @homuncvlus @sommmee @oatmilkbasic @ricelover888 @jacuzziwaters @thesunshinebard @evermorehypewoman

[janus-cadet]

Who's hyped for the 60th anniversary? I am. So, have another doctor-who-themed-tarot-card : the 10th Doctor (and the 14th, now, I guess!) as The Tower.

Can't say I'm super proud of that one, but eh. I tried. Now, why did I choose this card? Great question, imaginary person. Let me answer that below this lovely cut.

I love to use cards about change to illustrate the Doctor- and nothing spells more *change* than the Tower. When this card appears upright, you must expect the unexpected- a massive change that you will not be able to escape. For example, he will knock four times, and there is no changing that. You can stare sadly in the rain all you like, pull your best puppy dog eyes, the result will be the same. Change is here to tear things up, create chaos and destroy everything in its path- weither it would be in the form of an entire planet, a victorious Time Lord or a old, innocent ToyMaker, that is to be decided. This change will hit you when you'll feel safe and comfortable, a fire if clarity and insight, cuting through the lies you have been telling yourself- no, the laws of time are not yours, my dear, and no, you can't help everyone. This change is scary by essence, even if it proves itself necessary ; and Ten, more than the other, is the most reticent to it. Even if after the Tower experience, you are to learn from it, and hopefully grow stronger and wiser.

Reversed, the card suggests that you are undergoing a signifiant personal transformation. Yes, consultant, you are about to regenerate. Rejoice. Perhaps you'll be lucky enough to be ginger. You may be going through a existentiel crisis, because yes, you're probably the last of your species. At least, when your ex is not popping around, which is always such a surprise for you. YOU are the one creating the change, so you can step into a new and evolved version of yourself, even if this version is not blessed with the existence of eyebrows. You can also be trying to resist the change, Mister I-Don't-Wanna-Go, and delaying the necessary destruction. Yes, it's not fair. But it has to happen. Just know that if you continue to resist this change, it will force its way into your life even more.

So yeah. 10th Doctor, as The Tower. I have to admit- I like the french name better, for this one. It's called La Maison-Dieu, or The God-House. Fitting, for such a character, with his burning Tardis.

Only need to find one for 9th, 11th and 12th, now. Perhaps I'll also do the classics, I don't know.

And that's it for today! Hope you liked it. I sure did. As a last treat, here are all of the Doctor Who cards so far ! Funny how the three Masters were my first, and now, the 10th Doctor is my 30th.

[bigidiotenergytm]

After what to Odysseus felt like an entire year of walking, the two finally made it to their destination. A spacious, oval room come into view. In its center sat a large throne - Poseidon's.

The god walked over to his seat wordlessly. Just like the rest of the palace, the throne was painted in the various shades of blue coupled with white details. A multitude of gems and seashells, as well as intricate reliefs in the patterns of waves served as decoration.

A couple of steps behind the throne stood a wide, circular, golden, dish proped up on an equally ornate column. Blood-red wine shimmered temptingly from within it, making the starving captain's mouth water.

Without uttering a word, the god sat down on his thrown. His chin rested on the palm of his hand as a long, tired sigh escaped his lips, indicating that he was exhausted.

"I tire of you mortals. Always causing me trouble..."

He complained, although Odysseus could tell Poseidon's words weren't addressed to him directly. The god kept his gaze fixated on the ground as he rubbed his temples, venting his frustrations all the while.

Then, his eyes suddenly looked up and met the former king's. Lazily, he pointed at the bowl of wine behind him.

"Go make yourself useful and bring me some wine to drink."

Although the mortal didn't want to obey, he knew he had no other choice. Hesitantely, he picked up a golden chalice that sat by the bowl and began filling it with the scarlet liquid. Once he was done, he brought the goblet over to his captor, careful not to spill its precious contents.

The lord of waters took the golden cup from his servant's hands and took a refreshing sip. Impressed by its quality, he decided to later thank Dionysus for the delicious gift.

"Good. Now, see that plate that lies over there? Bring it to me and hurry."

Odysseus did as he was instructed. He returned bearing a plate full of strange, yet exquisite-looking fruit and meats. He could hear his stomach growling just looking at the food and he could do nothing but pray that the god hadn't heard it as well.

Standing before the lord of tides, the human offered him what he had asked for. Poseidon, however, had different plans in mind.

Swiftly, the god reached out his hand and pulled the man closer. Odysseus gasped in surprise and almost tripped, but thankfully, he managed to abstain from falling directly onto the most ruthless Olympian and spilling the divine food all over the god's robes.

With his strength much greater than the mortal's, the god's hand guided the man until he found himself seated on his lap, the plate still firmly grasped in his hands.

The former king hated the sudden lack of distance between them. He despised how close the god's face was to his own and how his hands rested on his back and thigh respectively.

Odysseus' burning glare was met with a smug smile. Poseidon was enjoying tormenting the small captain, that much was apparent.

"Don't look at me like that, king of Ithaca. Or rather, former king."

He mocked cruelly.

"I was going to offer you share this meal with me, but it seems like you're adamant about rejecting my good manners."

Upon hearing these words, the captain's eyes widened in surprise. Poseidon was about to offer him a meal? Oh, how much his stomach rejoiced at the mere thought of food.

"Oh, well. Since you refused my offer, you will-"

"I accept."

His voice came out rushed. Desperate. As much as he didn't want to bend to the arrogant god's will, his hunger was far too great.

He was certain he would soon die if he didn't eat. And, as tempting as that option was, he had to endure. He had to survive and return to his beloved wife and son.

Poseidon smirked at the response he recieved. Little by little, he's chipping away at that pride that Odysseus of Ithaca was so famous for. Bit by bit, he was making him submit.

"Very well, then. Let us dine."

The palace was far grander than Odysseus could have ever imagined. Admittedly, he never did imagine it before— only the general thought of how impressive it must be if it had been the King of the Sea's domain. Just like how impressive Olympus would be. The former king can't imagine it's every day a mortal willingly offers their servitude to the great Poseidon, even more of a scarcity that a mortal would ever roam these halls. But it seems, like always... The King of Ithaca is the exception.

They reach Poseidon's throne. As impressive as its room's decor. But Odysseus isn't there to gawk. He's there to SERVE. Reminded quickly of such, as the Sea God barks his demands at him. There wasn't any moment's hesitation. No. The mortal couldn't afford to hesitate. To keep the King waiting. The orders only serve as a reminder of their agreement.

Something Odysseus offered himself.

So he's forced to remind himself of such. Forced to withhold his end of the bargain. It's the only reason he's still breathing right now. Poseidon had claimed him long ago. The very moment they met, Odysseus's life was in his hands.

The same hands that suddenly grab him. That squeeze around him as they force him on top of their King's lap. Causing every single muscle in his body to TENSE. A pressure so tight that all the man can do was try not to tremble. Try not to break. Try not to feed into the beast that was Poseidon.

He'd disguised himself as a Siren to lure in a sailor. Who have known, that sailor only willingly let himself be claimed?

Odysseus can feel it. The hand on his back. The hand on his THIGH. Causing him to tighten his jaw, swallowing back the feelings he experiences at being so close to the God who wanted him dead. At any point in time, Poseidon could grow bored with him. Poseidon could hold him tight, sinking those sharp teeth into mortal flesh, bone, and MEAT.

Heart racing. Beating so hard it pounds against his broad chest. Pounding underneath the rows of seashells hugging his neck. Making them quiver to the quickening beat.

Of course Odysseus accepts the offer of a meal. With how long he'd gone without food, he unfortunately wasn't nearly as muscular as he had been during the war. That's all this ever was about. Food. Food, and the price of man just to satiate a deepening hunger. The captain was starving. Of course he was starving. It had only but been his duty, even with what little food they had, to keep his men fed. To make sure that they had eaten.

Even now, the mortal didn't dare to be as bold as to eat first.

Tempting as it was, to disregard Poseidon altogether, the surrounding hands on his body advise him otherwise. He knew the wrath of an unpleased God. The wrath of a God who felt as if he'd been disrespected. The wrath of committing blasphemy against a God. Odysseus wouldn't be able to escape this time. Not a single piece of food would touch his lips if he was DEAD. And he hates it. HATES that he knows how to keep a God pleased. Hates how it's come to this. Hates every moment, every movement he makes to grab a large piece of meat from the plate in his hands to reach upwards, offering it to a God.

He hates that he knows how to grovel.

"... for you, My King."

[walkswithmyfather]

✨ O GOD OUR HELP IN AGES PAST—

“LORD, You have been our dwelling place in all generations. Before the mountains were brought forth, or ever You had formed the earth and the world, even from everlasting to everlasting, You are God.— Oh, satisfy us early with Your mercy, that we may rejoice and be glad all our days! Make us glad according to the days in which You have afflicted us, the years in which we have seen evil. Let Your work appear to Your servants, and Your glory to their children. And let the beauty of the LORD our God be upon us, and establish the work of our hands for us; Yes, establish the work of our hands.” ‭—Psalm ‭90:1-2, 14-17‬ ‭(NKJV‬‬)

From: “The Spiritual Encourager” (FB)

Beautiful translation from Psalm 90. Amen! 🙏🕊️🙌

[twoidiotwriters1]

Chapter 4. The Artist

Summary: If he does not leave his hiding spot willingly and upfront, you will squeeze in sideways to reach him. Masterlist Previous Chapter // Next Chapter Words: 1,446 Listen to: Growing Sideways -by Noah Kahan A/N: Reblog or comment, pls! -Danny

"May I inquire about your family, then?" Benedict stands with both hands behind his back. "Unless you consider it none of my business..."

You smile at his teasing. "Depends on what you wish to know."

"Silly nothings," he leans sideways on the stone bannister. "If you're having fun in London... Why are you in London when you could be in further interesting places..."

"You don't think London is interesting?"

He tilts his head a moment, narrowing his eyes. "I think it's old and damp."

"On both we agree. Although I do not see its age as a bad thing."

"And the dampness?"

"That I do hate," you say with a sheepish smile, "But I had to make this visit nonetheless, I would've never left Genovia on my own, so my family came to support me. I should've started my rounds at social events seven years ago when I debuted."

"You've been postponing this for seven years?" He can't tell if this amuses, or rattles him. "Good lord... I must admit it is somewhat heartening, that a royal admits they dislike these... events. Makes me feel less of an oddity."

"You are a bit odd if you dislike balls," you push a strand of hair away from your delicate brow. "I long for a gathering where I can be myself without bringing my usual mishaps into it. A man such as yourself, handsome, social, and intelligent, never lacks approval."

"Yes, well, that is the problem," he scowls at a point in the distance. "Too many people claiming to like me when they don't even know me. The debutants, most of all. They search for a husband in me, which I'm not. I don't think I'll ever be one."

"A bachelor who wishes to be noticed instead of admired?" You raise a brow. "That speaks of depth. Lady Danbury said you like art, are you an artist yourself?"

Benedict's eye twitches before he adopts a fake smile. "Your Royal Highness, my duty tonight is to entertain you, so allow me to steer us towards our next activity—A stroll around the garden."

"Have I reached an uncomfortable topic of conversation?" You ask bluntly.

"Not at all," he guides you to the steps that lead down to the open grounds. "I don't wish to bore you with a story that has no substance."

"Now I'm more curious," you reply playfully, your gaze on him even as you walk down the steps.

"I want to keep my private life private if you don't mind," he steers you in the direction of a bush of big, red roses.

"And what shall we discuss, the weather?" You steer to the other side of the path to examine the lavender.

"Your Royal Highness wanted to know more about my family," he points out, keeping a respectful distance two steps behind you. "I'd be happy to talk of each and every member of my bloodline if you wish. In fact, I feel obliged to let you know my younger sister, Hyacinth, yearns for a chance to meet you."

"I would be delighted to meet her, is she in attendance?" You respond without looking away from the flowers.

"She's thirteen, but so clever she could surpass any debutante in conversation," he informs you, discretely pulling your skirt out of the bushes with his foot. "She's a precocious little thing."

"And yet not a single hint of chastisement in that declaration," you smile at the daisies. "You're quite proud she is that way."

"Well, you see your sister grow into a lady that will not be swept off her feet by any regular rake, and you can't help but rejoice in it, especially when you're a... man yourself." He stumbles over his words before calling himself a rake.

You notice there are telltales in Benedict's behaviour that indicate he's trying his best to be plain, which bugs you. You wish to speak with the man who stumbled upon you at Hyde Park and teased you like a friend, not this curated version of him. If he does not leave his hiding spot willingly and upfront, you will squeeze in sideways to reach him.

"You have paint on your hand." You say as casually as possible. Benedict looks down in alarm and you laugh. "Ah-ha! You are an artist!"

"You—" he purses his lips before he can blurt out affront. "I'm not! I thought I'd touched something freshly painted!"

"Oh, yes, that is a common occurrence, fresh paint is everywhere," you reply sarcastically. "You're an artist, Mr Bridgerton. I'm willing to be you own a sketchbook. Are you good at drawing with coal?"

"Charcoal," he corrects unable to stop himself. "I burned that wretched thing a year ago. Please—"

"I keep a diary," you continue steadily, "and I draw the herbs and flowers I find in my trips, but I'm not good at it."

"I'm not a teacher," Benedict says promptly, his feet itching to turn away from the conversation.

"You will be now," you give him no chance to refuse, your expression adopting a royal severity you've learned to master thanks to your mother. "You'll be here on Monday at noon to discuss our lessons."

"Are you out of your wits?" His personality slips out as he glares at you. "Or is this your way of punishing me for my impertinence?"

"Neither," you say without reacting to his tone. "I want your company for this season because I find you..." You push your shoulders back and squint as if trying to read him. "Engaging. Your sister Miss Hyacinth is invited, too. I'll write to her in the morning. Now, let us return to the ballroom."

Benedict watches you retreat, barely able to keep his animosity under control.

When the ball ends you reunite with your sister, excusing yourselves for the night and walking together to your chambers. 

"Who was that gentleman you clung to the whole evening?"

"I did not cling, he wouldn't stand close enough for me to do so," you grumble.

"But who was he?" Marie insists.

"My new art teacher," you disclose proudly. "He'll come back this Monday."

"Art teacher?" Marie gives you a look. "Since when do you draw?"

"If I knew how to draw, I wouldn't need a teacher, would I?"

"There's something you're not telling me." Your sister sees right through you nonchalant act.

"Let us get to my room first," you grab her hand and pull her forward.

You kick off your shoes and huddle up on the lounging chair, where she tells you about the dashing gentlemen she conversed with and the debutantes she befriended, the funny incident one of your brothers suffered with a redheaded lady, and how she's made plans for the week ahead.

You listen, and when it's your turn to speak, you don't know where to start. "Well... Yesterday while everyone visited the castle grounds, I went to Hyde Park for a stroll—"

"Y/N!"

"Nothing happened!" You say defensively. "I had a lovely time. This gentleman approached me and initiated a conversation, which I quite enjoyed." You blush. "I didn't know he'd be here tonight, but it's a good thing he was. I do not have kindred spirits in this particular side of London 'cept for him, it seems."

"Oh, you've barely left the castle at all!" Marie huffs stubbornly.

"I'm not completely opposed to meeting more people even if we don't fit," you shrug, brushing off the wrinkles on your dress. Benedict feels like a comfortable risk, something that your parents can see as progress without having to put yourself out there in a real way. "I simply want to secure this acquaintanship."

"Because...?" Your sister prompts, a knowing glint in her eyes. 

"Because he's nice to look at," you reply without matching her energy, "is that what you want me to say?"

Marie rolls her eyes. "Oh, you'll get your sense of humour back soon enough, so I won't take your rudeness to heart. All I ask of you is that you tell me if this becomes something else... or if he's open to one-night encounters with his student's sister," she winks at you and gets up.

You toss a small cushion at her and she exits the room laughing. Your smile fades as soon as she's out and you slump on the chair, taking off the pins on your hair one by one and tossing them to the table in front of you. 

All these effort—you think grumpily as your hair cascades down your shoulders—and no one looked at me... not like he did in the park.

Benedict is an easy target, something to keep yourself busy and ignore all the ways you cannot come out of your shell as a grown woman. Vexing him is better than embarrassing yourself in front of large groups three times a day. 

He's getting paid for all the trouble, so really, what is there to complain about? This will be the best season of his life.

Next Chapter –>

Taglist.

@babypink224221 @Booknerdlife @djsporks @lght-roastcoffee @marii-ren @mythical-goth @omgsuperstarg @creepytoes88 @sarahskywalker-amidala @23victoria @shadowolf993 @squirreljoe @syxtiramishuui @stargirl-mayaa

[mothiir]

made to be a devotee

cw: lorgar jerking it. that’s it that is the plot. for @moodymisty

—

—

It is not the first time that Lorgar has taken himself in hand while thinking of you, and it will not be the last. Lying on his austere bed, staring at the ceiling — after pointedly turning the statues of the Emperor to face the wall — he strokes himself root to tip, his shaft thickening eagerly.

He does this not because he wants to, but because he must. You are a good woman — kind, clever, bright-eyed and curious, and you speak with him about his books in a way that so few dare — and he will not dishonour you with his lust. When the time is right, when the crusade is done, he will take you as his wife in the sight of the Emperor, and then — and only then — will he bed you. He allows himself a moment to dwell on the glorious future: Monarchia, resplendent in gold, its people rejoicing at their lord’s nuptials; you, clad in white, your belly already starting to swell with child —

His forehead furrows a little. No, that’s not right: you cannot be pregnant until after the wedding. After. He alters his daydream minutely. Now you wear a dress of shimmering bronze, your pregnant belly testament to the exertions of your wedding night. It is the — anniversary? Or it is a celebration of his Father’s latest victory? It matters not. The point is you, holding his wrist as you parade before your people; or you, straddling his lap that night, your skin painted gold in candle light. My lord husband, you will say.

He strokes himself again, harder, as the image shifts a little, memory replacing fantasy. The last time he saw you — the incident that prompted this latest shameful session — you had been in the library, a book open on your lap. You were hunched over it, in a Astartes-sized chair, the noontime sun catching in your hair. The very point of your pink tongue had snuck out, moistening your finger before you turned a page.

Lorgar had executed a speedy strategic retreat. If he had stayed — oh if he had stayed. Well. He would have seated himself in the armchair, arranged you on his lap — far more comfortable for you that way. He would have replaced your thumb with his, and let you suckle on it, your cheeks hollowing as you peered up to him. You would like the taste of his skin, he’s certain. “There. Good girl.”

You’d like being called good. You are always so keen for approval, so desperate to please. So keen. He’d sneak in another finger, maybe, letting your lips stretch around them, drool slipping down towards his knuckles. He’d fuck your throat with his fingers first — preparing you, letting you get used to him —

And it wouldn’t cause you any shame, Lorgar thinks, starting to fuck his fist in earnest. No shame, because it isn’t sex, is it? He would still be able to take you as a virgin bride, like you deserved, pure as the driven snow, untainted by his baser feelings. All he would do is let you suck his fingers, just a little. Work your mouth open on them. Feel your sweet, blunt teeth against his flesh. Maybe he would reach a little deeper — into the wet channel of your throat, until you hiccuped around his digits. He would try to pull his hand free, but you would take his wrist. Suck harder. Pleading wordlessly to let him continue. Wanting him to take his pleasure with you, to abuse your throat, because he is your Primarch, your lord, your master —

Lorgar’s breath catches. He grasps himself harder, hips rolling up.

He would decline of course. He couldn’t possibly. Would never. Could never. You’re too good for it, too pure, you’re worth more — but you wouldn’t care. You’d say you want him even if it means being his whore.

He would be powerless to resist as you knelt before him —

Lorgar pauses, opens his eyes. Looks over at one of his desk chairs and does a few mental calculations. You probably wouldn’t have to kneel — merely bend over a little. And yet — no, the visual of you kneeling is far too pleasing to let go of. He adjusts the height of the library chair. There: now you have to kneel before the chair with uncommonly long legs.

Where was he? Yes: you’re sucking at his head now, using both of your tiny hands to milk him onto your tongue. Greedy for him, even though you can barely swallow an inch of his prick. You spit on his cock, then look somewhat embarrassed at your boldness. He urges you on —

Lorgar can feel his orgasm building. He squeezes the base of his prick, letting the scene change again: he has his face buried in your cunt, your thighs bracketing his face as he licks deeper into you, your mewling cries almost insensible save his name: Lorgar, Lorgar. A victory cry, a hymn, a call to worship. Lor-gar please, Lord Lorgar please —

The image changes one more time, almost against his will. He’s spilling inside you, your body clinging to his prick, warm and welcoming and tight and home —

He cums so hard he sees stars, his seed splashing up onto his abdomen. Still hazy with climax, he wishes you were there to lick him clean. And then the rose-gold dozy feeling wanes away, and he is sticky and alone and ashamed.

Not yet. But soon. Soon, he shall have you where you belong: his bride, in his bed, and under him.

[yazzzmints]

Duty and Sacrifice

[ Aemond Targaryen x Niece!Reader x Alys Rivers ]

[ Warnings: angsty af, bipanics, polyamorous, cuss words, death, blood, age gap, Aemond being a simp, future smut, (y/n) being done with everyone.

More will be added as the story progresses.]

Prologue: The birth of a Valeryon Princess 

Word Count: 978

Kings Landing 115 AC 

All they could hear was the screams and cries of Princess Rhaenyra as she gave birth to her first child. It had not been a year yet since she had wed ser Laenor and yet they have been blessed with an heir so soon. The King was overjoyed to welcome his first grandchild and the Sea Snake rejoiced at the welcoming of his legacy. As these two cheered for the future of their houses combined in the blood of the soon to be born babe. Laenor paced outside the chambers anxiously and the Princess Rhaenys was inside the chambers holding poor Rhaenyra's hand. Soon the babe came all bloody red and crying being taken out of the warmth of her mothers womb. 

At this point shouts of excitement were heard from the servants in the room and soon word ran through the keep.

“It's a girl your grace!” 

“oh, how lovely.”

“A new Princess has joined us!”

The babe was placed into her mothers arms and slowly started to calm. A sigh of relief could be heard from Rhaenys, she has known of her sons…preferences and never believed she would ever get to see a trueborn child of his. But to see the patches of white hair was enough to calm her nerves. 

Laenor rushed into the chambers to his wife's side. “A girl? I just heard” He looked at his daughter for the first time. “I wish to hold her as so-” the chamber doors were opened “The Queen wishes to see the babe, your majesty” a servant announced. “We shall go after the baby and mother are fine.” Rhaenys responded. The servant bowed their head “The Queen said at once. In the throne room.” 

“Help me dress,” Princess Rhaenyra said as she tried to get up from the bed. 

Servants began to do their work and both mother and son fumed at such harsh command, of course her cousin the King did not protest. He was a man after all, never to know the struggles of birth. It was not that surprising given that he slaughtered his wife for the sake of a male babe. 

As they travel the corridor from the private chambers to the grandeur of the throne room, Princess Rhaenys, Ser Laenor, and Princess Rhaenyra presented a united front, garnering sympathy from those they passed. Laenor, with a flair for not-so-subtle remarks, subtly criticized the Queen for summoning them so soon after Rhaenyra's childbirth. Their procession reached its crescendo as the imposing doors swung open, and the servants announced their entrance.

Within the throne room, King Viserys occupied the Iron Throne, flanked by Queen Alicent and Lord Corlys standing regally on the elevated dais. The room, surrounded by the dignified representatives of noble families from across Westeros, bespoke an atmosphere of political intrigue.

Upon closer inspection, it became apparent that the Queen's summons was not merely a routine gathering. Instead, it hinted at a calculated move—an assembly designed to spotlight Rhaenyra in her most vulnerable state or, perhaps, to cast doubt upon the legitimacy of her newborn. The air crackled with tension as the strategic machinations of the royal court unfolded, setting the stage for a pivotal moment in the intricate dance to come.

Princess Rhaenyra and Ser Laenor stood in front of the throne room, bowed their heads and the King walked down the steps. 

"Congratulations, Step-Daughter. I've heard you've blessed the Realm with another Princess," remarked Queen Alicent, her tone carrying a blend of formality and subtle undertones.

King Viserys, his paternal pride evident, responded warmly, "My first grandchild, and hopefully the first of many. Let us have a look at her."

Rhaenyra gently presented her newborn to the King, a serene and beautiful infant adorned with the unmistakable white locks characteristic of their lineage. However, Queen Alicent's reaction was less than enthusiastic; a subtle scoff revealed her disappointment, as if she had anticipated different features in the babe. Lord Corlys, perceptive to the unspoken intentions behind the Queen's demeanor, understood the subtle politics at play. Despite the Queen's unexpressed desires for a male heir, Laenor had fulfilled his duty, and even if the newborn was a girl, she carried the esteemed Velaryon blood, a fact not lost on everyone in attendance. The room lingered with unspoken tensions, a delicate balance between the expectations of lineage and the reality of the present moment.

Viserys had taken the babe in his arms “Have you chosen a name yet?” 

“Yes father, (y/n) shall be her name” Rhaenyra told her father through gritted teeth, the pain finally getting to her. 

King Viserys walked back to the Iron throne and sat. “Today, my Daughter and Heir gave birth to her own Heir. She will one day sit this very throne years after my passing” a displeasing smile spread on Queen Alicents face “I present to all my granddaughter, Heir of my Heir. The Princess (y/n) Valeryon, future Heir of Dragonstone and future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Thunderous applause and cheers filled the air as Viserys directed his gaze downward, locking eyes with the newborn. Instead of the expected lilac hues inherited from her mother or himself, a mesmerizing spectacle unfolded. The infant's eyes weren't just ordinary; they shimmered with an enchanting blend of vibrant pinks and reds, featuring a captivating slit akin to the legendary dragon eyes woven into the tapestry of ancient Valyrian lore. In that profound moment, it wasn't merely a newborn gazing back at Viserys but the manifestation of a mythical legacy, a living testament that the blood of old Valyria was strong. The cheers from the onlookers resonated like echoes through time, and the Maesters, tasked with chronicling this historic event, would scribe that it marked the inaugural triumph of Team Black. Princess Rhaenyra, with grace and significance, had bestowed upon the realm a trueborn heir—an unequivocal dragon among the rest.

taglist [I hope this is how its done]

@snh96 @dahlias-and-marigolds @galactict3a @mandiiblanche @heavenly1927 @watercolorskyy @toodlesxcuddles @ellieabby

[A/N: sorry for posting this late af.

Also this will be a mix of book and show.

I have not check for full spelling and grammar.]