#Please ignore the typo in Polites' name

[wydalenylod]

WHY DOES ENGLISH SPEAKING INTERNET NOT HAVE A POPULAR MEME ABOUT EATING BABIES. WHY CAN'T I JOKE HOW ODYSSEUS SHOULD'VE TAKE THE INFANT WITH HIM AND USE IT AS EMERGENCY FOOD WITHOUT PEOPLE GIVING ME WEIRD LOOKS

[museiest]

WE'RE MEANT TO BE TOGETHER .ᐟ gojo satoru

PAIRING. ceo!gojo x kindergarten teacher!reader

ABOUT. ceo!gojo discovers he has a son which leads him to the harmony fields kindergarten, where the woman who almost ran into him with her car in the morning is his son's teacher and the cause of his future sleepless nights.

NOTES. it's finally here!! had some trouble with the written part of this smau so that's why i took so long in posting it, this was the winner in this poll. this is a multi-part smau. harmony fields is the name of the kindergarten.

WARNINGS. enemies to lovers ⋆ typos ⋆ ignore timestamps ⋆ english is not my first language ⋆ written part (is sh!t y'all) ⋆ gojo's is insufferable ⋆ utahime's the owner of harmony fields ⋆ written part takes place a day after the incident and it's 1,04k words.

part one | part two | part three | more?

“Okay. . .remember what we practiced?” the white-haired man immediately asked as he helped the boy out of his car.

The kid nodded slowly and looked up at Satoru, waiting for him to hand over the chips he bought for him on the way here.

“I’ll give them to you, kid, but first, let’s practice one more time,” Satoru warned, “You're going to say that i'm your dad and that your mom is away on a trip, 'kay?”

“But you said that you weren't my dad, and my mom isn’t on a trip,” the boy pointed out seriously, making the blue-eyed man sigh.

“Just say it, please? if you don’t, i’ll take you to the police station and let them deal with you," Satoru threatened with a unsettling smile.

“He’s my dad, and my mom is away on a trip,” Megumi repeated, irritated by the man.

Truth is, he missed his mom and he wished she was there with him instead of the stranger who was taking care of him now.

“Yes! Good boy,” Satoru ruffled the Megumi’s hair like he was petting a dog, he definitely wasn't used to dealing with kids, especially one his age.

How do you even treat a five-year old? Was what had been going through Gojo's head since his son arrived at his apartment.

“Ah, Gojo! Right on time, looks like having a son is finally doing you some good,” Utahime called out as she walked towards the entrance of her kindergarten, where the dad and son duo were.

“Utahime, my least favorite person! it's been, what? two months?" he sneered.

“It’s always such a disgrace seeing you, Gojo," she said bitterly before putting on her best smile and looking at the five-year-old, “And you must be Megumi, right?”

“He’s my dad, and my mom is on a trip,” Megumi stated almost robotically, making the Harmony Field's director laugh.

“Wow, how cool!” she exclaimed, gesturing for them to follow her inside.

“Yeah, his mom is at a seminar in Europe,” the ceo lied smoothly.

“Europe? You must be very proud, Megumi,” the dark-haired woman tried to make some chitchat but Megumi remained silent, walking behind them as quietly as possible.

“’Gumi doesn’t talk much, but it’s something i- we’ve been working on. . .” Satoru excused himself with another lie, though Utahime barely paid attention, too focused on you approaching. It was the perfect opportunity to introduce you to the new dad and the new kid joining your class.

“Yn! Come over here, this is Gojo Satoru and his son, Megumi,” Utahime introduced, making your eyes widen in surprise as soon as you locked eyes with the man you almost hit with your car on your way to the kindergarten.

“You?/You?” you both said at the same time, his eyes sharp enough that if looks could kill, you'd be in a coffin with people saying how good of a person you were; and you just forced a polite smile to hide your annoyance at seeing him at your workplace, such arrogant man didn't seem like a father to you, not even a bad one, he just seemed like the kind of guy who didn't care for kids at all but there he was, putting on his best smile with his son who didn't look like him at all except for his eyes and messy hair.

“You two know each other?” your friend and colleague asked, looking between you both expectantly.

“Yeah. . .turns out this dad likes to go running in the middle of the street in the morning,” you muttered through gritted teeth, making the man scoff.

“Right. And it seems like there's more and more of those crazy drivers these days, dangerous, isn’t it?” Satoru shot back. You barely heard Utahime’s response, too focused on the annoyance bubbling inside you. Who did this guy think he was? He had to be some kind of irresponsible deranged idiot.

You rolled your eyes once more before glancing down and noticing the little boy looking at you curiously.

You crouched down to meet his eyes and be able to speak to him directly, the first impression with children was always the most important to you rather than the one with the parent, “Hi, sweetheart! you must be Megumi, how are you?” you asked kindly, you've loved kids since forever and it didn’t matter that this particular kid belonged to the most insufferable man you'd ever met.

Megumi’s eyes looked sad, distant and lost, as if all he wanted was to be anywhere but here. Still, you tried talking to him, sensing his struggle in interacting with people.

When he didn’t respond, you continued, “You know, in the classroom there's lots of kids your age who can’t wait to meet you. They’ve been so excited ever since we told them a new friend for them was coming. And guess what? Today’s your lucky day because we have a special activity with puppies! How does that sound?” you asked with a warm smile and at the mention of 'puppies,' Megumi’s eyes lit up, an expression of excitement appearing on his face for the first time since he got there along with a soft smile. Even Satoru seemed surprised to see it, he hadn't smiled at all when he was at his apartment and now he does with a complete stranger? not that he wasn't one either but the father (if you could call him that) had tried everything the day before to make the kid laugh and all he got was a 'you're not funny' from him.

“Are there really going to be puppies?” Megumi asked, a special glimmer in his eyes that hadn’t been there before.

“Of course! So what do you say? Want to wait for them with the other kids?” you asked, extending your hand to his smaller one. Megumi glanced between his dad and you before nodding and taking your hand with a small smile still on his lips and that was the first step to make this kid as happy as he could be.

Without hesitation, you led him towards the rest of the class, happy that your first interaction with the boy had been a success. You just hoped things would stay that way, today, tomorrow and hopefully forever.

ARTIFACTS .ᐟ

• hari fushiguro is megumi's aunt, she's took care of him for two weeks and that was it. she didn't have enough money to raise him and her daughter so she went to gojo's apt since she remembered he had a lot of money when they hooked up and made up a story about her sister and him.

• toji's dead and tsumiki doesn't exist in this one since toji died before megumi was born.

• his mom died two weeks ago but since he's still a kid, he doesn't know how to process it so he thinks his mom left him and that's why his aunt didn't want him either.

• ofc gojo isn't his father but they make him believe he is.

• that's all!! enjoy <3

© MUSEIEST 2025

[imaginespazzi]

This Little Love of Ours

Three times Paige and Azzi didn't go on a date and the one time they did

(In which an alternate universe writer finally returns to writing things in the real universe)

Pairing: Paige Bueckers X Azzi Fudd

Themes: Fluff and Angst

Words: 5.4K (sighs in *this was meant to be 2K* words)

TW: Light swearing, alludes to sexual content

A/N: Hi lovelies, I'm backkkk!! Gonna keep this short and sweet but this is basically me combining a bunch of prompts/requests into one. There's some creative liberty taken with logistics and as per usual, the editing exists but so do my typos. As always, let me know what you liked and what you didn't, as well as anything you'd like to see going foreward. Happy Juneteenth and I hope y'all have a lovely rest of your week <3

we were just kids (when we fell in love)

The streets of Minsk, Belarus are bursting with light and colour, the summer breeze enveloping the two girls walking riverside as they giggle over everything and nothing. They’re breaking curfew plus a hundred other rules right now and if one of their coaches ever found out, they’d be as good as dead. But there’s something about being out in the open with Azzi, being able to delicately brush palms and not worry about her jolting away in fear of being seen, that has Paige ready to be reckless. 

It’s been a year of learning Azzi, a year of discovering the little things that make her smile, a year of memorising the intricate stories that make her who she is. And Paige hides all these little details in a little treasure chest in the corner of her heart, bringing them out like little drops of lights when Azzi’s not by her side, and the darkness feels all-consuming. The thing is, Paige has never been attached to someone like this before, never felt like there was another half she needed to feel whole. She’d been an independent child, walls of steel barricading anyone from getting a glimpse into her vulnerability. For a long time, she’d been fine just living in the façade of being fine. But then she’d met Azzi. And all the walls had gone crashing down and it was okay not to be okay, because now while she held the weight of world, there was somebody there to hold her too. 

“Paigeeee,” Azzi squeals with delight, eyes fixated on a van across the road, “there’s an ice cream truck.”

Paige doesn’t get time to react before she’s being pulled along, the wind tornadoing around her body. And yet she feels warm and fuzzy inside, like there’s a blanket with Azzi’s name knitted into it, wrapped around her heart. 

“I’ll have the strawberry please,” Azzi smiles politely at the ice cream vendor, eyes sparkling with excitement, “P what are you getting?”

Paige grins, knowing her order is about to earn her a patented eye roll, “I’ll have the mint choc chip please.”

“You’re so weird,” the younger girl scrunches up her face and Paige suddenly has the urge to kiss her nose. 

They both know that they’re living inbetween blurred lines, on a trapeze balanced between friends and something more. It had been a whispered conversation of have you ever kissed a girl? do you wanna kiss a girl? do you wanna kiss me? that had led to a kiss Paige swears can never be topped, but they hadn’t spoken about it again. With them living in separate states, it had been easy to ignore that, that had ever even happened, both of them skilled players at the game of pretend. But it’s different now they’re back in each other’s orbit and every touch seems to linger on Paige’s skin long after Azzi’s hands have left her own. 

“You have no taste. It’s sooooo good,” Paige chides, making a show of licking her ice cream. When she looks at Azzi, she’s not expecting the way the shooting guard’s eyes have glazed over, fixated on Paige’s lips as she swallows nervously. An unfamiliar shiver tickles down Paige’s skin as they stand in silence, the air thick with a new tension. 

“It’s green,” Azzi says finally, voice coming out breathless, “that’s enough for me to know it tastes bad.”

“Don’t knock it til you taste it,” the blond holds out her cone as an invitation. 

When Azzi steps into Paige space, much closer than needed, she’s expecting Azzi to take the cone. She’s expecting that familiar jolt of electricity when their hands accidentally brush. Instead she feels herself being  mesmerised by Azzi’s face getting closer and closer til she can feel the younger girl’s breath fanning her face. She gulps, as Azzi presses her lips to the corner of Paige’s mouth, tongue darting out for the briefest of seconds before she’s pulling away. And despite the cool of the ice cream, every part of Paige feels like it’s burning. 

“I was wrong. Guess it tastes pretty good,” Azzi whispers, biting her lip. 

“You-I-what-” Paige splutters, struggling to form a coherent thought. 

Azzi giggles, clearly proud of herself  “Paige Bueckers speechless? Who thought I’d ever see the day?”

“You’re a fucking menace.”

“And proud of it.”

There’s the clichéd spring in Paige’s step as they continue to walk by the river. She shifts her ice cream cone to her left hand, letting the other one entangle with Azzi’s fingers. It’s nothing, the most mundane of things to hold her best friend’s hand, but it feels exhilarating, like it’s the start of something special. Determined, she tugs on Azzi’s hand to pull them to a stop. The Minsk waterfront dazzles behind them but Paige swears nothing’s glowing brighter than two of them in this moment. 

“Why are we stopping?” Azzi asks, eyebrows raised quizzically. 

Paige smirks, a new surge of confidence taking birth in her stomach, “I wanted to try your ice cream too. You got a taste of mine, it’s only fair I get a taste of yours.” 

“Is that so?” Azzi hums, pressing herself against Paige, “too bad it seems like I’ve finished my cone then.”

“Yeah too fucking bad,” Paige agrees before crashing her lips against Azzi’s. 

***

Paige is exhausted at breakfast the next morning, barely registering the conversations that are buzzing around her. Her eyes are drooping from the lack of sleep and there’s a dull pounding in her head but she has no regrets. Last night had been everything. She can still feel every moment pulsating through her veins, her heart beating to the rhythm of Azzi Azzi Azzi. The younger girl hasn’t appeared for breakfast yet and Paige is itching to see her. They’ve been separated for barely a couple of hours, reluctantly heading to their own rooms after they’d gotten back, and Paige swears she’d missed the girl even in her sleep. 

“You got back late last night,” Cameron teases, sticking out a fork of fruit in Paige’s direction, “you two must have had a good time.”

“Yeah,” there’s a rare shyness in Paige’s tone, “yeah we had a great time.”

“Oooh are we talking about Paige and Azzi’s date last night?” Aliyah cuts in, a smirk playing on her lips. 

“It wasn’t a date,” Paige counters, suddenly feeling oddly defensive “it- it was nothing.”

Cam raises an eyebrow, “it seemed like a date.” 

“Well it wasn’t. It definitely was not a date.”

“You guys heard her,” Azzi's voice makes Paige freeze, something akin to guilt pooling in her stomach, “it definitely was not a date.”

Cam and Aaliyah raise their hands in surrender, turning back to whatever conversation they were engaged in before. Paige gulps as Azzi sits down in the empty spot next to her, body rigid. 

“I didn’t- I didn’t mean it like that-”

“Paige it’s fine. I get it.”

“You- you do?” Paige doesn't entirely know how Azzi can get it, not when Paige doesn’t even really get it herself. 

Azzi shrugs with fake nonchalance, “yeah, yeah I do and it’s okay. You’re right. It wasn’t a date.”

And it wasn’t. At least not by name. Paige knows that. Apparently Azzi knows it too. But everything about that feels wrong. Underneath the table, their hands intertwine subconsciously. Neither of them react. Neither of them pull away. It’s the start of something unspoken, something complicated, something beautiful and fragile and so, so volatile, something that’ll take them years to understand.

2. this all or nothing way of loving (got me sleeping without you)

paige bueckers has posted a new story to her close friends 

Azzi fights the twitch in her hand that wants to reach out and grab her phone when that notification flashes on her screen. She musters up another fake smile at her date, hoping the girl in front of her hasn’t noticed the change in her demeanour. It’s ridiculous the way her body reacts to the most simple things when it comes to Paige. She hates it, hates the way it seems like she has no control over herself when it comes to the blonde. 

“Do you need to get that?” Anika asks, voice sweet as honey as she smiles at Azzi 

“No, no it’s just an insta notification. Nothing important. You were saying,” Azzi brushes it off, trying to keep her voice nonchalant. Anika seems satisfied with that as she returns back to telling Azzi about something her sister had done. Fidgeting in her seat, Azzi tries her hardest to keep her focus on the brunette, but her mind is whirring with curiosity about what Paige might have posted. 

The opportunity presents itself a couple of minutes laters, when Anika slides out of her seat to go to the bathroom. It’s a little embarrassing how quickly Azzi beelines for her phone, clicking on Paige’s story and immediately wishing she hadn’t. Anger and jealousy tighten their grip on her as she’s met with a picture of a caramel skinned, curly haired girl smiling at the camera, staring at Paige behind it, with that oh so familiar look of adoration. The text on the image reads in good company and Azzi feels bile rising up her throat. And she’s not allowed to feel this way, not when she and Paige had both agreed to turn their something into nothing but every day since that decision has felt a little bit like someone twisting a dagger into her heart, piercing further and further until she has no more blood left to bleed. 

She doesn’t notice Anika’s made her way back until she feels a warm hand on her shoulder, looking up to find concerned green eyes staring down at her, “you okay?”

“Yeah,” Azzi nods with a sense of calm she doesn’t feel, “you okay with me showing you off a bit?”

It’s a dangerous game she’s about to play, one of jealous retaliation that she knows will only make her feel better for a brief second before all the pain will flood back. But she reaches for her phone anyways, fighting the voices of logic and reason (that sound oddly similar to Colleen) in her head and instead giving into impulse. Anika beams at the camera, throwing up a peace sign, and Azzi’s heart stutters with guilt at how sincere her smile is. She snaps the picture, captioning it with  date night <3 and clicks post to close friends. Her heart beats erratically as she places her phone back on the table, trying to tune back into Anika’s conversation. It takes approximately three minutes for her phone to flash again.

paige bueckers has posted a new story to her close friends 

This time Azzi doesn’t bother fighting the urge to look, a new adrenaline pumping through her veins. It’s a mirror selfie this time. The girl has her back pressed against Paige’s front as they pose in front of the bathroom mirror. Paige has one hand holding her phone while the other is sprawled against the other girl’s waist, where a silver belly button piercing shimmers against tan skin. There’s no text this time, just a red heart and that Paige-shaped hole in Azzi’s heart is starting to get larger and larger. 

“You wanna take a walk?” Azzi asks Anika, tearing her eyes away from the phone, “it’s nice outside.”

Anika smiles, rising from her seat and holding out a hand that Azzi gladly takes. It would be easier, Azzi thinks, if she could just fall in love with this girl. Someone less complicated, someone who had less power over her, someone who was here. But it’s a futile dream, her heart is spoken for and Azzi doesn’t think she’ll ever get it back. 

It's a beautiful winter night outside and there’s a pretty girl holding her hand. That’s all Azzi should be thinking about. Instead, her mind is stuck on the image from before and it’s that vision, welded behind her eyelids, that has her taking a picture of her and Anika’s intertwined hands. As she types out the caption, one that feels way too deep for a first date, Azzi can’t help but roll her eyes at herself. She can’t remember the last time she’d posted a story, let alone two in a row and now here she is, posting inauthentic story after story to win a losing game. 

paige bueckers has posted a new story to her close friends 

This time there’s at least 10 minutes before Azzi’s phone flashes with that notification again. Next to Azzi, Anika lets out a sigh, starting to become less amiable to the idea of her date constantly checking her phone. Azzi shoots her an apologetic look before her expression quickly turns stone cold at seeing the new picture. It’s a haphazardly taken, slightly pixelated, photo of Paige smiling and the girl kissing her cheek. And if Azzi was in any mood to analyse just a little further she’d notice that Paige’s smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes, isn’t quite as wide as her real one. But there’s green fog clouding her judgement as she seethes internally, Anika’s soft touch doing nothing to calm her down. Tapping on Paige’s profile, Azzi fingers hover over the three dots on the upper left, as her petty side begins to take over. 

And then she hits block. 

***

“How was your date?” Paige’s mocking voice rings throughout Azzi’s childhood bedroom at almost 2 in the morning. She shouldn’t have answered the facetime call, should’ve held out for longer than just three missed calls and twelve angry texts. But Azzi has long realised that she’s putty when it comes to Paige. 

“How’s your girlfriend,” Azzi bites back. 

“She’s not my girlfriend.”

“Right,” Azzi draws out the word with an eyeroll, “how’s your fuck buddy then?”

Paige closes her eyes, rubbing her temples. When she opens them, the angry hard-to-read Paige that she’s been dealing with for the last month is replaced by Azzi’s soft, sweet and vulnerable Paige. Being apart after having been together all through lockdown has been harder than either of them could have imagined. They’d just assumed it would be easy when Paige finally left for UConn, after all most of their relationship had been built while living in different states. But somewhere in between workouts at 6 am and movie nights with Azzi’s family, they’d gotten used to living in each other’s skin, forgetting just how difficult it was to be apart from each other.  

“I miss you,” Paige whispers, “all the time. I can’t wait til you’re here.”

I miss you too, so much that sometimes it’s the only thing I feel, Azzi thinks and really it’s what she should say, instead the bitterness wins out, “why? So I can see you and that girl being all coupley in person instead of just on instagram?”

“That’s not fair, Azzi. You said you wanted to be just friends for now. You said I should try with other people and now you wanna throw that back in my face?”

“It was mutual-”

“Bullshit,” Paige sneers, “don’t try and put that shit on me. You made the decision and I just went along with it.”

“Well maybe you shouldn’t have then,” Azzi says exasperatedly, blinking her eyes rapidly to keep tears threatening to fall at bay. They fall into silence, staring at each other through the screen with identical expressions of only you can hurt me, only you can heal me. Azzi wishes she could reach through her phone, pull Paige into her world and melt into the older girl.

“What do you want from me Az?” Paige asks softly. 

I just want you, Azzi thinks miserably. She wants to be beg Paige to end things with that other girl, wants Paige to tell her not go on anymore dates, want to go back to being something, but she can’t, not when she’s convinced herself that they need do this, go through a phase of being nothing, so that they can be everything someday. This whole idea had taken birth in her head out of the fear that this- the two of them not knowing anything but each other- would eventually lead to resentment, that they- that Paige- would wake up one day and realise there was so much more the world had to offer. So now Azzi’s playing the long game, trying to believe in the clichéd year old adage that you have to let the people you love go, and if they come back, they’re yours. And she hopes against hope that Paige will come back, because Azzi doesn't think she’ll survive anything else. 

“I’m sorry,” Azzi whispers, instead of voice the other thoughts dancing on the tip of her tongue, “I’m sorry I’m being unfair.”

Paige’s eyes soften, “can we just- can we just talk about something else?”

And they do. They talk all night about everything and nothing, falling asleep to the sound of each other’s breathing. It’s that same nightly routine neither of them can fall asleep without. Because even if they’re both drowning in a sea of unspoken words, at least they’re sinking together, perhaps there’s some comfort in that. 

3. you make me smile (please stay for a while now)

Azzi stares at her reflection in the mirror for what feels like the thousandth time. She’s a bundle of nervous energy as she pats down her neatly ironed mini-skirt, adjusting her already perfectly-set crop top. It’s a little bit like how she feels before stepping on the court, dizzy with both nerves and excitement in anticipation. By all technicalities, this isn’t their first date. There’s probably friends and family who would argue this is closer to be their millionth or so date but nothing has ever been official. It just means more. 

She jumps a little when the doorbell rings at exactly 7 p.m. sharp, taking in a deep breath, before she opens the door. Paige stands outside in black pants with a black crop top and a multicolor cardigan, and a bouquet of pink roses in her hands. It takes Azzi about two seconds to realise that something’s wrong. Paige’s eyes are a feverish red and her smile is tired; it’s her all too familiar Paige is sick demeanour that Azzi’s quick to recognize after years of having seen it. The blonde opens her mouth to say something and instead all that comes out is a series of loud sneezes. 

“Oh baby,” Azzi gives her a sympathetic smile, reaching out to feel Paige’s forehead and then narrowing her head when she feels the heat, “P-”

“I’m fine,” Paige cuts her off, her voice gravelly, “just allergies.”

Azzi crosses her arms, knowing she’s about to deal with a petulant child, “I don’t think so. You’re clearly sick.”

“I don’t-,” Paige tries to disguise the cough in between her sentences, “-get sick.”

“Sure you don’t,” Azzi nods, as she tugs Paige inside, grabbing the flowers and setting them aside. Paige lets out grunts of protest, but her body is clearly too tired to fight back as Azzi guides them into her room. She goes into her closet first, finding an oversized shirt for Paige to change into. 

“You know the getting undressed part comes after the date right?” Paige raises an eyebrow, practically glaring at the t-shirt 

“We’re not going on a date.”

“WHAT? Dude I’m fine. I have a reservation and everything,” Paige whines in between coughs as she watches Azzi rummage through her drawers for medication, “it’s our first date. I had plans.”

“I’m not going on a date with you looking all snotty and congested like that.”

Azzi suppresses a laugh at Paige’s offended sequel, “what happened to sickness and health?”

“Pretty sure that’s a marriage thing,” she hands Paige the pills and a glass of water, that the older girl obediently takes.

“Well we’re eventually gonna get married so you need to get used to that,” it’s said so casually, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, but it steals Azzi’s breath away, the words carving themselves into the walls of her heart. Sometimes she wonders if Paige understands the gravity of the things she says, understands how they make every part of Azzi come alive with hope for their future. She shies away from a smirking Paige, trying to hide the blush that’s creeping up her neck. 

“Just- just get changed,” she manages to stutter out. 

“I,” sneeze, “don’t,” cough, “want” sneeze, “to.”

“Paige.”

“Azzi.”

“You have to get better P or coach will kill us both if you end up missing practice.”

“Going on a date with you would make me feel better.”

“Okay,” Azzi sighs, realising she needs to change tactics, “we’ll make a compromise. You’re gonna change-” she raises a hand when Paige tries to interrupt, “you’re gonna change and lie down, and if you don’t fall asleep in the next 10 minutes, we’ll go on the date.”

Paige’s eyebrows furrow in concentration as she mulls it over, before a scheming glint appears in her eyes, “okay but on one condition,” her grabby hands reach for Azzi’s waist, a soft smile playing on her chapped lips, “you have to lie down with me.”

Azzi rolls her eyes fondly, letting the blonde pull her into her arms, her own hands encircling Paige’s back as the older girl snuggles into her neck with a content sigh. This is her happy place. In any room, anywhere, as long as she’s cocooned in Paige’s embrace, there’s a sense of serenity that seems to flood into Azzi’s veins. 

“I could fall asleep here,” Paige murmurs, hot breath fanning against Azzi’s collarbone, “you’re so comfortable.”

Azzi shakes her head, trying to physically manoeuvre Paige onto the bed which only elicits a smirk against her skin. 

“If you wanted me in your bed Az, you could have just asked,” the older girl wiggles her eyebrows, earning her a small push from Azzi as Paige drags them both down into a mess of limbs and pillows. Cerulean blue eyes stare up at Azzi, a little bloodshot from the impending fever, but still blisteringly brilliant with love. It scares Azzi sometimes, to see all that emotion swimming in Paige’s eyes, all for her and it scares her even more to know that same pool of you’re it for me is reflected in her own too. Sometimes she worries they’re too young for this, too young to feel so much but then Paige smiles, and all of Azzi’s doubt flies away as she lets herself believe in forever. 

***

Paige doesn’t even really make it past five minutes, her sick body giving into the tiredness as she cuddles into Azzi, arms splayed over the younger girl's torso, as she keeps her head buried in her shoulder. There’s a content smile on her face as Azzi continues to run her hands through silky blond hair, brushing out tiny knots and waiting a couple of minutes, before she detaches herself from her girlfriend and heads to the kitchen. She’s not the greatest of chefs, but she’d like to think she’s skilled enough to try and make something that at least resembles chicken noodle soup. 

Azzi’s almost done when she feels a blanket being wrapped around her, two arms coming to wrap around her waist as she feels the weight of Paige’s chest pressed against her back, the older girl's head coming to rest in the crook of Azzi’s neck. 

“You’re already awake,” Azzi whispers, leaning her head back so she can brush her lips against Paige’s temple. 

Paige grunts, her voice nasally when she speaks, “you left and I was cold.”

“I have like three blankets on my bed you could’ve used.”

“Don’t wanna use blankets. Wanna use you,” Paige whispers, pressing a kiss to Azzi’s neck, making the younger girl shiver, “you’re much warmer.”

“Go pick out a movie to watch, I’m almost done with this.”

She can’t see it but Azzi can practically feel Paige’s raised eyebrows, as she dramatically sniffs the air, “you cooked? Babe I’m already sick, are you trying to get me sicker?”

“Wow. I slave over the kitchen for you for hours-”

“Maybe half-”

“HOURS! And you have the audacity to question my cooking when all you can make is buffalo chicken dip?”

“Hey, you love my buffalo chicken dip.”

“You keep telling yourself that baby.”

“It’s not nice to be  mean to your sick girlfriend,” Paige snickers as she makes her way to the couch in  Azzi’s room. 

“So you admit you’re sick then?” 

“Only sick to my stomach at whatever you’re gonna feed me.”

Azzi rolls her eyes, pouring the soup into a bowl. She secretly loves when they get like this. It’s a reminder that no matter what other label they eventually put on their relationship, Paige will always be her best friend first. As soon as Azzi sits down on the couch, Paige is all over her, knowing exactly how to shrink her body so that all 6’0 of her fits perfectly on her girlfriend’s lap. This is Azzi’s favourite version of Paige really, the soft vulnerable babygirl that’s only for Azzi’s eyes, a far cry from the ultimate rizzler the rest of the world sees.

“Feed me,” Paige pouts and Azzi shakes her head fondly but does as she’s asked, holding a spoonful of chicken noodle soup in front of Paige’s mouth.

“Thought you were scared of my cooking?”

“Oh I am but the things we do for love,” the blonde says dramatically before letting Azzi feed her, “huh, that’s not half bad baby.”

“High compliments,” Azzi says mock-seriously, as she tries her own spoonful, “oh I kinda ate that.”

They both dissolve into giggles at that, falling into a comfortable conversation as Azzi takes turns feeding both herself and Paige, the dull rumbling of some random movie behind them. 

“You’re always taking care of me,” Paige says softly after a while, hand caressing Azzi’s left arm as she lies against her chest, feeling her heartbeat underneath her fingertips. 

“Someone has to,” Azzi presses her lips to Paige’s hair, “you take care of everyone else and I take care of you.”

“Sorry I ruined our date but trust, I’mma make it up to you,” Paige mumbles sleepily, digging herself further into Azzi’s arms if that’s even possible. 

“I’m sure you will baby.”

“I love you.”

“Love you more P.”

And if in two days, Azzi’s the one that’s sick and Paige’s attempt at making chicken noodle soup goes even worse, well, let’s just say it’s a good thing they have NIL deals and can afford a chef in the future.

4. me i fall in love with you every single day (and i just wanna tell you i am)

“Where are you taking me?” Azzi giggles, hands outstretched as she tries to navigate the path in front of her, despite being blindfolded. The salty sea air brushes through her hair, as she places one foot in front of another, letting Paige’s hands on her waist guide her across the cruise ship. 

“Be patient, we’re almost there,” Paige whispers against her ear, nervous anticipation building in her stomach. She’s been planning this night from the moment they’d booked the cruise tickets, wanting everything to be as near to perfect as possible. The thing is, they’ve been on plenty of dates, some even before they’d officially started calling them dates. But most of those dates have had to be carefully constructed away from prying eyes, their hands itching to hold the others but forced to dangle by their sides so they could keep up a façade in public, that this was just friends hanging out. The cruise is the perfect spot for a private date, one where Paige wouldn’t have to keep her hands to herself, not that she’s done a good job of that the whole trip anyway. But she’s found the perfect secret spot and spent just a little bit of money, to make sure the other cruise goers wouldn’t bother them tonight. 

“Are we there yet?” Azzi whines and Paige can’t help but laugh, finally pulling them to a stop.

“So impatient,” she tuts as she finally pulls away Azzi’s satin pink blindfold. 

“Yes well I’m star-oh…” Azzi blinks, eyes adjusting to the light as they flitter over her surroundings, the words being stolen from her lips as an awed look takes over her features, “Paige.”

“You like?” Paige bites her lips nervously.

“Do I like? Baby, this is beautiful,” tears sparkle in Azzi’s eyes as she loops her arms around Paige’s neck, “it’s perfect.”

They’re standing on the bow of the cruise ship. In the distance, the island they’re docked at, is illuminated by lights, making it shimmer against the dark night sky. A table for two sits at the helm of the ship, adorned in a purple velvet table cloth. There are candles and pink and white rose petals scattered all across the floor, with a small path carved out in between so they can walk to the table. On the table, there’s a customised crystal centrepiece with their names carved into it and inside it is a bouquet made of pictures of them. It’s a little cliché really, especially for two people whose path to each other had been anything but traditional but all Paige has ever wished for is a moment of normalcy with Azzi, a moment where they’re not star players, just two girls in love, enjoying a typical date night, a moment where they’re just PaigeAndAzzi. 

“When did you even have time to plan all of this?” Azzi marvels out loud, as Paige pulls out a chair for her. 

“I have my ways,” the blonde says with a smirk, taking a seat opposite her girlfriend and reaching to entwine their hands together. 

“You didn’t have to do this P.”

Paige shrugs, “I wanted to. We deserve this.”

Azzi nods, squeezing Paige’s hand because god knows they do deserve this. It’s been a hellish year if they’re honest. The highs had been wonderful but the lows, god the lows had felt like the ground being pulled from beneath their feet as they gripped each other, holding onto the only thing in their lives that felt like a reprieve from the darkness that swirled around them. And really that’s it Paige thinks, life can throw whatever it wants at her, but as long as she has Azzi, she’ll learn to survive it. 

“You wanna dance?” Paige asks, when they’ve finally finished eating, somehow managing to find a way to hold hands throughout the whole three course meal. As if on cue, a violin quartet appears onto the deck, and Azzi laughs at the coincidence. It’s Paige’s favourite sound in the whole wide world. 

“You’re such a sap,” Azzi teases fondly as she lets Paige lead them onto the floor, “how many romcoms did you watch to come up with this whole thing?”

“Dude, are you doubting my abilities to come up with a perfect date?”

“I would never,” Azzi swears, leaning her cheek against Paige��s, “but seriously Bueckers, you’ve outdone yourself.”

The melody of “thinking out loud” on the violin with the light thrum of the sounds of the wind and the ocean, creates the perfect orchestra for them to sway to, as they press every inch of themselves into each other, trying to lose themselves in the other’s arm. That feeling of home, a resounding peace, echoes throughout Paige’s skull and she thinks if there was ever a memory she’d want to replay over and over again, it would be this one. 

“I’m gonna miss this,” Paige whispers, “being with you like this?”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“No I know- I just- I like being able to be us in public like we have this last week. I like not pretending.”

“What if-,” Azzi pulls back a little, eyes locking with Paige’s, “what if we didn’t pretend?”

Paige searches for a shred of hesitance in Azzi’s face, but finds nothing but complete resoluteness and a grin breaks out on her own face, “what are you saying?”

“I’m saying that even if we don’t say anything, maybe we don’t have to try and hide everything all the time either. I’m saying,” Azzi bites her lips, shyly smiling, “if you wanna hold my hand when we’re in public sometimes, you- you can if- if you want to.”

“I really, really, really want to,” Paige breathes against the brunette’s lips, hands rubbing circles against her waist. 

“Good,” Azzi whispers back, “because I really, really, really want you to.”

[houseofhyde]

iv. another man's pain

pairing. aemond targaryen x fem!reader synopsis. a visit to dorne goes awry as an unexpected visitor arrives, tensions between in-laws come to ahead at last. chapter warnings. no use of y/n, brother-in-law!aemond, stark!reader, infidelity, purity culture, lady stark is having a brat summer ( sunbathing and arguing with her situationship ), male infertility, canon-accurate misogyny, mentions of pregnancy + marital s/a + war crimes + death, a little angst, a little fluff, a little smut ( unprotected piv, breast/nipple play, oral- f receiving, aemond is the verbal consent king ) please kindly notify me of any warning i may have missed. word count. 19.4k (for my pwp girlies: they fuck at the end, i swear 😭) hyde’s input. this chapter is extremely yap-centric, i'm so sorry. i could not get these bitches to shut the fuck up. please ignore any typos, i've driven myself mad re-reading this over and over :( another man's series. feast. comfort. pleasure. pain. legacy. jealousy. ( coming october) read on ao3. listen to the playlist.

The heat in Dorne is sticky.

Stifling, overwhelming, heavy. Upon inhale, it slides through the nose, yet, in exhale, it weighs heavy on the chest. It leaves one panting like a dog, with sweat that soaks through linen, and a longing for the forgiving breeze that sweeps its way through the Red Keep. Already, you await the day the carriage arrives to shuttle you off on your journey back to the capital, if only to move an inch without leaving a river of your own perspiration behind.

Six days and five nights into your moon-long stay in the southern lands of sand and your trunk remains fairly untouched, filled to the brim with clothes too heavy to face the heat. Helaena promises it’ll pass, that soon you will acclimatise and find yourself basking in the kiss of sunlight upon your skin. “Until then,” she’d assured you, a gentle squeeze at your hand across the vanity’s table. “You’re more than welcome to make use of my old dresses. With my body in recovery and two children in need of my care, I no longer make up the same shape I once did.”

At first, the proposal was to host you in Sunspear. A written invitation, extended by none other than Prince Qoren himself, hand delivered to you by one of the King’s squires as you shared a morning under the shade of the godswoods alongside the Dowager Queen. The pair of you had read over it in tandem, a silence overtaking, before you promptly announced your need for rest, scrambling the letter as close as possible to your chest as you raced off to the safety of your quarters. By evening, your husband had been informed, his own mother encouraging him to accept the invitation.

“It will serve the girl well,” she’d insisted, clutching at the arms of her chair within the hall of the small council, meeting long over and naught but the mother and son occupying the tension filled room. “There’s been little joy for her here as of late. The burdens of politics have begun to take toll on her, for certain. It will serve your wife well to take a much needed break.”

“The only burden politics brings her is the difficult decision of which gown to wear to dinner with Lord Up-Himself and his Lady wife of House Prissy-Cunt. Meanwhile, it is I, her husband, who bears the true difficulties of the crown!” Woe is he, the king who never wanted to be, trapped eternally in a life of decadence and obedience, a war raised in his name, and half a bloodline destroyed in his wake. Otto Hightower had warned his daughter, before the dragons had truly begun to dance, of how Aegon’s self-inflicted victimhood would one day be his downfall. With every passing day, the King’s mother sees this destruction growing closer. “My wife is of no use to me building sandcastles down South. She needs to make me an heir, not run off to take care of my sister’s.”

“A visit to Dorne may prove to be more fruitful than you believe, Aegon.”

And, so, it was settled. Three moons after the birth of Prince Qoren and Helaena’s second child — a moon-eyed boy, with his father’s raven locks and his mother’s smile, awarded the name of Jaehaerys — you would depart the city gates, with a small travelling band of knights upon saddles and a carriage large enough to sleep two, yourself and your dearest lady-in-waiting.

Only days before your arrival, however, tragedy struck. An assassin of the Free Cities, infiltrated within the walls of the Martell’s seat of power, made an attempt on Princess Helaena’s life. A half-failure, the assassin claimed a life but mistook a sleeping maid for the dragon girl. The premises were vacated, with Prince Qoren demanding his family find shelter someplace safe, someplace private. 

Three leagues to the west, buried away from curious eyes and beached by the waves of the Summer Sea, the Water Gardens sit. With a decadent, lavish palace leading out into a garden of rare beauty where palm trees stand taller than dragons, and water lilies float upon crystal-clear ponds, and rose buds burst into perfect bloom. Raised in honour of his darling wife, it is a vision of Prince Qoren’s that stands not yet completed, the beginning structures of what will one day be a private sanctuary to the dornish royals, a home to grow their own in, far away from the intruding eyes of court and capital.

Welcomed with open arms — that very soon wrapped around you in a tight squeeze — thus began your peaceful getaway.

Where days in the Keep are spent hiding in shadows, and exchanging pleasantries filled with discomfort, and sitting rigidly at a family dinner table, your days in the Water Gardens are full of glee. The laughter of the many Martell children, running rampant down hallways and through bushes, dirtying their knees with the green of grass and the rough of sand. Afternoons splayed out on beds, hand-fanned with the fallen leaves of palm trees, a soothing battle against the burning heat. A table foreign to silence, with Prince Qoren’s ever present queries into your day, and Helaena’s ecstatic chatter over the recent stitching patterns you’ve taught her, and the many other welcoming faces of the Martell bloodline, each smile warmer than the last.

By far, however, the thing you enjoy most is this: watching over your niece.

Day by day, at an hour when the newborn babe lays his head down to sleep, be it morning, or noon, or evening, you have taken it upon yourself to relieve poor Helaena of the tougher parts of motherhood, gifting her with the blessing of uninterrupted rest as you take her firstborn by the hand and let her guide you around the dornish grounds.

More often than not, she brings you here, to the shallow waters of a pond, with a sweet aroma of surrounding blood-orange trees and the calming sounds of water flowing out a central fountain enough to ease even the most troubled of minds.

Right now, your young niece stands soaked to the bone, dancing around as you sit close by, feet dipped within the very same cooling waters with the occasional splash coming your way from the toddler. In the few days you have been here, she seems to have grown so quickly, doubling in size before your very eyes, and finding a more steady manner in which to stand upon her feet, and learning to babble more syllables, each sounding less like nonsense than the last.

“Aliandra,” at the call of her name, those violet eyes are upon you. They carry the signature twinkle of a mind yet unmarred by life shining bright in your direction. “What is this called?”

You extend your hand towards her, a freshly peeled chunk of orange plucked between two fingers, and await the acceptance from her smaller hands.

“Fruit!” You believe is what she means to say, though her r is hardly pronounced and you’re certain she’s added an extra vowel at the end.

Still, you give her the win, departing with the sweet slice and delighting at the mess made as she bites into it, a spray of juice splashing down her tiny palms. It is incentive enough to move closer, wading through the shallow waters and leaving the lower fabric of your dress to soak itself as it trails behind you. At the height of the young princess, you sink down onto your knees, a much needed refreshment as the water settles over your waist.

“Here, sweet girl,” with a voice as gentle as your touch, you guide her to dip her juice stained hands under the water, the whole of your thumb wiping at the inside of her palm. “We ladies mustn’t dirty our hands.”

In lieu of a reply, the small child merely giggles and surrenders herself fully into your hold, her tiny limbs relaxing so suddenly, you have no choice but to let her rest within your lap, a head of white blonde hair finding respite upon your shoulder.

There is a strange emotion that only the presence of your niece seems to conjure. One of desperation, one of tenderness, one of an all-consuming need to hold her as close as possible and shelter her from all harm that may befall her in the cruelness of this life.

As a child, you’d never truly known the experience of being the elder sibling, the one looked at to lead, and guard, and tend to any other youngling alongside your parents. That job had always been Cregan’s and, for better or for worse, he had made a point of truly stepping into this protective role when it came to you, watching over you from cradle, to courtyard, to the carriage that dragged you down to your fated marriage.

It is half a wonder if this feeling she gives you is owed to the Mother and her instincts at last taking root within your heart, a seed watered slowly into a sapling that promises to grow and spread its branches from limb to limb. An emotional catch-up to the rest of your body, cursed by the moon’s blood for almost a decade, only now do you feel fit to step into the role of care-giver, nurturer, mother.

As if reading your thoughts, Aliandra nuzzles deeper into you, a tiny fist clasping a mighty hold of the yellow silks you wear.

“Are you tired, little darling?” Though she shakes her head in denial, you hear and feel the way she yawns against you, no doubt tired out by the blaze of the sun’s warmth.

You choose to stay like this a little longer, swaying slowly back and forth as you clutch your niece against you, small ripples in the water left in the wake of your movement. They seem to grow larger with each sway, the tremor upon the liquid’s surface lasting longer, the ripples rising higher and dipping lower.

A squawk of birds steals your attention in time to catch how the small flock fly away from a palm tree. You can’t help yourself from pointing at the tree, nor the whispered inquisition you throw at the girl: “Ali, what is that called?”

You watch her head raise off your shoulder, her whole body shifting to look at the tree, her head comically tilting straight up at the sky. The wind picks up, the palm leaves beginning to shake back and forth as the girl lets out an excited squeal. “Zaldrīzes !”

A cloud seems to swallow the sun whole, a cast of darkness coming across the gardens and greying the world around you. In your arms, the child’s excited chant continues, both hands pointing at the sky as a tiny voice calls out syllables you can’t make meaning of, over and over.

“Zaldrīzes ! Zaldrīzes ! Zaldrīzes !”

Craning your neck back, you point your eyes up to the sky and find a mass of flesh.

Aged, large, green.

Claws, tail, wings.

A dragon.

The dragon.

Vhagar.

As a child, you begged your mother to visit the beach.

The request came no more than a day after Cregan had returned from a voyage to the Iron Islands, the first of many politically motivated visits he’d make with your father before his passing. You had been young at the time, no larger than a child of seven years, and so full of wide-eyed belief and childlike wonder that it wasn’t difficult for your older brother to enchant you with stories of sand made of specs of gold, and crystal blue waters warm enough to melt away centuries of snow, and a horizon that knows no limit, stretching onward into an eternity of undiscovered lands, where not even the fiercest of dragons dared venture towards. You’d decided, then and there, that you would be the one to go discover such lands, man your own ship and set off along the perfect waters.

This dream would die, of course, many moons later, as you boarded your first ship and a great fear of it took grip of you.

Your mother hadn’t the heart to tell you the truth of the matter. Of how the beach Cregan had visited had been naught but a warsight, sand made of the dust of bones ground down by time, and water so violent it sweeps away anyone fool enough to dip their feet in, and the sea-creatures dwelling at the bottom of it, with more tentacles than eyes, and more teeth to ever dare count. She instead nodded, brushed the hair out of your eyes and promised you, one day, she would take you to the beach.

It isn’t quite what you expect it to be.

Toes buried in the sand, eyes watching as the tide rolls in only to roll back out. Unforgiving heat burning away at your corneas, the subtle blush of salt in the air. The constant rise and fall of waves collapsing into one another, the overwhelming loneliness that settles in as you realise it is only you here, no sight of your mother, her bones now long gone and buried beneath the walls of Winterfell alongside your father.

The dream of a child is wasted on the pitiful adult.

“Typically, people choose to bathe in the sea, not stare at it from the shore,” a voice calls on you from behind.

Across the beach, the prince strides, kicking up a storm of sand in his wake. A whole four days have come and gone since his arrival upon dragon’s back and, still, he has made no accommodations to his attire, the ever-present shades of Targaryen black and Hightower green sitting snug along his limbs. Without a doubt, the clothing of his house is out of place in this garden of blooming colour, yet the thought of him wearing anything but his leathers would be wrong. It wouldn’t be Aemond.

“I find I much prefer the view from here,” you remark, letting your eyes wander as far down as the length of his torso before you’re forcing them to look onward, back to the constant flow of the water. Something magnetic seems to tug at your soul, willing your feet to shuffle two steps closer to his incoming figure, drawn to close the space between. You dig your heels in the sand and will no further movement from yourself. “This is the first time I’ve stood upon a beach like this. It is… not what I’d expected. I feel no siren’s call towards the sea, no desire to soak myself within its merciless waters, no matter how tranquil and forgiving it may seem.”

The sun hovers low on the horizon, a hair’s breadth away from sinking beneath the line that separates sky from sea and taking with it what remains of the day, plundering the world into the darkness of night. There is a part of you that knows you should find your way back out of the alcove, through the rocky tunnel that feeds straight from the Martell’s summer home out onto the sandy beach, the call for supper soon encroaching on you and demanding your presence. 

But if to know is to care, then perhaps you are not so aware of what mannerly duties are expected of you, for you harbour no desire to attempt any movement that even dares remove you from the one-eyed prince’s presence. For too long, you’ve waited to be in it. 

“Surely you cannot truly claim to prefer standing here, if you do not yet know what it means to let the sea wash over you,” it’s hard to resist temptation, your eyes cast upon him once more. The same well-kept hair, the same brown patch covering his tarnished eye, the same ever-present pout upon his perfectly bowed lips — his time at Dragonstone has changed little of him. You wonder if he notices the changes in you. The lonely spark in your eyes, the threat of an incoming frown line, the sorrow that has rained down over your once positive mind, dampening you into nothing but a mirror of duty, set to obey the status quo laid out by the queens who came before you. “Declaring favour without so much as attempting another option, is that not so similar to settling?”

“You fail to consider that perhaps I am afraid to take the plunge,” an answer you fire with far too much haste, a chord struck within you, a conspiratorial mind that digs for deeper meaning than what the prince offers at base level. “Treading into sea from land is no safer than flinging one’s self off the sails of any ship. I am the queen, after all. I cannot be so reckless as to risk getting caught within waves and ripped beneath the surface by unforeseen currents. I have no desires to meet the Drowned God. Not all of us may rely on the luxury of deserting upon a dragon's back at the first spark of danger.”

Silence settles in between you like fog.

There is a call to anger that brews deep within you, one that has endured far too many moons of being trampled down under the weight of your own exhaustion, freed alas by the crashing of waves and the heat of the sun. 

In the days following the prince’s departure from court, you’d grieved. First had come the sadness, nights spent weeping into the smell of your own sheets, arms curled around your own self as you bathed away whatever lingering touch of his remained on you. Tears gave way to desperation. You picked up a quill, put ink to paper, wrote out the words he’d not given you the time to say, only to falter when the time came to send it off to Dragonstone and, instead, choose to burn it in the flames of your chambers’ hearth.

For a moment, watching how the fire ate up your fragile pleadings for answers from the prince, you’d felt that first flicker of anger. A warm, inviting temptress, blooming in the guts of your body, whispering riddles in your ear of how the prince had no right to play you for a fool, to plunder you both down into the pits of seduction, only to disappear in the night, leaving you stranded with no way back.

As quickly as the feeling arose, you shut it out, choosing instead the easier, more acceptable approach: you denied his very existence. When his name was mentioned at the dinner table, you ducked your head down, kept your focus on stabbing at the next piece of food with your fork. When dragons flew above the skies, weaving through the towers of the Keep, you refused to glance up. With time, it all grew easier, new duties thrust upon you as you and Aegon embarked on your first royal progress throughout the Westerlands, and less hours spent trapped within the walls of the very home in which he’d fled from you. It became as though the Prince had never even existed, much less the complications that came along with him.

Yet now, standing face to face once more, that temptress has returned, an iron fist of anger clasped around your heart.

The prince dares to call your name, gently, as though he’s yet to feel the burn of your glare piercing through his skull.

“Eight moons since you left court and not once have you returned,” your tone has more bite than even you are used to. Words that possess fangs, sinking deep into the prince and drawing blood with one foul swoop. He, of course, doesn’t show this, face as stoic as it's ever been. That singular eye, however, can’t hide the truth, widening slightly and wavering in its powerful stare as your ire rips a wound right through him. “When your dragon flew overhead, I thought this was it, at last you were here to see me. That perhaps you had caught wind of my travels and were no longer capable of denying yourself the need to come to me. Yet four times the sun has risen and you have made no effort to seek me out, you barely glance my way as we break bread at the same table, and you cut through corners to avoid crossing paths with me throughout the palace walls. Now you call upon me, after all this time, with the intention of… What? Sharing false small talk? What a fool you must take me for.”

“My departure was nothing personal, you should not take such offence,” whether he intended it or not, his answer almost seems to goad you, tossing more oil into an already raging fire. The condescension, the thoughtlessness, the implications of his words, dismissing the rightful irritation his actions have brought upon you and denouncing them as naught more than the silly fancies of a self-obsessed mind. It reminds you of Aegon, demeaning you without sparing it so much as a second thought. “I had no other choice but to leave.”

It hits you like a bucket of ice water, tossed upon the raging anger, not enough to scare it away yet enough to tamper it down, have it willing to at least listen to what possible reasons the prince may have had, and condemn him from there onwards. So, you enquire, “why?”

“What grows— Grew between us was dangerous. Deadly. It was not safe within the Keep, knowing our paths would keep crossing and feelings would complica-”

“Then you shut them out!” A step you take forward, the stomp of your foot kicking sand upon your ankles. You wish to invade his space, get him uncomfortable with the tangible closeness of your bodies, united upon common ground and beneath turbulent skies, yet with little remains of the interest you once possessed for the one-eyed prince, diluted by his abandonment in court. “Whatever those feelings are, you push them down until they no longer make noise within you, and you try to feel something else, for someone else, and you move along.” Much to your chagrin, the prince is turning his back on you, literally this time, twisting on both feet and seemingly attempting to flee the field of fire. You can not grace him with such sanctuary, hand darting out and catching a steady grasp on his forearm. “You do not simply take off at dawn’s first light!”

“Do you not think I have tried?” Aemond turns too quickly for you to process, stumbling backwards only to remain caught by his own hands, blunt nails pinching into the skin of your wrists as he presses them tight against his chest, his face so close to your own, you could commence counting his every eyelash. The sound of his voice, a musical combination of exasperation and desperation, holds priority over your attention. “For moons I would keep my distance, keep myself at bay. Only to lay it all to waste, time and time again, at the first sign of you needing me. No one has ever-” The prince pulls in a deep breath, a subtle shake of his head as he lets it free. His eye slips shut, only to reopen and stare upon you once more with a false promise of calm. “I have tried to lay this to rest, do not rob me of this fact. But, you see, it is hard to make a scar out of a wound you keep reopening.”

“You speak as though it were not you who made the first cut!” Try as he might, his peaceful tone of voice can not sway you to relax, your frustration doubling as the words burst out of you, hand fighting its way out of his hold and jabbing a finger at his solid chest. “Or was it not you who welcomed himself into my bed? Was it not you who offered to be my tutor? Was it not you who held me close, only to keep your distance and act as though nothing happened for weeks to come afterwards? But at least then you were still present in court. I mean, you could not even grace me with goodbye. Would it truly be so bad, Aemond, to feel something? So bad that you had to cross sea and mountain just to escape it?”

“When that something is for my brother’s wife, yes.”

“Oh, as though he cares!”

“He does! He would! What is it that you do not understand, Lady Stark?” It is fortunate no others are present to witness the way you and the prince stand so close, nose to nose, chests heaving every breath as though they may be your last, voices raising louder with each exclaim you throw each other's way. “Aegon would have my head on a spike if he knew the thoughts of you it conjures.”

“That is not true. I would not allow him,” both of you know it is a meaningless mutter. You have no control over Aegon, you never have. That doesn’t stop you from denying truths, an attempt at filling both your minds with fallacies of a future. “We could find a way. We have to at least try rid ourselves of the troubles he causes-”

“What would you have me do, woman? Kill my own brother?”

“You are hardly the one to play outrage at the thought of killing your own kin,” you don’t mean to say it. You know this because, the moment you do, your stomach drops and there’s the fear that you may in fact spill your guts up any second now. A mind both stubborn and still ruled by an anger conceived in sadness, you give yourself no choice but to push onward with your cruelty, no chance to apologise or take it all back, and do the one thing you’ve wanted to do since the prince first strolled into the halls of the Martell home: throw yourself at his feet and beg he never leave again. “What is it the smallfolk call you? Ah, yes, Prince Aemond the Kinslayer.”

For a moment, time ceases to be and the world no longer moves.

The waves do not crash, the birds do not sing, the air does not reach your lungs. A background that fades to grey, until all that is in focus is Aemond and the disbelief you strike within him. It’s a gentle progression, like ink staining paper, the way his teeth grind under a clenched jaw, and the way his nose flares almost defensively as though he’s trying to make himself appear as big as possible, and the way his eye moves through shock to anger to nothing. Two steps back, a pause, followed by another step back the moment your feet dare move an inch closer. A deep breath followed by a huff of anger, before at last he speaks again and the world falls back into view, full focus, full motion.

“My sister sent me to fetch you,” over the horizon, the sun is nearly gone and, with it, it’s warmth. You feel a chill run down your spine, a first since you arrived in Dorne. “She awaits you in the nursery.”

The prince has already turned and began to stride back from whence he came before you can even put thought to word, feet frozen in the sand as the rift between you opens wider.

Aemond disappears.

An act he is growing familiar with, a complete removal in the middle of the night, flying off on his war beast. And while you do your best to avoid glancing at the empty seats around the breakfast table, and feign disinterest at the mention of his name as it is spoken, you come to learn it is not Dragonstone he has fled towards, and it is not a journey he made alone.

In the fallout of the attempt on Helaena’s life, Sunspear had remained desolate. Men and women armed with metal and spears the only souls to move within the home, with rat catchers and maids welcomed on every third day of the week to maintain the home's upkeep. Even those who inhabit the city had retreated to the mountains, homes abandoned in fears and whispers of another Dornish war on the horizon, a new enemy yet to be unmasked.

It is Qoren Martell that decides enough is enough. Mounted upon his trusted steed, backed by a flock of his most trusted advisors and fiercest swordsmen, and with the protection of a dragonlord patrolling from the skies, he returned at last to the seat of his house. A letter reached Helaena’s hands, a reassurance of her husband and her brother’s safe arrival, followed by a promise to ensure the safety of both her and her children, a husband's devotion to bringing punishment to whomever orchestrated such a cowardly attack.

You receive your own letter, too. Penned by Aegon, the parchment informs you of his own travels, accompanied by his mother, to the riverlands. A show of good faith, he calls it, an attempt to mend what fragile loyalty remains after Aemond’s fire-filled rampage. You can’t imagine it is so easily fixed, with their lands scorched beyond use and half the riverlords struck down dead amidst their support towards Rhaenyra’s claim. Before you can dwell too long on the ghosts of recent history, Aegon closes off his writings with a request. Perhaps, it is a demand.

I believe we are overdue a talk, wife. Upon your return from Dorne, I do hope that you will find time to at last discuss the shadow that looms over our union. In the meantime, enjoy what remains of your stay with my sister, I am sure your company during this frightening time is much appreciated. I hear my brother has at last flown from his nest on Dragonstone. Perhaps he has more interest than I give him credit for in keeping this family safe.

You have yet to respond.

Trust this: it is not from a lack of trying. You have sat before parchment, quill clasped in hand, more times you can recall, and attempted to construct an appropriate reply. The first carried a stench of guilt, an involuntary admittance to something the king has yet to even accuse you of. The second, third, and fourth edition had been a stream of consciousness, in which nothing made sense and the letters all crashed into one another, written with shaky hands. The truth of the matter is that you’re not entirely sure what is expected of you, what kind of reply is desired.

On one hand, you could assume his words are a warning. A scarlet letter, branding itself upon your skin. He may know of Aemond’s presence and, with it, the possible scenarios that may play out between you two, meaning he knows of what has already transpired between his wife and brother. On the other hand, Aegon’s request could be about something as simple as the need to both agree on a redesign of tapestries within the throne room. Meaning it could be nothing of importance, nor danger, nor threat.

It does not make your hand sit any steadier as you make yet another attempt at conjuring your response.

“The Triarchy?” Helaena’s voice will never fail to soothe an unnamed ailment within you, so soft and welcoming you hardly believe she was raised in the same home as someone as brash as your husband.

“Hmm,” or as him. He returned this morning, at an hour one would hardly call appropriate, the screech of a dragon flying overhead your wake-up call, half falling out of your bed in shock. “It seems they’ve come to claim more than they were offered. Apparently the events at the Gullet were more bloody than they were promised, and now the Stepstones are not a good enough reward to compensate for the nameless men they lost. One must wonder how they did not expect the presence of dragons in a feud between dragonlords.”

The Targaryen siblings sit at the opposite end of the communal balcony from you, a crystal table adorned with golds and bronzes between them and two cups of wine — Helena’s remains untouched, Aemond has reached for his thrice. The view ahead is one of tranquil beauty, where children are playing in the fountains, leaves are rustling in the wind, and a sleeping she-dragon is sighted over the stretch of the Gardens’ walls. You almost wish to tell them to take their chatter of warfare and betrayals elsewhere.

You opt, instead, to continue staring down at the page in front of you, no more than three words cursed out in ink.

My King husband.

“My husband has not returned,” Helaena remarks on what you’d silently noted. Not only his absence, but the entirety of the fleet of Dornishmen who departed by his side, too.

“He remains at the seat of his house, sister. The people of Dorne need to know their so-called prince has not abandoned the city to savages,” in the corner of your eye, you see him, sat with his back perfectly straight and his hair impeccably done, one arm outstretched upon the table in front of him, the other plucking a grape off a vine and delivering it past his pouting lips. The image of him, relaxed and confident, angers you more than it would typically, your wound still unlicked from the incident down at the beach. “In the meantime, I am to fly to the Stepstones and remind them of the dangers of making enemies with a dragon. Should these pirates dare not retreat, then myself and the Lord Martell will begin talking war strategies, deliver an attack so brutal, they’ve neither the will nor the ability to strike back.” Let the history books know that you do not mean to laugh. It simply escapes you, too quickly heard by the siblings before you can even dare hide it. “Am I amusing you, Lady Stark?”

Four eyes, focused solely on you. Six, truly, if you factor in the cupbearer who’s feigning minding her own business, the watering-can she hovers over a bush of nearby roses long ago emptied and free of any liquid. Helaena’s stare is one of curiosity, a million unspoken questions flashing behind them as she bares witness to the tense atmosphere between you and the prince. Aemond’s own gaze is a challenge, a novel of unfinished business, the sour tone with which your last interaction ended still very much present, even if he tries to hide it behind a snide smile.

“Apologies, good-brother, I do not mean offence,” it is tempting to cast your eyes down onto the still blank page before you, will yourself to continue on with your task at hand — giving response to the Targaryen man who you truly owe it to by marriage — but that would mean breaking the intense stare that exists between you and Aemond. That would mean defeat. “Please, continue as you were. Do not let me distract you.”

It seems he too has no desire to forfeit in this war of eyes. There’s a brief squeak that plays as he slides his chair back, the arm that rests upon the table now bent at the elbow and serving as support to his weight as his frame leans closer in your direction. The smile on his lips only grows, rousing a deeper shade of unease in you. “If you’ve something to add, I insist. You are the queen after all, are you not? Who better to comment on the wars that ravage our lands than you, a lady who has never tasted blood.”

It strikes you, hot as fire, strong as iron.

You know in which way he means it, that you’ve never drawn blood from another, never pressed blade into flesh, never drained the life out of a man’s eyes. True intentions don’t stop you from being thrust back into that room, on that night. The sound of rain crashing down on the city, the stench of the two men in your chambers, the taste of your own blood on your tongue. Fighting, screaming, crying. Pleading for your life, running through the halls of the Keep for someplace safe to hide, someplace the rats couldn’t find you.

“Very well, if you insist,” you manage, as you always do, to shove the memory behind, lock it back in the cage of Unwanted Trinkets. May it play out only in your sleeping mind, where no one can witness the weakness it casts over you. Besides, there are more pressing matters at hand currently, such as matching wits with the Crown Prince. “If you cut the head off the serpent, ten more will grow in its place.”

“Sister, your patterns of speech seem to have influenced Aegon’s lady wife,” Helaena meets his words with a gentle smile, one that doesn’t quite match the glazed over look in her eyes. “Speak plainly.”

“Apologies, I believed your skills were at a level to understand such a simple riddle.” A frown bends, momentarily, at the skin of the prince’s forehead, as the cupbearer chokes back a�� snort of laughter. You would be lying if you said it doesn’t bring a sick kind of satisfaction, even if it’s immediately followed by a guilty kind of remorse, echoes of your true self, one who would never wish to place the handsome prince within such a public humiliation. “You are rushing into another war, after what will perhaps go down as the bloodiest one our lifetime will ever know. Have you considered that threatening them with the very cause of their ire is only bound to guarantee more backlash? Yes, there is a certain chance that you and Vhaghar will strike fear as you fly above. Maybe you will even burn a few pirates to make a point. But for every one you kill, countless more will take their place. Your viciousness will unite their armies.”

“Then how exactly do you suggest I answer those who would have my family killed? To those who would see our lands ravaged, and our women raped, and our men slain? Should we perhaps host a feast in their honour, open the gates to King’s Landing, lay down our swords and-”

“Give them what they want.”

“My sister’s head?”

“Repentance, apology. Tell them of your failings to protect them at the Gullet, mourn their losses. Mention how fortunate they were that at least the Lys fleet had not been sent into a bloody rampage,” you speak as though you have no reason to waiver in your idea. It is a testament to the years you’ve endured within the Keep, catching the tail-ends of conversations amidst the Council, and attempting to soothe Aegon’s insecurity driven rants of his lacking position among all those who would advise him. It had been your own duty, as his wife, to hold your tongue and speak no part of your mind, serving as nothing but a vessel of agreement to his own warped ideals on how his kingdom should be run. But Aegon is not here and the prince truly had insisted you speak. “Once you’ve made yourself the remorseful council, you must hire an assassin. There are plenty of them within the Free Cities. Whispers sing of tensions brewing amongst Tyrosh and Myr, the wives of their fallen men claim Sharako Lohar led them to their deaths. A Tyroshi killing a Myrish holds more threat to their cause than the great Prince Aemond Targaryen mounted upon his dragon. It will divide them, long enough for you to rinse your hands and let the infighting begin. They’ll be too busy killing one another to unite forces against you.”

Echoes of the children’s laughter fills the air. Glancing through the marble railing, you spy a few raven haired babes — cousins to Helaena’s own — scuttle around in the waters, splashing any who dares step in their line of sight. It carries a certain innocence, one you fear the day they lose.

The creak of leather, a crack of palm striking palm. Aemond sits further back in his chair, smirking as he lets his clapping come to a slow stop. “My my, with such advice, I do wonder why my brother has you here, instead of seated at his council.”

His words do not strike you as earnest, a syrupy kind of distaste laced throughout them. You meet him with a reinforced amicability, doe eyes and sweet mouth. “The King believes it is of more priority that I be here.”

“How curious,” what you wouldn’t give to wipe that smug look off of his face.  “Surely not because of Helaena’s attack. That happened days after you already set off.”

“You speak the truth, good-brother. The ravens upon Dragonstone must truly be put to work for you to be so clued in on my royal plans.” Let it be his turn, you think, to wear the consequence of his own embarrassment upon his face, a rosy tint creeping over the tips of his ears and a hitch in his otherwise calm breathing. “If you must know, the King sent me here to visit my niece and nephew. He believes time with your sister’s children will serve me well. An old folk tale has the maester convinced there is correlation between the presence of children and a woman’s fertility,” you seem to strike a chord within him, for the composure cracks a second time, long enough to let a chortle break through. “Am I amusing you, Prince Aemond?”

It feels good to throw back his own words in his face. So good, in fact, you feel a throb between your legs, a warmth buried only beneath a thin layer of pale cotton. Helaena at last takes a hold of her wine, swallowing down two heavy cups. There is trouble upon her face, one that almost makes you regret the conflict that plays out between her brother and you. As though she senses your eyes on her, she meets your gaze and shakes her head slowly, mouthing a series of words you can’t decipher.

“Apologies, Lady Stark,” Aemond, none the wiser, steals you back over to his side of the table, a fresh layer of amusement painted over his features. “I just find it curious that my brother sends you here, yet there is no sight of him. Forgive me if I am wrong, but don't both the man and woman have to be fertile if they wish to conceive a child?”

For a moment, there is only panic.

Panic that he knows of the private dwellings between yourself and the maester. Panic that he’s read through the lines, with that sharp mind of his, and joined the dots on why your marriage to Aegon is yet to prove fruitful. Panic that he knows of the conspiracies you yourself have yet to even pose against the King, the questions of his fertility disputed only between you, the maester, and your reflection.

You can not let him steal your leverage, not when it is one you’ve clutched so dearly against your chest, all in anticipation for the right moment to present it to Aegon.

The fear must not be too loud, too noticeable, and so you right yourself, reassure yourself that his words are no more the product of a sharp tongue aiming to cut, not of a mind meaning to threaten.

Gathering your paper and your ink, you rise from your seat at your own table and give the Targaryen pair a curt nod, dismissing yourself before you may linger too long on the true intentions of Aemond’s questioning of the King’s fertility.

“The Crown commands my King husband to deal with more pressing matters. It is a burden you should feel lucky you will never bare, Prince Aemond.”

Days pass with little of note.

The monotonous routine you’ve carved within the Water Gardens brings far more joy than the one you live, day in and day out, within the Keep. You do not tire of it so easily, and instead find beauty in the tranquillity, and comfort in the quiet rustling of the household. Qoren and his men remain absent, and the skeleton crew of guards that stay behind keep mostly to themselves, polite yet brief greetings exchanged when paths cross within the walls. Vhagar and her rider also hang nearby, a threat large enough you almost think the need for guards unnecessary. The Martell women keep close quarters, mothers and grandmothers who watch over their blooming children, indulging in their cups and sharing tales from their marital lives the women of the court would no doubt turn their noses up at. They have no shame, and it is frequent they encourage you and Helaena to do the same.

“We are the true keepers of power in our houses. We are the ones who give life through our cunts.”

You have yet to convince yourself this isn’t all part of a dream. A paradise, hidden amidst deserts of sand, where women claim the power of the land, and there is no reason to live if not to graze on freshly picked fruit and sleep the day away under the shades of palm trees. For some reason or another, you find yourself thinking of your good-mother, Alicent, and how deeply she deserves a life like this, free to rest alongside her darling daughter, away from the stresses of the courts, her temperamental sons, and her oligarch father.

The babe in your arms lets out a gentle coo.

At last he’s fallen asleep, no more tears running down his cheeks nor snot bubbling out of his nose. Wiped clean, tear free, he nestles easily into the arms of his aunt, comfort so aplenty his eyes threaten to fall into sleep with every blink he takes, those striking lilac eyes stubborn in their endeavour to look upon you a little longer.

You’d found him crying in his cot as you entered the nursery and had been quick to aid his poor wet-nurse, teats exposed and struggling to get the protesting child to drink. She, too, herself wore fallen tears, a great relief coming over her face as you gently took the babe out of her arms and insisted she go rest. Not a moment too soon, she departed out the room, leaving you alone with your nephew.

Of both of Helaena’s children, you’ve yet to spend much time with him. Moons old, he clings closely to his mother and his wet-nurse. His father too, when he sits present. He is a sweet boy, quick to smile at the simplest of things. The dark of his hair clashes against the blonde of his sister’s, and yet they both make up the perfect mix of their parents. The pair of them are everything your good-sister deserves.

Sinking into a rocking chair, you let the babe snuggle himself against your chest, the picture of innocence held safely in your hands. You peel one away from cradling him, too tempted to ignore your desire to run your pointer finger over the gentle slope of his button nose. The boy’s eyes slip shut a few moments, and you nearly believe you’ve succeeded, until they spring back open and he stretches a stubby arm out to capture your finger in his mighty claps, his entire fist covering no more than one of your knuckles. All the while, he’s smiling up at you, speaking in a language of coos you’ll never understand.

It doesn’t stop you from giggling, enamoured by his very existence as you let your feet begin to rock the seat ever so softly.

“You are a natural,” the prince’s voice is an intrusion that nearly leaves you jumping out of your bones. Dressed in his riding leathers, armed with his swords, he is every piece of the Aemond you have always known. And, yet, somehow he feels distant, different, changed. For a moment, you nearly convince yourself there is a longing in his eye, only to quickly remind yourself of the fraction that stands between you, a rift that remains divided, much as it may pain you. “I imagine you must be desperate for motherhood.”

“I must,” you agree, because that is what is expected of you. Then you recall you are far from the Keep, and it’s master of whispers, and circle of spies, free to speak upon a doubt you’ve never shared. It isn’t hard to convince yourself it holds no meaning that it is him you choose to share it with, he is merely the fool unlucky enough to have presented you with the opportunity to talk. “Must I? In truth, it scares me.”

A weight lifts off your shoulders, the deep breath that follows easier to achieve than ever before. A lady should only ever dream of motherhood, not cower from it. Yet, you find no judgement in the prince, only silence, the kind that implores you to continue speaking your mind.

“This fear, it is not for myself, but for any child I may have. Aegon, he is… a difficult man but I often wonder how much that crown upon his head is to blame. I ask myself, would he have turned out different, were he not groomed to sit upon that cursed throne? I do not want to bring a child into a world where it is no more than a chess-piece. To live a life where its only purpose is to fulfil the role of heir and wait around for its father to either die or grow so weak he must renounce his crown,” like river to sea, the fear flows out of you, spilling itself down your entire being, a cold chill striking at your heart. The boy in your arms tightens his hold upon your finger and attempts to pull it towards his gaping mouth. You try to picture the conqueror’s crown — your husband’s crow — upon its head, and grow fearsome at the image of it encased around the babe’s neck, his tiny face turned black and blue under the choke it holds him in. A blink of the eye and the babe is all rosy cheeks and golden skin once more, smiling with success as he suckles at the tip of your finger. “And that is only the curse of the eldest. I do not even wish to begin thinking of what would come to be of any other child I birthed, the spare to the Iron Throne, the hatred they’d cast my way for not having birthed them first. I do not want it, any of it. I do not want my children to experience the same childhood as Aegon and you-”

You feel more than you hear the way Aemond flinches at your choice of words. Where days ago you thrived in poking metaphorical needles at his frayed edges, now you wish you could swallow the words back in and erase them from existence. Dead and buried lays the anger that had so consumed you, the ghost it leaves behind wearing the name of acceptance.

The prince had claimed no other choice but to leave the Keep and, your own agreement to the side, you believed him.

“It was not so bad,” his voice comes out in that breathy tone you’ve come to know over the years, a feat he cannot help when emotion wells too high within him and clogs up the space in his throat. He moves in search of where you sit, a repeated clink ringing as the hilt of his sword meets the buckle on his green, leather jerkin with every step he takes. “There were good moments. A few with our father, most with our mother.” When Aemond at last stands before you, that singular eye glances down at how you never falter in your rocking of the child. The babe takes interest in him, too, sacrificing the grip on your finger to stretch out in search of some piece of the prince. “Your children will not know a childhood of my kind. They will be loved, nurtured, protected.”

“You speak as though it is a law, not simply a hope,” you say, a furrow brandishing itself across your brows as your eyes flick up to meet his face, momentarily, before quickly glancing back down to where the prince lays his hand out for his nephew to take, a delighted laugh shaking out of Helaena’s boy. “How can you be so certain?”

With his free hand, the prince bridges the gap between you, the warmth of his palm finding rest upon the side of your face, robbing you of any sight but his well-angled, sharply-defined features. “Because they will have you as a mother, Lady Stark,” it is barely a whisper, yet the heartbreak laced within it leaves behind a hole in your chest, vacant and bleeding. The pad of his thumb smooths over your cheek slowly, as though it moves at a will not controlled by the prince, pure instinct commanding it to comfort, to soothe. It would be easy, you think, to slip your eyes shut and sink into a fantasy where this is your life. A babe in your arms, Aemond at your side, that fluttery feeling in your chest swelling so large, it threatens to explode out of you. But the prince clears his throat and you are back in the real world, your nephew in your arms, your good-brother standing too close. “You must allow me to apolo-”

“Brother!” At the intrusion of Helaena’s voice, both of you jump back, his hand ripped from your cheek and the babe’s grip gone from his fingers. Your good-sister seems none the wiser to the scene played out before her, an earnest joy upon her face and her daughter’s legs dangling from where she sits propped on her mother’s hips.  “I did not think I’d find you here.”

It feels like an accusation, an imaginaged query that bites and snarls at your mind, threatening to strike you if you do not lay all your sins at her feet. Reminiscent of Aegon’s ominous letter, paranoia makes home once more within your bones.

The prince, on the other hand, appears as composed as ever. A memory plays on in your mind. His chamber walls, his taste fresh on your tongue, his mother stood across the room. Even then, inches away from being caught, he’d not even broken a sweat.

“I came only to announce my leave,” words you loathe to hear.  “Your husband and I have some matters to converse, arranging a meeting with the Triarchy being one of many.”

Helaena seems relit by a flame of excitement as she shuffles over to a nearby table, rifling through the many papers strewn across it, scribbles of figures and etchings of jumbled words stained on them. The parchment she settles on seems to be the only one folded over neatly, not a single wrinkle to be found as she holds it out towards her brother. “Please, see that this reaches my husband!”

He can only nod in agreement, slender fingers plucking the parchment from her own before tucking it safely within an inner-pocket of his jerkin. Though his back is facing you and his attention remains on his dear sister, the words that follow out his mouth feel as though they’re meant for your ears only. “I will return in five days.”

Your eyes seem to linger on the door long after he’s walked out of it, Helaena talking away in your ear while a desire to sleep what remains of the day away takes root within you.

The prince turns out to be a liar.

Five agonising days come and go, each more tortuous than the last. The hours seem to crawl, slower than Helaena’s newborn, and the greatest curse known to woman befalls you, a stain of red between your thighs and an agonising pain stabbing at your abdomen. At the very least, you try to console yourself, it falls here, under sun and sand, and not in the stone cold walls of the Keep. You won’t have to face Aegon’s snide comments as you announce the repeated failing of your couplings, just this once.

A sixth day dawns, and no sign of a prince nor a dragon shadows over you. A fact you pretend not to notice, a promise of disinterest upon your face as Helaena comments on her brother’s absence seven days after his departure.

On the eighth day, a letter arrives, your name branded upon it. It carries word from your brother. One part heartbreak, the other part intent on mending it. The death of your Septa, taken in her sleep as peacefully as many may only dream of, and the birth of a new Stark. His only daughter, seven years her brother’s junior and, yet, already the apple of his eye. Cregan writes of how the instant he held her in his arms, he was brought back to the first time he’d held you as a babe, all squirming limbs and sniffling tears, and thought there was no better name for such a child than your own, in honour of her Queen aunt.

The news makes your heart ache, a longing for a home that no longer exists — at least not in the way you remember it — that crashes over you and spills out of you, tears staining your cheeks as you lay restless in your bed, the ceiling above blurred by your own sorrow. You should be there, in Winterfell, warmed by furs and surrounded by family. True family, not the disfigured image of it the Targaryen house tries to uphold.

Were your father alive, you would be where the wolves belong. In the north, wife to a Karstark, or a Mormont, or any other house that bears its sigil and bends the knee to the Warden of the North. You no doubt would be happy, whether there be love in your marriage or not, with a handful of children to occupy your time and your childhood home no more than a few days ride away at all times. Perhaps you would live an entire life never casting sight upon the King, or the Crown Prince. They’d be only names in a history book, royalty out of reach. Would life have been easier this way?

A door slams.

A fact you’d dare not take note of, were it not for the late hour, the outside world already enveloped by darkness hours before. You rise slowly from the mattress, the sheets pool around the naked skin of your waist. Sitting patiently, you await another disturbance to the quiet, pray for something familiar, like the gentle pitter patter of mischievous children running down halls, or Helaena’s voice calling out your name, awaiting entrance to your chambers. It wouldn’t be the first of her midnight visits, a comfort you’ve both come to seek in each other when the night is dark, and the palace is silent, and no greater time exists to exchange laughter like the young girls you’d both wished to have been, free of duty, free of pressure, free to live.

But there’s no calling of your name this evening, and so you settle with the silence that remains. With no sleep on the horizon, and no sign of Helaena’s company, you decide you must at least try to induce your own rest. Covering your naked skin with a dress that lays discarded at your bedside, you inch your way over to the unlit hearth and work at starting up a fire. When a spark lights and the crimson flames begin to dance among themselves, you secure a pot of water over it. Your mother always swore there was nothing that could not be fixed with the sacred remedy of her herbal tea, not even insomnia. And though you’ve not quite her mother’s touch, you’d sat by her side plenty a times as a child to give the recipe a try.

Another bang rings out.

Your heart seems to still, as do your hands. With only a blink of the eye, your head fills with visions of a massacre. An intruder, who’s sat idly by and waited until now, when only women, children and a handful of guards inhabit the home, to enact their butchering. Perhaps it is an opportunistic attack, a nameless nobody, with no real idea who sits inside the lavish walls of the Gardens, stumbling across the residency and deciding to try their luck at breaching the unguarded walls. The more horrors you envision, the louder the voice in your head grows as it commands you to move, take action. At odds with your own self, your body seems to move on account of some other force, rushing over to the chamber’s vanity. Searching for something to do harm with, you find it in the shape of a letter opener. Thin, delicate yet razor sharp, a silver knife you clutch within your palm.

The chamber door creaks as you open it, much to your dismay. You pause, awaiting a terrible discovery from someone, faceless among the shadows of darkness. There is only silence, again, until another noise plays out.

The sound is human, you have no doubt, a sharp inhale or a pained hiss between clenched teeth. Your fingers curl tighter around your weapon of choice. The sound repeats and plays out longer than the last. Your eyes flicker to a door. A little down the hall from your own, it sits ajar, a light within it bleeds out into the darkness. Another hiss sings out into the night through the crack between the door and its frame.

You steal your breath, tread only on the tips of your feet. Inch closer, and closer, and closer to the door. With your free hand grasping at the handle, the other gripping even tighter at the envelope opener, you pull the door open and raise your weapon, preparing to at last strike the danger, the threat, the intruder, the… “Aemond?”

The prince stands across the room, his back facing you. A looking glass before him, the image he reflects within it is fickle, forever morphing under the flickering light of several low burning candles. If not for the signature starlight silver tresses, he’d be scarcely recognisable.

“My apologies,” at the sound of his familiar voice, you feel your shoulders slouch and your nails retract out of the skin of your palm as the grip on your weapon loosens, your hand lowering back down to your side. There is no intruder, no attacker, no danger. There is only Aemond, a man who only steals away any fear of harm you may possess. Perhaps that is why it is easy to let yourself give into the temptation to inch closer into the chamber, even if he gives you no leave to do so. The two steps you take announce themselves with an echo. “I did not mean to wake you.”

“It has been nine days,” it is a pathetic proclamation made in desperation, yet it is spoken all the same, a tremble in your voice that matches the one in your chest.

The prince makes no move to face you, his focus stuck on the mirror in front of him. You squint your eyes, and try to make sense of the image he paints in his reflection, but it is a useless action. What you do manage to see is the lack of a leather strap fastened around the back of his head. The eyepatch sits disregarded by his feet, as though ripped off with haste.

“I had duties to attend in King’s Landing,” his hands ball into fists as your stomach twists with knots. The movement calls upon your attention and only then do you notice it, the stain of blood upon his fingers. “My mother requested my presence.” 

It is unnerving to picture him in the Keep, the threat of Aegon’s letter still weighing heavy on your mind. Had the two ran into each other, crossed paths within a hall? Is that why blood now drips from between his knuckles onto the cold floor below? Impossible, you try to reason with your own mind, for surely Aegon would not let him walk away with his life if he knew of your betrayal. But perhaps it is the King who met a certain fate and the blood on the prince’s skin belongs to him. Aemond has always been more skilled in battle, after all. The remnants of dinner turn in your stomach as bile swells up the canal of your throat, an acidic burn that makes a nest for itself at the back of your mouth.

“Are you hurt?” Another hiss slips past his teeth as you question his state, as if the gods mean to rob him of any right to deny it.

“The hour is late, Lady Stark,” the fist squeezes tighter by his side, a second drop of blood splashing to the floor. You step closer and search for a better view, the face in the mirror still obscured. “Return to your chambers.”

“Aemond,” you give a silent prayer, inching closer, eyes stuck on the width of his leather-clad back. The stench of dragon still reeks off them. He must have just arrived. You reach a hand out, so close to touching him, yet far enough that you feel no reprieve of feeling the man you’ve long now missed. “My prince, something brings you pain. Let me help you-”

“Do not come any closer.”

“You cannot expect me to rest, knowing you are injured!”

“It is for your own good,” the mirror gives away his frown and how it shadows over the rest of his face, a mass of darkness haloed by burning light. Were the timing more suited, you’d take note of how angelic the image is, one of pure divinity, a man so infused with beauty, the Gods grant you no grace to gaze upon him. A third drop of blood hits the floor, though this one does not fall from his hand. “This is not a sight suitable for a lady.”

“Gods be good! Aemond, be quiet,” you say, louder than you intended. In a fear of waking anybody else, you clear your throat and compose your nerves. “You do not get to decide what sights are suitable for me. I do.”

By some miracle, the prince puts no effort into halting you from twisting him around to face you. At the curl of your fingers around his forearm, he’s already turning into your touch, feet smudging the red blood across the floor as they move to point towards you. Once your eyes dance up the length of him, scanning for the first sign of a bleeding wound, and settle upon his face, you come to realise what reaction he expects of you.

A disgusted grimace, or a terrified scream, or a heartless laugh. Whatever it is the prince sits awaiting, he does not receive it. You do not even flinch as you take in the sight of his left eye, no leather to hide it, no sapphire that fills it. An empty socket, marred by scar tissue, a bleeding gash reopened atop his eyebrow. A river made of pain and the essence of his life, that flows down the length of his face and drips off the razor sharp edge of his jaw.

“I warned you,” the prince speaks with false pride, one you do not fail to see right through, even as his intact eye stares you down in a challenge, daring you to give him the disgust he thinks he deserves.

“Come,” you plead instead, hand slipping down to grip at his wrist. “Let me see you in a better light.”

He gives no fight against you as you begin to lead him away from the looking glass, grip tightening and pulling further away as you watch him attempt to grasp at the sapphire sphere he leaves behind. As the two of you slip through the chamber doorway, out into the dark hall, your sweating palm loses its hold on the leather. The prince’s hand catches yours, denying it retrieval back down to your side, an effortless lacing of fingers that serves only to make your journey all that easier, pulling him along behind you, hand in hand, to your chambers.

“Sit,” a poor attempt at commanding, finger pointing over at the chair that lives in front of your vanity. The prince makes no move towards it, hand gripping firmly at your own as you go to move away, eyeing the steaming pot atop your hearth. “Sit.”

He listens, at last, and you are free to move onwards with your goals, lighting a few more candles within the chambers before dashing over to collect the warmed water. By the vanity, the prince sits, head tipped to the ground, those blonde locks curtaining him out of sight as you make your way over. Delicate with each movement, you rest the boiled pot atop the dresser and grab at the first piece of fabric you can find. Your own smallclothes, freshly washed and folded only hours ago. 

The slosh of water within the pot as you submerge the fabric seems to snap him out of his daze, regaining his voice if only to speak words you’ve already grown tired of hearing.“This fuss is not necess-”

“Hush now,” the stubborn voice within you can not allow him to finish his sentence. Busy hands ring the soaked smallclothes. Most droplets of water rain back into the pot, while a few dance their own paths down your forearms. “What happened?”

“I insist, Lady Stark.”

“As do I,” cloth meets skin at last, a gentle swipe over the length of the prince’s jaw. Briefly, you feel the weight of the prince’s stare upon you, only for it to return to the floor the instant you try to catch it with your eyes.

You drag the linen over his skin a second time, inching a little further up. There’s a horrible tug at your heart as you smell that metallic haze blood carries. The pain only grows more intense as you watch how quickly harsh red makes home for itself in soft linen, a stain that promises to remain forever engraved.

In new light, the brightness that envelops your chambers, you’re given a better view of the damage he occults beneath that eyepatch. Some may call it a warrior's mark, a sacrifice given in exchange for the glory of claiming the last of the Conquerors’ dragons, but all you see is a blade that ripped out a child’s eye.

You do not feel disgust, not even an ounce. The gouge is a gruesome sight, that no one can deny, yet you feel oddly drawn to it. It is as though you at last see Prince Aemond, instead of the One-Eyed Prince that so fearsomely struts his way through the realm. Vulnerable, naked, whole, beautiful. Never have you felt so drawn to reach for him, draw him closer.

“It appears worse than it truly is,” at last the prince answers. “It is a flight wound. The air over Dorne is riddled with sand, it must have tore at some of the scarring.”

“Does it happen often?” You inch a little closer, till his knee bumps against your leg, and tell yourself it’s to get a better view, keep your hand more steady as it swipes further up his face, washing away at the blood upon it.

“Not so much, anymore,” you dunk the makeshift rag back into the water, the bile burning harsher at your throat as you watch how the crimson hue washes out into the clear of the bowl. You ring it out, soak it once more, only to ring it out again before you deliver it back to his face, the pathway of blood diminished to naught but the reopened skin of his brow. “Long flights are always unpredictable. Some I fair just fine, others I dismount to find my sapphire causes me pain, the skin beneath dried by the cold sky.”

The prince grimaces as you drag the smallclothes over the tear in his face, yet he dismisses your apology, reassures you that he is fine. You pretend you believe him, even if the frown remains indented upon his forehead as you finish cleaning the wound. 

With the promise of being gentle, and a hand pressed against your own heart as you vouch for your skills with the needle and your experience at dressing your brother’s wounds, the prince agrees to let you thread his skin shut. You’re quick to heat a needle under flame, and even quicker to hastily rip a loose thread off one of the untouched gowns in your trunk, returning to the vanity with the speed of a dragon’s wings.

As if hearing your thoughts, a rumbled screech echoes out into the night, just past the gates of the Martell home. You’ve half the mind to think it is Vhagar voicing her rider’s pain on behalf of him, as he sits quiet while you pierce the needle into him at last.

“It is unfair,” you mutter, much before you can stop yourself, as you thread a second loop, watching how the skin reunites with skin once more. “What happened to you, Aemond.”

“It made me the man I am today,” Rehearsed, empty of feeling, you wonder how used to those words the man has grown. Does he truly believe himself? “I am better for it.”

“I’m sorry,” a third loop, and then a fourth. The dark thread stands out against the pale of his flesh, you’re almost certain it will be visible even with the cover of his eyepatch. “For what I said to you on the beach. I was unnecessarily cruel.”

“You owe no apology, most certainly not to me,” a pained hiss flies out of him as you stab a little too harshly, a hand grips around the back of your thigh, as if to stabilise your shaking limbs. It carries the opposite effect, the tremble creeping up to reach your fingertips, the needle threatening to fall under your own nerves. Still, the prince does not verbalise his pain, never tells you to stop. The hand upon your clothed thigh squeezes a single pulse, a quiet command to continue stitching his brow. “You spoke only the truth, I have slayed my own kin,” his voice infects the room with an emotionless air, a murder stated as simply as a fact bringing a chill down your spine. You loop a fifth and final stitch. “It is I who owe you an apology. I should not have taken advantage of you that evening, in my chambers. Nor on the boat, nor your own chambers before that. Neither of us were acting in our right minds.”

“Take advantage of me? You speak such nonsense,” you do not like the way his eye returns to looking past you, nor the emptiness in his voice. “Do you ever… Regret it?” You ask, before you realise you are not quite ready for his answer, nor willing to have what remains of the illusion between you shattered. You cannot bear to be just another warm body to a second Targaryen man, and so you scramble to redirect the question. “Storm’s End, I mean.”

“No.” Heavy, powerful, punctuated. Aemond does not hesitate, even for a moment, to negate it. Still, his gaze will not meet your own. “Given the chance, I’d do it all the very same.”

“I do not believe you,” you speak, only after silence tries to creep its way back between you. The emptiness of your palm calls for the heat of his skin. You ball your hand into a fist, resist the urge to let it find rest upon the scarred side of his face. “You are not so heartless.”

“You do not know me as well as you think, Lady Stark.”

“That is of no cause of my own. I am here, idle and waiting, wishing to know more of you,” denial is futile, your hand makes its own way onto his face, forcing his focus back onto you.  "You are not the heartless monster of some bedtime story, Aemond,” you can only pray to the Seven he can hear how much you mean it. The thumb that rests against his cheek moves absent-midedly, a soothing rhythm against the soft of his skin. “No matter how much you may try to play the part, you feel. There’s no inch of you that scares me, it is fruitless to even try. I may not know you, but I see you. All of you. Man, myth, and heart.”

The wood that burns in the hearth cracks.

The birds outside the window flap their wings.

The dragon by the gates screeches.

But no sound follows from the prince.

There is only his eye, set on you and unblinking, frozen with a quiet that unnerves you. For an instant, you fear you’ve angered him. Struck a chord, made him feel weak. Played so far into your fantasies that you have cast a false identity onto him and, now, he means only to show just how wrong you are, just how little you truly see of him.

He rises out of the seat as slow as the sun does over the horizon, long limbs that stretch to stand tall and stable, and threaten to cast a shadow over even the largest of men. Your hand slips from his cheek and you take a cautious step back, an apology on the tip of your tongue.

An apology you don’t get to speak, as the prince envelops your lips with his own.

Startled, you cry out against his mouth, and it is enough to send him stumbling his own step back, eye wide with shock and his chest heaving with deep breaths.

“Lady Stark,” he starts, only a whisper of that earlier false confidence remains. “I am sor-”

“Shut up,” you don’t let him finish. Can’t let him finish, surging towards him and dragging his mouth to meet your own once more.

It is everything a younger version of yourself had thought a kiss would be.

Hands that seek the warmth of skin, lips that move with the grace of water. The two of you melt into each other, a burning desire that’s been left too long unattended at last burst into raging fires.

His arms wrap around your waist, as easily as yours grapple at his shoulders, frantic in their aim to pull him closer. His lips are soft, pink rosebuds that mean no harm as they attempt to consume you whole, his tongue a viper, striking hot venom with each lave it delivers.

There is no time for thinking. Of the dangers, and the possibilities, and the downright wrongness of your actions. Of the courts, and the spiders, and the King. Of the blood ties, and the marital vows, and the eyes of the Seven looking down. There is only Aemond, strong, and sweet, and present, pressed against you and, still, begging for less distance as he stumbles forward into you, your own feet making new space for him as you shuffle idly backwards.

Lungs that scream for air, lips that struggle to part. You make the first move, a hand on his cheek as you turn your face. His lips chase your own through the darkness of closed eyes, delivering a pleading of three pecks upon them before, at last, he gives you respite.

For a moment, there is only the repeated intake of air and heart beats that run off with the wind, forever to be lost to the wild.

“Being near you, all these days,” there’s an edge to his voice, a rasp he whispers over and stumbles on. The press of his forehead into your own, as mouths rest inches apart, lips that brush against one another as the prince continues to speak. “Watching you sweat under the sun, and care for the children,” the hands upon your body grab at the thin fabric of your dress, balling it into fists that squeeze and tug at orange cotton. “And move in these pathetic excuses for dresses,” he speaks with the desperation you feel, a warmth stirring in your loins as Aemond — consciously or not — slowly inches the hem of the dress further up your calf. “You do not understand the torment it has brought me to keep myself at bay.”

As though having spoken all he deems necessary, the prince’s kiss returns to you. For only a moment, it lingers on your lips before his focus redirects itself elsewhere and he’s chasing a pathway only he can see down the side of your jaw, his lips running off with his own kisses.

“Yet you instead chose to spend all that time at my neck,” you somehow find the ability to think, even as he melts your mind like a dragon’s breath melts armour, one clear swoop and you are at his mercy, hand tangled amidst the hair at the back of his head and holding him secure in his place against you.

Aemond smirks against your skin, trailing kisses over the expanse of your throat and dragging his lips up to the shell of your ear, the perfect excuse to whisper into it how, “some would say I am more at your neck now than I have ever been, Lady Stark.”

There is a collision between where his mouth lies and where his hands wander that leads to a peaceful departure of his kisses, a far more pressing matter at hand: undressing you. The prince seems to do so without giving it much thought, only for the gravity of his action to strike him, ice cold water and melted iron, as he takes in the sight of you, bare as the day you were brought into the world.

It does not matter that he lacks an eye, for the one he possesses carries the weight of a thousand men’s stares. A slow, agonising pause falls over his frantic need, as the prince falls into a trance, tracing over what feels to be every bump and every blemish that marks and shapes your body.

Never have you felt so exposed, not even the harrowing events of your bedding ceremony dare compare. You mean to find modesty, fruitless as it may seem, crossing one leg over the other while your arms do the same over your breasts. He can’t let that be, his own hands shooting out to gently grasp at your wrists and tug at them. Like the prince let you guide him to your chambers, you let him bare you to his eyes once more as your hands fall back to your side.

The intense stare continues, as does the silence, but, alas, he puts his skin to yours once more, a single finger that dances over the expanse of your clavicle, a teasing waltz that dips slowly between the valley of your breasts only to rise again. It takes interest in your left breast, skimming over the swell of it and, as it reaches the nipple, a second finger joins the cause. Together, they clamp round the soft flesh, a gentle pinch that pulls at an invisible string connected to your cunt, the start of an itch that demands to be scratched.

“This is wrong,” Aemond whispers, as if the words are not even meant to reach your ears. 

“So wrong,” you can’t help but echo back. There is a shake in your breath you don’t expect.

“I should not be touching you,” yet he makes no attempt to stop touching you, feet inching closer and his forehead resting against your own. “Only hours ago, I broke bread at the same table as your husband.”

The weight of his gaze lands on your lips. You await the reunion of his mouth and your own, but it never comes. Instead, his head dips down and the very same lips he uses to scowl delicately envelope the peak of your right breast. His mouth is warm, his tongue is curious, and his teeth give a gentle nibble to your right breast, in tandem with the pinch of his fingers on your left breast.

“Aemond,” a futile plea of his name. Your body calls to him, the way it only does for the prince, a subconscious squeeze of your thighs bringing a sweet drop of relief in the desert of desire.

He forces himself off of you, a sign of desperation between his kiss-swollen lips, pink, and plump, and shining with the wet of his own mouth, a perfect match to the residue of saliva he has stained upon your breast. 

“Tell me to leave,” he demands, yet makes no attempt to flee as your hand clasps at the top buckle of his jerkin, nor as you undone it and move down to the second buckle. “Before I lose any modicum of composure I still possess.”

You do no such thing.

You do not even speak.

Both eyes glued to his one, you inch your way backwards blindly, until your legs hit the edge of the bed. You let yourself fall back, unable to hold back a giggle as the mattress bounces you several times. The prince still stands a foot away, top buckles undone and the two that remain strain against the heaving of each breath that enters his chest.

“You stare too much, Prince One-Eye,” an unexplored part of you seems to take the reigns, a version of you that teases, and mocks, and feels no shame as you bend your legs at the knee, plant your feet flat against the bed, and slowly let your thighs part, baring your naked centre in a quiet offering. “Do you never tire of observing instead of participating?”

His footsteps echo, a slow approach towards the bed. He makes no sound, yet his face speaks a thousand words of longing, hunger, lust, all framed in a tightly bound brow, a pointed nose, sharply carved cheekbones, and lips that hover apart, drifting further from one another to make way for a rosy tongue that wets the lower lip. Like treacle slips down the tree or honey drips from its comb, the prince sinks slowly to his knees at the edge of the bed.

The image of a man at prayer, so buried in his worship that the caps of his knees bruise a pretty purple, made into a sin by the tugging at ankles, and the grabbing of naked thighs, and the hoisting of a single leg over a shoulder. He turns his face, closes his eye, and delivers a whisper of a kiss against the lower calf that rests upon him. It is a slow advance down into the well of madness, both the journey his lips make along your skin and the longing that it awakens in you, a heat that rises, and rises, and rises between your legs, melting away into a wetness of sin that dribbles its own path out the eye of your cunt and down the swell of your rump.

“Aemond,” it has become something more of a plea than a name. A call for something, anything, so long as it soothes your ache and laves your burning skin back to health, back to sanity. The prince protests with a tight squeeze around the meat of your thighs, his mouth paused above your knee. The eye reopens, blinks at you twice, before it shuts once more and he continues his descent down the length of you, growing closer to the apex of your legs with each fleeting kiss. 

When he strikes, he strikes hot. Like dragon’s breath, the prince’s mouth melts you beneath its kiss, open-mouthed upon the slickened lips of your cunt. Another kiss follows close behind as the prince continues a short journey higher, lips enveloping the hardened pearl that rests atop your centre. The leg on his shoulders jerks inwards, delivering a harsh kick of your heel against his back, yet Aemond barely seems to notice, too lost in the feast he sets himself between your legs.

He delves into you with reckless abandon, open mouth and curious tongue. They are a fearsome pair, who move over the length of your cunt with the grace of any great waltz. Lips pull the tongue in, and explore the pleasures of suckling at your pearl like a babe does its mothers teat. They descend further in their dance, twisting and twirling, parted lips and dipping tongue. You are rendered speechless, unable to speak much other than his Valyrian name and a cacophony of wanton moans, and shivered gasps, and back-arching whines, your head thrown back and your eyes feeling the need to shut. You cannot let the sight escape you, too far and too dark does the memory of the night in your chambers now live, more of a picture book than a motion play-by-play of the ways in which the prince had ravaged you between your thighs, the original sin of kin-by-law, kin by king. 

You’re barreling towards your own undoing, mouth barely finding time to breathe between each coo, and whimper, and cry it gifts the prince in honour of his efforts. Where he calls, you seem to follow, hips moving on their own accord to meet the breaching of his tongue between the warmth of your walls. He welcomes the movement, a groan of approval and the reopening of his eye, if only to stare at you intensely before returning his focus to what matters: delving in between your thighs.

“Ah,” he nods at your pitiful proclaim, and you swear you feel him draw out each letter of his own name upon your skin, branding you with his tongue and forsaking you to a life you already lead where the dragon prince is the only man to master the skill of pleasing you, of bringing you to a peak so thrilling it is hot white, burning, and blinding, and, unfortunately, fleeting, a beauty the gods gift you only a moment in time with, rather than the eternity you long for. 

With your good-brother’s tongue burrowed as deep as it may reach within your cunt, and his hands grasping your flailing legs tightly by the thigh, and his nose swiping back and forth at your pearl as your hips bend and rise to meet the strokes of his mouth, you at last take a tumble off the mountain of desire, rolling directly into a river of your own peak that stains the prince’s mouth. He answers it with open lips and delighted grunts, a gentleman who dares not leave a single drop of his prize go to waste.

It takes you time to regain your composure, and even longer to regain your breath, mind floating out your own head and drifting somewhere among the clouds, leaving the puddle of limbs that becomes your body. The prince, however, takes no pause, no break, no reprieve, the lips you stain with your own pleasure travelling a new path up the slope of your gut, the dip of your belly-button, the valley sloped by your heaving breast, the clavicle that shakes under the beat of a racing heart, the length of your neck that begs to be turned purple and blue by possessive lips, all the way to your ringing ears.

“Tell me you want this,” his command is but a whisper beneath the rush of your own heartbeat, so quiet you fear you mishear him. As if to reassure that your ears do not deceive you, he repeats the very same words, louder.

You nod, wordlessly, though your mind lies leagues away from rationality and you’ve little to no idea what the prince means by this. All you know is that if Aemond is willing to give, you are happy to take, no matter the nature of his gift.

No clothes live between you any longer, the prince undressed in your moments of delirium, leaving you both bare bod against bare bod, warm to touch and eager to explore and be explored, conquer and be conquered. The leg that sat upon his shoulder now clings onto it only by the ankle, the knee of it bent and sitting firmly between both your chests. The stretch of the angle brings a sweet pain to the back of your thigh, the muscle pulled taught like a bow ready to be released and shoot an arrow out into the night.

There is something hard, heavy, and warm that rests against your lower stomach, and it takes you glancing down to notice the familiar length of his cock, pink-tipped and spilling a tease of what seed lives within it against your skin, a liquid that shines under the flickering candlelight. The fire in the hearth has already lost its flame, yet you feel no chill while laying naked against the night. Though you’ve no doubt anybody feels a chill in the dornish air this evening, you prefer to credit this phenomenon to the blanket of muscle that hovers over you, four limbs, two hands and one eye that warms you beneath its stare, greater than any sun or hearth may dare.

“Tell me. Say it,” he grows desperate in his words, a hand slipping up between your bodies to grasp at your face and pull you back down to earth, eyes on him and mind back in the safety of your own head. When he catches you looking at him, at last, he seems incapable of stopping himself, bringing his mouth down against your own, a desperate parting of lips and the curious exploration of a tongue eager to taste yourself from upon his lips. Your essence tastes sweeter than you imagined, yet simultaneously more tart. Like a raspberry, freshly picked, you needn’t wonder why he feasted upon you with such delight. “Tell me I am not taking that which you are not willing to give.”

It’s not clear who out of the two of you moves, but the action gives way to friction between you, a buzz of pleasure that shoots down both your spines as you grind, body to body, mouth to mouth, heart to heart.

You realise then what he’s asking of you, the tension that has lay, building stronger and fortifying its defences over the course of an unspoken number of years, from the first moment you lay eyes on him and the night you married his own brother under his own watchful eye, to the nights of pleasantries exchange at feasts and indiscretions exchanged thrice in the privacy of each other’s company, all leading to this, right now, both of you as bare as the Mother delivered you into this world and desperate to let the fever of lust at last break between you.

So you nod your head, and quickly realise that’s not enough.

“A man cannot take what is already his,” the prince between your thighs seems to approve of your words, the hand upon your face reaching down to grasp at the length of his manhood as he aligns his hips with your own, before dragging the tip of himself between the mouth of your cunt, all the way up against the hardened nub that lives above it. “Aemond, I want this. I want you.”

“Yeah?” He croons against your mouth, tongue dipping down to brush against your own, lips parted as a single breath of air passes back and forth between you.

You nod your head for a third time this evening, curl an arm around his neck as you pull his mouth fully against your own, losing yourselves once more in a kiss of tangled limbs and racing hearts, neither mind thinking of the risks that lay on the road ahead. There are no vows that bind you by law, no customs that dictate how you should interact with each other. There are only two bodies, bare upon a bed, losing themselves in one another.

His lips are the first to drift away, while your own continue to press against the sharp line of his jaw. The weight of his forehead presses into your own, the heat of his breath warms your ear, and the tips of his fingers drag over your thigh as he takes hold of his cock once more.

“Then it is decided,” he mutters, half distracted, it seems, as the mushroomed tip of his prick at last breaches the opening of your weeping slit. “I’m going to defile you, Lady Stark.”

The first thrust is shallow. You welcome him with a delighted gasp and a tight grasp at his blonde locks. It’s not long after that he gives a second push and, lastly, a third, till the base of his cock kisses against your soaked lower lips and his stones rest against the swell of your arse.

With Aegon, the process of your couplings is ritualistic. Him, drunk out of his wits, you staring blankly at some blurry horizon. You’d cried at the beginning, till war had come and taking your husband between your legs was no longer the scariest threat that loomed in the shadows. There is always that initial pain that fades into mute pleasure, teasing you with the thought of enjoyment, only for it to be snatched away all too soon as your husband spends his seed and takes his leave, a sardonic voice that calls over his shoulder, “let’s hope you make yourself useful and spare us the need of repeating this come the next moon.”

There is a pain now, as the walls of your cunt spread and mould themselves tightly around the shape of another man’s cock, yet it doesn’t deter you. It awakens you, makes you crave a greater dose of the toe-curling pain as the prince stills himself, fully sheathed within you, mouth dancing across the skin of your neck, the length of your jaw, the dip of your clavicle. He’s everywhere upon you, a blanket of Aemond, and still it is not enough. 

The prince grasps at your ankle, yielding it down from the pedestal it took upon his shoulder. In an act of pure instinct, you choose not to lay it rest on the bed but, instead, find yourself hooking it over the slender frame of his waist. You fight back a wanton whine as it drives him closer to you, deeper in you. He takes it as his command to move at last.

It starts off slow. A testing of waters, a low burning ember. His hips retreat from your own, only to undulate back down against you, smooth as a hot blade cuts through butter. Your body reacts with ease, legs begging to spread further than they can dare go, a display of how willing it is to offer you, whole and hole, to the prince. It makes it easy to drag your mind away from your husband, and the many misdeeds of your marital bed, and the anger that begs to be called upon when you think of the years you’ve spent being bowed and broken-in by a man who knows no pleasure but his own.

You find yourself turning Aemond’s face away from your neck and up to your parted lips, need to connect with every part of him that you can as your other hand lays splayed across his muscled back, delighting as it tightens and loosens beneath your fingertips, a pattern that only doubles in speed with each passing moment, a testament to the prince finding his footing, setting a pace with which to ruck himself into your opening.

The room fills with whispers of moans, cries of each other’s names, and the squelch of his manhood spearing into you. Over, and over, and over again, till your toes curl in on themselves, and your back arches off the bed, and his mouth trails wonders down the expanse of your neck down to the valley of your chest once more, that warm mouth claiming ownerships of one of your breasts and the other is engulfed by his hand.

“Gods,” you cry out, a blasphemous act amid this display of naked sin upon the goose-feather mattress.

“No, no gods,” the prince answers, voice ragged and breath hot against skin that shines with his spit and your sweat. “Just you and me.”

The leg thrown over his waist clutches tighter, holds him close. Some part of you fears it has all been an illusion — the visit to Dorne, the return of the prince, the thrill of at last tasting the sting of his cock slipping between your lips — and that soon you will waken with a gasp to find yourself back in the Queen’s apartments at the Red Keep.

The only gasp you give is one born of pure pleasure, the gentle grind of his pelvis against the hardened pearl between your legs. It sets off butterflies that flutter in your gut and fly from there, ripples of pleasure down your thighs, and up your spine, and through your chest. 

He kisses your name against your skin, as his hands clamp down tighter and his hips fuck into you harder, faster, more desperate and out of rhythm with themselves as the moments drag on, and on, and on, a force that’s driving you both closer to the edge of pleasure and certain to throw you off it, down into the pits of blinding ecstasy.

“Aemond,” it is a warning, one you needn’t even speak, one you would not be able to put into words if you even tried. And try you do. “I’m- Ah! I can’t-”

“I know,” the prince cuts you off and, despite his ability to speak without his own vocalised enjoyment interrupting him, he is in no better state than you are, hair sticking to his sweated skin, and eye struggling to keep itself open, and hips stuttering with every few trusts they give, as though he’s actively fighting off the inevitable release his body begs of him. “I know, I know.”

A hiss blown out into the night, through gritted teeth and followed by a pathetic noise that crawls itself out the prince, the growing intensity in his grip upon your thighs, your hips, any part of you he dares touch becomes a reflection of your walls tightening around the swell of his cock and the lips kiss the base of him, praying that he never dare leave.

You feel your peak hovering right over you, as if you need only stretch out your hand and grasp at it. Instead you grasp at his hair, fingers curling around the tresses and tugging them at the roots. The moan that follows the prince is one of approval. As the world around you melts away under warmth, and light, and sweat, you stumble at last and crash straight into a blinding pleasure, a cry of ecstasy infused with his name.

“Don’t leave,” you beg, and he listens.

He takes his own leap, no warning, mouth at your ear, hands on your thighs, cock in your cunt. The pair of you are a mess of panting breaths, and ill-delivered kisses upon sweaty skin, and fluids that stain you in each other’s lust. Together you stay for what feels like an eternity, limbs entwined and air shared between you, until the prince rolls off of you and lets himself crash, back first, against the mattress. Coolness kisses at the sweat that lines your body, the wetness in your thighs one you’d usually find uncomfortable, yet you welcome it now, even as a trail of his seed slips out your slit.

This is treason, of the highest order. The Queen and the Prince, bare for the world to see, bodies sated and shaking in the aftershocks of coupling as they lay side by side, one bed that holds two hearts. His seed has stained your insides, an act that threatens you both, yet neither of you care to speak of it.

Because right now, you are not the Queen, nor is Aemond the Prince.

It is just him, and you.

No gods, no duty, no family, no honour. 

Just you and me, his words echo in your mind.

“It was an accident,” he whispers. You shift on your side, all at once, elbow digging into the bed as you scan your eyes over the length of his body, waiting for him to inflict more pain, waiting for him to scramble away from you in a hurry, redress himself and walk out the door, fleeing on his mount and plundering you into another drought of pretending his is not the company you long for. But his voice starts up once more, and the prince does no such thing. “What I did to Lucerys. I think.” Under a sigh of relief, your shoulders sag and the exhaustion that alluded you hours ago creeps up on your bones, forcing you to surrender yourself against the prince, laying your head to rest upon his shoulder, your arm across his beating chest, and your legs entwining with his once more.

“I did not give the command…” The prince continues to speak, barely acknowledging you with his eyes as his own arm secures itself over you, dragging you closer, as if there’s any space left between you to be crossed. “It was Vhagar who struck. I do not know what I set out to do that night when I took to the skies in pursuit of my nephew. Perhaps I meant only to scare him. Maybe I truly wanted to strike him at that moment, and Vhagar was merely my vessel to do harm.”

You watch the apple of his throat bob as the prince swallows back words you will never hear. Despite your curious nature, you find yourself at peace with this, no part of you wishing to learn of things he wishes to not share, events he can barely recall without a shake making nest within his voice.

“I do not know the full answer, if I regret it or not,” comfort in your silence, Aemond finds it in himself to continue recounting, letting his mind spill to the floor and his mouth collect it as coherently as it can. “All I know is that repentance is not my path to take, my role in history has already been written. Kinslayer, that is to be my legacy. What kind of man can outrun such a thing as legacy?”

You, you wish to say.

But fear you would not even believe yourself. The maesters gather in Oldtown already, putting quill to paper and weaving tales from the dragon war into the history books, binding rumours, and facts, and treason, and falsehoods into its pages. History favours the victor, that much is known, yet you wonder what the books will read and what the songs will sing of Aemond Targaryen and the acts he committed, from the lead up to the Dance, to the recapturing of King’s Landing. A trail of blood taints the path he walked, but is it any more than your husband’s? Or Ser Criston Cole’s? Or your good-mother, the instigator of Aegon’s coronation and accused usurping?

Perhaps the trails of blood all lead back to one man, Viserys Targaryen, dead and gone before the dragons took the sky, and fire and blood became not just the words of House Targaryen but the death of it.

“Promise me, Aemond,” the candlelight has burnt out, the room encased in the darkness of the moonlight, a pale blue hue that blankets over the shapes and shadows of the chambers.

“Anything,” his voice is gentle yet firm all at once, soothing in its own assurance of the word it speaks.

“Leave before morning dawns,” you feel the hand that had begun trailing patterns over the naked skin of your back freeze, unexpectant to your request. You, too, can hardly believe it. Moons you had spent in court, wishing and hoping for a moment of his company, if only to scream in his face and lament your own lonesome days in the Keep. Now, you have him bare beneath you and it is more terrifying than you ever dared consider. “I do not wish to be burdened with the memory of how it feels to lay by your side all through the night, nor do I wish to know the sweetness of your face being the first view that greets my waking eyes.”

You glance up at him, head lifting off his shoulder to fully gaze upon his naked face for one last time this evening, wishing he could understand how much you truly mean it. He gives you no response and so you take upon yourself to end the conversation, a gentle kiss delivered against the scarred tissue of his cheek, one last gaze at the part of himself he’s haunted by.

As you feel your eyes slip shut, head back upon the safety of the prince’s shoulder, it is unclear what rings louder in your ear: the beat of his heart or the final cry of his dragon gives from outside the walls.

You wake at dawn’s first light.

It creeps in through a crack between curtains, the gentle breeze of early morning air billowing them further apart with each passing moment. Disorienting, for half a moment you’ve forgotten where you are, eyes blurred by sleep that scan over a room that holds no familiarity to your apartments in the Keep. 

The bowl of water upon the vanity reminds you of where you are, and everything that transpired hours before.

A stifled yawn, a stretch of limbs. You reach a hand up to wipe the sleep out of your eyes, but on its journey it gets caught against something else. It is soft, and warm, and wrapped tightly around you. The image of the prince, head nestled against the naked skin of your chest, sleeping soundly as the world passes by and daytime steps forth into the sky.

He has broken his promise, yet you cannot even fool yourself into feeling angered.

Not when the sight is one of beauty, a rare peacefulness on his ever-weary face. He looks his age, a man no more than a couple years past his second decade. You brush your hand over his messed hair, trail over the freshly made stitches that live temporarily above his brow, and sigh in utter defeat.

Not a day will come where you will not wake and long for this sight.

And not a day will come again where you will see it.

The moon has almost completed its cycle once more, and your return to the Keep crawls closer by the day. You will soon trade your time of respite and warmth with duty and court, by your husband’s side once more. And far, far away from the one-eyed prince.

A longing to watch the sun’s light rise over the horizon calls you away from the prince, and the bed, and the chambers. You leave him there, sleeping peacefully as he tangles himself amidst your sheets, and slip out the door with no more than your wits and the very same dress Aemond had pulled off of you during the night.

You make your way quietly through the halls, your bare feet padding carefully over the floor, careful to attract no wandering guard or waken any curious child. Solitude is a virtue you have so little of, and so you want to reach for it while it sits in front of you. You almost believe you’ve achieved it, stepping out onto the communal balcony that overlooks the gardens and stares right out to the rolling tide of the Summer Sea.

Until, for a second time in so few hours, you find yourself faced with the back of a Targaryen.

“Helaena,” you call out to her gently, apologising with a smile as the hand you lay on her arm causes her to flinch. “I wasn’t expecting for anyone else to be awake at this hour. Are you well?”

You both stand before the marble bannister of the balcony, shoulder to shoulder, and as her face turns to you, you find a shell of the girl you’ve come to know.

Eyes rimmed with red, and wide with panic, and brimmed with unfallen tears. Her hair is a mess, and not in the usual careless fashion that it seems to live in, but dishevelled, distressed, as though pulled at and tugged on. She’s pale. Pale as the days she lived in King’s Landing, hiding from the world with her critters and her bugs, before she travelled south and found the joy of sunlight warming one’s skin. 

The sight of her is most unnerving.

“I used to wish for a sister,” her voice is hollow, like the rest of her, emptied of its joy. “I had Rhaenyra by blood, but she was gone by the time I reached an age where those things matter. All I had was my brothers, each one equal parts awful and wonderful in his own way.”

“I, too, knew only brothers growing up,” you hope the worry she’s birthed within you goes unnoticed as you smile her way, appeasing the strange conversation she sparks up and praying it does not head in the direction that you fear it may: Aemond. “I used to force Cregan to sit at my feet and let me paint his lips and cheeks with rouge, and braid his hair. I think he began to wish a sister for us both, if only to take my affections off of him!”

Your laughter is met only with more troubled looks from Helaena.

“Then you should understand why I am so grateful to have you now, as my sister. Not by blood, but law, but a sister all the same,” you nod in agreement to her words, place your hand upon the one she rests against the bannister and deliver a comforting squeeze to it. “Then you should understand that I worry about you.”

Ice runs through your veins, in place of blood. You begin to fear the worst, images of Helaena knocking at your door and you replying in only sounds of pleasure. Of her twisting the handle and finding the sight of you in bed with her brother, her other brother instead of the one you’re bound to by law. 

You swallow back a ball of anxious energy that lodges up your breathing pipes.

“Helaena, sister, you do not seem yourself,” you keep your voice hushed, hoping she’ll do the same if she dares speak of the events transpired between you and Aemond. You were wrong to be so reckless, to think you were safe to step where you like because you sit far from the Red Keep. Nowhere is safe enough, nowhere will ever be safe enough. “What worries you so deeply?”

“I see him,” she hisses the words, like she cannot bring herself to speak any louder, forcing it out of herself in a breath. “In my dreams. It frightens me.”

“Who?” You pray for her to tell, try to think what defence you could possibly have for yourself and the prince under the accusation of her mind’s eye, a gift you’ve heard much of and seen little, the curse of the Targaryen dreamers.

“You’re there, too, in a bed soaked by tears, and sweat, and blood,” the more she speaks, the more the fear rises within you. The fear feels bigger than yourself, bigger than the affairs between you and Aemond. “He is there, at your bedside, a hand on your shoulder. He means no harm, but death is his nature, he cannot help it. He’s there to take you.”

“Who, Helaena? You must tell me!” You wipe away the single tear the streaks down her face and cup at her face with both hands, a gentle comfort that seems mute against her fear stricken features.

“The Stranger.”

+ extra hyde !

we're finally getting into the meat of the plot, beyond these two horn-dogs trying to bang in a world that hates to see a bad bitch thrive. from here on out, expect more drama, and mystery, and death (but who's?).

i really hope the length of the chapters makes up for the slow, once a month, roll out. the series' masterlist has been edited, with 2 new chapters added to the timeline.

a quick apology to anyone who may have felt the smut is a little lacklustre in this chapter. i tried to write a much wilder, kinkier, mouthier version of the scene and, in all honesty, it did not feel true to the context under which they at last wind up smashing. writing smut and using medieval language is surprinsingly hard (no pun intended), so this is honestly a journey we're all going on together (aka me trying to navigate not being able to use the typical language of modern sex scenes).

thank you for reading, see you next month!

[itskindofidontknow]

What dreams know about love?

Chapter 2

Dream of The Endless/Morpheus x Love!OFC

Summary: The Queen of Love has grown used to the absence of her husband, the Dream King. After banning her from the Dreaming, they only saw each other when Morpheus summoned her for social or marital duties. He would go decades without calling for her, enamorated by a variety of mistresses. It broke Love's heart. Not that her husband cared. However, after being imprisioned for a century, The Dream King wants to regain his Queen's love. She doesn't believe him, not after centuries of neglect. The question is: Can dreams repair a broken heart?

Tag: Established relationship, arranged marriage, regency romance, eventual happy ending, angst, morpheus is a dick prepare to hate, love is eoster from west germanic mythology, typos are to be expected

The Dreaming was very different from what Love remembered. Decading, fading. She couldn’t hear the dreamfolk. It was as if a war had taken place in the realm. She could not have known if it did, the last time she was in the Dreaming, her spouse banned her to the Garden. Otherwise, Love would never let her husband’s realm fall into such dismantle and abandonment. Even before her husband absence, Eoster had already set aside any dreams of making her husband's realm her home or seeing her children running through the palace room. However, she couldn't ignore the sadness in her heart of seeing all of the Dreaming destroyed.

“My lady Eoster”. The deep pink skirts of Love’s structured dress ruffled as she turned to face Lucienne. The Queen opened a sincere room-lightening smile, reaching to her husband’s librarian. “Blessing from the Garden, my darling friend. How are you? You seem…" Her voice died, it is impolite to say someone look tired, although there was no better way to put it. Lucienne looked exhausted. Deep purple circles under her eyes.

The librarian exitated for a moment seeing the woman turned. If the librarian didn’t see the King of Dreams summon his wife, she would never recognize her queen. Lucienne lightly shook her head, bowing respectfully. It was the Queen of Love, her sweet soothing voice was unmistakable, but she looked different.

When Love was in the Dreaming for the first time, her thick long brown curls were always in a loose braid or run freely in her back, she often wore delicate flower crowns, as the fashion in the Garden, along with flowy lovely almost see-through draped dresses with low necklines, enough to entice her husband imagination, but respectful enough to a Queen. Delicate as renaissance painting. A very different from the thick long curls now secured in a very elaborate hairdo, a golden embroidered crown and a deep-pink colored structured silk gown, with a tight corset accentuating her breasts, and long sleeves that touched the floor. More mature, womanly, confident, like a baroque painting. She was not the naive princess that moved to the Dreaming centuries ago.

“What in gods' name happened? If you are in need of help, Lucienne, please you must come to me” Lucienne’s eyes brightened, Love may not look the same but her nature was still kind, her generosity still abundant. “Thank you, my Queen. It is a blessing to have you back. We sure miss your springs. I hope you can stay” Love squeezed the librarian’s hand. The only time The Dreaming had a shining sun, and blooming flowers was when Eoster was around. ‘I hope you can stay’. Although she kept a polite smile, Eoster didn’t want to stay in the place responsible for her suffering any longer than necessary. Especially with her husband's return.

The queen could feel the king's eyes on her, his dark looming presence on the throne, the only sit in place, since he never made one for his wife. A clear reminder that she was a Queen only in paper. Love chose to ignore him. It was not defiance, he couldn't accuse her of that. Not if he did not made himself present.

“Are you married, boss?” Love looked around, trying to see whose voice it belonged to. The sound of little feet hopping made her look down, seeing a raven unknown to her, hopping near her feet and tilting its head. An unknown raven. This was odd, Morpheus' ravens were one of the few things close to him, he let her get to know “I don’t know this little one. Do you have a name, raven?” She smiled, leaning to him. “Matthew, my…er...” He looked from Eoster to Lucienne, and the librarian probably whispered the answer because he did what Love thought was the cutest bow a raven could do "My Queen".

It didn’t go unnoticed that Matthew was not familiarized with the ideia of Dream being married. Morpheus, once again, making a fool of his Queen. She should not be surprised. “Blessings from the Garden, Matthew. Are you a new raven to my husband? How is Jessamy taking the competition?” Matthew looked from to Lucienne to his queen “ Er- Oh boy, that is a hard one, well you see, Jessamy is-”

“Enough”. A shiver ran through Love’s spine. There he is. His voice. Always the same: Demanding. Impatient. Her husband. Love turns her heels, not quite facing him, as she is facing the floor, making a small courtesy. “Lord husband”. Emotionless and polite. After decades of euphoric running to her husband’s arms, sweet kisses, and being greeted with a cold shoulder, she gave up trying, and mirrored him with the same coldness he offered her. “Lady wife”. Something in his tone made Love look at him, she never heard it before, but if she would guess, it sounded like he was almost…tired.

Her King definitely wasn't the same, paler than usual, fragile, weak, she could see and sense his weakness. Something did happen. Love opened her mouth but no words came of it. Something deep in her heart wanted to embrace him, ask what happened, to care for him, mend his pains, but she didn't. He did not deserve it. Her soft heart might do good to remember it. If the opposite had happened, do you think he would care? It was a waste of care to pity Morpheus. After all, why ask if he is just going to mock her for caring? Or be furious for Love to think that someone could weaken him? Or even tell her to stop meddling in his affairs. No, she knew better.

Love intertwined her fingers in front of her corset, trying not to look fazed by her husband's current state “Our realms shall now rejoice for your return, my king” Morpheus frowed. He expected something…different from her. She gave him a neutral answer, a political welcome, not a crack in her voice, her face was as if she was talking about the weather, not to her husband who was gone by 100 years. He remembered his wife's kisses, always saying the most gentle and caring words, empathic to all creatures, even nightmares and demons. He also remembers that she was a passionate fighter, whenever they were quarreling she was always very emotional and constantly nagging. Neither those memories seem similar to how Love was behaving. He knew that he was neglectful but isn't he worthy of her empathy? Or her anger? He didn't needed it. But she was his wife, wasn't she?

She kept a stiff posture even if her body trembled a little. Without knowing she was holding her breath. She long stopped being angry at Morpheus, as it showed to be useless. In the beginning she used to scream and cry, locking herself in her bedroom for weeks, wishing for death or for her king to come and ask for forgiveness, she dreamed of him on his knees begging for a chance to gain her favors once again. He never did. As the years went by, Eoster gave up, in expecting anything else than nothing from Morpheus. But seeing him again, she couldn't help but to feel angry. All those intense negative emotions taking over her senses. She wanted to slap him across his face, scream, break everything dear to him in the palace.

It would be easier if he would just make a fuss for her not acknowledging his missing. She actually wished for it, giving her grounds to let out her frustrations. But that was not like her husband, his fury was a silent one, not one with screams and physical violence. He was an Endless, after all.

Morpheus stared deep into her eyes, making Eoster almost step back. There was hurt and fury in his calm voice. "A hundred years gone. Did you even wondered where your husband was?" Love knew that tantrums did nothing but annoy her lord husband. She wanted him to feel forgotten. Like he made her feel for centuries. So instead of indulging in intense reactions, she responded calmly and sensible after an uncomfortable silence "A hundred years is but a glimpse of time for an Endless"

The silence took over the throne room, even Lucienne and Matthew felt the tension, the couple disguising their true feelings through polite words, followed by long games of silence. It was until the Queen broke it, annoyed by the prolonged time this reunion was taking, trying to appear calm, signing, turning herself to assess the destroyed room. ” I assumed you had taken another mistress.” Once, she would have been mortified by even thinking about other women, but now? There was no reason for it. The whole realm knew it anyway. “I assumed you were courting her.”

“Oh fuck, a mistress?”

Lucienne sushed Matthew, but not quick enough so Morpheus wouldn’t notice "Leave", he turned his gaze to the librarian, the king didn’t need to say more, they were quickly and happily gone . Lucienne did not want to see the end of this quarrel, Matthew didn't know, because he wasn't yet around when they quarreled. The librarian knew how it would end. Lady Love would hold her tears until back in the Garden and Lord Morpheus would take out his frustrations out in any subject, wherever guilty or not.

Love forgot that they had an audience present. Good, that might set the mood for Morpheus. He hated being exposed, especially to his subjects. Everyone in the Dreaming knew the couple was not a happy one, but they politely pretended not to know, as Eoster and Morpheus pretended not to be aware that their failed marriage was of public knowledge.

He got up from his throne, Love kept her face straight, as he stared deep into her eyes and she stared right back, not looking away, as he walked towards her. “May I remind you, my Queen, that you are Queen of the Garden as you are Queen of The Dreaming? Mistress! Was that it? The reason you let your subjects to their own luck? Jealousy? Has the Lady of Love no commitment to her duties? Is she incline to such cruelty?"

The air around them thickened, she breathed heavy, chest burning in anger. How dare he? How dare he guilting her about his realm destruction! Usually she would turn her back and walk away, not giving herself the trouble of explaining to her husband his own duties. However, accusing her of not caring for the dreamfolk, she would not have it. Not when it was his fault. With a deep breath, biting her tongue to hold the curses she wished to scream to him, squeezing her fingers to not squeeze his neck “May I remind you, my lord husband, that in our last quarrel, you banned me from the Dreaming.”

Love grinded her teeth. By the look on his face, taken aback by her. he had forgotten about that. “ In your words, I was only allowed here, through your calling.” Words like thorns, cultivated from years of neglect. “ So no, lord husband, I did not forget about the Dreaming nor I neglected it. For I do not let my personal matters interfere with my duties toward my realms." 'Unlike you', she thought. Love shook her head in disbelief, how could he accuse her of being selfish?! She sacrificed her own happiness to live a miserable marriage, she chose to never take lovers and she never even condemned him for his love affairs! She knew more than she wished to know about tolerance and permissiveness, he had no right to accuse her of cruelty. Not him. “And Jealousy! How can I have jealousy of something I never had? Spare both of us, I beg you this. Don't blame me for your sins for you know they are yours and yours only." The anger takes over her body in a way, she has to walk away from her husband or she would slapped him. "You forget yourself, wife" He warned, but she didn’t care. She didn’t even realize when tears start staining her cheeks " No, you forget yourself, husband." She angrily turns back dropping her hands “How dare you question my commitment to my duties?! When did I ever, pray tell me, neglect my responsibilities? Can you, husband, say the same? Wherever were your responsibilities with your wife? " He stayed silent. "Why, should I go after my husband? Only to see him bed another woman? Please another whore? Father a bastard? To watch you being so infatuated that even mortals dream of her?" As it has happened before, for her shame. "What was it this time? Another mortal? Another muse? A fallen star? It must've been a good one for letting your kingdom in-”

"I WAS CAPTURED" The King roar echoed through the room. She coied herself away,bracing for the worse. Morpheus never raised a hand towards her, but she never showed such insubordination to him. He warned, and she pushed. He may not hit her, but he would ban her for the millenia, maybe even send her to hell. She could almost see the grin in Morningstar’s face. "There was no mistress". He said the word with such spite that one might think he never indulged in such behaviors. Knowing Morpheus he would probably punish mortals to never dream of love again.

She looked at him confused. An Endless captured? Impossible. Could it be a trap set by Desire or Despair? There was no other possibility. He could see the question in her eyes ``A mortal. He wanted my sister, Death, but captured me. I was imprisoned for all these years. Unable to return. And Jessamy? She-” His voice cracked. Dead. Jessamy was dead.

Love didn’t understand. An Endless, her husband of all of them, one of the most powerful beings in the universe, at the mercy of a mere mortal. The idea of it was absurd, more than that, it was impossible. Even before their marriage, between all the beings it was a well known truth that marrying an Endless was to marry security, protection, to never be challenged, except by other Endless, and even then, family could not spill blood of family, and by marriage, this also extends to her.

An imprisonment explained her husband's more than normal pale skin, and how weak he seemed. Love couldn't help herself but to feel sorry for her king, sorry to think the worst of him. Yes, he did take mistress after mistress, and the gossip around all the entities was how infatuated he was for his lovers, so it only seemed obvious to Eoster that he was pursuing a new passion. She was so bitter and angry at him that she forgot how he was also one of the most devoted among all his siblings to his realm. He might had a mistress, but would never leave it to be destroyed. Love fiddled with her fingers, her cheeks red with embarrassment, lowering her eyes to the ground. "Forgive me, I…" She whispered ashamedly. It was true he cheated before, constantly, she had grounds to accuse him, but she was the Lady of Love, and love is always forgiving, it is always patient, it doesn’t hold grudges, so what was she doing? Not listening to him, not being empathic to her husband, has she become so cold after all these years? Has she become like Morpheus?

If only the Dream King had been a better husband, if only he had shown her kindness and companionship. Their reunion would not have been like this. In truth, if he had been a better husband, she would never let him leave.

Since she couldn’t make words for it, at least not in meaningful words, she falled in her knees. Eoster defied him, she knew the rules "Forgive me, please, I…I shall take whatever punish you seem fit." Love was certain he would send her back to the Garden, maybe never wanting to see her again, maybe this time for eternity. The weight of her words weighed her. Did she actually scream at her husband? Did she actually do it? What reckless behavior. It wasn’t like her, not of late. Eoster was always contempt, always submissive. Why was she furious with someone she concluded long ago would not be able to love her?

"I have no intention of punish you, my lady" she frowned her brows, looking at him puzzly as he signed, tired "I…" In his imprisonment maybe he forgot about punishments? Maybe he had grown mercy on him? "My Lord, I embarrass myself and you, accusing you of sins you did not commit. I shall retreat to the Garden and think about my behavior". Love suggested what seemed like something her husband would impose. He stayed silent, looking at her, offering his hand to help his Queen get up.

"I wished you back in the Dreaming." His words were uncertain, if she didn't know better, she would say that Morpheus was nervous and maybe a little shy in asking her that.

Eoster tilted her head, not daring to get up. She wasn’t sure if he wasn’t toying with her, even if it was very unlike him. She looked into his deep blue eyes, trying to read his face to figure out where this was going. Love could kind of understand why he would show mercy at her, after all, he might need her powers to restore his destroyed realm. But to ask her back to the Dreaming? No. That was…It couldn't been. Not after this disaster of reunion. She needed to appeal to reason, without appearing shocked. "My Lord, forgive me, I am sure you remember, but I do have a court".

One of their biggest quarrels. The Garden had a full court, very different from the Dreaming. Her husband's palace was quiet and ethereal, very different from Love's palace at the Garden, with constant music, talking, laughs, ladies and lords running through the halls. Balls, concerts, feasts, festivities happening almost on a daily basis. Eoster was always followed around by her closest cupids, her creations, and ladies and lords in waiting, entities from other realms learning the ways of the heart.

When they got married, she wanted to bring them to the Dreaming. Morpheus instantly denied her. They quarreled for days. It only stopped because he went to the mortal’s realm. He didn't want to be disturbed by gigglings and mindless conversations that he was certain Eoster court would be full of. And she just wanted to feel less lonely, to be around some familiar faces, that didn’t treat her so distant as the dreamfolk treated Morpheus, and by extent, her.

It would take decades to dreams and nightmares to learn that Eoster was very different from her husband. That she wanted to be close, to actually know them and have them around. In the end, to not have his wife moping in the corners and pouting, he allowed her to go to the Garden, to attend her realm’s affairs and socials.

" I do remember it." He said, more certain. Standing in front of her, she could feel his gaze. Love upheld her head. Did this awful mortal that captured him, torture him in a way he lost all his senses? What could possibly make Morpheus change his mind? That was one of the main reasons Love and Dream fight: His stubbornness to change. He didn’t want a wife, a court, a new realm to take care of. He didn’t even accept her purest devotion. "I have new ladies and lords in training, I cannot leave them without guidance" She mentioned politely, to avoid another confrontation by saying that he couldn’t expect her to drop everything at his command. (She once would have done it. But that was the past). She took his hand, getting up, as he unfazed by her appeals he concluded "Bring them."

Eoster dropped her mouth open, and almost fell back on the ground. She was too stunted to speak. She couldn't answer, the truth was she didn't wanted to come back, this wasn't her home. Love thought that if she reminded him why she couldn't be back, he would drop the subject. The Dreaming was never her home. Morpheus never allowed her to make it her home. The Garden was. She liked Lucienne and her subjects, but long ago her husband made it clear that this was his kingdom, and she was its queen but her role was not to actively rule, but to be more of an accessory, to decorate Morpheus arms whenever needed, to fulfill the role of devoted and beautiful wife.

Eoster raised an eyebrow. If this was a game or a trap, she would soon discover, as she pushes him for conditions he would not in eons accept. That she was certain of, imprisonment or not, he was still the Dream King. "As you wish, I will ask Lucienne to see Elijah to make arrangements for my court". The lady got up, dropping his hand as soon as she was on her feet, entangling her fingers against her corset, taking a few steps away from Morpheus, testing the Dream King's newfound goodwill. "Since you are in such high spirits, my lord husband, may I speak freely?” He slowly nodded in agreement, holding his tongue not to say that she did more than speak freely a few moments ago, but decided to avoid another fight, since he truly intended his wife to be back at his side. And fighting her, would not aid his cause.

Years of imprisonment gave him time to think, at first he did not think of Eoster at all, but after the loneliness and mistreatment, he started to long for his wife. He never expected to miss her talking, the gentle kisses, the eagerness to be close, the longing to be part of his realm, how she welcomed him to bed even if he did nothing to deserve the touch of her delicate naked skin. He realized that he didn’t actually know her, even after centuries married, he never had any interest in getting to know her. That pained him, thinking if he would get the chance to know her. Eoster could have dealt with the Corinthian. They were fond of each other. And she had a way of understanding and embracing troublesome nightmares, better than him. Although Morpheus would never admit it.

After examining her through their reunion, he could perceive the differences between the Eoster he once married. She grew cold, distant, avoiding his gaze, avoiding him, staying at a safe distance at all times. He cursed himself and his heart felt heavy for knowing that in most part, if not for all, he was to blame.

When they got tricked into marriage, Dream spent years holding a grudge against Eoster, thinking she had much part in Desire’s trap as his sibling. Maybe she was infatuated by him, and Desire offered a quick way to make him hers. He never directly asked her, but they were close, one may say they were even friends, if his sibling ever had those. After all, Love and Desire were, for mortals, two sides of the same coin. They worked too close.

He thought all her devotion was a farse. A plan to make him fall for her, to make a fool of him, to destroy him. Desire knew how infatuated he was for his lovers, and they were not the mistress of love. Imagine how would he be if he was devoted to the Queen of Love? Desire would have him completely annihilated.

“The solstice ball is to be held in a week in the Garden, but since you insist in my company, I assume you won’t mind it to be held here, in the Dreaming? After all, as you kindly remember I am Queen of the Dreaming as you are King of the Garden.” She wandered away from Morpheus, walking in the throne room langley, avoiding his gaze, afraid he would realize what she was doing. This would definitely make him exile her again. Back to the confort melancholy that she accepted as a dear friend over the years. “And thinking of the politics of all, It is the most appropriate time. It will show renewed strength to our subjects and especially to your siblings.” Who she was certain had something to do with his imprison. This has Desire written all over it. “They, of course, shall all be invited, and you, lord husband shall show them that you are not beaten down by some mortal, that you are stronger than ever."

She knew Morpheus. He hated festivals, balls, parties, all events that the Garden was full of. And inviting his siblings? Morpheus would be dead before Desire or Despair step foot in the Dreaming. She was pushing him through the edge. To the king of dreams to accept such terms, it was a true act of desperation. No, Love knew her husband, she knew his temperament. He would deny her proposition, and send her back to the Garden to even dare propose such an idea. Maybe not now, after all, he was imprisoned, alone, starved of touch. Morpheus probably would want a private visit of his wife in his chambers. He had no mistress over these years, Love knew by coming that their meeting would most likely end with her covered in sheets crossing a hall.

It took a few moments of silence, Eoster pretending to be assessing the damages, touching the decaying columms that seem once so strong, so fragile now. She could almost hear the engines in his head turning, considering whateve or no- " Fine. Give me a few days to restore my possessions and rebuild my realm. You can bring your court, and prepare the festivities." Morpheus offered her a semi-smile. She could feel her cheeks starting to grow red, immediatly turning away from his gaze. After all these years, all the mistreatment, a single smile ( not even that!) made her into a blushing maid. She lightly shook her head, focusing on the madness she was listening to. Di-did her husband just agree with her court and the solstice festival AND to his siblings all in The Dreaming? No. What? No. " I-I'll return to the Garden and inform my court of our new arrangement, my king" She gave a small courtesy, her skirts dancing through the floor as she walked away from her husband, still not sure this was actually happening. Feeling light on her feet. She needed to get out of here fast, or she would faint.

Her husband. Dream of the Endless. Lord of Nightmares and Dreams. He was, it sounded like madness to even think about it, but he was, wasn't he?

He was longing for his wife.

No

Love did not believe this. It was a need of power, a need for companionship, starvation of touch. He would come to his senses.

[mcheang]

The stone among diamonds

Yeah, Lila has an overinflated ego if she thinks she’s going to be invited to an upper class party because she’s a model. Only those born in prominent families are invited and Mrs Rossi clearly wasn’t. She overestimated herself and got too pushy.

When Kagami told Lila about the diamond dance and the latter expressed surprise at not being invited, Kagami’s answer was blunt.

“Of course not. You may be a model for Gabriel, Lila, but this dance is for those with connections, not for every model. Adrien is coming because he’s Gabriel’s heir. My family is ancient Japanese nobility. Chloe’s father is the mayor. If you do want to come, you should ask your mother. She’s the ambassador right? She should be invited. I know a few political diplomats who were.”

Lila feigned a smile, knowing full well her mother’s job was nowhere near prestigious enough for an invitation. “She did receive it but she rejected it. She’s never been one for parties. And it was just one invite.”

Kagami: oh, then I’m not sure what you can do. You can ask Gabriel if you may attend in your mother’s place.

Lila: I’ll be sure to do that. Besides, as the face of the Gabriel brand, I’m sure I’ll merit my own invitation

Kagami: don’t hold your breath on that count. You also have to have a rich background.

Lila: are you saying I look poor?

Kagami: no, but my mother trained me to watch for those who have money

Lila is annoyed. She calls Gabriel to get her invitation but he ignores her. Ugh! One way or another she is getting to that party.

But wait, wasn’t Zoe going to the movies with Marinette? As the daughter of style queen, she is sure to have an invitation.

Sure enough, Zoe doesn’t mind giving her invitation to Lila, who says she lost her own and Gabriel is too busy to bother.

At the party, Lila is all for schmoozing with the guests. She would have preferred the adults but the party was clearly divided between adults and kids.

To Lila’s dismay, her own introduction as the face of Gabriel and the daughter of an ambassador wasn’t impressive enough for these people. It wasn’t until she spun her usual lies of knowing Jagged Stone and Prince Ali that she actually got anywhere. (And even then the snobs were not impressed with her charity work, just her connections)

Another guest overheard and walked over. “Excuse me, is it true you worked with Prince Ali? I’m a fan of his work. Might I know your name, please?”

Lila smirked. “Lila Rossi. I worked with Ali on multiple projects and parties.”

The stranger unmasked himself. “I am Prince Ali of Achu, and I have never met you before in my life.” He paged his chaperone.

Soraya walked over. “What is going on here?”

Ali gestured to Lila. “I believe we do have a party crasher.”

Another guest called for security in a loud voice, drawing attention from the rest of the room.

The security drones analysed Lila’s mask and announced it belonged to Zoe Lee.

Chloe pushed her way over and gaped. “Lilo, what are you doing here?” (This is not a typo. Chloe actually called Lila Lilo during Confrontation)

Lila gritted her teeth. “Your sister lent me her invitation when I lost mine. As for this lying accusation, I wasn’t referring to Prince Ali, but another one from Egypt.”

Except the guests she had been trying to impress called her out on her lies.

Guest: isn’t she the alliance Lila?

Lila exhaled in relief. Perhaps her fame could still save her.

Soraya scowled at Gabriel. “You have made a disappointing choice, Gabriel.”

Guest: what a wannabe. I am so changing my alliance avatar.

Seeing the crowd murmuring in front and the adults whispering behind, Gabriel addressed the situation at hand. “I am aware of Lila’s behavior, that was why I had planned to announce at my diamond dance that Kagami would be taking her place.” Tomoe subtly activated the screens showing the new changes, simultaneously having all alliance rings updated.

Lila’s jaw dropped. Her fame gone, just like that. She was tempted to expose Gabriel for hiring her to spy on his son but she doubt it would change much in the face of all these snobs.

Soraya glared at Lila. “Whatever other claims you have made about Prince Ali, we will find out. Prepare yourself for a lawsuit.”

Surrounded by hostile faces, Lila looked for friendly faces.

Chloe wasn’t going to stand up for her.

Kagami was shocked at Lila’s appearance and the revelation that she was a liar.

Felix already knew Lila was a spy and was fine with her current predicament.

Gabriel just fired her. “Escort the Miss wearing Zoe Lee’s mask out of my party.”

Lila was practically boxed in by 4 drones. Chloe snapped a photo because it was kind of funny

Meanwhile as Kagami protested having their avatars be in a romantic relationship, Felix revealed himself.

Cue Canon ending

Now, Rose received word from Ali asking what she knew about Lila. She was shocked that her friend was a liar and that Marinette was telling the truth. Did this mean that Marinette was indeed framed?

Rose calls Marinette to apologize and suggest that they tell Miss Bustier. However Marinette tells Rose that both teacher and principal know the truth. However Lila used the same reason Rose kept her illness a secret to keep them from telling the class.

Rose: this can’t be how it ends. Ali will expose Lila in public, it will be on the news, she can’t hide it then.

Indeed, Lila knew she couldn’t. So it was time to become Cerise once again and abandon Lila.

But Monarch has not seen the last of her. Neither has Prince Ali.

[1mlostnow]

𝐖𝐞𝐥𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞!!

Hi!! I’m Evan! This is Intro Post IV.

- Red text is primary information, things that I’d like to bring attention to, or just things I’d like to elevate above the others

I’m genderfluid, I only use he/him, I don’t have a label but I mostly like guys, and I’m a minor!!! If you’re 18+ feel free to interact but please don’t DM me or send asks.

[spotify] [insta] [wall of text] [tone tags] [ppth staff]

This intro post is incredibly long so I put primary info before the cut ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ I love using those faces

Apologies if the red or the Blinkies are hard on the eyes :<

Other Blogs ⇩

EvanRadio : @evan-radio

Poetry and Writing : @1mfoundnow

House MD [B. Corcoran] : @head-of-forensics

House MD [G. Kramer] : @plastic-surgeon-gabi

Blinkies below the cut and throughout intro :>

Table Of Contents ⇩

1. The Basics

2. Fun Facts

3. My Resume

4. Primary Music

5. Guide To Tags

6. Hobbies

7. Other Media

8. Kinnie List

9. Primary Fandoms

10. Cast List

11. Outro

[ The Basics ]

- I absolutely adore nicknames, feel free to call me anything you want; chances are I’ll be fine with it

- pretty basic DNI -> homophobes, transphobes, racists, xenophobes, proshippers (wincest ಠ_ಠ)

- feel free to interact or spam (the good kind), my notifs are off so you won’t be bothering me at all!! Feel free to do asks or anons as long as yr a minor, I love love love answering asks. I promise I’m not scary, I don’t bite (anymore lol)

- I would prefer it as a personal boundary that you don’t DM me unless you truly deem it fit, those 1 on 1 situations tend to be incredibly uncomfortable for me. If there’s truly something you’d like to speak to me about in private, go for it.

- I love my mutuals to death. Whether we talk every day or haven’t spoken once, ily :)

- I greatly appreciate tone tags!!! There is a list at the top of this intro with a tone tag guide!

- CDT timezone, typically active from 7 AM - 12 AM (this will change to 6-8AM and 5-11PM soon)

[ Fun Facts ] + notes

- my car’s name is TOMATER (all caps)

- im the ninth wonder of the world

- I love doing little drawings

- if you want one just ask (examples at end)

- once again I love love love my mutuals

- Richard Cameron defender for life

- theme changes often

- ADHD & severe social anxiety

- if you ever draw anything for me I’ll love u forever

- The Man Who Would Be King (6x20) is the best SPN episode and nobody can convince me otherwise

- if I don’t respond I swear I’m not ignoring you!! Chances are I said ‘I’ll answer later’ and then forgot—just @ me!!

- if you ever have any corrections for one of my posts (typo, incorrect facts, hurtful language) please please let me know whether it be public or private, as the last thing I’d want to do is upset anybody.

[ My Resume ]

- Professional Ghostbuster, Midwestern Cowboy, Supervillain (for the fits)

- Bug you put in a jar with sticks and leaves and a few holes in the lid so it can breathe kinda guy yk?

- Weird kid and loser for life (I’m happy this way)

- I believe I’m incredibly funny (tell me if I’m not)

- Most sentences have bonus sentences (for the thoughts that didn’t fit into the sentence right)

- hot feral scientist

[ Primary Music ] + fav song by each (‘m basic wtv)

- AJJ -> Getting Naked, Playing With Guns

- Cage The Elephant -> Spiderhead/Halo

- Car Seat Headrest -> Life Worth Missing

- David Bowie -> Rebel Rebel

- Radiohead -> Karma Police

- Seb Lowe -> The Man, The Myth

- The Front Bottoms -> Be Nice To Me / More Than It Hurts You

- The Smiths -> Pretty Girls Make Graves

- Vundabar -> Worn/Wander, Sad Clown

- Will Wood -> Memento Mori

[ Guide to Tags ]

- #evan speaks -> yapping time, applies to majority of my posts

- #evan rants -> I’ve got a lot to talk about!!

- #evan draws -> I draw :3 some art at the end

- #evan can’t vote -> US politics (doesn’t come up that often, but still)

- #evan loves his mutuals -> y’all are my best friends and ily sososo much

[ Hobbies ]

- Occasionally crocheting

- Reading and writing

- I play alto sax in marching band (never rains on the *redacted* 🫡🌧️)

- loveeee art so much, specifically pencil drawing and painting

- idk if music counts as a hobby (listening+playing)

[ Other Media ]

Shows -> Supernatural, Sherlock, House MD, My Babysitters A Vampire (Rory my beloved), Scooby-Doo, Over The Garden Wall

Movies -> Dead Poets Society, Ghostbusters, Velvet Goldmine, The Truman Show, Goonies, Stand By Me, Saw Franchise, IT 2017

Others -> Homestuck, The Secret History, getting into newer classics (highschool english class books tbh), I Have No Mouth And I Must Scream

[ Kinnie List ]

Steven Meeks (DPS), Castiel (SPN), Richie Tozier (IT), Truman Burbank (TTS), Egon Spengler (Ghostbusters), Adam Stanheight (Saw), Henry Winter (TSH), Will Graham (Hannibal)

[ Primary Fandoms ]

Supernatural, Sherlock, Dead Poets Society, Homestuck, Ghostbusters, House MD

[ Cast List ] <- y’all are like my family ily

@pingunaa @ghostboyhood @wordssricochet @poetsinnyc @meekspeaks @midwest-quill @yourfavvgal @alightelixe @lv3buzzz @craicapparition @asclexe @lefthandedspaghetti @notcatseatheadrest @wilsons-three-legged-siamese @de4d-poet-kisser @cherrishnoodles @blakenation1 @desire-mona @prettypinkbubbless @sesamie @hemlocksloadofbull @mighthavebeenmurder @tired-and-bored-nerd @neil-perrys-suicidal-tendencies @sillyhyperfixator

^^ if we ain’t close like that lmk and I’ll take you off dw ♥︎ and if I somehow missed you please please tell me and I’ll fix it right away, there’s some people I was gonna add but I wasn’t sure if we were friends like that yet lol

Outro!!

If you made it to the end of this thank you thank you thank you so much it means the world to me.

I can’t add more photos, so I’ll make and link a separate post with my art, so you can decide if that’s something you’d be interested in!!!

[ art here!! ]

[mxxnlightwriting]

Writemas 2024 Day 4

Thanks to @agirlandherquill for hosting this wonderful event!

Tari's Note: We're already on day 4 and I'm growing more invested in this story by the day!! I also have a masterlist for it now in case you want to read this story from the beginning! Also, please excuse any typos and continuity errors! I’ll be writing these directly here so they’ll have minimal editing. Thanks for understanding.

Prompt(s): "You've never looked at me like that before." and Aching Synopsis: Rae sees Emily again, but their encounter is anything but brief. Genre/age group: adult contemporary Word Count: 0.7k

Rae should be on her way home by now. She had finished her day at the woodshop, had helped Henry close up shop after he twisted his ankle, and had leftovers in her fridge for dinner.

Then why was she on her way to the local grocery store? Well, one person was to blame, and her name was Ginny. After agreeing to drive Henry home, Ginny called Rae, saying she needed something urgent from the grocery store. She even messaged her a list of four items that, in Rae's opinion, were not that urgent. Still, as a people pleaser and as someone with nothing better to do, she agreed to help her best friend with this shopping spree.

As soon as she stepped inside the establishment, she waved at Charles by the register and grabbed a small basket to carry with her. The music carried through the empty store, and she hummed the tune under her breath as she checked Ginny's list on her phone. She needed to grab milk, eggs, carrots and apples, and then she'd be out of here.

Rae collected the carrots and apples, then the eggs (she took twelve, just to be safe) and when she went to the milk aisle, she almost tripped on her feet.

Emily stood a few steps away, her light brown hair falling over her shoulder in a thick braid as she wore the thickest jacket Rae had ever seen. She focused on her phone as she typed, glancing at the milk cartons in front of her before shaking her head and typing some more.

Rae approached the milk cartons slowly, trying her best to ignore Emily nearby. She couldn't. Her eyes kept drifting to the woman next to her using the calculator app on her phone to try and figure out which milk carton was effectively the cheapest one to buy.

Some things never change, Rae thought as she let out a small laugh. That was enough for Emily to lift her eyes to her, and for the smile to die on her lips.

Rae's heart ached in her chest the more she stared at Emily. She had changed. The last time she had seen her a few days ago, she couldn't make out most of her features. Now, under the harsh grocery store lights, she noticed everything: the dark circles under Emily's eyes, the septum piercing, the rosy cheeks and smudged mascara, and the most heartbreaking hazel eyes Rae had ever seen. They were more green now than she remembered.

Their staring contest was interrupted when another customer entered the aisle, eyeing Emily with suspicion. Emily offered a polite smile before the old woman huffed and lifted her chin, walking away with all the indignation only an old woman could carry.

"Do I look like I'm about to rob this place?" Emily whispered under her breath.

"Henrietta knows you're back," Rae said, dropping the basket on the floor. "I'm pretty sure every old woman in this town has you on their watchlist."

"That explains the death stares." Emily returned to her calculator app and Rae grabbed one of the milk cartons from the top shelves.

"Take this one," she said, extending it to her. "It's two cents more expensive than the cheaper one, but the flavour is better."

Emily locked her phone and saved it on her jeans. "I would've figured it out, but thanks." She grabbed the milk and bit her lip, and Rae couldn't resist but stare at her mouth. Emily smirked. "You've never looked at me like that before."

"Like what?" Rae asked, meeting her eyes. The regret spilling from them made her hold her breath.

"Like you miss me," Emily said as a matter of fact. She blinked, probably realising the words she had said out loud, and her cheeks became an even brighter shade of red.

Rae hated how much her entire body reacted to it, how much those words destroyed all the barriers she had spent the past few days building, how one look from Emily took her back to a different time, a time when they weren't this cold and cordial with each other.

"Thirteen years is a long time to miss someone," Rae said, unable to keep the bitterness from her voice. She grabbed the basket from the floor and took a few steps back. "Stay well, Ems."

She disappeared towards the register, only to realise she had forgotten to get the milk for Ginny.

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© mxxnlightwriting 2024 All Rights Reserved. Copying, reposting, translating and/or modifications of my work are strictly prohibited.

[heartfelttry]

i am replying to JacFrostIsReal's video here (about the Joker, how fictional mysteries being unsolved are just as valuably and narratively important as fictionally solved ones, "Mediocre White Man Syndrome"™, how she loved Red Hood Joker, and a bit about Two-Face. intrigued? yes, good, go watch her tiktok, go give her engagement please) bc this got way too long for a comment, or even a comment thread wHICH IS SAYING SOMETHING FROM ME (I LEAVE COMMENT THREAD MONOLOGS LIKE NOBODY'S BUISNESS) but ill put it under a read more out of politeness (edit: new link to JacFrostIsReal video here, reactive to potential tiktok-ban 😔)

my reply's bullshit of a summary: but yeah, the below is a Joker headcanon about "the true Joker's identity" and how i personally reconcile with the three main Jokers types (not identities. but types. we got what i call "Adam West Joker", "Agent of Chaos Joker", and "Grim-Dark Joker". this trio. here. that's what i mean) with all this hullabaloo of canon trying so bad to go "but what's his name, what's his story??" and me smacking DC's hand away from this Schrodinger's Cat of a cookie jar labeled "Joker" with this hc, happily, every time. enjoy?

reminder that i am dyslexic and i havent REALLY edited this stream of consciousness, so, like, be nice when i inevitably mispell/make typos lol also this was originally going to be a tiktok comment-thread so some odd things like "dead" are censored here and there before i realized mid-way "this is too long. i cant do a thread this long" lmao rip im just too exhausted today to edit atm. disability, chronic illness symptoms, c'est la vie lol

omg i have had the most wild TOTALLY HEADCANON answer to this, all bc im like "i wanna make a Gotham OC fanfic (.......yes the one with Kaycie that's kinda the only other post in this blog, stfu, lemme finish), but im too sickly to do it rn. ill just plot it for now on and off" and part of my plotting was "how do i want to approach Joker and his 'true identity' bs??" bc taking what canon from where for this fic was important to me as it was part of the plot i want to do. but like?? there's some comics i love where i just.. ignore their idea for Joker's backstory. cognitive dissonance that. but i implement other canon from those comics. v much cherry-picking; idgaf, thats THE way to go about comics. so i was like "what canons am i cherry-picking for this fanfic version of Joker?" and my eventual idea became my hc foR ALMOST ALL CONTEMPORARY JOKERS EVER and ill share it, sure, i love to info-dump

bc i came up with an answer that (admittingly idk ALL OF THE INTERNET EVER so maybe i independently came up with the same idea as someone else, but, this is my pitch, totally original to me specifically as far as i am aware:) makes both all the "real" Jokers "canon" and also NONE of them canon, and instead re-inforces the mystery of nobody knowing who the fuck this guy is

and that's that he "heals quickly" by seeing Professor Pyg (at 🔫point probably) and just.. getting a new fucking whatever's-broken

leg-broke? amputate and replace. wrist arthritis? amputate and replace. so on and so forth

but we dont see scars or anything bc, in my hc, he brings some of that acid with him when he sees Pyg (from when he first fell. we know he likely knows its ingredients since, tons of comics, he re-creates it for Harley) (also i like how this idea brings Pyg more to the forefront by proxy. bc Joker's laughing gas and Pyg's "perfect" people are such traumatizingly similar victims who are done in by two totally different people. my squeamish heart is so glad Pyg isnt Well Known outside of comic fans, but the nerd inside me doesnt get WHY he hasnt been part of pop culture osmosis alongside Joker yet wtf). so the acid is like an Even More Fucked Up Version Of The Lazarus Pit but that doesnt grant you immortality and has more cons than it could ever be worth, but Joker loves his "daddy/mommy vat" (you cannot tell me he doesnt call that vat some cringe parental nickname lol, i just wont buy it). the acid does bizarro healing-fast, no-scars nonsense. and the Joker's upped usage of it explains why his skin tends to chemically paper-white and Harley Quinn's (who also fell in the vat in some stories) tends to be her in white make-up. so: his skin-tone then isn't make-up, it's his skin, all bc he keeps re-applying that acid shit, whereas Harley only did it ONCE. and it didnt fuck her up as bad since she doesnt come back for more when she could just let her bones heal. (plus, him doing this stuff?? to me, it connects him a bit further to "The Joker's Daughter", like him replacing bit of himself foreshadows how she wears his face as a mask...)

...anyway, BUT AS A RESULT, he is leaving DNA of all these other people that are "the true identity of Joker". but like. they both are not Joker (theyre victims of Joker and Pyg) and ARE the Joker (theyre part of him). so all those idenities?? none of them are probably the true og Joker who first went to Pyg with a body that was 100% his own (and was using white make-up at the time) with a small vat of the acid going 🔫 "i have a commissioned offer for you that i wont let you refuse, Pyggy". theyre probably just a List Of Victims. you could even then argue all these versions of "the Joker's backstory reveal" are then just forensics and profilers trying to piece together "how did [Name] become the Joker?" and sensationalizing their interpretation, and the comics are "people trying to canonize those theories as fact via their fictional adaptation of this theory" (im aware this is loopy in a multi-verse way buT SHHH SHHH SHH); all having no idea yet that every [Name] there was actually a victim of Pyg and Joker's. how could they know? how could they guess the "reality" within this hc is that the Joker is a personified Ship Of Theseus?? he's like a mosaic from the Byzantine era, of how many pieces of other people he has; or like a stain-glass sculpture; or like the Creature from "Frankenstein" if Viktor Frankenstein became the Creature himself bit by bit. maybe the Joker has even had parts of his brain replaced with other people's (to the point that it becomes "who knows whose brain this originally was" to which all "hey science doesnt work like—"/"iTS COMICS THO. WE HAVE THE LAZARUS PITS ALREADY, THE ACID CAN BE A FUCKED UP PROVERBIAL MEWTWO MAN-MADE VERSION OF RA'S AL GUHL'S MEW. LET THE PSEUDO-SCIENCE HAPPEN. IT'S COMICS. HE CAN SURVIVE THAT MUCH BRAIN TRANSPLANT ON REPEAT NOW" arguments are kinda nullified with) with this glaze of The Acid ontop to allow the blend to Work— bc he keeps using this acid, causing himself to potentially develop ťúmóŕś and needing them removed (and maybe Pyg does secret lobotomies or some shit and sees "what if i replace this part while im at it..??" to see if this makes the Joker "more bareable" to be around, idk). as a result of this absurd desire to never have an injury delay him: even upon his hypothetical autopsy, they'll never know his true identity. forensics and profilers who had been having debates analyzing evidence to "uncover" who the Joker is will be revealed to have had a vast misunderstanding of the dark truth

BUT SAYING THAT?? i still miss past Jokers. before people tried attaching a name to him (that's part of the motivation for me with this hc, just going "actually?? yOURE ALL WRONG, TO ME, SPECIFICALLY" lmao rip). like. for one, i miss shitty-at-villainy chaos "im literally the luckiest fucker alive" gremlin Joker (legit? Jason Todd's situation?? proverbially Joker being a "i am eating the chess pieces whenever Batsy isnt looking, and he is confused how i could be winning"). like he isnt a master-mind. he's lucky as hell, he is legitimately Murphy's Law as a bratty villain, the most legitimate "agent of chaos" a person could be, he has no plans, he's flying by the seat of his pants and keeps going "oh sick, im in THE most optimal place somehow so Batman cant kill me for what i just did". liKE WHAT DO YOU MEAN HE STUMBLED INTO BECOMING A DIPLOMAT AFTER JASON TODD'S ḌẸÄṬĤ?? HE GOT SO LUCKY, GOT IN THE PERFECT SITUATION SO SUPERMAN HAD TO RELUCTANTLY GO "dont do it, Batman, itll cause an international incident, ẃáŕ, Jason wouldnt want that, he wouldnt want civillians to ḍịẹ in his name" TO THIS GRIEVING FATHER—??? absurd. dont even talk to me about the Adam West TV show version of Joker (i miSS HIM AND EARTHA KITT CATWOMAN THE MOST), i miss when he was just a silly goofy guy even more than his agent of chaos phase, ugghhhh.. "Adam West Joker", this man was my Megamind before "Megamind" (minus the whole "happy hero ending with the girl" part). just a dude who never won, always was foiled, up to dasterdly Doofenshmirtz hijinks, no grim-dark wild shit yet. i loved him, i miss him

so my hc doesnt work as well on those variations of the Joker, predominantly "Adam West's Joker" as i sloppily label him (i know its oversimplification shhhhh). buT IT DOES WORK ON GRIM-GRITTY EVIL-MASTERMIND-4D-CHESSMASTER JOKER and thats probably all that matters to these Mediocre White Man Syndrome™ variants. idk

[[ quick, here's an edited bit from a DM where i realize i forgot a point i LOVE about the mystery of who the fuck "Adam West Joker" was: ]]

(which. i forgot to go into that i think there's at least one comic who mentions this brand of Joker in an existential "maybe he isnt a person, maybe he just appeared from the universe. maybe Gotham made bad luck personified" or some shit, im not a big fan of "he is not human"-Joker but i am a fan of "yes, people even thought of the Doofenshmirtz variety of the Joker as more myth than Once Possibly Mundane (even tho he's just a guy that no one knows and that that forensics tech just is incapable of recognizing. meaning this man was so normal before he became This that he was THAT off-grid and unrecognizable, like THAT harmless of a person, like what?? and now people in-comic-world are having such a hard time grappling with these unknowns that they're going "what if he is just not a fucking person. he's murphy from murphy's law. alive. how does anyone beat that" whEN HE IS JUST A GUY?? A GUY THEY JUST KNOW ***NOTHING*** ABOUT?)". i love that version of him. he was my Megamind before "Megamind" lmao (...anyway i might copy & paste this "he's just a guy. it drives them insane that they cant prove that he JUST A GUY that theyre mythologizing him— even before Red Hood lore and grim-dark shit got added" belatedly into that post now. but yeah i just forget from what comic exactly bc ✨️chronic memory loss✨️ + 🌈library🌟 lol rip)

but yeah. i do want to mention the Red Hood thing is kinda new, relatively, to Joker's lore; he was originally a true fucking mystery where we didnt get even THAT vague bit of Red Hood. he just.. showed up. what was his trauma? who knows. why is he like this, why does he look like this?? who knows. like, okay, that's badass and funny as fuck, good for "Adam West Joker", love that. i miss "nobody can find out SHIT about this man" version of Joker so badly; all we know is his "ɗīę laughing" thesis

but yeah. Red Hood (Jason) and Red Hood (Joker) is stiLL SO SO SOOOO important to me that, though im still like "Joker is a total mystery. forensics finds NOTHING on this lil Adam West co-star/pre-Megamind-before-Megamind-but-no-hero-ending of a guy" is a canon multi-verse version of Joker to me, i happily accept that Red Hood is a part of "agent of chaos" Joker's lore and "grim-dark mastermind" Joker's lore. 2 out of 3 aint bad. but my hc about Joker going all 🔫 "fix. me." to Prof Pyg works A+ in grim-dark Joker lore. and my hesitation about "agent of chaos Joker lore" is that, to MEEEE, my Pyg hc only works if its "agent of chaos Joker lore after Jason Todd đīēđ (or at least, like, if he started just before Jason ḍịẹḍ and was building up to Jason's said ɗęąţĥ); bc before JT ðıəð/before Joker started building up to brutalize Jason like that, Joker wasnt AS vîôłêňť as he became to be known as... (still massively violent. but not AS much, like he was a bit of clutching-his-punched-gut "they'll all see" type for a bit beforehand if i recall accurately.) but post-JT? yeah, my Pyg hc could quickly apply". so again: 2 out of 3 multi-verse variants? aint bad, ill take that happily

but yeah, feel free to adopt my hc for any time someone goes "he's Jack Oswald White/Jack Napier/Arthur Fleck/whoever-the-fuck", thats what i do. bc then, yeah, "they're all Joker" but also none of them are with this Ship Of Theseus hc. whos the victim, whos real? nobody knows. my preference is obviously "all the people science has found have only been victims; nobody has found the og Joker's true identity" bc i liKED THAT MYSTERY AND THIS IS ME RET-CONNING IT. but i gUESS if you had a favorite version of "who is the real Joker" then the og COULD be that one. but like. why would you?? the mystery is so much better (...tO ME, but whatever), like imagine a Spencer Reid type of guy coming out and "actually, considering the commonalities in how all these people disappeared? implies they were ALL likely victims of Pyg and Joker. for years, we were arguing and accusing the victims of being the murder; it's probably the Joker's biggest, cruellest joke. because, really, we're back where we started. nobody truly knows the real name of the man who 'collaborated' with Pyg for the first time. and we may very well never know". like? how does that not excite the fuck out of you so much more?? headcanons are headcanon, but yours baffles me if you prefer Knowing The Joker's True Name to any of the variant versions or my hc version of Nobody Knows Who The Joker Is Or Where He Came From. jac is so super right, i love her

anyway. uh. pray the universe gives me a medical treatment That Fucking Works at nullifying my chronic illness symptoms if you want this fanfic to ever be a thing so i can write this plot-twist of a hc about "who is the Joker" into a story. feel free to adopt the hc tho. i ask vaguely for credit if you want to copy my hc one-for-one, but MOSTLY what i want is to be @'ed so i can squeal and giggle and see what you made lmao

but i dont anticipate this hc will go viral or something. very unlikely, in my mind. im just saying that as a safety-net in this proverbial trapeze act of a post lol

buT ALSO THANK YOU JAC FOR EVERYTHING YOU SAID ON TWO-FACE, I COULD NOT AGREE MORE. i went from a Joker fan to ".....ew too many people like the Joker in ways i dont, i feel gross now, i need a shower" and came out the other side of that as a Bruce Wayne/Batman × Harvey Dent/Two-Face truther bc they are doomed yaoi in the silliest and most tragic of senses, theyre foils, your honor, i love them (also if we are gonna keep Catwoman × Batman going, imma need sO MANY MORE PEOPLE from both DC and fans being inspired by Eartha Kitt's Catwoman design bc Eartha Kitt is a badass, go look her up, find out why she got replaced as Catwoman on the Adam West "Batman" show, ive been obsessed with this woman since i was like 8 years old and the world neeDS TO JUMP ON MY BANDWAGON ALREADY. i need more Black, Eartha-Kitt-looking Catwoman in my life stat aND, BATCAT, MY LIFE WILL BE YOURS) ....anyway, go watch Jac's video, go give her views, comments, engagement, she's so great and i want to (a) see her do more Gotham FYP skits (tho the Mob Waitress one is so close to a Gotham absurdism that i am happy with that, Jac, dont think i dont get excited when that series appears on my fyp) and (b) do more Batman breakdowns, bc i love hearing women of all backgrounds talk comics, comic-movies, comic-shows— but esp girly-girls. it itches my brain. i need more of it. go give her love, immediately, please

[mellimagicsblog]

Gimme your cr**** writing and I'll give free feedback...

UwU sO taCTfuL!!!!

So, I'm still working on the "late-stage capitalism employment" thing after leaving my former social work job with no contingency plan last year. Stupid? Yes. Life saving? Yes. (If you really want to know about that, please just DM me. It's personal.)

One of the ways that I'm looking to find some income is through editing and proofreading. I have a Fiverr page ready to go, but I need some samples!

I used to beta read on fanfiction.net quite often, but I haven't done so in a long time, and posting fanfiction samples on fiverr.com might be a little alienating for my potential audience. Sharing only rough drafts of my own content is also not the best demonstration of my skills, nor the variety of the type of writing I can help with. Believe it or not, I'm one of those weirdos who actually likes proofreading really mundane stuff.

I'm looking for 1-5 page samples of the following kinds of content:

Short fiction

A few pages of a larger fiction piece

Essays/nonfiction blog posts

Scripts and screenplays

Technical writing

Web content

Professional emails and messages

Cover letters and proposals

Feel free to request help other kinds of writing, but know that I don't have as much experience outside of prose. Leave a comment on the post to indicate your interest, and from there we will communicate on Discord or Google Docs. (Note: Samples posted as a comment on this post will not be used)

Process:

Before I edit your content, you will tell me what exactly you want feedback on and/or proofreading. I will also ask you what you expressly don't want feedback on. Upon completion of my review, your work will be shared as a sample publicly on my Fiverr page using a "before and after" comparison, so you will need to let me know if you want me to share your name as the original author or if you prefer that your sample be anonymous.

Minor typos and grammar issues I'll just fix in the "before/after","" without highlighting the changes, but for content feedback, this is usually how I color-code my work:

Red text means I think you should just remove the highlighted text without replacement

Green text is a suggested change or substitution to text you made

Purple text is commentary from me, usually next to a highlighted section of your work

Please let me know if you have a condition which affects your vision. We will find another way to edit your content that allows for both of us to see it and publish it.

Disclaimers:

I reserve the right to reject any writing you send me or not publish the feedback to my page. I will do my best to communicate why I made my decision. Generally, a rejection would be due to your content being too abstract or controversial. I'm not averse to reading saucy stuff, but if your content is NSFW or politically-loaded, please try to let me know beforehand.

Troll samples and harassment will not be tolerated.

(Inserted image: Toriel from Undertale saying, "do what's right or perish." One of the rare worthy uses of AI generated by CiblesGD on youtube.)

Please try not to take any critique I give you personally. I will ask your permission before posting the final edit, but getting angry with someone for giving feedback that you didn't know that you didn't want to hear doesn't help anyone. We can talk out any hurt feelings, but I'm prepared to ignore or even block people who get irate. Remember, you can take or leave any advice you want and I have no authority over that!

I will run your content through a plagiarism filter, so don't steal, please. I am also going to experiment with filtering for AI-generated work for the same reasons.

Lastly, you CAN send me fanfiction samples if you want, but I may ask to change certain character names and locations for very popular fandoms in the final sample. I'm fairly knowledgeable about western animation and musical theater fandoms, but I'm willing to take a look at anything if you're willing to educate me on the world. Sometimes, having an outsider's eye can help you to think about what parts of a given world you're taking for granted and could interpret in your own unique way. ;)

Thanks for reading my post and I hope to read from YOU soon!

[jack35434]

10 Common Email Mistakes We Do Daily

Email communication is an essential aspect of modern professional and personal interactions. Despite its ubiquity, many people still struggle with crafting effective emails and often fall prey to common mistakes that can lead to misunderstandings, inefficiencies, and even reputational damage. Here are ten common email mistakes we make daily, along with tips on how to avoid them.

1. Poor Subject Lines

The subject line is the first thing a recipient sees, and it significantly impacts whether they open the email or not. A vague or misleading subject line can cause confusion or disinterest. For example, subject lines like “Meeting” or “Important Information” do not provide enough context. A good subject line should be concise and descriptive, such as “Project Meeting on June 25th at 3 PM” or “Updated Budget Report for Q2.”

2. Lack of Clarity and Brevity

Emails should be clear and to the point. Long-winded emails with irrelevant details can overwhelm the reader and obscure the main message. It’s important to stay focused on the purpose of the email and avoid unnecessary information. Structuring the email with bullet points or numbered lists can help convey information more effectively. For example, instead of writing a long paragraph about a project update, use bullet points to highlight key milestones, issues, and next steps.

3. Failure to Proofread

Sending an email with typos, grammatical errors, or incorrect information can make a poor impression. It’s essential to proofread every email before sending it, paying attention to spelling, grammar, and punctuation. Tools like spell checkers and grammar checkers can be helpful, but they are not foolproof. Reading the email aloud can also help catch errors that might be missed when reading silently.

4. Inappropriate Tone

The tone of an email can be easily misinterpreted, especially since the recipient cannot see your facial expressions or hear your voice. A casual tone might be suitable for friends or close colleagues, but it might not be appropriate for professional or formal communication. Conversely, a very formal tone might seem distant or unapproachable. It’s important to consider the relationship with the recipient and the context of the email when choosing the tone. Phrases like “Could you please…” and “Thank you for your assistance” can help maintain a polite and professional tone.

5. Overuse of CC and BCC

Using CC (carbon copy) and BCC (blind carbon copy) incorrectly can lead to privacy issues and cluttered inboxes. CC should be used to keep people in the loop who need to know about the email content but are not the primary recipients. BCC can be useful for protecting the privacy of recipients when sending bulk emails. However, overusing these features can cause confusion about who is supposed to respond or take action. It’s best to use CC and BCC sparingly and thoughtfully.

6. Ignoring Email Etiquette

Certain email etiquette rules are universally expected. For example, using a proper greeting and closing, avoiding ALL CAPS (which can be interpreted as shouting), and not using excessive exclamation points. Additionally, responding promptly to emails, especially those requiring an urgent reply, is a key aspect of good email etiquette. Ignoring these conventions can be seen as unprofessional or disrespectful.

7. Not Using a Professional Email Address

A professional email address that includes your name (e.g., firstname.lastname@example.com) conveys credibility. Using a casual or outdated email address (e.g., cooldude123@example.com) can undermine your professionalism and make you appear less serious. It’s worth taking the time to set up a professional email address, especially for business communication.

8. Forgetting Attachments

One of the most common email mistakes is referencing an attachment in the email body but forgetting to attach the file. This oversight can cause delays and frustration. To avoid this, it’s helpful to attach the file before writing the email. Some email platforms also provide a reminder if they detect words like “attached” or “enclosed” in the email body without an actual attachment.

9. Using Inappropriate Content

Including inappropriate or sensitive content in emails can have serious repercussions. It’s important to remember that emails can be forwarded, saved, and retrieved later. Avoid sharing confidential information, gossip, or any content that could be deemed offensive or unprofessional. If you need to discuss sensitive matters, it’s often better to do so in person or over the phone.

10. Neglecting Follow-Up

Not following up on important emails can lead to missed opportunities or misunderstandings. If you haven’t received a response within a reasonable time frame, it’s appropriate to send a polite follow-up email. This demonstrates that you are proactive and organized. For example, a follow-up email might say, “Just checking in to see if you had a chance to review my previous email. Looking forward to your response.”

In conclusion, email communication, while convenient, is fraught with potential pitfalls that can hinder effective interaction. By being mindful of these common mistakes and making a conscious effort to avoid them, we can enhance our email communication skills, foster better relationships, and ensure that our messages are received and understood as intended. Paying attention to details like subject lines, clarity, tone, and etiquette can significantly improve the impact and professionalism of our emails. As with any form of communication, practice and awareness are key to mastering the art of email.

[bensolosbluesaber]

Something Forgotten (Poe Dameron x GN reader)

Summary: Poe Dameron is the love of your life, but he can’t remember you. Still, Poe finds himself drawn to you and seeing flashes of a life he has forgotten.

Angst (with a happy ending because I can’t be sad for too long)

Pairing: Poe Dameron x reader (I intended to use gender neutral language for the reader. Please tell me if I used gendered language so I can fix it!)

Warnings: Memory loss

A/N: Might be drinking and writing, so please excuse typos and generally anything that doesn’t make sense:)

--

“He’s awake?” Your feet slipped as you rounded the corner and your body bounced off the wall. You ignored the dull pain, too excited to see the man you loved to be concerned about trivialities like keeping your balance and not running into things.

“Wait, wait, wait! Y/N, wait!”

“Isn’t he awake?” You turned to Jess with a big grin plastered across your face.

Her expression was the exact opposite of yours.

“What?” You felt the smile slipping away. “Jess, what?”

“He doesn’t remember. Whatever they did to him… he doesn’t remember…” Jess paused for a long moment.

“Anything?” You murmured as your stomach twisted into a violent knot.

“You.”

For several days, you avoided doing anything that would bring you in contact with Poe. You couldn’t imagine what it would be like to have him look at you without recognition. And you wouldn’t have to. Wouldn’t have to imagine that is, because there he was.

The Resistance had received a call, and Black Squadron was flying to Takodana. Poe jostled you as he ran past, shooting an apologetic glance over his shoulder. It was like he was ripping your chest open with his bare hands, tearing into your flesh, pulling apart your ribs until they snapped just so he could get a handful of your heart and squeeze. And squeeze. And squeeze. He didn’t know he was doing it as he met your eyes for a single second, nodded politely, and immediately began barking orders to his squad.

When they returned, your transfer was already complete. Poe Dameron didn’t notice that you had gone. Poe Dameron hadn’t even noticed that you were there.

You left a note for Jess, the only person who had known about your relationship with Poe.

It simply read, ‘He can’t be distracted trying to remember.’

As the war began in earnest, you transferred to a base as far from Poe Dameron as you could go. You followed his war time exploits from afar, heard he befriended a former Stormtrooper named Finn and the new Jedi, Rey. You heard he took out a Dreadnought, was demoted, then promoted. You heard the General slapped him. You heard he light-speed skipped the Millennium Falcon.

You should have been with him through all of it. If the galaxy had even the slightest concept of fairness you would have fought at Poe’s side until the very end. Instead, you lived out the war on your own, fixing ships, sometimes flying a mission, and doing anything to forget the love of your life.

And now you were here on Ajan Kloss in the aftermath of the Battle of Exegol surrounded by celebrations and staring at Poe Dameron.

“Haven’t seen you in a while, kid. Nice of you to answer the call.”

Jess’s voice startles you. You glance over at her, then back to the pilot you were- are in love with but who can’t remember he loves you. He was talking to a man you could only imagine was Finn. Broad smiles spread across both their faces. Everyone is smiling and drinking and celebrating. Even the people who had lost someone were toasting their fallen comrades and sharing happy memories.

“Jess!” Poe points at the woman beside you. He’s still absolutely gorgeous. He hurries toward you- no, toward Jess. “Nice flying out there!”

He claps her on the shoulder. Then his gaze falls to you. For a moment, something flickers in his deep brown eyes before he fixes you with a playful smirk that you might even call flirtatious.

“Poe Dameron.” He extends his hand in introduction as your mind empties. He is opening his mouth to say something else while you’re contemplating whether to take his offered hand. But before you can decide, Rey grabs his arm and drags him away, effectively making the decision for you.

Jess is saying something to you, something you don’t hear as you turn away from the celebration. You don’t know where you are going, but anywhere is better than here. With him. Memory-less him. Against your better judgment, you spare a glance over your shoulder to where Poe stands. His arms are crossed as he stares up at a tall dark-haired man in black clothes.

Solo extends his palm toward Poe. That’s all you can bring yourself to watch.

--

“It will take some time,” Solo mutters.

“Rey,” Poe ignores Ben entirely. “I don’t understand. He took a portion of my memories when I was captured. And now he’s what? Giving them back?”

“I didn’t take them,” Ben interrupts. “I-”

“Shut up, okay?” Poe puts his hand up in Ben’s face to silence him. “Rey?”

“It’s like he locked them behind a door in your mind,” she continues trying to explain. “Now he’s giving you the key, and it’s up to you to unlock it.”

“So he took my memories of something-”

“Someone-” Ben starts.

“Shut up! He took my memories of someone to torture me, and now he is so kindly giving them back. But - and just so I’m crystal clear - I still have to find this metaphorical door myself? How exactly am I supposed to do that.”

“You’ll just know,” Ben says.

“I’ll just-” Poe throws his hands up. “I’ll just know? Thanks, Solo. This has been very helpful.”

--

You sit with your knees pulled to your chest, head bowed, back against a tree. Leaves crunch softly as someone approaches. You opt to ignore whoever it is, hoping they’ll leave you alone. You sense rather than see the person kneel beside you. And then, as if the day couldn’t get any worse, he speaks.

“You alright?”

Fuck. Of course it had to be Poe. The sound of his voice, a voice that is speaking to you like he doesn’t know you, only makes you cry harder.

Poe sits down beside you so your bodies are only inches away from each other. In the cool night air, you feel the heat coming from his skin.

“You lose someone?” He presses. When you don’t answer he continues, “I guess I did. Lose someone I mean. Except I didn’t know that until a few minutes ago… Weird huh. Anyway, that’s why I’m hiding in the woods. Your turn.”

He talks to you like he knows you, even as his words explain that he doesn’t. But he does know that he has forgotten someone. Maker, he had been talking to Solo when you made your abrupt exit. That was the very man who took Poe’s memories in the first place.

You can’t look at Poe. You certainly can’t speak to him. It’s all you can do to keep yourself from sobbing aloud.

“Hey.” Poe nudges you with his arm.

It’s an attempt to get your attention. But for Poe, it does more than that.

“You’re not my normal mechanic.”

You raise your eyebrows at this pilot’s cocky attitude.

“He’s working on Wex’s right now. But don’t worry, Dameron, I’m qualified.”

You pull your hands from the engine and turn to him. He stares at the grease smeared across your face, then looks down and surveys the entirety of your body before bringing his eyes back to yours. You’re hot. It’s the only thought in his mind as he watches you wipe sweat from your forehead with your shoulder.

“Maker! You’re as bad as the rumors say!” You roll your eyes at him and turn back to his ship.

Poe knits his eyebrows together as he stares down at you, you who is unquestionably the mechanic in that flash of memory. Curls fall across his forehead as he tips his head.

“I know you,” he breathes.

“Please don’t, Dameron,” you whisper pathetically.

You move to stand, but the man grabs your wrist.

“You again?”

“If you’d stop blowing up your engine- shit!” You yank your hand back at the sudden release of steam that accompanies a burning pain in your hand. You press the wounded fingers to your side. “I hate this ship. Everything takes two people to fix-”

“Here.” Poe steps in close behind you, the heat of your body soaking into his front as he reaches into the engine to hold the parts together.

As you slip your hand back into the ship’s insides, you go still.

“That better be your blaster on my ass, Dameron.”

He stares at you blankly as, unknown to you, the memory plays through his mind. You yank your hand away from him, stumbling as you pull back. You crave his touch like a moth drawn to flame. Unlike a moth, however, you aren’t stupid. You know that fire burns.

Poe is on his feet and following as you stumble through the forest that is lit only by the distant glow of celebration. You have to get away from the fire that is Poe Dameron while you still can.

He might be the best pilot in the Resistance, but you know the ground. You know these woods, and soon you’ve lost him in the trees.

“Wait! Wait!”

He doesn’t even know your name to call after you, and he’s cursing himself for not asking you, for not remembering. There is no question that you are the ‘someone’ Ben was talking about. You were his mechanic, but those memories, those two brief glimpses into a life he cannot remember, suggest something more.

Another flash of a forgotten life sears through his consciousness.

“How does a mechanic even end up in med-bay?”

“How did you find out I was in med-bay?” You shoot back from your spot in bed.

Poe, uninvited, joins you. Your brows pull together at his forwardness as the bed sinks under his weight.

“Someone else will fix your ship, Dameron. Don’t worry. I’ll be out in a few days.”

“I realized something on my way here,” he starts as he tucks a leg up and gets comfortable. “I don’t know your name.”

“I’ve been your mechanic for a month,” you scoff but introduce yourself nonetheless.

He repeats your name, seeing how it feels in his mouth. Good. It feels good.

--

Once upon a time, Poe had unofficially shared this room with you. The entrance codes are still the same, and the space is exactly as you left it. Your life with Poe surrounds you, preserved and covered in dust like some macabre museum exhibit.

It hurts, like being stabbed over and over with a dull knife. It is agony to be on the same planet as Poe, a man who can’t remember your name. Being here is hardly better. This place reminds you of everything you lost. A few of Poe’s clothes still hang in the closet where they mock you.

You crumple to the floor, too drained to make it across the room to the bed the two of you had shared. The hard floor digs into your knees. The tile is cool against your hands. You’re fighting waves of nausea so violent that you don’t even hear the door open, don’t notice another presence until hands are on your shoulders, sitting you back.

“I’m so drunk, Dameron. So drunk,” you slur and stumble against him. “And it is… it is so nice of you to walk me home.”

“My name is Poe. You can call me Poe.”

“No.” You turn to pat his cheek. The stubble is rough against your skin, and you find your hand stuck there, turning his face toward you.

“No?” He questions with a chuckle and leans into your touch.

“I want to kiss Poe.” Drunk you has no filter. “I don’t want to kiss Dameron.”

“You want to kiss me?”

“I want to kiss Poe.”

“That’s me.��

“No. No. No, you’re Dameron.”

“And you’re drunk.”

Poe feels the memory slipping away as the real you, not the memory of you, starts talking.

“How did you get in?” you choke out.

“Was this my room? You meant something to me?” Poe asks as he rubs your shoulder absentmindedly and tries to figure out how he knew the codes to this room. “What were we?”

“Nothing, Dameron,” you manage to snap. Then you’re sobbing. It’s those violent sobs that make you feel like puking, that keep you from breathing.

“Okay, hey.” Poe draws you in closer and shifts into a more comfortable position. His back is to the bed as he maneuvers you between his legs and holds you tight.

Moth. Flame.

You lean your head into the familiar curve of his neck.

Burning.

Poe Dameron splays his fingers across the back of your neck to hold you to him, and another memory flashes in his thoughts.

“You sure this thing is going to fly?”

“Positive.” You lean over the side of the cockpit and press a quick, secretive kiss to Poe’s lips. “Any problems are pilot error.”

“I don’t make ‘errors,’ darling.” Poe grabs the back of your neck and pulls you in for a longer kiss, an indecently long kiss.

Then another.

You are curled up on BB-8, slumped in an awkward hunched over position where you had clearly fallen asleep - in the hallway - while waiting for him to get out of his briefing. The droid chirps softly.

“We talked about this,” Poe chastises with a small smile. “You can’t let her sleep out here.”

BB-8 beeps indignantly.

“Then be more stubborn.”

Another.

“I love you.”

You sit up so fast you smack your head directly into the metal of the X-Wing suspended above you.

“Shit!”

You let every curse word you know spill from your mouth as you lay back. After taking a moment to regain your bearings, you slide out from underneath the ship to look up at Poe. He’s still dressed in his orange flight suit and covered in a fine layer of sweat and grime - fresh off a mission.

“What did you just say?”

Poe sprawls on the hangar floor, laying on his back beside you. He tucks his hands behind his head.

“I almost died today.” He says it so calmly that you are stunned into silence. “You know my last thought? I never told you I love you. And why? Because I’m scared you won’t say it back? It’s silly because whether you love me or not, I love you. And I want you to know that.”

A pause. He rolls on his side to look at your silhouette. The sun is setting behind you, casting long shadows through the hangar, sending flickers of orange and pink light across your face… across your shy and happy smile.

“I love you, Poe.”

“You love me,” he states.

At his words, you cling to him harder.

“I love you?” He whispers, more of a question than anything. The inquisitiveness in his tone makes your chest ache. Then with conviction he quietly repeats, “I love you.”

“Don’t, Dameron. Don’t.”

“I can’t remember… I- I…”

You lean away from him, putting a few inches between your bodies though you’re still half in his lap. He is in distress. You hear it in his voice, and all you want to do is hold him. But you can’t. You can’t.

“You should go, Poe.”

It’s the way you say his name. It’s that you say his first name all quiet and confused. That does it. Every stolen memory comes flooding back all at once, playing over top of each other and settling into his mind as if they had never left.

Images of you asleep in his bed, elbow deep in his X-Wing engine, head on his lap. You chatting with BB-8. Him watching you watch the sunset. Seeing you fly his X-Wing, surprising him with your skill. How you called him Dameron for months. The first time he heard his name on your lips.

“My name is Poe.”

He’d said that to you once. You were drunk, nearly out of your mind drunk, but you remember that moment. And you remember falling asleep in his bed, waking up beside him, and then kissing him for the first time. You had murmured his name so quietly as you woke, so bewildered at where you were and the sight of the man next to you, that you let his first name slip past your lips.

His hands find your cheeks and turn your face to him. 

“How could I have forgotten you?”

His eyes settle on your lips then flick up to your eyes. Don’t make eye contact. Don’t look at Poe.

“Please don’t cry.” He wipes a tear from your cheek with a rough thumb.

“This isn’t funny, Dameron.”

“Stop calling me that, and look at me.”

You do. You don’t know why, but you do.

It’s in his eyes. All the love you thought was lost is alive in those warm brown eyes.

“I remember you, darling,” Poe breathes.

He leans in until his nose nudges yours, and there he waits. He waits for one second, the longest second of his life, before his lips are on yours, his tongue slipping into your mouth as he kisses you hard, consuming you entirely. Your hands tangle in his curls. He murmurs your name over and over as he presses kiss after kiss to your lips and cheeks and forehead and anywhere else he can reach.

“Are you mad I didn’t tell you?” You whisper when he finally draws back for a breathe.

“How can I be mad when I finally have you back?” He stands and pulls you up and into bed.

You kiss his cheek and can’t fight the smile as he looks at you with those big puppy dog eyes so full of love. It’s like coming home.

You are home.

--

My Masterlist

Tag List: @ay0nha @romanarose

[writing-if]

Masterlist for IF Writing

Don't mind me, just getting this writing master list ready ahead of time to make it easier to keep this blog organized! I've already got a few ideas on some things I want to share :) Come across something incorrect? Let me know, please! Also, please excuse any typos in this post - I'm a very exhausted human lol

Oh - if you got tagged in this list, just ignore me, and sorry for the bother!

General Writing Advice and Considerations

Strategies for telling writer's block to "Fuck Off" - coming soon :)

Setting goals that won't overwhelm you - coming soon :)

How long does a demo need to be?

Getting Started

Story Structure & Plotting - coming soon :)

My Outline Process + Outline Templates

Because we all make mistakes :)

Tools

Hemingway Editor - the online version is completely free!

Writer - Free Basic Proofreader

Grammarly - Free Basic Proofreading

NaturalReader - text to speech to help catch errors!

Self-Editing

How to Self-Edit Your Work - coming soon :)

Common Dialogue Mistakes - coming soon :)

Showing Not Telling - coming soon :)

Worldbuilding Resources

Food Timeline - history of food across many centuries

Script A World - @script-a-world

Script Myth - @scriptmyth

Inkarnate - can use free or paid to create a map

Developing Your World

Basics for Worldbuilding (AKA Get Started) - coming soon :)

Planning Celebrations (Festivals, Feasts, Holidays) - coming soon :)

Politics and Government in Your World - coming soon :)

Religion in Your World - coming soon :)

Main Character (MC)

Deciding How Much Control to Give Players - coming soon :)

Customization Options to Consider - coming soon :)

Developing Characters

How many characters are too many? - coming soon :)

Basic Character Development Questions - coming soon :)

Choosing Character Names - coming soon :)

Writing Romance: Tropes and Clichés - coming soon :)

Links to Character-Related Resources

ArtBreeder - use AI to create the faces of your characters

The Librarian's Sexuality Masterpost - @linklibrarian

Behind The Name - history and meaning of names

Blogs For Educating Oneself

These are helpful in addition to research!

Writing With Color - @writingwithcolor

A Guide to Writing Disabled Characters - @cripplecharacters

Script LGBT - @scriptlgbt

Rainbow Writing - @rainbowwriting

ScriptAutistic- @scriptautistic

Writing Questions Answered - @writingquestionsanswered

ScriptShrink - @scriptshrink

Writing Blind and Visually Impaired Characters - @mimzy-writing-online

Links to Other Things

WorkFlowy - outlining and list making

[anathemafiction]

Hi! Sorry if this sounds demanding of me and please feel free to ignore this ask if you don't want to bother, but I was wondering, would you mind posting like a little patch notes list or something when the next updates for the game come out? And I don't mean a list with every single change of course, just with the more significant things like the lore check for the tablinum, removing/adding achievements, the first kiss dialogue option with Hadrian, that kind of thing. Maybe I'm just weird haha, but I find it informative to know about these kinds of changes, and to keep them in mind for the next time I play so I can check them out. I know you're probably super busy so I hope I haven't come off as disrespectful of your time or pushy or anything like that!

Yes, absolutely. I didn't add notes in the last patch update because it was mostly just typo fixes. I did change the finding of Nero's name part, but aside from that, I didn't really add anything, content-wise.

But, in this next patch, I'll give HG a full list of the changes I'm making. I'll also make a post here on Tumblr with the list so that people can judge if it's worth a replay or leave it for the future.

(There'll be two changes that are spoilery, however, in a foreshadowing kind of way, so I won't add those to the list, but it's only those two!)

And, please, you weren't pushy at all. You're very polite, anon!

[douxie-casperan]

Rise of the Titans and the assassination Hisirdoux Casperan’s character development

I’ve been ranting so much since Wednesday morning that I finally condensed by thoughts of WHY this one subject keeps setting me off namely the utterly diabolical way they handled Douxie and Archie’s relationship in Rise of the Titans and how it wasn’t just enough to hit him with the nerf bat.

Please note I’m at the point where I literally cannot tell the difference between Aaron headcanons, Teny headcanons and my own they are all mixed together in the blender that does funky things. I also apologise for typo/weird wording it’s half 1 in the morning and I’d rather sleep than edit.

~

If asked to sum up Hisirdoux Casperan there are certainly several things that come to mind:

Sees the value in people as a whole and will find do anything if there is a chance of help someone out

Prefers tactics that disable/banish rather than kill an enemy yet willing and able to pull the trigger if circumstances become forced

While not academically inclined he is very capable of thinking on his feet and outside the box calling back to his time on the streets where a split-second decision making is the difference between being caught and not

Terrible at planning he’ll be in there figuring it out as he goes along which is what makes the previous point so vital to literally how he goes through life

A natural charmer that would let him talk his way out of trouble 9/10 providing a perfect cover for his distrustful nature and reluctance to be touched by random people

Very down to earth, humble and never one to brag unless outright sassing someone

Will bang out some hot tunes at the drop of a hat, his love of music has never wavered once since he caught the bug despite instrument hopping ironically becoming a jack of all trades much like his magic style

The earliest memories he can recall are him as a young boy lost in the woods where he was for an unknown amount of time before his soon to be familiar finds him amongst the roots covered in dirt and drying tears, there is nothing before that. Unbeknownst to him is the colour of his magic matches the blue of a lost mother’s eyes and the song that haunts his nightmares as much as fire could well be hers though there is no way to be sure. From that moment on Archibald, shortened to Archie, would become his entire world and their friendship only becoming closer during the years they prowled Camelot together trying to keep themselves in one piece until the fateful day Douxie tricks the wrong person leading him straight into the path of the famous wizard Merlin Ambrosius.

It's no real secret that Merlin is a very closed off person who keeps his emotions as well guarded as his secrets, prefers the style of negative reinforcement over positive encouragement and is a very strict perfectionist in his. At this point in his life he can be very easily described as a disaster that is genuinely doing his best with every little mistake held of his head and his future self when brought back to that time period is belittled by Lancelot (Errand boy) and Arthur (Boy) too meaning it’s hardly a wonder his confidence was very fragile revelling in the times where he could do things without being told off for it. With Morgana largely ignoring him too (Though personally I like to think as he got older she’d occasionally take an interest until the blistering arguments with their master started to talk over daily life) a certain disguised dragon would have remained a lifeline and give that physical affection he craved much like being told he’d done well never seemed able to earn.

With Killahead he’d lose that home and family he made leaving just the two of them behind struggling to figure out their place in the world that had abandoned them.

There wouldn’t have been the words for it back then but the way he had been treated prior was outright abusive instilling very bad habits into Douxie yet by irony he was always willing to give people the benefit of the doubt and help those in trouble without thinking earning a reputation as the Shepard of Fire. He refused to become like him seeking to be better, perhaps not as a wizard (Even though he was learning new charms and spells along the way) but certainly as a person. Despite everything he suffers through or witnesses in the intervening years, the loss of friends and kindling of far newer ones he never loses his good heart 

That said is it any wonder that after rightfully sassing Merlin for resurfacing, ignoring his existence despite being in the same town and only visiting him to run a finding errand that all the confidence he’d managed to build completely from scratch after Camelot wavered causing him to fall back solely into trying impressing his old Master who was acting like his humble apprentice must have coasted the past few centuries who himself fell back into old habits of belittling? It’s only when Merlin started to truly listen and acknowledge that this was not the same Moppet he once knew after Excalibur was fixed that their relationship finally started to become more like equals. After the defeat of Janus the changeling that broke into the castle he touched Douxie’s shoulder with a genuine smile and for a second he simply didn’t know what to do because the old man never did this before his brain kicked into gear and realised he’d finally earned that one thing he’d been so desperate for his entire life: That in Merlin’s eyes he could be more than a failure who only caused problems for the closest thing to a father figure he’d ever had, never solved them.

A staff will be earned, history would be set back on trap by banishing Morgana tag teaming with Archie because they know one another inside and out, as promised he’d get the kids back to the present but soon after things would go badly wrong. They’d lose Jim and because of his very nature he’d make a gamble to try and get him back because that life is worth trying for just for in a moment of surprising selflessness Merlin would be sacrificed to save him. The only constant in his life apart from Archie would apologise, openly express pride and how the greatest thing he’d ever done was saving this orphan, call him son for the first and final time before turning into ash in his arms. There would be no time to grieve for things will barrel into the crescendo of Douxie sacrificing his own life to buy everyone time to escape because if they did that everything he’d ever done would be worth it with one last whispered goodbye.

(Zoe sees him fall, so does Archie – His heart would break if he was conscious just like theirs does when his body crumples into the ground)

On the very fringes of the Light Realm he is gifted one more conversation with Merlin in a truly heart-breaking sequence (THANKS TENY) where they can just talk without any fear of consequence or politics and just be completely honest. Douxie is allowed to stand equal to Merlin, to have the hug he’d needed since he was a child and be allowed to simply let go of every pretense and cry his heart out because this can never happen again. He’s allowed to say goodbye to both his master and Morgana who had both shaped so very much of his life but like the painting he’d always remained firmly in the long shadows of until that moment.

When Hisirdoux Casperan finally leaves Wizards if we just accidently deliberately put the shawarma back in along with checking in with Zoe before departure, it is with having learned to live during his wandering years but this is the point of true freedom because he can finally escape into his own light with Archie by his side to keep Nari out of the hands of those that would see the world harmed. It won’t be easy but it feels possible somehow even with the knowledge everything is simply running on borrowed time.

Then Rise of the Titans happens.

At first everything is genuinely fine! No more running, they engineer a solution shut the Order’s magic down to make them a lot less dangerous and potentially at least incapacitate them until they can come up with a longer-term solution but all the best laid plans and all that. Douxie’s quick thinking stops the train from crushing any of the people below and it’s a very him style move to switch places with Nari to stall for time because for some reason the plot disabled Claire from portaling her or any of the threatened people/heroes to safety. He openly sasses the Order despite knowing the consequences will be bad for him because once again he’s managed to trick them, buy time that at the other end isn’t even slightly utilised until he’s forced back into his own body in excruciating pain. Archie immediately mobs him with comfort just as he has done every single time the wizard is distressed or collapsed with exhaustion without thinking because that is what their bond is like, incredibly close and far more than the Soul Bond mark that connects them together. They’re very alike in that regard, you have to earn the right to touch while equally knowing exactly what form the other needs the most in that precise moment in a way very few others could.

Bar the moment of figuring out that an illusion is in place to hide where the Order is opening the Genesis Seals and the brief insistence on reconnecting with Nari somehow Douxie manages to forget everything that makes him who he is after this point choosing to stand in the background being very no thoughts head empty or can only use the most basic spells of his youthful days not the seasoned master wizard he should be. Nomura is treated like an innocent slip rather than an outright death he did absolutely nothing to prevent (Not to mention the stupid daytime thing) nor seems to care particularly about afterwards yet with Nari’s he’s allowed to openly grieve in a gorgeously animated visual showing how he’d failed to keep her safe despite everything. He did nothing to help here either mind despite allowing himself to be tortured in the same piece of media to keep her safe, just watched another loss happen right in front of his eyes in his conga long line of them.

Then there’s Archie, oh god then there was Archie.

The dragon who even here he’d been shown to have an incredibly close bond with him decides you know what sod that tell him goodbye I’m going to make a joke about having a kingdom now dad and me are trapped in here forever. Douxie on his part looked sad for all of three seconds saying that he hoped he’s happy like it's a pet that wandered out into the world one day and never came back instead of a lifelong companion that has been there for as long as he can remember. He was now completely alone in the world since Zoe was also written out entirely and because every bit of his background had been forgotten about it somehow meant nothing. This wasn’t “I know you miss him, I know you need to grieve but you are running out of time” moment like things had been with Charlie, this was “cool shapeshifting dragon cat is now stuck in a plot hole that’s a shame” with zero pay off or any of the genuine reaction that should have been there or hell even trying to Ohana him back that very second because it never should have happened in the first place. Then even this wasn’t enough somehow, they managed to de-power Douxie even further into uselessness bar the (Admittedly nifty!) sticky feet stunt, the one who fought Skrael and Bellroc to a stalemate was shunted aside with barely a thought and his head would somehow get even emptier.

The one person who knew the danger of time magic the most stood by and said nothing.

The one person who would suffer the most by a reset because the lynchpin to his issues would be asleep if you got it wrong and should have drilled it into Jim’s head the best time to aim for stood by and said nothing.

The one person who had just suffered the loss of his familiar, best friend and only family along with the almost sister like Nari stood by and said nothing.

Then to add further insult to injury the caption when Douxie and Archie is shown says Some go their entire lives living an existence of quiet desperation because every drop of his character growth, his ability to finally start addressing his trauma instilled back in the 12th century, the staff he longed for was instead openly mocked by going “Aww he got his cat friend back how nice!” Everything he’d rightfully earned and had now would be unable to progress until certain criteria are met because it hinges entirely on the Trollhunter going to Merlin’s tomb and there’s only so much your support network of two (One if she’s written out) can do, the root of the majority of his issues all stem from one man.

And this folks is why I’ve been going on multiple rants about Douxie in particular, everyone was hit with the out of character bat to some degree in this film but when they came for him they didn’t just stop after they took his legs out because they wanted him to suffer from something he’s never had any control over to begin with all over again. Abuse survivors deserve better, these characters deserve better and we as viewers deserve far far better writing than we were forced to endure.

[just-some-random-blogger]

Death By Bagel

NCT Culinary Student!Mark Lee x Fashion Design Student!Reader Summary: Mark makes a cake cause he's realized he can't lose you to some f-boy. Word Count: 3k+ Warnings: Fluff, childhood au, college au, slowish burn, slight cursing, reallllly fluffy, some broksi-dude action, typos sksksksks, etc.

R E Q U E S T my friend: mark lee, slow burn, friends to lovers

A/N: I wrote a fic that already had like 1k+ word then I LOST IT (i think i deleted it) thus this. It took me 10 years to write this msmsmkskskks. PLEASE TUMBLR IS MESSING WITH ME AND MIXED UP THE ORDER OF SOME OF THE DIALOGUE

“As a doctor, I don’t think you should be doing that,” Mark says, not even bothering to look at his patient seated rudely on the floor. Oop, he’s lying down now.

Mark huffs and looks up from the clay block he was molding on his tray, “YOU’RE SO UNPROFESSIONAL!”

Mark’s mother nearly spits out her coffee upon hearing the words of his five-year-old son. Her husband snorts, “He got that from you.”

The woman throws a look at the man and was supposed to give a snarky retort, up until the sound of the doorbell ringing. She grins from ear-to-ear and dashes to get the door.

When she comes back to the living room, she’s accompanies by another woman and a tiny version of her.

“Markie! Say hello to your Auntie!” Mark’s mom calls.

Mark from the carpeted floor looks up and blinks, examining the stranger-woman and its human-ling. Mark turns to his father who was sat on the couch and receives a nod of approval almost. Mark purses his lips and waves at the woman.

The woman waves back and then crouches down to the little girl, “Baby, say hello to Mark.”

Unwilling, she shakes her head.

“Aw come on, baby. Don’t be shy. Mark over there is a really sweet boy. I knew him when he was in his mommy’s tummy, just like Mark’s mom knew you when you were in mine. You’re the same age so you’ll get along just fine.”

With the unnecessary explanation that gave no justification to the scene whatsoever out of the way, the girl was fooled into peeping up, “Hi, Mark.”

“Hello,” Mark says, not particularly interested, as his patient was still in the midst of dying in his office. He turned to his stuffed toy called Mr. Lion and attempted to stand him up once more.

At this point, the girl makes her way to Mark.

“We’ll be back in two hours, honey. Keep an eye on the children,” Mrs. Lee tells his husband who had been occupied with TV the entire time.

“Yeah. I got this,” he smiles to his wife then goes back to watching.

The bumble bee clad figure sat down to Mark in blue and watched him play.

Mark ignored her for a few seconds, needing to assert all efforts on standing that dumb toy up. Once successful, Mark turns to her, “Do you play doctors?”

Mark was then met with the same lack on enthusiasm. She hums, “I like playing baker doctor.”

All at once, Mark gasps, “ME TOO!”

It was unbeknownst to the children it was oddly specific and the chance of this happening was pretty slim.

And in a blink of an eye, excited giggles erupt in the room, as if they had been having so much fun before this scene. It was here and there the two would become best friends to the very end.

... so I guess it means the reckoning is upon us.

“MARK LEE I SWEAR TO THE FU--” “WHAT! WHAT!?” Mark laughs.

"YOU ATE MY BAGEL! AGAIN!" I growl in a loud whisper, throwing the wrapper at him and his flat head before he could think to dodge it while he annoyingly laughs.

"I asked if I could have it though!" he says, fully knowing his sins.

I glared at him and say lowly, "I thought you were referring to my notes, bread for brains."

Mark snorts loud enough for our teacher to wake up from his nap. Once the class notices, we all pretend to be doing something productive and Mark plays it off with a cough.

"Mr. Lee." Mr. Kim says sternly, clicking his tongue, blinking his eyes rapidly.

Mark finishes coughing and turns to our seated professor, "Yes sir."

"Don't go to school if you're sick and going to cause a racket with your coughing."

Mark nods firmly and Mr. Kim closes his eyes again, mumbling, "page 65 is due tomorrow."

The entire class grumbles. Mark beside me scoffs and makes a face, "Yeah, yeah, Doyoung."

I turn to him and elbow his side.

"Whatever," Mark shakes his head, "professor bunny-teeth won't hear me."

Once class ended, we both get our things and head out for lunch. We walk to our canteen, fussing over assignments, deciding we should do it together later in our mutually free period.

I groan and narow your eyes at him as we have an argument over how he hasn't finished the essay for English, "That's not the point."

"Yo Mark!" a voice calls from afar. Mark and I turn, looking for the voice, and I spot the dimpled senior, Jung Jaehyun, in a table with the rest of his squad.

I nudge Mark and point at the pale guy seated by the corner.

Mark throws him a smile and waves. I follow closely behind him as he walks over to the table. "We're going to sit with them?" I say in some sort of gasp.

"Yeah." Mark replies simply, not bothering to turn to me, "they're cool."

I knit my brows at that and nod, "Yeah I know. But I'm not cute today."

Mark stops in his tracks and throws me a confused look, "what?"

"I didn't put any make-up on today, also I'm pretty sure there's a visible stain somewhere on my jacket, I just don't remember where."

Mark scrunches his face up again, even more confused. "What? How do you... forget a stai-- that's not the point. Why do you wanna look cute today?" He scoffs and continues lowly, "hardly as if you ever look cute."

I let out an annoyed groan and punch Mark's shoulder. "Like when you panicked when Seulgi came over and asked for notes."

Mark openes his mouth, "That is so not the same! Jaehyun's a fuck bo-"

"Just shut up already," I snap and shove him forward so he'd continue walking. "Let's not keep him waiting," I add and mumble, "also I know. Dong Sicheng however is very cute."

Mark chuckles, "he's dated every girl on the dance team."

"Okay, maybe not that cute."

"Ya, Mark," Jaehyun grins and greets the said person with a high-five and chest bump. He turns to me and speaks my name with a smile. I smile back politely and wave.

I'm about to sit next to Sicheng, but Mark shoves me and so I end up sitting on the other side of the bench table with Jaehyun. I turn to Jaehyun with a small, non-awkward smile and shoot Mark a glare. He seems unbothered though.

"So, you up for a round later?" Jaehyun asks Mark.

Mark talks over me, "you know it, dude."

Jaehyun flashes his dimple smile all the stupid girls fall for. I'm only half falling for it cause I'm only half stupid. He raises his brows, "you bought the dough, right?"

This makes me knit my brows.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. I really did this time," Mark mumbles quickly. "It's my turn anyway."

Jaehyun gives an off look, "that's literally what you said last time bro."

"Yo, no for real. It's in my bag, if you wanna check."

Jaehyun shakes his head when Mark begins to scramble for it, "no, Lee, it's good. We wouldn't want you friend to get dirty."

Is it just me or do you feel slimey all of a sudden?

Jaehyun then gives me a somewhat, somehow sincere smile, "so. I hear you're in fashion design."

I give a soft chuckle, "yeah. That's me."

"I could tell from a mile away. Mark looks horrible next to your getup."

I look down at my sweater and ripped jeans. Mark exclaims in protest, "shut the hell up, Jae."

I give a soft smile at Jaehyun, "don't know where that comes from but thanks I guess."

Jaehyun chuckles, "I'm kidding," he eyes Mark, "I saw your Fashion Design pin on your bag when you sat down."

"Oooohhhh, haha, okay, that makes sense."

"Ya, Jeff," Sicheng calls for Jaehyun, "it's almost time."

Jaehyun turns to his friend and nods. He turns back to me and Mark, "well, it's nice to meet you. Mark won't put a sock in it even if I beg. See you around, fashionista."

He stands and slaps Mark's back, "see ya later, broski."

"Yeah, bruh," Mark replies.

Once it's just Mark and I, I snap at him and blurt out in a whisper yell, "YOU'RE ON BROSKI LEVEL WITH JUNG JAEHYUN?!"

Mark gives me a weird face, "bruh, I think he calls the principal broski, for real."

I smack Mark, making him whine, "you know what I'm talking about, Mark! And what, are you doing drugs?!?"

He shakes his head in confusion, "Wait, what!? Who the hell told you that?"

"Uhhhhh you were talking about dough and showing up later. Sounds like you owe him money for drugs, Mark."

"??? In what universe did we even mention drugs?? Does this," he slaps his face, "look like a face of a drug addict to you?"

"A gullible idiot maybe."

Mark's jaw drops, "oh wow, okay. I'm done with this conversation." He proceeds to stand attempt to walk away. I scoff, "not on my watch bitch."

Like the true idiot that he is, Mark begins to legit run away from me, like a criminal who stole my cookies. It's embarrassing that he, a man much taller than I, could not even outrun me. I suppose I should be grateful, but this just fortifies my thoughts of him being an idiot even more.

But okay... I wasn't actually expecting this... like... Mark and Jaehyun... like... actually baking bread after school with dough Mark premade at home. Also, uh, Jaehyun looks super cute in an apron that I'm having a mental breakdown. And what's new, so does Mark.

"I can't believe you thought I was a drug dealer," Jaehyun says in a soft pout as he rolls out dough on the marble counter of his friggin large kitchen in his friggin large house. Like dang, I knew he was rich, but he's like Rich™ Rich. Rich with a golden diamond encrusted Rolex watch rich that's in a glass display rich-- wtf.

Mark wheezes in his telltale high pitched laugh as he opens a pack of unsweetened chocolate pellets, "she thought dough was some sort of metaphor or something."

"Cute," they say at the same time. Mark turns to Jaehyun in slight surprise and Jaehyun turns to me. I roll my eyes, though I feel my neck burn. I avert my attention to the scene I was sketching on my pad, Jaehyun and Mark baking croissants. I clear my throat, "I'm just making use of the single braincell between us, cause if he doesn't die falling down the stairs, he's gonna pull some idiotic stuff like baking with Jung Jaehyun."

Oddly, it's Mark that reacts to that with a, "hey!"

Jaehyun rubs his chin on his shoulder, "I also can't believe you think so little of me.'

I break a sweat but decide to answer honestly, "... ... ... You have a reputation."

"Of being a fuck boy?"

Mark loudly transfers the chocolates into a metal bowl, making the two of us snap at him. Mark makes a face, "oh gosh, sorry."

Jaehyun sighs, "well. I admit I get around, but that's only because I get dumped every time."

I raise a brow.

Jaehyun purses his lips, "nah, let's not make this weird. The croissants will be flat."

"Dude," Mark turns to him, "that's literally only because you messed up the recipe."

Jaehyun grits his teeth, "no. It's because Kun's a little teacher's pet and sabotaged me so he could get the best grade."

"No, but like Kun is really nice, he helped me with the fold techinique."

Jaehyun scoffs, "He stole me vanilla extract, Mark. Who does that?!"

"No, listen, he's cool, like, for real--"

"No, you listen, he's a little shit and--"

The two begin to bicker like a married couple, and I begin to draw inspiration form the scene to design some random sketches of wedding dresses.

I look back to the two and still can't get over the fact that I learned Jaehyun was a culinary arts major with my best friend, and that I was currently in the Jung's boojie home because I thought Mark was buying drugs from him. Not what I was expecting at all my day to go like, but I'm not mad this is how it went.

"No, no, no, no," Jaehyun says. He turns to me and points, "let's just get an outside opinion. Babe, what's your favorite color?"

"BABE?!" Mark barks.

I take a moment to reply. I blink slowly, "uhh... pink?"

Jaehyun bites his lower lip and claps his flour covered hands, "Right. Pink croissants it is."

Mark shoots him a glare and turns to me, back to Jaehyun, "she has a name."

Jaehyun nods, "yeah, and she wants pink croissants."

Mark makes a face and Jaehyun examines it, chuckling under his breath. "Wah, you two are something, huh."

No one really responds.

We began to always eat lunch with Jaehyun and his friends. It's funny cause I realized Jaehyun, although I still firmly believed he was out to get nasty with every other girl he sees, he was actually just like Mark. A total loser with a love for cooking.

"Hey," Mark says with a snippy tone.

I give him a look and suddenly receive a paper bag to my face. Mark sits on his chair next to me, as per usual. I smell the thing before I realize what it is. It's a freshly baked bagel. I perk up and smile, "Aw, you baked me a bagel?"

Mark raises his upper lip, "no. Jaehyun did."

I knit my brows, "what? Why?"

Mark narrows his brows, "do you, like, like him?"

I give him a look. I take a bite of the bagel, making Mark look at me in disbelief. I answer, "You do know I only hang with him cause you do, right?"

"Then why'd you eat the bagel then?"

"Uh, a number of reasons. 1) it's a bagel, 2) free food, 3) I'm starving, 4) it smells amazingggg."

Mark does a face, "fair. I've been meaning to ask how he does his seasoning for a while now too." He releases a breath, "and anyway, I'm pretty sure he made a bagel cause I told him you liked them. Never talking about you to him anymore though."

I look at him, "why do you talk about me so much to him anyway?"

"Uh because you're amazing," Mark says instinctively.

I feel my heart skip at that. I coo and place my hands on my chest, "wait that's really sweet."

Mark looks at me. His face begin to shift, "too bad it's a lie- haha."

I give him a look and rebut, "jerk."

"Loser."

As quickly as I found out about Jaehyun being Mark's friend, that's about as quickly as I found out he didn't like hanging out with him anymore. It's kind of a shame I never got to go back to his boojie house.

There was this one encounter I had with Jaehyun though... which was a little weird, not gonna lie.

He was waiting for me outside my Tailoring class, smiling and waving when he saw me. I Reluctantly reciprocated and walked over to him.

He releases a breath, "I've been waiting for about 20 minutes for you. I didn't know when your class would end."

I raise my brows, "you could have asked?"

"Well I would need your number for that, and that would have ruined the surprise," he pulled out a brown paper bag, reminiscing the same one Mark chucked at my face.

"I made you two this time," he smiles.

I take a moment to reply, "you don't have to make me bagels, Jaehyun."

He grabs my hand, "yeah, but I want something out of ya," he places the bagels in my hand. He proceeds to lead us off and we begin to walk down the hall.

Truth be told, it's a little scary that his ulterior motive is up in the air. Jaehyun places his hands in his pockets, "I like your dress, by the way."

I smile, "thanks. I made it."

He smiles and nods, "right. That makes sense as to why it suits you well."

I can't help but blush at that, and simultaneously feel conscious when I realize a bunch of girls in my course are looking at me and Jaehyun as we strut down the hall.

"So, what did you want, Jaehyun?"

"Well, I clearly wanted to ask you out."

"..."

"..."

Jaehyun smiles and give a soft laugh, "is it so ground breaking?"

"... Uh..."

He sniggers, "hey, you can say no. I mean I hope you don't but you can." Jaehyun leans in and raises his hands, "I won't like it, but a man should take rejection from a lady well."

I turn to him as he straightens up. I turn to the bagels he made me and bring it back to him. He laughs, "no, I made them for you really. It's not poisoned, in fact it's made with love."

I visibly react to that, which makes Jaehyun wheeze. I can't help but laugh back, "that was hella tacky."

"Worth a shot though," he says. "Good luck with Mark."

I look at him with silence and he chuckles, "ya, you can't fool me."

I'm about to retort but then Jaehyun gets called by one of the frats dudes I identify as Johnny Seo. Jaehyun does a curtsy and clicks his tongue, "see ya later babez."

"You know, I would have said yes if you didn't do stuff like that."

Jaehyun purses his lips, "no you wouldn't."

I shrug, "worth a shot though."

Jaehyun places a hand on his chest, dramatically calling, "Uh, rejection hurts, man."

Yeah, I never went to Jaehyun's boojie house ever again.

Silver lining though was Mark's dorm smelled equally as nice because of all the food he cooks, although it came with a whiff of axe body spray from his roommate, Lucas. It's cool though, he was almost never around for me to smell it in its whole intensity.

"Aite," Mark calls from his side of the dorm. I perk up from the two seater dining table they had and turn to Mark who was covering the cake he was making for his finals.

"Don't, like, peek, okay. I want you to see the cake all at once and give me your honest reaction to it. Please, like, all my lives kinda depend on it."

"How many lives do you have?"

"9, I'm pretty sure."

I stand from my seat, "not you faking your life as a cat, but get it I guess."

Mark raises a hand at me as I walk over, "can you not, I'm high-key panicking right now."

"Over what? You literally made a box of donuts for your midterms and it looked better than Misty Mreme! I'm sure your cake is hot."

"It was in the minifridge for a day. I mean it barely fit cause of all of Lucas' mountain dew."

I groan, "just show me it, Mark Lee!"

Mark whined and dashes over to me, grabbing my shoulders, "okay, but like, don't be mean about it. I swear, I might cry."

I give a sound and fake cough, "it's ugly."

Mark doesn't respond to that particular jab, "I'm serioussss. Please be kind, okay?"

I look at Mark's nervous face and give a soft pout, "Markie, please, not that I think it would be ugly, but I promise you don't have to be nervous about my reaction."

He isn't soothed by that, but he does release a sigh, "okay. So for context, Mr. Moon wanted the cake to be one or two tiers, but I went with one, cause there aint no way I'm going to the other side of the campus to freeze a two tiered cake. Then, the theme was something from your childhood, so, I, uh, thought this was fitting. The exam is 60 percent decoration, 40 percent taste by the way."

Mark gives me a hesitant look, but steps way for me to see it. I then see a heart shaped, medium sized cake in my favorite pastel pink color. By the top there's a little boy on the floor playing with a toy oven set and little girl in a bumble bee dress, holding a stethoscope. At the bottom of the cake, there were jelly letters spelling out, "I like you."

I cup my cheeks at the sight of it and feel my eyes start to well at the sentiment.

Wait... was this really happening?

Mark heaves in and out, "okay, so like when Jaehyun began to like hit on you, that sucked pretty hard because he's known for getting girls and I thought maybe he'd get you too and I got panicky. Anyway, I....... have liked you since we were kids... And... I know you probably don't feel the same way but I have to try, you know.... Yolo."

My feel my tears retract from what I hear. I rub my eyes. I turn to Mark and find his nervous face. "Did you just say yolo in your confession, Mark?"

He looks like he's about to throw up.

I can't help but chuckle and pout, "dude..."

I prolong the moment. Mark gets even more nervous as he repeats softly, "dude..."

"We could have dated in grade school all this time."

It takes a moment to register in his head.

Like, a really long moment.

I sigh, "Mark! I like you too, dummy."

He freezes and blinks. His face begins to burn. He breaks into a soft smile, "nice."

I break into a laugh.

"... Uh... So... Can I like... Kiss you?"

I snort and feel my own cheeks begin to burn, "I think you should refrigerate your cake first."

Mark snaps out of this trance, "oh shoot, you-" I give him a quick peck on the lips.

He is dumbfounded.

I feel butterflies go wild in my stomach.

"I'll wait over there for when you've fixed that."

Mark watches as I walk away, "yooo.... That's not fair though."