#Sigh. Like father alike daughter

[fumifooms]

Dad always said I was like him

Meijack and Chilchuck Tims Dungeon Meshi, Ryoko Kui

^ 1: Moony moonless sky, Fatima Aamer Bilal / 2: Bug like an angel, Mitski / 3: Woodtangle, Mary Ruefle / 4: The Third Hour of the Night, Frank Bidart / 5 & 6: FROM THE MAKERS OF "TWO-MOM ENERGY DRINK," IT'S "LET YOUR FATHER DIE ENERGY DRINK,", Daniel Lavery & Cecilia Corrigan / 7: Batman: Year Three (1989) / 8 & 9 : FROM THE MAKERS OF […], Daniel Lavery & Cecilia Corrigan / 10: Wilt, CJ the X / 11: How Do We Forgive Our Fathers, Dick Lourie / 12: Milk and honey, Rupi Kaur / 13: And My Father's Love Was Nothing Next To God's Will, Amatullah Bourdon / 14: Moony moonless sky, Fatima Aamer Bilal / 15: Someday I’ll Love Ocean Vuong, Ocean Vuong / 16: untitled, Joan Tierney v 17: Drunk, The Living Tombstone / 18: unknown

When your father tried his best to provide for you but he worked all the time and even when he was home he was either tired or stressed and he’s always liked to get drunk to relax and cheer up. When you know he values work ethics and respectability so you grew up to be capable and quiet. And when he says you’re like him you’re sort of puzzled, does he really know you so little, or does he know himself so little? But you like the feeling of your father ruffling your hair so you accept it, and still you stand next to your mother just as silent and just as stoic as her during family gatherings. He leaves again and again and when your mother leaves him nothing changes, really. You wonder if it’s more telling that you know him better than he seems to himself or that you don’t know him as much as you wish you did, or that you don’t think about him all that much these days. Out of sight, out of mind. And he’s never really been there, even when he was there, after all.

[ekkkkey]

vestal (chapter I)

summary: Livia, a young Vestal Virgin, is bound to Vesta’s eternal flame and the vow of sacred duty. In Rome, it’s common knowledge; touch a Vestal, and the wrath of the gods will descend upon you. But what if someone dares to defy that rule?

warnings: 18+ minors dni, dubcon, violence, blood

tags: caracalla is a freak, darkfic, no softboys here

word count: ~3k

"No vow of chastity or sacred duty could restrain him who deemed himself a god, for he believed himself above the laws that bind mere mortals."

-Decimus Rufus, Gods Among Men: The Erosion of Roman Law.

ৡ ৡ ৡ

"This is wrong!" Livia protested, though her outrage came more from personal feeling than from a desire to argue with her mentor. "There are countless priests for that!"

Caesonia, her sworn sister, was ten years older, but always so gentle and easy to talk to that Livia could be honest with her. As long as no one else found out.

"You know how things are," Caesonia said, her voice flat with boredom as she absentmindedly smoothed an invisible wrinkle on her snow-white tunic, making it clear that the matter was settled. "The emperors want to win back the people’s love, and what does the crowd love more than the games?"

"Let them win it without us! Only love for the immortal gods and my homeland make me happy, not mortals who crave power over everything!" She didn’t even understand why she was so passionately opposed, but she couldn’t hold back her fiery outburst.

"Careful, sister," Caesonia warned, her brow furrowing. "You speak of sacred love, but the fathers of Rome are sacred too. Besides, love comes in many forms. Doesn’t love for your family, your loved ones, mean anything to you?"

Livia flinched, her gray eyes drifting into the distance, her lips trembling.

"I don’t know that kind of love," she replied quietly. "I loved my father, my sisters, but that love doesn’t compare to what I feel for the great teachings of Vesta. My father, my mother, my sister—they’re all gone, gone forever, and the gods are eternal. Immortal."

Caesonia sighed deeply, rising from her seat. She tucked her chestnut curls behind her ears and walked over to Livia, gently taking her hands and looking straight into her eyes.

"You didn’t grieve properly, I understand…"

"I don’t need grief," Livia cut in quickly, though her voice trembled. The older Vestal always said Livia was too emotional and fiery. "I only need repentance and service."

"Then serve! The Emperor is the embodiment of Jupiter, Rome itself. And now we have two of them—twice the work, right?" she giggled. Livia, giving in, smiled in response. "Or should I say, the embodiment of Romulus and Remus?"

They were alike in one thing only—both greedy children, far from the greatness of their famed ancestors. And yet, they’re emperors, which makes them the fathers of all living in Rome.

Livia didn’t love the world of mortals, didn’t like leaving the villa or the temple, just as she didn’t enjoy being in large crowds. Until now, the emperors had cared little for the Vestals. They had always dealt with uprisings and discontent with bloodshed, needing no help from them. But now… everything had changed.

The famous and beloved Lucilla, daughter of the late Emperor Marcus Aurelius, had adopted the current emperors, showing her favor. Why and for what, no one knew, and even if they did, they wouldn’t say, knowing how the emperors dealt with loose tongues.

Lucilla was now their mother, General Acacius was replaced by Fulvius Plautianus, who had served under Septimius Severus and was known for his brutal temper, and the Senate was filled with all kinds of scoundrels and sycophants. Livia, like the other Vestals, did not involve herself in politics, but she knew a lot, listening to the gossip of the wives of high-ranking officials who came to make offerings.

"Offer a prayer to Vesta, to Jupiter, anoint yourself with sacred blood, and the priest will tell them what they so desperately want to hear," Caesonia continued. "Then the games will pass, and we’ll return to the temple. It’s an honor, Livia, not a punishment. You’re young, not even fully trained, and yet you drew the lot!"

She really had drawn the short straw when it came time for her and the other sisters to decide who would make a sacrifice to the gods.

"Rituals should remain sacred," Livia replied, less confidently now, not really expecting an answer.

ৡ ৡ ৡ

The first day of the games marked the start of autumn, right in the midst of the festival season, and the city hummed with excitement. The last games had been only recently, but after a string of executions, deaths, and tortures, people were desperate for something lighter. And really, what’s more entertaining than watching someone else die?

Draped in a flowing, snow-white tunic, Livia walked alongside the other Vestals, surrounded by stern-faced Praetorian guards, as they arrived at the Colosseum just as the sun hit its peak, bathing everything in blinding white light.

The crowd showered them with lilies and narcissus, desperate for a glimpse of the sacred priestesses. There were five of them—the sixth had stayed behind to tend the sacred fire. Usually, that was Livia’s role, but today, her duty was different.

She couldn’t hide her awe at the sight before her—flowers scattered everywhere, a roaring sea of people, thousands of voices merging into one. As they passed through the gates and reached the stands, she noticed the shift. These weren’t the same poor and desperate souls who had thrown flowers at her feet. Here, the crowd was wealthier, brighter, draped in a riot of colors and excessive finery.

To her displeasure, Livia understood that in this sea of bright hues and mixed fashions, there was a lack of respect for Roman customs, a disregard encouraged by the emperors, who, by all accounts, dressed quite unusually themselves.

"Over here, Livia," a priest, old and dry as parchment, took her hand, gently pulling her away from the others as they hurried to their designated seats. She turned her head, watching them go.

From a distance, their small platform gleamed—four pristine white figures, dazzling against the chaos of color. It made her smile.

The priest’s grip was light, his skin thin and fragile. He was the only man allowed to touch the Vestals, for he himself was not a man in the eyes of the people, but a vessel of the divine.

When they led her onto the arena floor, the sun blinded her. A thin white veil covered her face, a flower crown resting on her head, and beyond the sheer fabric, the world was hazy. She barely saw the thousands of faces watching her, barely heard the deafening roar of the crowd. Only the scorching heat of the sand beneath her bare feet felt real.

The drums beat. The noise swelled. The herald called out—she didn’t hear what he said. Instead, she lifted her face toward the sun, whispering a prayer under her breath, over and over.

"It is time, child," the priest said, removing her crown and veil. Her dark hair tumbled down over her shoulders, but her gaze remained fixed on the sky. That’s where her true audience watched.

A primal, animalistic scream made her flinch. She finally lowered her face and looked around. Through the central gates leading to the arena, they brought in a massive white bull. The beast was so enormous that six burly men, their faces hidden behind golden masks, struggled to hold it.

The majestic creature tossed its horned head and bellowed loudly, frightened by the crowd. She was scared too, but she didn’t move. Instead, she took the crown from the priest’s hands, waiting as they led the bull closer.

"Behold our sacrifice, Jupiter!" the priest calls loudly, not in the voice of an old man, raising his hands to the sky. Several young boys are gathered nearby, holding a cup and a crooked bronze dagger.

They lead the bull to the center of the arena, forcing it to bow its head, tightening the thick cords around its neck. The animal freezes. Livia does, too, staring directly into its frightened black eyes. Its horns are coated in gold to honor the gods, so with each turn of its neck, they gleam and shimmer.

Slowly, she takes a few steps forward, and the stands fall silent, the rumble quiets, and the drums cease.

Such beauty, such strength—all for the glory of the gods. They love beauty, and they love when the blood of such magnificent creatures is spilled in their name. Back when human sacrifices were still allowed, beautiful, innocent youths and maidens were offered to the gods. Livia only tilted her head in sympathy, silently thanking the animal.

"In ancient times, I could have been in your place."

Her hands tremble slightly, but not from fear; it’s the solemnity of the moment. She was wrong to resist, wrong to argue with her mentor, because now she is living the best moment of her young life.

The black eyes meet hers, gray, and she could swear that these are not the eyes of an animal, but of a human! The bull no longer struggles; on the contrary, it stands still, bowing its head. Solemnly, she places the crown between its golden horns, kneels before it, bending her hands in prayer and closing her eyes.

The beginning of the ritual is marked by the continuous beat of the drums and the priest’s loud prayer. The emperors want to wage war again, to enslave more and more countries and peoples, and now, armed with a fearsome general, they await the gods’ blessing. That’s why she is here, and that’s why blood will be spilled today.

"What do you ask of the gods, amata?" the priest calls out, raising his hands to the sky.

Not opening her eyes or lowering her hands, she shouts as loud as she can in response:

"For blessing, for victory, for the greatness of Rome!"

The drums pounded like a storm, the bull let out a mournful cry, and she kept whispering her prayer, even as her heart pounded harder, even as a terrible unease settled in her stomach.

A moment. A sound—low and guttural.

And then, warmth. Hot liquid splashed over her, soaking her from head to toe. She knew what it was. This was why she knelt—to be anointed, to receive the gods’ answer, to be purified.

The thick, metallic scent filled her nose. Blood stung her eyes, slid down her face, dripped from her lips. It filled her mouth with every breath, stuck in her throat like a swallowed scream. But she didn’t stop. She whispered through bloodied lips, through the deafening drumbeats, until the very last word of her prayer left her tongue.

A bright flash illuminated her, though her eyes were closed, and she saw light—brilliant, beckoning. A good omen. The gods had accepted the sacrifice.

The priest leans down to her, and she whispers the good news to him, and he hoarsely repeats it to the entire Colosseum. The crowd, frozen in eager anticipation, bursts into cheers.

Livia rises to her feet, wiping her face. The blood has already begun to dry, pulling at her skin uncomfortably. The bull lies lifeless at her feet, its black eyes frozen forever. Part of it will be burned as an offering to the gods, and part will be cooked and eaten at the feast after the games. The thought of how it had looked at her with such intelligent eyes makes her sick. She quickly turns away, facing the imperial box, adorned with vines, flowers, and purple banners.

Both emperors raise their right hands in greeting, and the crowd erupts in cheers. How fickle people are! Not long ago, they wanted to tear their rulers apart, and now they celebrate them like divine saviors.

As she leaves the arena, the last thing she sees is the bull’s body being dragged through the opposite gates, a trail of blood smearing across the burning sand. A strange, uneasy feeling grips her, but she pushes it down, too shaken to dwell on it.

ৡ ৡ ৡ

They let her wash her hands and face, change into a clean tunic, but her dark curls, now stiff and heavy with dried blood, still reek of iron and death. She tucks them beneath her veil and hurries back to her place among the other Vestals.

The row where the Vestals sit stands out as a white line among the dressed-up guests. Their platform is on the left side of the imperial box. Livia sits to the right of the senior vestal and keeps her eyes fixed on the imperial box, even though the first fight has already begun. How could she not stare? She’s never been so close to those who rule the world.

Both of her sisters were married to senators, and she doesn’t know either of their husbands. But the Senate was one thing. This was something else entirely.

The emperors are strikingly young. Livia leaned forward slightly, eager to get a better look. The one sitting closest to her taps nervously on the golden armrest with his thin white fingers. Red-haired and pale, he doesn’t give off an impression of greatness or awe. Painted like a maiden, dressed the same. Livia doesn’t accept long garments on men; she sees it as a sign of effeminacy and a betrayal of traditions. A toga would have been more fitting for a man in her view, but then again, these are not just men.

He sat in profile, so no matter how much Livia strained her neck, she couldn’t make out his face. In another fit of curiosity, she rose slightly, hoping to catch a glimpse of the ruler’s face, but immediately found herself facing the mocking gaze of blue eyes. From behind his brother’s shoulder, the second emperor looked at her, leaning in and smiling shamelessly.

Embarrassment floods her, and Livia sits up straight, closes her eyes, cursing herself for her tactlessness and curiosity. She rarely takes an interest in other people, even less often men, so the very fact that she got caught staring, right after having just shown all of Rome the will of the gods, stings her deeply. She liked that the people treated the Vestals with awe and reverence, but in the emperor’s smile, she saw neither respect nor awe, only mockery.

"I’ll introduce you to the emperors later, behave properly," the senior vestal instructs her sternly, and Livia lowers her head in shame.

Today, there weren’t many killings; the festival shouldn’t be tarnished by too many deaths, so the games ended quickly. They were escorted into the halls inside the Colosseum, and as they walked slowly, still surrounded by the Praetorian guards, the crowd parted before them, eyeing them and whispering. The last time the Vestals had appeared at the games was under Marcus Aurelius, so their appearance was truly a momentous event for all of Rome.

"Raise your head, child, here are our rulers," her mentor commanded, and Livia obediently looked ahead.

Their arrival was met with a swell of voices, loud exclamations ringing through the air.

The first of the two, the one she had noticed in the stands, was tall and stately, but no warrior. His features were fine and well-defined, his dark eyes sharp with intelligence, but the set of his full lips betrayed a restless, nervous nature. A golden laurel nestled in the soft waves of his reddish curls, and his slender frame was draped in a black trabea trimmed with deep purple. Beneath it, a long tunic of the same black, embroidered with gold, shimmered in the light. He looked more like an eastern king than a Roman emperor. She didn’t like him.

While she was studying one of the emperors, the other had already been studying her. She could feel his gaze like a touch, sharp and deliberate. Quickly, she turned to face him.

Oh, he was nothing like his brother.

Shorter, narrower in the shoulders, he moved with a slow, fluid grace, completely at ease. Livia tilted her head slightly, and he mirrored the gesture with an amused glint in his eye. Was he teasing her?

Livia knew that fashion required women to whiten their faces and paint their eyelids, and appearing without blush was considered bad taste—but she had never seen a painted man before. The first emperor’s lids were dusted with a soft, ashy gray, subtle but noticeable. The second’s bright blue eyes were rimmed with warm peach, a color so vivid against his pale skin that it caught her off guard. A shade she had never seen on a man.

He wore a short-sleeved tunic of rich purple, cinched at the waist with a wide golden belt. Her gaze caught on the huge gold medallion hanging from his white neck down to his chest. The sign of Fortuna, the goddess of luck. Did he even understand its meaning? Judging by the many rings and bracelets that gleamed along his fingers and wrists, she doubted it.

Finally, the Praetorians parted, and they, along with the other Vestals, stood face to face with the emperors. The tall one bent slightly and extended his hand, as if expecting the senior Vestal to offer her hand for a kiss. Livia couldn’t help but smirk. Vestals were forbidden to be touched by men, even by the emperor himself. Didn’t he know this?

The awkward moment was broken by the mocking laughter of the second emperor. His brother straightened up, pressed his lips together in irritation, and cast a glance first at his brother, then at them.

"We are glad that you honored us with your presence," he said loudly. His voice was deep and low, yet there were still nervous notes, as if he were anxious.

"And we are grateful for the invitation, Emperor Geta," her mentor replied with a respectful nod.

Geta.

Livia turned her gaze back to the other brother. So this was Caracalla.

"This is Livia," the senior Vestal introduced her. Livia stepped forward, her back straight as a blade, chin raised. "She brought good news to the arena today."

"I see," Caracalla finally spoke. His voice was hoarse, starkly contrasting the softness of his features.

Standing beside him, Livia noticed that the powdered skin, which had appeared so flawless from a distance, was marred by tiny wounds, some of which hadn’t healed and were hidden under layers of rouge. The emperor, sensing her gaze, immediately furrowed his pale brows and lifted his chin, wounded by the thought that she had seen his imperfections. It must be difficult to consider oneself a god when one’s earthly vessel is so far from perfect.

"Oh, that was quite a sight," Geta continued warmly, looking directly at her. His hand twitched forward as if he wanted to take her hand, but she immediately pulled away, causing another burst of laughter from Caracalla.

"You’re too kind, Caesar," she answered with measured dignity. "The scale of the spectacle was truly impressive."

"There will be a feast this evening," Geta said, nodding to her and her sisters. "Join us."

"I’m afraid we must serve at the temple, Emperor."

"What is allowed to Jupiter is not allowed to the bull," Geta quoted, hinting that, with their status, they could do much more than the common citizens of Rome.

"What is allowed to the bull, is not allowed to Jupiter," she replied, and his smile faltered. "Had he not turned into an bull, he would never have approached a defenseless maiden, would he?"

Once again, the young emperor looked wounded, unsure of what to say, helplessly turning to his smiling brother. Livia realized who he reminded her of—the sacrificial bull in the arena today. He had the same dark eyes, vivid and strangely sorrowful, but no trace of wisdom, no matter how hard she tried to look. Geta noticed she was studying him and fluttered his long eyelashes in confusion, then smiled again.

"You’re wise, though young," he tried to compliment her, smoothing over the awkward conversation.

To some, he might have seemed charming. Handsome, even. To someone who hadn’t devoted her life to the glory of Vesta.

"Thank you, Caesar."

The little show ends, and the eldest priestess steps up, leading them away with the emperors.

"They’re quite charming, aren’t they?" Caesonia says quietly, glancing at her with a smile.

Livia tensed. Curious gazes followed them from all sides, high-ranking guests watching their every move. A strange feeling crept over her—guilt. As if she had thought too harshly of her emperors. As if she had been unfair.

"Dignified and charming, yes," she answers calmly, suppressing her negative thoughts.

Order in the mind—order in the heart, and that’s how one must serve the gods. She ran her fingers under the veil, letting her dark curls slip through, trying to focus. Her hair was still soaked in blood, dry and tangled. She stared at her hand, pink from the blood stains, the smell of iron in the air.

"I mean them as men, child," the elder priestess smiles slyly.

Livia paled, a crease appeared between her brows, and her lips tightened into a line.

"You know your vows better than I do, sister," her voice rang with tension.

"Look, don’t touch, darling," the elder priestess continued, her tone unchanged. "We can admire them like beautiful trinkets. You wouldn’t scold me if I were to admire an intricately carved box, or…"

"I need to wash my hands," Livia interrupts her, causing Caesonia to laugh.

They weren’t stone, they had feelings, emotions, struggles. And desires too. Other Vestals sometimes spoke of men, but Livia had never joined in those conversations. And she wouldn’t now. Her training was ongoing, and the last thing she wanted to think about was worldly, base desires.

A bowl of water stood by one of the columns, meant for purification. Livia walked toward it, the crowd parting before her, holding their breath. She was flattered by this. Now, surrounded by gazes brimming with admiration, adoration, and quiet awe, she couldn’t help but feel a surge of pride. Later, she would ask the Goddess for forgiveness for her vanity, but for now, the young Vestal basked in the attention.

She dipped her hands into the cool water, and it immediately bloomed with pink.

"Smells like blood," a voice said behind her.

A strange sense of anxiety gripped her, and her heart began pounding so strongly that it made breathing hard. On the outside, she tried to remain calm, as always. After finishing washing her hands, she turned toward the speaker.

Emperor Caracalla was grinning wide, showing a gold tooth. It seemed the young ruler was in a great mood.

"It is blood, my Caesar."

"Watching you there, kneeling on the arena’s sand, bathed in blood, was the greatest pleasure of the day. I fear even tonight’s feast will not bring me such…delight," his voice was soft, smooth, flowing like honey, and his eyes gleamed with slyness. He was teasing her in a bold, shameless way!

When she was very young, living with her father and sisters, Cassandra and Claudia used to tease her, taking advantage of the fact that they were older. But in the emperor’s words, there was something different. Caracalla didn’t say anything outright offensive, but something about it felt improper. Was it the way he smiled, the way he stood, nonchalantly leaning his shoulder against a column?

In every movement, she sensed how utterly unserious he was—how he tilted his chin, half-closed his eyes, and stretched his painted lips into a lazy smirk.

He reminded her of a cat. The one that lived in the gardens of the Temple of Vesta, rolling from side to side, stretching out its fluffy body under the sun. That one was ginger too.

"It’s an honor to serve Rome, to serve you," he grinned wider, "And your brother," his smile immediately faded, and Livia was stunned at how quickly his expression changed.

For the first time, she was looked at with such disdain. She blinked, trying to convince herself she hadn’t imagined it. No, Caesar still stood there with a deep furrow between his brows, his nostrils flaring. Livia stepped back, unsure what had triggered his anger.

Almost as if seeking support or comfort, she turned, only to meet the black eyes of Emperor Geta. He stood at a distance, surrounded by a crowd. A beautiful copper-haired girl was speaking to him, but his gaze was fixed elsewhere, cutting through the sea of people—on her.

She faltered, then suddenly realized—this had nothing to do with her. The emperors were watching each other.

She mentally pictured herself from the outside: innocent, chaste, in white garments, she should remain dignified and focused. Livia was a priestess of Vesta, not a cunning and ambitious matron, so the emperors’ quarrels didn’t interest her.

Leaving Caracalla behind, she hurried toward the other Vestals, but was suddenly, shamelessly grabbed by the arms and pulled into an embrace. If this had been a man, they’d have been crucified in the Forum by morning, but…

"Livia, my dear!" she hardly recognizes the face of the girl in front of her.

"Claudia!" The calm mask slips from her face for a moment, and she smiles at her sister, whom she hasn’t seen in ages.

"You’ve grown so much! A real beauty! And you look just like Cassandra! Your nose, your lips, your cheekbones," Claudia’s finger traced her face, and Livia shuddered at the unfamiliar sensation of someone else’s touch. "But your eyes… they’re from our father. Ah, our dear sister was so gentle…" Her voice wavered, and her hand dropped.

A man’s arms wrap around her shoulders, and only now does Livia notice the rounded belly of Claudia, the gaunt look on her face, and how feverishly her cheeks shone.

"Congratulations!" she quickly changes the subject, not wanting to speak of Cassandra.

"Yes, yes, this is my husband, Senator Appius, I don’t think you’ve met him, have you?" Claudia’s smile suddenly fades, but her husband grins broadly.

The exchange of pleasantries drags on for too long, and then her mentor arrives.

"It was good to see you, Livia," her sister whispers one last time. "We live at the palace now, visit me, I get so lonely sometimes…"

Livia nods sincerely, promising to visit, and hurries to join the other Vestals. The grip of her mentor on her arm is tight, and her gaze is nervous.

"What did you do to anger the emperors?"

"Me?" her voice sounds genuinely surprised, but then she remembers Caracalla’s hateful gaze, and she too asks herself the same question. "I don’t know, I’m sorry."

Suddenly, the crowd around her—the murmuring guests, the admiring stares—became unbearable. What had once flattered her now felt suffocating. Hundreds of eyes watched her with reverence, with curiosity, yet only one pair—bright, piercing, burning with something close to fury—ruined her mood completely. She didn’t belong here.

Still, before she could leave the Colosseum and return to the Vestal House, she would have to face them once again.

Caesonia noticed her growing unease and linked arms with her, trying to comfort her.

"Once again, we thank you for the honor you have shown us and hope to see you again," Geta began, locking his hands together.

"We are pleased that the bond between our temple and the emperors has been restored," the senior Vestal responded politely.

"Oh, and one more thing," Geta said, theatrically raising his hands, "Our mother wished to visit your temple…"

"Yes, mother," Caracalla mockingly drawled, cutting off his brother. There was something in his tone that Livia didn’t like again. That’s not how you speak about your parents, even if they’re not by blood. "She can get so lonely, and we’re not always around to entertain her properly."

Her cheeks flushed, and Livia didn’t understand why, but Caracalla noticed her brief pause and grinned, his mouth opening slightly, pleased that he had provoked some emotion from her. She lifted her chin, refusing to seem vulnerable, even though inside she was embarrassed.

The moment of farewell came. She longed to return home as quickly as possible, to forget all these strange glances and words. There, among the other Vestals, she would be safe, and no troubling thoughts would haunt her.

"Until we meet again," Geta said politely, licking his upper lip and adding, "Amata, I hope next time we can do without the bloodshed."

Amata. Beloved.

She only nodded, unwilling to show how much she disliked being addressed that way by a stranger.

Caracalla didn’t say a word, looking away as if he didn’t even notice her.

And just as she exhaled, walking past him, quietly relieved by the absence of his attention, she felt it.

A touch.

A featherlight, teasing touch traced from the tip of her pinky, gliding up the soft curve of her hand—barely noticeable, yet it burned like fire.

She stopped, glancing back over her shoulder, but the emperor wasn’t looking at her; on the contrary, he was leaning toward his brother, speaking to him.

It felt as though she’d been struck. The heat spread across her cheeks, sank lower into her chest, then froze in her stomach. How dare he?! No one had the right to touch them. Neither mortal nor immortal man would ever dare touch a Vestal Virgin. But he… He turned away, pretending nothing had happened, though that single gesture had shaken everything she had believed in for so long.

Trying to suppress her anger and confusion, she hurried toward her sisters, unaware that both emperors were watching her leave.

Without realizing it, Livia had started a new game.

ৡ ৡ ৡ

note: this story is directly connected to there will be games! Livia is the sister of Cassandra, the protagonist of that story. It’s been about two months since the events of the finale and what Geta did.

[seokminfilm]

fast pace 🍒 choi seungcheol

🍒 pairing, choi seungcheol x reader

🍒 warnings, non-idol au, marriage au, husband/girl dad seungcheol, overprotective seungcheol, wholesome family interaction, seungcheol calls reader "sweetheart" once, suggestive at the end (if you squint)

🍒 summary, your daughter was just like seungcheol—so alike it drove you a bit insane.

🍒 author's note, trying not to tweak out right now (just wrote a whole seokmin fic (@realmofclouds' request) to accidentally delete it all and have tumblr save the now-empty post 🧍) so here's this seungcheol fic to try to salvage something for you guys 😭 trust me i'll write a BUNCH next week to make up for it (spring break week woop woop!) please enjoy girl dad cheol i know i enjoyed writing it SJKJDFSJK

🍒 now playing, fast pace (seventeen)

🍒 word count, 1k (1k exactly what the hell) | for @kstrucknet

when you got the call that you would have to go pick your four-year-old daughter up from her kindergarten class, seungcheol would not rest until you had allowed him to drive you there.

"i want to see what she got in trouble for myself." seungcheol had a streak when it came to his daughter, mi-cheol (she did have part of his name, after all). he could never seem to believe that his daughter would do no wrong, and even when you had told him that she had gotten in trouble, he had asked you "are you being serious?" about seven times before you had broken down and shown him the message.

and so, here you were, sitting in the kindergarten lobby as the two of you waited to retrieve mi-cheol.

seungcheol sat in the chair beside you, glancing down at his watch as he grumbled something under his breath. as a businessman (and a slightly overdramatic father), seungcheol loved when things were speedy, especially when concerning his oh-so-lovable daughter.

seungcheol tapped his dress shoe impatiently on the tile, long eyelashes brushing against his eyebrows as he glared at the constantly ticking clock. sensing his impatience, you place a soft hand on his arm, side-eyeing him as he sighs.

"please, cheol. patience." you sounded like you were talking to a disobedient child—and you were, in a way. seungcheol was just like mi-cheol in that aspect—they couldn't listen to someone for the life of them.

as soon as the thought of your doe-eyed, pouty-lipped baby girl crossed your mind, out she came, backpack in tow as she grinned at you.

"daddy!" mi-cheol runs right past you and immediately clings onto seungcheol's dress pants leg. the smile that breaks on seungcheol's stern features is only one mi-cheol can bring out, and he reaches down quickly, swiftly swooping the four-year-old in his arms as he gives you one last glance before heading to the car.

apologizing on mi-cheol's behalf and signing her out, you follow the two shortly, getting in the passenger's side of the car as you grab the tail end of seungcheol and mi-cheol's conversation.

"so, what did she do?" you ask, knowing good and well it may not be a good idea to hear the story from seungcheol. luckily, mi-cheol steps up to the plate herself, clearing her throat after taking a few sips from her juice cup.

"a boy called me cute, so i slapped him in the face." the sentence is simple, but so absurd at the same time that you can't help but burst into laughter.

seungcheol, on the other hand, is absolutely seething. his eyes are dark as soon as he hears the words 'boy' and 'cute', and you can see him jumping to all sorts of conclusions in his head. his grip on the steering wheel is tight, and he's blankly staring at the road, probably fighting back a profanity or two.

seungcheol was overprotective, everyone knew that—he held both you and mi-cheol to a very high standard, and therefore watched the two of you with a hawkeye. he never let boys near mi-cheol, and lord forbid a guy would try to hit on you—he would let them know their place, quickly too.

"a boy?" seungcheol asks softly (too softly for your liking), and you can see mi-cheol nodding from her booster seat, cup in hand as she lets out a little scoff. "i am not cute."

"oh, baby. you are cute—you just...you don't want a boy telling you that, do you?" you question, and mi-cheol nods, an overdramatic pout similar to her father's adorning her face.

"yeah. the only boy i want to call me cute is daddy." mi-cheol makes a sound that you think may be similar to 'yuck', although it doesn't sound like that in the slightest.

seungcheol’s hard exterior is broken by that sentence in an instant, and he’s smiling from ear to ear in the cutest way possible, nodding as he looks back at his daughter with nothing but pure fondness.

“good girl, mimi.” seungcheol encourages mi-cheol with a proud grin on his face, and you sigh, knowing this would happen—of course seungcheol would say nothing about how his daughter’s actions were wrong.

if anything, he was overjoyed that she realized the rules seungcheol had set in place before she was even born—”boys are a no-no.”

“seungcheol.” you whisper, glaring at him as he catches your gaze. reading the disapproval in your eyes, seungcheol bites back an eye roll before sighing, biting his full lips as he returns to the hard exterior mi-cheol had broken with her confession.

“mimi, sweet baby girl—you shouldn’t handle things like that with violence, okay?. if a boy calls you cute and you don’t like it, tell it to him. don’t let him get away with it, of course, but don’t slap or hit him, okay? will you remember that for daddy?” you can tell it pains seungcheol to give this speech to his sweet little mi-cheol, watching the way his thick eyebrows twitch when he says the words ‘boy’ and ‘cute’.

“okay, daddy. i’ll remember it.” mi-cheol holds a thumbs-up to seungcheol, and he nods, giving her a small smile as he pulls up at a red light. proud of your husband for holding back his overprotective nature, you kiss his ring finger, warm lips ghosting the cool metal wedding band on his finger.

it makes seungcheol chuckle lowly to himself, reveling in your love as he smiles at you, glancing back at his mini-me (who’s currently eating a bowl of cherries).

"you owe me for this, sweetheart." seungcheol whispers, voice laced with a low, suggestive tone as he studies your face darkly. chuckling, you throw your head back, letting it hit the headrest as your hands rest on seungcheol's forearm.

"name your price, cheol. i'll give it to you," you add teasingly, and with the look and smile seungcheol gives you at your words, you already have an idea of what that could possibly be.

[mellowmusings]

Pretty Princesses | fluff

Azriel x reader A/N- thank you so much for a 100 followers love you all so much, this is the best birthday present ever <33 also my requests are open for a 100 followers celebration so ask away and let me know if you wanna be tagged also i stole inspo from the rocks video Warnings- none just a lot of fluff

Azriel was a force of nature. A warrior whose name sent shivers through the spines of enemies and allies alike. The darkness clung to him, not as a curse, but as an extension of his very being. His mastery over the shadows was unparalleled, his blades quicker than the eye could track. No one controlled him, no one commanded him—except perhaps Rhysand, but even then, it was a tenuous thing, a bond of trust rather than obedience.

There wasn’t a battlefield he hadn’t conquered, a war he hadn’t outlived. The mere mention of his name was enough to strike fear into the hearts of those who opposed him. He was lethal, ruthless, a whisper of death carried on the wind. But time, it seemed, was the one thing even the great Shadowsinger could not fight.

Three Centuries Later

The once-feared warrior now sat cross-legged on a plush rug in the middle of his home, his usually sharp, scarred hands now adorned with glittery rings and sticky, colorful paint. His daughters, twin toddling whirlwinds of mischief and delight, were giggling as they draped him in layers of fabric, a tiara slightly too small perched atop his head.

“Papa, you have to drink your tea,” the older of the two, barely three years old, declared with all the authority of a queen addressing her court. She held out a tiny teacup filled with absolutely nothing, but her golden-brown eyes—so much like her mother’s—shimmered with expectation.

Azriel, the mighty warrior, the deadly Shadowsinger, lifted the cup delicately between his fingers, took an exaggerated sip, and sighed as if it were the finest wine in all of Prythian. “Exquisite, my lady,” he said gravely, bowing his head slightly. “A most delightful brew.”

The younger one, barely two and still unsteady on her chubby feet, clapped her hands in delight. “More tea, Papa!” she insisted, lifting her own cup towards him. A tiny stuffed bear sat in her lap, watching with button-eyed approval.

From the doorway, you watched it all unfold, barely holding back laughter. Your husband—your terrifying, untouchable, deadly husband—was currently covered in pink and purple scarves, fake pearls draped around his neck, and a large butterfly sticker plastered to his forehead. And yet, he looked more content than you had ever seen him.

Azriel caught your eye, his shadows curling lazily around him, brushing against his daughters like affectionate pets. There was warmth in his gaze, a depth of love that no one else had ever been privy to.

“You dare laugh at a princess?” he rumbled, though the smirk tugging at his lips betrayed him.

You grinned, stepping into the room. “Not at a princess,” you corrected, moving to press a kiss to his cheek. “Just at my husband, the prettiest warrior in all of Prythian.”

Your daughters squealed with glee at the declaration, their little hands eagerly adding more adornments to their father’s unwilling but unresisting form. Azriel simply sighed, resigned, and let them.

The feared Shadowsinger, tamer of shadows, wielder of truth and steel, had been utterly and completely conquered by two tiny, giggling girls.

“Papa, you need more sparkles!” your eldest announced, furrowing her tiny brows in concentration as she grabbed a small container of shimmery powder from her collection of “makeup.”

Azriel arched a brow, but he did not protest as she dusted his cheeks with the glitter. Instead, he feigned a dramatic gasp, touching his face. “I feel positively radiant,” he declared, making both girls shriek with laughter.

The younger one, now sitting snugly in his lap, reached up with her tiny fingers and patted his cheek. “Pretty Papa,” she murmured approvingly.

You couldn’t hold back your laughter anymore, stepping forward and taking a seat beside him. “I think they’ve truly transformed you,” you mused, reaching up to gently adjust his tiara. “The mighty Shadowsinger, reduced to a glittering spectacle.”

Azriel hummed in agreement, leaning in slightly as you ran your fingers through his dark hair. “And yet, I don’t think I’ve ever been happier.”

Your heart swelled at his words, at the sheer adoration in his voice as he looked at his daughters. These two little girls had him wrapped around their fingers, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Papa, we have one more thing,” your eldest declared, grabbing something from her toy chest. She and her sister exchanged a mischievous look before presenting it with a flourish—a pair of delicate, pastel wings meant for playing dress-up.

Azriel blinked, glancing at the small, feathery appendages. “You wish to give me wings?” he asked, amusement dancing in his voice.

The younger one nodded eagerly. “Pretty wings, like Mama’s!”

You stifled a laugh as you saw the seriousness in their eyes, their tiny hands already fastening the wings to his back. And just like that, the mighty warrior who had once been feared across battlefields now sat, utterly regal, in a tiara, scarves, glitter, and a pair of tiny, pastel fairy wings.

Azriel sighed dramatically. “I have been defeated.”

Your daughters cheered, climbing into his lap to hug him, their tiny arms wrapping around their “pretty princess” of a father.

You simply smiled, pressing a kiss to his temple. “I think you’ve won, actually.”

And as Azriel sat there, holding his daughters close, his shadows curling around all three of you, he knew without a doubt—you were right. @anarchiii @darkbloodsly @sunnyspycat @er1023 @clementine111002 @buubblles @onebadassunicorn @donnadiddadog @ren-ni @lilah-asteria @rcarbo1 @tele86 @sillyfreakfanparty @sopheeg @secretlyhers @isa1b2h3 @readinshadows @thesunloveschips @generalmoonpolice @kathren1sky-blog @willowpains @theravenpheonix26

[raven-dor]

when you light the candle

in which gwayne hightower finds love in the arms of the targaryen heir, rhaenyra’s daughter

PAIRING: gwayne hightower x targaryen!reader

WARNINGS: arranged marriage, allusion to slight nsfw, typical HOTD language, Aegon being a creep, fluff!!

WORD COUNT: 6.4k

🎶 : k. - cigarettes after sex

AN: in this fic, viserys is dead and rhaenyra became queen (YAY) but her peaceful accession came with a price... also ages for gwayne and alicent are different because i thought it would be weird to have a huge disgusting age gap!!

“My dear-” Rhaenyra sighed. 

“I understand my duty as heir, Mother, but that does not mean I cannot express my grievances.” Her daughter crossed her arms. “You cannot blame me for being hesitant. A Hightower, really?” Her face contorted with disgust. “It feels as if I am being condemned to death.” 

“Y/N…” Rhaenyra fought the urge to laugh. She often forgot how alike she and her daughter were. “My darling girl, I am sorry, truly, but our kingdom needs stability, and this marriage will see to that. You must-” 

“Like I said earlier,” Y/N snapped back, sitting down rather unladylike. “I understand, no need to explain it any further.” 

“Yes well… for what it is worth, I have heard he is a rather kind man.” Rhaenyra scoffed, plucking a grape off the vine. “Shocking for a knight, I think.” 

Y/N smiled to herself, staring into the distance. “I seem to remember one such knight.” 

While her daughter may have resembled her in personality and stature, much like her brothers, Y/N was the spitting image of her father. “He was very kind, yes.” Rhaenyra sat beside the young woman, pushing a stray hair behind her ear gently. “And loving.” She whispered. “Your father loved you very much.” 

Y/N nodded. “I know, Mother.” Holding her hand, she smiled. “He loved you just as much.” 

Rhaenyra could not find it in herself to speak, simply nodding. 

Y/N straightened her dress for what felt like the hundredth time in the last hour, or at least that is what it felt like for Jacaerys, who was watching in amusement. 

“I fear if you pull on your fabric anymore, it will fall off.” 

She rolled her eyes, shoving her brother harshly. “When you are of age and put on display for all the eligible young ladies to gawk and stare at, tell me, dear brother, how calm and collected you feel then.” 

“Nervous?” He raised an eyebrow, smirking. “It is showing, I must say.”

“For the entirety of the court to judge me for this ridiculous dress?” She jutted her hip, glaring. “Not in the slightest.” 

He sighed, extending his arm for her to hold as the grand doors opened. He leaned over whispering in her ear comfortingly. “You’re a dragon, sister. Do not forget it.” 

Taking a deep breath, she stood as straight as possible, smiling like she hadn’t just been spiraling. “Quite a lot of green in this crowd.” Y/N muttered, waving politely as she passed her subjects. 

Jacaerys scoffed. “I expect you’ll be seeing much more in the coming weeks now that you’re marrying a Hightower.” 

Y/N fought the urge to roll her eyes, pinching his arm discreetly. He hissed, and she laughed as their mother watched from the high table, suppressing a grin. Bowing before their mother, step father, and the Dowager Queen, both tried to sneak a peek at her husband to be. 

Y/N smiled as they stood upright. “Your Majesties.” 

Alicent smiled half-heartedly. It was better than nothing, she supposed. Her brothers did not receive the same treatment, the smiles, the ‘good will’. The Dowager Queen had always had a soft spot for Y/N. 

Why, she had no idea. 

Taking their place beside their mother, Rhaenyra stood, addressing the crowd. “It was not long ago that I myself was in this position. Marriage is work, marriage is patience. Fortunately, my daughter seems to have much more patience than I.” Laughter fell over the crowd, and Rhaenyra gestured toward the Dowager Queen and her family that sat beside her. “Our houses have long been allies, and I am glad to continue that tradition with this union.” She raised her glass, smiling at her daughter as she spoke. “May their marriage be blessed!” 

The crowd raised their glasses in unison, cheering for the Princess, who was smiling brightly, the very picture of nobility and duty. None of them knew the truth: how she really had no idea who she was marrying or what exactly she was getting into. 

After what felt like minutes of applause, Y/N sat down, indulging herself in a rather full cup of mead. “My lady.” She turned around, her breath catching at the sight of the man in front of her. 

He was quite tall, and handsome. 

“I wanted to introduce myself.” 

She smiled, setting her glass down. “You must be Lord Hightower.” 

He nodded. “You are quite intuitive.” 

Oh. Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Or observant. It does not take a mastermind to see the resemblance between you and your sister.” 

That was the other thing she could not get passed. Yes, she was two and twenty, practically an old maid, but did that really mean she could get married off to a man only two years younger than her mother? 

Lord Hightower did not look disheartened. If anything, her resistance to his ‘charm’ made him more intrigued. “I wonder, my lady, if I could interest you in a dance?” 

Y/N smiled, annoyance all but rolling off of her shoulders. “I believe-” 

Rhaenyra cut in, staring at her daughter with an intensity that rivaled her dragon. “I’m sure the Princess would be delighted to dance with you, Ser Gwayne.” 

“Yes.” Y/N smiled tightly. “I would love to.”

Gwayne extended his hand, bowing his head, slightly. “My lady.” 

She took his hand, following him to the dance floor. The rest of the nobility followed after, the waltz gently playing in the background as they moved around the room. Gwayne leaned down, whispering in her ear. “You seem rather upset with this arrangement, Princess.” 

She tried not to scowl. “I am merely upset that yet another choice of my life has been decided for me.” Her eyes widening, realizing she had just told her husband to be something she had only told her family. “I-” 

He smiled, shaking his head. “Do not apologize to me. If I were in your position, I would be equally as frustrated, perhaps more.” He whispered again. “I’m rather passionate about these sorts of things.” 

The Princess raised an eyebrow, curious. “You are passionate about what exactly?” 

“Anything you are.” He spun her around, laughing at her flushed cheeks. “I plan to be very supportive of my wife, unlike many of my peers.” 

Her heart fluttered, but her face told a different story. “How… kind of you ser.” 

Jace squinted his eyes, glaring at the Hightower man. “I don’t trust him, mother.” 

Rhaenyra laughed, appreciative of her son’s protectiveness. “You must know Jacaerys, that I would never match your sister with a man I did not consider to be of high moral character.” She raised an eyebrow. “Do you believe me cruel?” 

“No.” Jace shook his head, looking back to the man charming his sister. Or, trying to at the very least. “But still…” 

He hadn’t even kissed her on the lips. It kept racing through her mind as she sat front and center at her reception. At their reception. He hadn’t even kissed her on the lips. She had been walked up the aisle by her brother, stood beside him, prepared herself, and he kissed her on the corner of her mouth. 

What sort of kiss was that?

She was confused, unbelievably confused.

“Are you alright, Princess?” Gwayne whispered. 

She nodded, not knowing whether to feel offended or relieved at his hesitation. “Fine.” 

“Do you need a moment? Perhaps we can-” 

Of course. He wanted to retire and start the bedding process. She almost scoffed in his face. “I need to find my mother.” She didn’t wait for a response, standing up and walking into the crowd. Her mother was fixed in the back of the room, talking with Baela and Jace. Y/N approached her mother, hooking her arm through hers. “May I talk to you?” She gestured toward the two teenagers. “Alone.” 

Rhaenyra nodded slowly, shooing the young couple away. “Are you alright?” 

“I-” Y/N pulled her mother to a secluded area of the hall. “He wants to retire.” 

“He wants to-” The older woman’s face dawned with realization. “I see.” 

Y/N nodded. “I-” She gulped, whispering. “I’m scared, Mother.” 

Rhaenyra smiled, pulling her daughter into a tight embrace. “My sweet girl. Don’t be frightened. Truly.” She pulled away, placing a comforting hand on her cheek. “He will not touch you until you are ready, I am most certain of it.” 

“Mother, he is a lord, like any other we’ve come to know. He will-” 

“Do you trust me?” Rhaenyra whispered. 

Y/N nodded, grasping her mother’s hand tightly. “Of course I do.” 

“Then trust me once more. Your husband is a good man, and he will not touch you unless you…” She paused. “He will not touch you, unless that is what you wish.” 

Ah.

Y/N felt torn. He was attractive, she had to admit, and kind enough. But still, she hadn’t wanted to… not again. She squeezed her eyes shut, murmuring under her breath. “He’ll, he’ll find out-” 

She had put her trust in the wrong squire. She was only ten and five and he was sweet, or so she thought. She'd trusted him, and he had used her for his moment of fame, a way to coerce the Royal Family. Daemon had gone manic when he had found out, and the squire… Rhaenyra shook her head. “He will never know unless you choose to tell him.” 

Y/N nodded, smiling weakly. “Goodnight, Mother.” Spinning on her heels, she stalked toward the main table, standing in front of Gwayne. “Shall we?” 

Her husband looked shocked but still nodded. The crowd started jeering, laughing, and making comments about the Princess’s eagerness. That hadn’t made her disturbed.

What disturbed her was that in a few moments, the entirety of the royal court would all be in their shared quarters, watching the bedding ceremony. 

It had been a silent walk, neither of them making an attempt to speak to the other. The maid’s eyes all but fell out of their sockets when they saw the Princess burst through their doors, Lord Hightower diligently following three paces behind her. 

Gwayne had sensed his wife was an anxious woman the moment they’d met, but tonight, that anxiety was pouring off of her in waves. He smiled kindly at the servants, dismissing them from their work. “That will be all for tonight, thank you.” They scurried out, leaving the pair alone for the first time. He looked curiously at the young woman, who was pacing around the room. Taking a careful step toward her, he spoke softly. “Are you quite alright, my lady?” 

“Why-” She stopped, staring at him. “You didn’t kiss me.” 

“I-” 

“I understand that I am quite homely compared to the beauties of Oldtown, but…” She shook her head, stalking toward him with an accusing finger pointed. “You embarrassed me at my own wedding. The least you could have done-” 

“You are not homely, my lady.” He reached a hand out, caressing her cheek. “Quite the opposite really.” 

She tensed, pulling out of his touch. “You Hightowers- you’re always planning something. I am the heir to the Iron Throne, and you would treat me as a common woman, not worthy of your love or respect. Even if I wasn’t heir, you should never treat a woman-”

She was quite beautiful, he’d noticed. Watching her rant about his family filled his heart with something he couldn’t quite place. Her eyes were passionate, full of fire and drive. Her hair was quite beautiful while it was down, so dark and full.

“Are you- are you even listening to me?” 

Gods, she had caught him staring. “I-” 

“I’m sure you are fantasizing about how you will take me during the bedding ceremony, but I assure you, this will be the most uninteresting moment of our married life. Hopefully, I will embarrass you as much as you embarrassed me.” She crossed her arms, satisfied with her dig at his supposed thoughts. While he struggled to find the words to respond, she began to remove her clothes, remaining covered by her thin slip. 

His cheeks grew red, and he raised his eyebrows, trying not to combust. “Bedding ceremony?” Gwayne coughed. His voice sounded as if it was being squeezed.

“Are you playing dumb?” She scoffed. “I am sure you have been to plenty a poor maiden’s wedding night.” 

He tilted his head, thoroughly confused. “I’m sorry if you have been led astray, but there is to be no bedding ceremony.”

“Ah.” She somehow felt… disappointed? “My mother saved me that embarrassment at least.” 

“Well, it was actu-” She stormed past him, slipping on her robe and slippers. “Where are you going?” 

“Away from you. I don’t trust you not to-” 

While she was stunningly beautiful and quickly driving him into a stupor, he could not stand by and let her assume the worst of him. “Listen to me when I say this- I do not ever wish to embarrass you. Ever. It was I who denied the bedding ceremony. The ‘men’ of the court brought the proposition to me, and when I denied them…” His eyes became dark. “That is a disgusting and vile tradition, one that I do not wish to practice.” 

She felt warm, and caught herself smiling. Shaking her head, she pulled her robe closer to her body. “You- you vex me.” 

He laughed, stepping closer to her, a smirk gracing his handsome face. “You vex me just as much.” He held her hand, kissing the back gently. “My lady.” 

“You-” She growled, stomping her foot like a child. “Good night my lord.” Whipping around, she practically flew out the door, leaving Gwayne alone in their chambers.

Saying farewell had proven to be much more difficult than she had thought. But wearing green… she felt like an imposter. She looked down the line, forcing herself not to laugh at Aegon’s fresh black eye. He refused to make eye contact with her, she could not figure out why. The only Greens she had bothered saying goodbye to were Helaena and the Dowager Queen, ignoring her two uncles. They never cared for each other, if anything, she would be glad to be rid of their presence. 

Her brothers stood in a row, each growing sadder as she approached them. Aegon and Viserys did not understand why she was leaving, too young to understand the impact this would have on their family. Joffrey was visibly melancholy, clinging to his sister tightly. He whispered, looking up at her with wide eyes. “Don’t leave me.” 

Y/N smiled, kneeling down to be eye level with her little brother. “I will never leave you, Joff. I’ll visit you often, I promise.” She kissed his cheek gently, standing back up, approaching the two eldest. “Behave yourselves.” They looked at her with watery eyes and stoic faces. “Take care of Mother and the boys. I expect-” They both lunged forward, hugging her tightly. She laughed, ruffling their hair. “It will be alright. I’ll be back.” 

Luke’s face was wet, and he mumbled into the fabric of her dress. “No you won’t.” 

She scoffed. “I will. You just wait and see.” 

Jace let go, crossing his arms accusingly. “You’ll be busy, I imagine. Taking care of your family.” 

Y/N reached out, grasping his hand tightly. “You are my family. Always. I will always be your sister, you can confide in me until we are old and grey. The city of Oldtown is always open to you.” 

She looked back to Gwayne, who nodded firmly, stepping forward to address the princes. “She is correct. Visit whenever you like.” He looked to Y/N, whispering. “We should depart soon.” 

She nodded, looking back to her siblings. “I must leave.” 

Lucerys let go, wiping away the leftover tears that clung to his cheeks. “I’ll write to you.” 

She smiled. “Nothing would please me more.” 

Gwayne held his arm out, but Y/N ignored him, approaching Jacaerys carefully. “I will miss you.” 

He nodded, staring at the ground. “And I you.” 

“Jace,” she sighed. “I do not wish to leave you upset.”

“I am not upset.” He scoffed. 

She laughed, shaking her head affectionately. “I suppose your watery eyes are simply a result of hay fever.” 

His shoulders shook slightly, a smile peeking out from behind his frown. “Have a safe trip sister.” 

She nodded, kissing his forehead gently. “You will be one for the history books, I know it.”

Taking Gwayne’s arm, she looked back at her family one last time before entering the carriage.

“Thank you.” She whispered.

He smiled. “Whatever for?” 

“I know you hit Aegon.” She crossed her arms, smirking. “I assume he was one of the ‘men’ who asked you about the bedding ceremony. Am I right?” He nodded. “That is quite noble of you.” 

His cheeks grew red. “Merely protecting your honor, my lady.” 

She smiled, reaching her hand out, holding his hand for a moment. “You are a much better man than most.” 

“It is not hard to do…” He whispered, his eyes kind. “When one has you as a wife.”

Oldtown had done nothing for the couple’s relationship, if anything, it had dwindled it back down into the nothingness it once was. Gwayne was busy running the city in the wake of his uncle’s death, and Y/N, she knew no one. After becoming the Lady Hightower, her old ladies in waiting were taken away, as she was now too low of a position to house that many young ladies for ‘seemingly no reason.’ That had made no sense to her. She was heir to the Iron Throne, how was she at ‘too low of a position?’ Still…

She was utterly alone. 

She had tried to make an effort, at first. Gwayne had appreciated it, (as evident from his words at dinner), but he was constantly busy, off in meetings or dealing with skirmishes in the city. Perusing the halls of the castle had passed the time for the first fortnight of her arrival. She loved the way the tower seemingly never ended, even when she reached the attic. It felt infinite, full of new corridors she’d never seen before. 

That too grew tiring. 

It began to feel so when she came to know the halls of the tower as well as the back of her own hand. 

After a rather dreary morning, she meticulously planned her escape. Sneaking away from the watchful eye of her assigned guards, she raced towards the stable, mounting her horse and galloping through the great gates. The citizens of Oldtown stared, murmuring about their new lady. Y/N laughed, not caring to think of their opinions as long as the breeze ran through her hair and the sun shone on her face. The surrounding land smelled fresh, unlike that of King’s Landing. She had no real destination, following the well traveled path until she reached a clearing. Tying her horse to a nearby tree, she strolled down the hill, meeting the most tranquil scene she’d ever been graced with in her life. A large lake, rivaling that of the ocean, laid before her, a small island in the middle of it all. 

She removed her robe and garments, haphazardly tossing them on a nearby log. Practically falling into the lake, the water quieted the world around her. A sort of gargled voice rang through the peaceful quiet and she jumped, standing up in the lake to meet her husband's wide eyes. 

“My lord.” She smiled weakly. 

“A guard informed me that my wife was last seen racing out of Oldtown’s gates.” His voice held a sort of humor. “Naturally, I had to investigate the incident myself.” 

She laughed, clutching herself for warmth. “I am sorry if I worried you.” 

He shook his head. “There is no need to apologize, my lady.” He picked up her robe, extending his hand. She took it gratefully, wrapping the warm cloth around her. “In fact, no one would fault you if you had left. If that is in fact-” 

“No!” She yelled, covering her mouth with her hand in shock. “I meant…” She stepped forward, placing a hand on his arm. “I am quite content, my lord. I wanted respite. From the tower.” 

He nodded, holding her hand in his. “You are shivering.” 

“I am quite fine, my lord.” 

He raised an eyebrow. “I have never known shivering to end in any sort of ‘fine,’ my lady.” He smiled, extending his arm. “Shall we?” 

The couple walked in silence for a moment, enjoying each other's presence. Y/N looked up, clearing her throat. “May I request something of you?” 

Gwayne nodded eagerly. “Anything.” 

Y/N smiled, warmth blooming inside of her chest. “Call me by my name, please. I don’t think I can go another day being addressed as my lady.” She whispered, staring at the ground. “It is quite formal, is it not? For a husband and wife, that is.” 

“I would like that.” Gwayne smiled, lifting her chin with a single finger. “As long as you call me by mine in return.” 

She nodded, fighting the blush that threatened to form. He was rather beautiful, with his freckles and long hair. “I believe that can be arranged.” 

“Gwayne!” She called out for what felt like the fifth time. She had missed his company in truth, and hadn’t seen him in what felt like weeks. (It had been a mere day.)

“Gwayne?” She pushed open a cracked door, grinning. “Are you-” She frowned. The room was empty, except for a portrait. She felt pulled forward, walking further into the room. The woman was stern looking, but beautiful, there was no doubt in her mind. The portraits eyes were bright blue, piercing the very soul who dared to look back at her. 

“I see you found my mother.” 

Y/N clutched her chest, whipping around. “You frightened me!” 

He laughed, walking forward and kissing the back of her hand gently. “I apologize.” His tone was soft, quiet as a mouse. “Did I truly scare you?” 

She shook her head, their eyes locked in a dangerous embrace. "So this is your mother?” 

He nodded, turning towards the portrait. “My father commissioned it mere months before she died.” He smiled, tightening his hold on her hand. “When I was younger, I would find him in here, staring at her likeness." He laughed to himself. "They were quite the couple.” 

“I’m sure you miss her terribly.” 

Gwayne’s shoulders tensed. “In truth, it has been so long that I have forgotten what her presence felt like.” 

That had made her frown even more. “I understand.” 

He nodded. “It is difficult. Trying to remember a parent you hardly knew.” 

Y/N’s eyes watered. “Quite.” Taking a deep breath, she turned towards her husband, her voice low. “You look like the very image of her. Your mother.” 

He smiled. “Is that a compliment, dear wife?” 

She blushed, shrugging as nonchalantly as she could. “She is quite beautiful.” 

“Ah.” Gwayne was now fully grinning. “The same could be said about you.” 

Her blush vanished, and she shoved him away, rolling her eyes playfully. “Do not tease me, Gwayne Hightower.” 

His hand grasped his heart, following after her like a lost puppy. “I would never.” 

The Oldtown Library was the very picture of tranquility. Lord and Lady Hightower had chosen to take advantage of the quiet day, and had been simply enjoying each other’s company for hours. It was so rare to have this time together, and Y/N enjoyed knowing that at any moment, she could call out to her husband and he would answer. 

She hoped he felt the same.

Her legs ached, having been in this position for so long had caused one of them to go numb. Stretching her legs, she walked over to the bookshelf, scouring for a novel she had read in King’s Landing. She groaned, crossing her arms in annoyance. Of course, the novel was on the tallest shelf. 

Reaching up, she made herself as tall as possible, but it was no use. She huffed, whipping around to ask Gwayne for help. 

It was like he had already read her mind, because she ran into his solid chest, gasping at the sudden impact. She knew her cheeks were bright red, but she still looked up at his piercing gaze.

He smirked, whispering. “Would you like some help?” 

“I-” She bit her lip. “My book. I fear it is too high for me to reach.” 

“I believe…” He reached up, staring at her all the while. “That I can be of some assistance.” The book was in his grasp, but she made no move to pull it out of his hands. 

“Thank you.” She whispered back. Her back was now fully against the bookshelf, Gwayne inches away from her. “Are you- Are you quite alright, my lord?” 

Gods, she was perfection itself, her tone sending shivers down his spine. “What have I told you about calling me my lord?” He sighed, leaning his forehead against hers. “As of late, I find myself…” 

She nodded, eager for him to continue. “Yes?” 

“I- I find myself wanting for you. Wanting to be near you, wanting to feel your touch…” He laughed. “It is quite intoxicating. You have captivated me, body and soul.” 

She felt as if her very skin was on fire. Her heart skipped, Gods, is this what marriage was like? She wanted to capture his lips against hers and bring him to bed. “Gwayne… I-” Of course, doubts flew through her mind. How many women had he said this to before? How many more would he say this to during their marriage? “You do not mean that.” 

“I-” He tilted his head. “I do not mean that you have-”

“I am not… you don’t-” Her eyes started to tear up. “Gwayne, I am not-” 

He leaned down, capturing her in a passionate kiss. Her eyes widened, and she sighed, falling into his arms, which tightened around her waist every moment they kissed. “You are. Gods, if I could worship you, I would-” 

She placed a finger over his lips, silencing him. “Do not say such things.” 

He removed her finger from her mouth, kissing her hand gently. “You will find, dear wife, that I am not a liar. You are as divine as the-” 

Her finger found its way back over his lips. She laughed at his expression, still as calm and patient as the day she met him. There was something new however, a passion she hadn’t seen before. “You- Do you have any idea the things I-” She squeezed her eyes shut, telling herself to be brave. “Just-” She surged forward, pulling him back down into her lips. 

His eyes widened, but he did not fight her, if anything, he had pulled her closer. His arms felt perfect around her waist, she’d thought as his thumb caressed her ribcage. He pulled away from her lips, whispering. “What have I done to deserve you?” 

She sucked a breath in. “I- I need to go.” 

His eyebrows furrowed, loosening his grip. “Are you alright?” 

“I just-” She nodded, smiling weakly. “I have a meeting with Lady Redwyne, she-” She turned away, walking towards the door. “Have a good evening, My lord.”

Avoiding your husband was not for the faint of heart. Or so she had told herself as she actively avoided her own. Out of embarrassment or lack of self control, she didn’t know. She felt overwhelmed by his affection for her, overwhelmed when he looked at her with that passionate gaze that made her knees shake. In a moment of weakness (some would say loneliness), she caved, storming into his chambers. It was the middle of the night, the air chilly as she pulled the robe closer to her body. Perhaps she should have made herself more appeasing, but she hadn’t cared. 

She stood by his fireplace, pacing back and forth as she waited for him to return. Her mind started to wonder, where was he at this late hour? She couldn’t blame him, many husbands strayed from their wives.

“Y/N?” 

She straightened her posture, facing him hesitantly. “Gwayne.” 

“Is everything alright? Are you-” He paused, his eyes taking in her figure. “Did you walk through the tower like this?” 

“I-” She smiled weakly. “It was merely from my chambers to yours. I- I made certain no one…” Her voice grew quieter as he walked closer. “Saw me.” He said nothing, and her resolve began to crumble. “I know this is unexpected, but please. Say something- anything would-”

“You look… ravishing.” He swallowed, eyes trained on her. “What have I done to deserve this beauty before me?” 

She gulped, trying to ignore the way her heart skipped. “I thought I would apologize. For my absence as of late.” 

“Ah.” He nodded, inches away from her. “While I can admit I’ve missed your presence, there is nothing to apologize for.” He looked over her figure once more, lazily draping an arm over her waist. “Have I told you you look ravishing?” 

She nodded, crossing her arms. “Yes, you have. I have not barged into your room to be made a fool.” 

“You have not made yourself a fool.” He pulled her closer, a gasp leaving her lips. “I am the fool.”

“How are you-” He lunged down, pulling her lips to his. 

“I now realize that I have not made you aware of how beautiful you are.” He shook his head, walking them toward the bed. “Allow me to show you.”

“Gwayne! What-” He threw her on the bed, hovering over her. 

“You are as radiant as the sun.” He pulled the ties of her robe slowly, heart hammering at the mere thought of her. “You are-” 

“Wait.” She stopped, sitting up. “Can I-” 

He nodded. “Have I-” 

She climbed his waist, straddling him in an instant. Her hand found her way to his cheek, caressing it softly as she whispered. “I wanted to say that I- I find myself wanting you too.” 

He grinned, pulling her close. “I’m glad.” Her robe barely hid her figure, with both shoulders fallen and the rest being held up by sheer will. She leaned her forehead against his, pulling at the robe until it gave way. “You-” 

Her cheeks were bright red, but she did not break eye contact with him, leaning in closer with each passing second. “Gwayne…” 

“Yes?” He whispered, their lips inches apart. 

“I know husbands stray… from their wives. But may you-” She leaned closer to his lips, whispering back. "May you pretend I am the only one?” 

His eyes widened, and he laughed. “Oh, my darling girl.” He kissed down her neck, around her face, everywhere, smiling as she giggled from his affection. “You will always be the only one. Trust me.”

Her heart skipped. "I do."

"Good." He grinned, leaning forward. "Good."

The sun peeked through the curtains, streaming over the couple. Their legs were tangled together, their arms haphazardly thrown over the other, dead to the world. 

Or rather, Gwayne was dead to the world. Y/N watched her husband sleep, staring at his beautiful face, trying to commit it to memory. His freckles were light, but very much visible this close. She reached up, gently pushing his hair out of his eyes. Kissing his forehead gently, she rolled over so she could begin her day. 

Gwayne's arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her back into his chest. “And just where are you off to?” 

She laughed, turning in his arms to face him once more. “You’re awake.” 

He nuzzled his face into the pillow, groaning. “I must say, I’m quite surprised you are.” 

She scoffed, hitting his chest indignantly. “What is that supposed to mean?” 

He looked up, smirking. “You were asleep before I could-” 

She slapped a hand over his mouth. “You are much too bold this morning, ser.” 

“Ser?” He raised an eyebrow, pulling her with him as he rolled over, causing a symphony of laughter to leave her. “I beg you, do not ever call me ser again.” 

“If you insist.” She giggled, kissing his neck gently. “My lord.” 

He hummed, closing his eyes. “You are glowing, did you know?” 

“That would be the morning sun, my dear.” Y/N smirked. 

He shook his head, his face serious. “You are always glowing.” A hand caressed her cheek, resting on her jaw as he stared. “As beautiful as the summer breeze.” 

“Gwayne…” She knew her cheeks were bright red. “You flatter me.” 

“No.” He shook his head. “It is the truth.” Looming over her now, he kissed down her neck. “Say it.” 

“Say what?” She whispered. 

“Say you are beautiful and I shall stop.” 

“But…” She gasped as he pulled the sheet down to reveal her figure. “What if I do not want you to stop?” 

“Well then…” Gwayne smirked. “We are at a stand still.” 

She shook her head, pulling him toward her. “No, we are not.”

He grinned. “Then say it.” 

“I-” She gulped, pulling at the hair at the nape of his neck as he trailed down her frame once more. “I’m beautiful.”  

Kings Landing felt different, she had told herself while they walked into her mother’s birthday dinner. Perhaps it was the fact that she was walking through her childhood home with her husband, but she felt confident, prideful even. It was a small, intimate gathering, with only her and Gwayne’s family present. 

And by Gwayne’s family, she meant his sister. 

The seating arrangements could not have been more unfortunate, with Y/N sitting opposite of her despicable uncle. 

“I must say…” Aegon whispered. “It is so nice to see you returned a woman grown.” He leaned forward, smirking. “Perhaps later…” 

Y/N scowled. “I dare you to finish that sentence.” 

Rhaenyra smiled, standing up and addressing her family. “It warms my heart to have my family gathered for this celebration.” She looked over at her daughter, eyes watering ever so slightly. “Thankfully, my firstborn, my heir, was also able to be in attendance.” She raised her glass. “I’m glad you were able to join us. It has been too long, my darling.” 

Y/N laughed. “It has hardly been five moons since my departure, Mother.” 

“Yes, well…” Rhaenyra sat down, looking over at Gwayne. “How does my daughter fare in Oldtown?” 

“Wonderfully, Your Majesty.” He looked down at his wife, smiling brightly. “She is the perfect Lady Hightower, I must say.” 

Y/N raised an eyebrow, smacking his arm playfully. “You flatter me, Husband.” 

“I am merely telling the truth.” Gwayne laughed. “I dare say we have not had such a Lady since my dear mother.” 

Alicent’s face dropped, and Y/N smacked his arm harder. “Gwayne…” 

Aegon leaned across the table, sneering at his Uncle. “I must say, I’m quite surprised to see you so inexplicably happy. I’ve heard she can be quite the-” 

Jace slammed his fist on the table, silencing the room. “Watch your mouth.” 

The platinum blonde sat back, raising his hands up in surrender. “I’m merely enlightening my Uncle, Jace.” 

“Why don’t you-” 

“It is quite alright, Jace.” Y/N hissed, smiling lightly. “It was a jest.” Gwayne grabbed her hand under the table, caressing the back gently.

Aegon looked unsatisfied. “All I meant to say is that I’m quite surprised you have found love in such a short time.” He looked over at Gwayne, wiggling his eyebrows. “Is she rather-”  

It was now Y/N’s turn to slam her fist on the table. Standing up, she glared at her Uncle, grasping Gwayne’s hand tightly. “I am sorry, Uncle, that you do not know what it is to respect your spouse. I am also sorry that you wouldn’t know love if it stood right in front of you.” She gulped, realizing the entirety of her family was now staring at her. “My husband is a good man, unlike the tales I have heard of you and my poor Aunt. Gwayne is kind and caring and-” She huffed. “I have never loved someone more. I pity you, I really do. Never knowing what true unconditional love feels like because you deny yourself every chance of happiness.” Sitting back down quickly, she grabbed her wine, taking a large drink. Her mother stared, a hand over her mouth that Y/N could only assume was holding back laughter. Her brothers looked shocked, shocked that she was so defensive over a man she hardly knew. 

But she did know him, and he knew her much better than anyone. The chatter started up soon after, but she was frozen in her seat, refusing to see her husband’s reaction. She had never- 

She looked up, jumping when she met his eyes immediately. “I’m sorry if I-” 

Gwayne stood up, grabbing her hand. “Follow me.” 

“Gwayne.” She hissed, “They’re staring-” He walked out of the room, refusing to acknowledge the prying eyes of their family. “Gwayne, I’m sorry if I upset you. I just- I couldn't take it anymore. He drives me-”

Pulling her into their shared chambers, he slammed the door behind him. She walked out of his hold, hugging herself as she watched him stare at her. “Say something, please. I truly am… I am sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed.” 

He stalked forward, grabbing her face and pulling her to him. Her eyes widened, knees weakening at the passion that exuded from his kiss. They stayed latched to each other for what seemed like minutes, ignoring the world around them. 

“You are an angel, I am convinced.” 

Y/N laughed. “I love you.” 

Gwayne grinned, kissing her quickly. “I love you much more, my love.” 

She shook her head, basking in his affection. “I do not think that is possible.” 

He groaned, laying his head on her shoulder. “Must we go back to dinner?” 

She nodded, raking her fingers through his hair. “I’m afraid so.” 

He shook his head. “Your mother will have to forgive me.” 

She laughed. “For what, my love?” 

He wrapped his arms around her waist, throwing her over his shoulder. “I must spend time with my lovely wife at this very moment, or I shall combust.” 

Y/N giggled, smacking his back. “Gwayne!” 

He threw her on the bed, laughing at her flushed cheeks. “You are simply divine.” Crawling up to her lips like a lion to its prey, he practically growled. “I could stare at you for hours.” 

Y/N smirked, wrapping her arms around his neck as she whispered. “Perhaps you could show me how divine I am instead.”

“I believe, dear wife…” He pulled the string at the front of her dress, removing her topcoat. “That can be arranged.” 

taglist: @beebeechaos @i-padfootblack-things

[dollwhite]

Face of another

[ aunt reader ] chapter 3

Seems like you didn’t do enough research on them. Bruce adopted another child, he had a problem. You were going to talk to him about that before leaving, but the boy seems to be about 15-16?

Maybe you could try and guess were the hell bruce found this one, in a villain attack? No there hasn’t been one of those in a while. And it seems he is quite comfortable, maybe he was adopted a few months back?

Found in crime Alley? No Jason would have found him first, and if he had? Oh he would never let Bruce adopt him.

From a one nightstand that died? Nah most women would have told Bruce the were pregnant, and get some money.

Parents Died in an accident? Maybe, possibly the closest one yet.

You were so in your thoughts, you didn’t hear.—Alfred call your name

“ oh apology’s, I didn’t hear you?” You said gently.

“Oh lady Al ghul, I was just asking if you planed on staying for dinner?” Alfred asked, sipping on his tea.

“Oh please call me, [reader]. But I will not be joking you all, as I have some ‘work’ to do.”

The rest if the family was silent, but who could blame them? Having your grandfather ask the twin of the daughter of the demon head to stay the night? Someone who you didn’t know existed until today?

Oh you would be livid, if that had been you. But father wasn’t like that thankfully.

“Ah that’s a shame—“ Alfred was saying before being caught off by Damian. That must have been something he learned from the Wayne family, your father and sister would never teach him that.

“Auntie I would like to come with you.” Damian announced.

“Well I don’t see why not, but you will have to get your father’s permission first. I don’t want him throwing a fit”

You could feel Bruce’s gaze on you, but did you care? Oh not one bit.

“Father may I go with auntie?”

A sigh came out of Bruce’s mouth before he finally said yes after thinking on it for a while. Damian know how to protect himself, and if you really were born into the league than you should know how to fight.

“ Reader I have been meaning to ask you this, how did you find that batcave?” Bruce asked he known you were Talia’s ‘twin’ but.

From what his been observing, it seems like you hadn’t had contact with the league for years. And that includes Talia, and maybe even the demons head himself.

“Don’t worry about it, I won’t give the location out.” You said sipping on your tea, Alfred had left a little while ago. Leaving you all alone in awkward silence.

The only only one that tried having a conversation with you, was Damian and that was no surprise.

“Keep him safe” Bruce said stoping you in your tracks. Damian was already sitting in the car waiting on you to get in. Swiftly turning your head around, you say

“I always do.” A smile took you face, instantly reminded Bruce of the mother of his son. He didn’t seem to realize you both look alike, the face of another..

The face he once loved.

Guysss I’m trying to get into the yandere part faster, but idk howawwww. Idk why I disappeared for like 3-4 days? Can u guys tell Bruce is slowly starting to get obsessed?? 😏 FUCK I forgot about adding my taglist!

Tag list: @lazyemmy @ninihrtss @tsuniio @jsprien213

[lizzyiii]

hi!! i have a request! what about a one shot for aemond x reader who is betrothed to him. she’s a baratheon girl or something but she gifts him the sapphire for his eye as a wedding gift or something along the lines of that?

ask and you shall receive...

The Sapphire Gift

pairing | aemond targaryen x baratheon!reader

word count | 5.1k words

summary | Of all his five daughters, Borros Baratheon has chosen you to be betrothed to Aemond Targaryen, much to your dismay. Seeking to forge a deeper connection with your betrothed, you decide to create the perfect wedding gift for him.

tags | fluff, fluff, toothrotting fluff, friends to lovers, aemond literally does not know how to communicate or court a lady, sarcastic!reader, awkward!reader, simp!Aemond, reader is just a typical seventeen-year-old girl, lowkey got second hand embarrassment writing this.

a/n | ooooh, this was so cutesy to write, I love writing awkward/sassy reader and simp/awkward aemond. Finished this in a solid 2 days💪. ALSOO I need moots, so anyway wanna volunteer as tribute????

likes, comments, reblogs are always appreciated ✨

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

“Why must it be me?”

Your voice echoed through the grand hall of Storm’s End, the walls adorned with the sigil of the mighty Baratheons. You stood before your father, Borros Baratheon, Lord of Storm’s End, arms crossed defiantly, your brows knit in frustration.

“Because I have chosen you,” he replied, a casual shrug dismissing your protests, as he lounged upon the imposing ironwood throne that commanded the room. The flickering torches cast shadows across his weathered face, but his resolve remained steadfast.

Your heart sank further as you protested, “You have four other daughters to choose from!”

Borros began to tally your sisters on his fingers, his expression serious yet unconcerned. “Cassandra is already pledged to House Brownhill, Maris is too old to be of interest, and Floris is still but a child. Ellyn might have been a contender, but she reminded me that you are more closely aligned in age to the prince, which I daresay makes you more appealing to his eye.”

You bit back a curse aimed at Ellyn, whose selfishness felt like a betrayal in this moment, and muttered, “Emphasis on the word ‘eye’.”

“Fawn!” your father snapped, the nickname a remnant of your childhood, now wielded like a blade.

With a huff, you cast your gaze towards your mother, Lady Elenda, seated on a modestly adorned stool that contrasted starkly with your father’s opulence. Her fingers deftly worked at her embroidery, her belly round and pregnant with another child. “Mother, do you have naught to say about this?”

Elenda blinked slowly, her expression momentarily vacant before she smiled dreamily, “I have heard the prince is kind and benevolent,” she replied, her tone light and airy as your father nodded approvingly at her words.

You gasped, a hand flying to your chest in disbelief. “That is a complete and utter falsehood! Tales of his cruelty and wickedness abound, even in these halls. How could you deceive me so?”

Borros waved a dismissive hand, the irritation brewing like a storm within him. “So what if he has but one eye? He commands Vhagar, the largest dragon in the realm, and wields a sword as if it were an extension of his very arm. You shall ascend to the rank of princess, lacking for nothing.”

“But Father—”

“Enough!” His voice boomed, reverberating off the stone walls and silencing the murmurs of guards and servants alike. You could feel the weight of his anger pressing down upon you. Sighing heavily, you rolled your eyes, the gesture laden with pettiness. “This matter is settled. Prepare yourself; tonight we shall feast in honor of your betrothal. Do not sulk—it is unbecoming of a future princess.”

With a final glare that could wither a flower, you turned on your heel, storming away from the throne room, your heart heavy with the weight of your new fate.

King’s Landing was an entirely different realm compared to the windswept fortress of Storm’s End. Here, the sun cast a golden glow over the Red Keep, its warmth caressing the bustling streets of Flea Bottom, while in your home, rain seemed a constant companion, drenching the rugged cliffs and soaking through the halls of your ancestral seat.

The city thrummed with life—vibrant and teeming—overwhelming in its sheer size and noise. In contrast, Storm’s End felt desolate, where the only sounds were the howling gales and crashing waves that eternally assaulted its walls.

Settling into the royal court at the Red Keep was no easy feat, for you were keenly aware of the eyes that followed your every move. You quickly learned that here, every smile concealed secrets, and every word was a weapon to be wielded.

Queen Alicent Hightower, the Lady of the Seven Kingdoms, carried herself with grace befitting her station. Her demeanor was gentle, yet there was a steeliness in her eyes that hinted at the strength behind her polished exterior. On your very first day in court, she welcomed you with a kind smile, her piety clear as she extended an invitation to join her at the Great Sept for prayer.

Her tone was soft, but her words carried the weight of duty. You accepted her offer, though the idea of spending time in such hallowed halls made you uneasy. Alicent's warmth masked the political currents swirling beneath the surface, and you were acutely aware that every gesture here had meaning beyond what was said.

Then there was her eldest son, Prince Aegon. The first time you laid eyes on him, he reeked of wine, his eyes glazed and unfocused. Despite his title, he carried none of the nobility one would expect from a dragon’s heir. His indulgences were well-known, and his lack of decorum often left the court murmuring in hushed tones.

Aegon's gaze lingered on you far too long for comfort, the weight of it unsettling, as if he sought something that wasn’t his to take. His lecherous nature made you feel for his sister-wife, Princess Helaena, who appeared as trapped by her marriage as she was by the walls of the Red Keep. It was said that Aegon had grown old before his time, his twenty-one years bearing the burden of his vices.

Princess Helaena was a stark contrast to her husband. There was an otherworldly grace to her, a softness that seemed untouched by the cruelties of life. She spoke in riddles, her voice often drifting into ethereal musings that left you both puzzled and intrigued. Her words, though strange, reminded you of the whispers of the gods in dreams, distant yet profound.

Her presence was soothing, and you found solace in her company, even if her mind wandered to places you could not follow. Her children, Jaehaera and Jaehaerys, were a light amidst the shadows of the court, their laughter pure and untainted by the scheming that surrounded them. It was hard to reconcile that they were the offspring of Aegon.

But your thoughts always returned to one person—your betrothed, Prince Aemond Targaryen. From the moment you arrived in King’s Landing, you had been told stories of his fearsome prowess in battle, his unmatched skill with the sword, and the fearsome dragon, Vhagar, that answered his call.

Yet when your eyes met his for the first time, what struck you most was not his strength but the scar that marred his face—a reminder of the price he had paid for his ambition. It only added to his allure, a mark of his relentless determination. When he took your hand and pressed a kiss to it, a slow heat rose in your cheeks. His grip was firm but not unkind, and in that moment, you felt yourself swoon. After all, you were just a girl.

However, Aemond was not a man easily won. A moon had passed since your arrival, and with your wedding fast approaching, you had hoped to spend time in his company, to know the man behind the dragonprince’s mask. Yet, he seemed to slip away from you at every opportunity, his presence a fleeting shadow that vanished the moment you tried to reach for him. His evasions frustrated you, each refusal to join you in the gardens or to share a quiet moment only deepened the chasm between you.

It was said that dragons could not be tamed, only respected. But you longed for more than respect from your future husband. How could you hope to win Aemond's heart if he remained as distant as the stars that twinkled in the night sky?

Determined to change your fate, you devised a plan—a gift to offer Aemond before the wedding, something personal and meaningful that might draw him closer to you. From your balcony, you had often watched him train, his sword catching the sunlight as he moved with lethal grace. You had also stalked observed him in quieter moments, lost in the pages of ancient tomes in the Red Keep’s vast library. But no matter the scene, your gaze always drifted to the black leather patch over his left eye, a constant reminder of his loss.

Through whispered conversations among the ladies of the court, you had pieced together the story of that eye, taken from him when he was but twelve, during a violent skirmish with his own nephew. The knife had found its mark, leaving him disfigured and scarred in more ways than one. You could hardly imagine the pain he endured, the maester's delicate, grim task of removing what remained. The very thought sent a chill through you—what it must have felt like to be forever changed, to carry such a wound into manhood.

Jewelry had always enchanted you, especially the way it could transform even the simplest of gowns into something regal. And it was through that love of adornment that inspiration struck. Aemond needed something beautiful, something that would not only adorn him but perhaps bring a glimmer of warmth to that hardened exterior.

After much thought, you settled on a sapphire, deep and blue like the narrow seas, cut and shaped like an eye—a symbol of his lost strength and newfound resilience. It was a bold choice, one that you hoped would capture his attention, something that might resonate with the prince who had suffered so much.

With the sapphire crafted into an exquisite piece of jewelry, you wrapped it carefully, your heart filled with anticipation. The wedding drew closer with each passing day, and the idea of giving Aemond this token before the vows were exchanged consumed your thoughts. Would such a gift be enough to draw him out of the shadows, to make him see you as more than just his betrothed but as someone who truly wished to know him?

Desperation fueled your resolve. You decided to visit his chambers, scandalous though it might be, under the cover of night. It was unheard of for a lady to seek out a man in such a manner, but propriety seemed insignificant in the face of your growing desire to understand him.

Wrapped in a dark cloak to hide your identity from prying eyes, the gift cradled carefully in your hand, you navigated the winding, dimly lit corridors of the Red Keep. The moon hung high above the castle, casting eerie shadows along the stone walls as you walked with purpose toward his door.

Apprehension seized you as you approached, a wave of doubt crashing over you. What if he rejected your offering? What if he saw it as nothing more than a futile attempt to win his affection, which it kind of was. Yet before those thoughts could take root, you steeled yourself and knocked firmly on the heavy oak door, your heart pounding in your chest.

Moments passed in silence, each one stretching endlessly until, at last, you heard the soft thud of boots approaching from within. The door creaked open, and there he stood—Prince Aemond Targaryen. His long, silver hair cascaded freely over his shoulders, almost camouflaged against the loose white shirt he wore, which clung to the contours of his lean, muscular frame.

His single violet eye regarded you with a mixture of surprise and caution, the flickering light of the torches casting shadows across his sharp features. You found yourself momentarily breathless, caught off guard by the quiet intensity of his presence.

His gaze flicked to the dark cloak you wore, then back to your face, a question lingering unspoken between you. “My lady,” he began, his voice slow and deliberate, “it is late.”

You nodded quickly, casting a nervous glance down the dimly lit corridor. “Yes, I realize. May I come in?”

His lips tightened as though he was about to refuse, but before the words could escape him, you slipped past the threshold into the warmth of his chambers, your heart racing with a mix of adrenaline and nervous energy.

“Thank you,” you murmured, your gaze darting around the room, absorbing the details: the few books strewn across the table, the rich, intricate tapestries that adorned the stone walls, and the soft glow of firelight dancing in the hearth.

Aemond's voice was closer than expected when he spoke again. “My lady,” he repeated, causing you to jump slightly at his nearness.

You turned abruptly, releasing a nervous laugh. In the next moment, you remembered the purpose of your visit and hastily thrust the small, wrapped parcel into his hands. “I—I’ve brought you a gift.”

His brow furrowed in surprise as he looked down at the object now resting in his palm. “A gift?”

You offered a tight, awkward smile, feeling the heat rising to your cheeks. “A wedding gift, of sorts.”

You watched intently as he carefully opened the small package, revealing the deep blue sapphire you had commissioned. His expression remained guarded, though curiosity danced in his gaze. “What is this for?” he asked, his voice even.

Swallowing hard, you wrung your hands together and took a deep breath. “I thought… perhaps you might wear it in place of your eye patch.”

Aemond's eyebrow arched, his lone eye narrowing in sharp scrutiny. “A decoration for my injury?” There was no malice in his tone, but the words still cut deep.

Your heart sank, panic rising in your chest as you hurried to explain. “No, no! Not like that. I only thought…” Your voice faltered as the words tumbled out, your face flushing with embarrassment. “I thought the eye patch might be… suffocating at times. The sapphire—it’s strong and regal, like you. I thought it might be more—well, appealing. Not that your injury is unappealing, of course!”

You cringed inwardly, realizing how foolish you must sound. Eyes cast downward, you continued, “Sapphires are a symbol of wisdom, strength, and royalty. It felt fitting for you. But if I’ve overstepped, I’ll take it back.” You bit your lip, the weight of your own awkwardness pressing down on you. “Truly, it’s alright.”

Reaching out to reclaim the stone, you found your hand halted by his. His touch was firm, yet not unkind. “No,” Aemond said, his voice quieter now, almost contemplative. “I accept your gift, my lady.”

Relief flooded through you, though you could hardly bear to meet his gaze under the weight of your own mortification. Without thinking, you blurted out the first excuse that came to mind. “Oh! I just remembered—I’m to have tea with your mother.”

Aemond's gaze drifted to the window where the full moon hung high in the night sky. He raised an eyebrow, a subtle amusement curling at the edge of his lips. “At this hour?”

You nodded hastily, your laugh high-pitched with nerves. “Yes, well, a late tea, you see.”

Before he could respond further, you turned toward the door, only to misjudge the frame and bump into it with an audible thud. The embarrassment was almost too much to bear. “I wish you a good night, my prince,” you mumbled, your voice barely above a whisper as you hurried out.

As you fled down the darkened corridor, you missed the rare sight behind you—the amused smirk that tugged at Aemond's lips and the way his expression softened as he gazed down at the sapphire, the light of the fire casting its blue hue across his hand. Intrigue flickered in his eye, a hint of something deeper, as he tucked the gem into his palm, the gift having made a more lasting impression than you could ever have imagined.

And now it was you doing everything in your power to avoid your betrothed. After that utterly humiliating encounter, where you had gifted Prince Aemond the sapphire for his eye, you had nearly thrown yourself from the balcony in shame. Every misstep, every nervous word, echoed relentlessly in your mind. The way he had looked at you, as though you were nothing more than a foolish girl… you could hardly bear it.

That night, you had made peace with a simple truth: it was perfectly acceptable if Aemond did not like you. You would fulfill your duty as his wife, give him heirs, and that would be the extent of your relationship. Yet, even as you tried to harden your heart, you couldn’t deny the yearning deep within you for something more—a connection, affection, or at the very least, understanding. But you’d sooner face a dragon than approach him again after such mortification.

Now, you found refuge in the company of Princess Helaena, sharing tea in her sunlit solar, where tapestries of butterflies and flowers adorned the walls. Helaena sat in her usual reverie, speaking in disjointed whispers about dreams and prophecies. You had grown fond of her strange, otherworldly nature, even if much of what she said left you puzzled.

Today, however, your tea was constantly interrupted by the young Princess Jaehaera, who was determined to climb into your lap as you attempted to drink. “You have such pretty hair,” she said, her small hands reaching to touch the loose strands that framed your face, her voice filled with innocent awe.

You smiled warmly, gently lifting a strand of her silver-gold hair to place beside your own. “Not as pretty as yours, my sweet princess,” you said softly. The Targaryen blood ran strong in the little girl, her pale locks shimmering like spun moonlight under the midday sun.

As Jaehaera continued to braid a piece of your hair, her twin brother, Prince Jaehaerys, was nestled in your lap, completely absorbed in a heavy tome recounting Aegon the Conqueror’s rise to power. You marveled at the child’s focus, noting how his somber demeanor contrasted starkly with his sister’s. It was strange, you thought, for a boy of only five summers to be so intent on reading a history so grim. His brow furrowed in concentration, a seriousness far beyond his years.

"You’ll grow to be as wise as your grandsire with all this reading, my prince," you commented with a chuckle, though you could not help but feel a touch of unease at how much the young boy seemed to carry the weight of his family’s legacy on his small shoulders.

Jaehaera giggled, abandoning your hair to cling to your arm. “I want to ride a dragon, like Vhagar!”

The mention of Vhagar brought an involuntary shiver down your spine, the thought of that ancient, fearsome beast ever-present in your mind. The mighty she-dragon’s rider, your betrothed, had taken to avoiding you as much as you had him, and though part of you was relieved, another part, buried deeper, ached at the distance.

As you entertained the children, Princess Helaena’s lilting voice broke the calm. "He dreams of fire and blood, my son," she said, her gaze unfocused as she stared at the window, her fingers idly tracing the rim of her cup. "As do we all."

You offered a polite smile, uncertain whether to respond or remain silent..

Your gaze shifted, drawn by the soft, deliberate sound of footsteps echoing through the confines of Helaena's solar. As you looked up, you immediately lowered your eyes, your heart racing, warmth flooding your cheeks as fluttering butterflies stirred restlessly in your stomach. Aemond strode through the door, his very presence commanding the room without a single word.

You felt his gaze upon you, sharp and intense. Jaehaera squealed with delight beside you, calling out, “Kepūs!” Her excitement was palpable as she clambered off your lap, rushing to his side. Even Jaehaerys, who had been so engrossed in his book, set it aside to greet his uncle.

You dared a glance up to find something unexpected—a soft, almost tender smile tugging at Aemond’s lips as he looked down at the children. The rare sight caught you off guard, but before you could process it, his expression shifted, and he cleared his throat, turning his attention to Helaena.

“Sister,” he began, his voice steady, respectful yet commanding. “Might I steal a moment of Lady Baratheon’s time?”

Helaena, oblivious to the way your pulse quickened, nodded lightly, her gentle smile untouched by the tension you now felt. “Of course, brother,” she replied, her tone light and dreamlike, as though she sensed nothing of the undercurrent between you and Aemond.

You felt the weight of their eyes upon you—Helaena’s distant curiosity, Jaehaera’s wide-eyed innocence, and Aemond’s watchful, unreadable gaze. You rose slowly from your seat, smoothing the folds of your gown as you murmured a soft farewell to the princess and her children, acutely aware of how unsteady your voice sounded.

Aemond stood patiently, waiting as you gathered yourself. His tall figure loomed over you, but there was no sense of impatience in his posture. When you stepped out of the solar, he turned and led the way into the dimly lit corridor, his footsteps echoing against the stone walls in perfect rhythm with yours.

The silence between you grew heavier with each step, and the farther you ventured down the shadowed halls of the Red Keep, the more you became aware of where he was leading you—back toward his chambers.

Your palms began to sweat, and your heart pounded with a growing unease. Why had he sought you out? Why now, after so many days of avoidance?

The corridor felt impossibly long, each step building the tension. Aemond’s back remained straight, his silver hair brushing the fabric of his black tunic, his long strides forcing you to quicken your own pace just to keep up.

When you finally reached the familiar door to his chambers, he paused, turning to face you, his one violet eye locking onto yours with an intensity that left you breathless. The silence stretched, thick and charged, as though the air between you crackled with words unspoken.

"You’ve been avoiding me, my lady," Aemond murmured, his piercing gaze sweeping over you as you walked into his chambers.

Your eyes widened just a fraction, masking your surprise with a nervous laugh. “Why on earth would you insinuate something like that?”

His voice, soft but steady, echoed from behind you as you stepped further into the dim warmth of his room. "Perhaps because every time I enter a room, you are always the first to leave."

Fidgeting with your fingers, you murmured, "I suspect you are just seeing things, my prince."

A slight smirk tugged at his lips as he replied, “Mayhaps it’s just my one eye.”

Your head snapped up in shock at his words, but before you could respond, you noticed the faint curve of amusement in his lips. For the first time since your engagement, you let out a genuine laugh, tilting your head. “Oh, so you can jest,” you teased, though you couldn’t help but wrinkle your nose in playful disapproval. “Though your delivery needs some work.”

Aemond’s smirk deepened, a flicker of something warmer in his gaze. “I shall endeavor to improve,” he replied with dry humor, his voice low.

For a moment, your eyes locked, the silence between you charged with a tension that wasn’t entirely uncomfortable. But then he cleared his throat, breaking the moment. “I called you here for a reason,” he said, his tone shifting as he turned away, walking toward his desk.

Your curiosity piqued as you watched him retrieve something—a finely crafted box, larger than you expected. He carried it with the same ease as he handled his sword, and yet there was a certain weight to his movements. He approached you, his expression unreadable, and extended the box in an indifferent manner. "A wedding gift," he said simply.

Your heart fluttered as you took the box, your fingers trembling slightly. As you lifted the lid, your breath caught in your throat. Inside lay a necklace—silver, adorned with diamonds that glimmered like starlight, white pearls cascading from its base, and at the center, a magnificent sapphire, almost mirroring the sapphire you had gifted him. It was stunning, more than anything you had ever imagined.

“Wow,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, as if the beauty of the necklace had stolen the air from your lungs.

Aemond’s voice softened, a note of vulnerability threading through his usual composure. “Do you like it?”

You met his gaze, your eyes bright with genuine surprise and gratitude. “Yes, yes, of course,” you breathed, a shy smile tugging at your lips as your heart raced with something more than just relief.

You looked at him, pure joy lighting up your face, entirely unaware of the soft, almost tender look in Aemond's eye as he observed you. Nodding eagerly, you gestured to the necklace. "Will you put it on me?"

Aemond inclined his head in silence, taking the necklace from its box as he motioned for you to turn around. You did so, gathering your hair and lifting it to reveal your neck. The warmth of his presence grew closer, and when his fingers brushed against your skin to secure the clasp, you couldn’t help but wonder if the caress was deliberate or merely your imagination.

When his hands finally withdrew, you released the breath you had been holding. Turning to face him, you tilted your chin up slightly. "How does it look?"

For a moment, Aemond’s gaze lingered on you, his eye fixed on your face with an unreadable intensity before it drifted down to your neck. "Your neck looks... long."

Your brow furrowed, confusion knitting your features. "My neck looks long?"

Aemond coughed, a rare sign of discomfort, and you could swear you caught the faintest hint of pink on his pale cheeks. He quickly amended his words, mumbling, "I mean, it looks nice. The necklace brings out your eyes."

A sheepish smile tugged at your lips as you nodded, feeling warmth bloom in your chest. "Thank you, my prince."

For a brief moment, your eyes flickered to the eye patch that hid his injury, wondering if the sapphire you had gifted him lay beneath. The thought of it being there, close to him, filled you with an unspoken sense of connection. You felt content to simply stand there, the moment shared between you without the need for words. But Aemond, shifting slightly under your gaze, seemed less at ease.

“I am late for training,” he said, his tone distant as though eager to escape.

You narrowed your eyes playfully, tilting your head in mock suspicion. “I thought you only trained in the mornings?”

His posture straightened, fists clenching at his sides as he looked away, clearly caught in his lie. The silence that followed made him glance toward the window. “It’s... a beautiful day.”

You hummed softly in agreement, not pressing him any further. “Yes, it is.”

Aemond hesitated for a moment before his eye met yours again, the faintest trace of vulnerability in his voice. “Mayhaps you would be interested in a walk in the castle gardens?”

Your heart skipped, and it took everything within you to suppress the wide grin threatening to break free. You feigned contemplation for a moment before nodding with as much grace as you could muster. “I would love to, my prince.”

And though Aemond kept his face composed, you couldn’t help but notice the slight softening of his expression at your acceptance.

In Aemond's eyes, despite your apparent obliviousness to his growing feelings, it was not hard to fall in love with you. There was a quiet strength in the way you carried yourself, a delicate blend of grace and fire that intrigued him.

He had always been reserved, more comfortable in the company of books and the sound of steel clashing in the training yard than in the presence of others. But with you, there was something different, something that drew him in against his better judgment.

Your laugh, though soft, echoed in his mind long after you left the room. The way your eyes sparkled with genuine warmth when you spoke to him—even when you were nervous—was a stark contrast to the calculated interactions he was used to at court.

You were not scheming, not vying for his favor or power. You were simply... you. And perhaps that was what made it so easy for his walls to crumble, little by little, without even realizing it.

When you smiled up at him, asking him to place the necklace around your neck, his heart had skipped a beat. It was such a simple request, yet the intimacy of it made him feel more vulnerable than any duel or battle could. In those moments, he found himself wondering what it would be like to let his guard down, to let you see the man behind the stoic façade.

Even now, as he led you through the corridors of the Red Keep, heading toward the gardens, Aemond couldn’t help but steal glances at you. Your presence beside him felt... right. The idea of loving you was no longer something he fought against; instead, it was a slow, inevitable truth that settled in his chest.

In time, he hoped you would see it too.

Headcannon: reader only sees the sapphire in his eye on their wedding night

Headcannon: this is before the dance of dragons and viserys is still alive

Headcannon: aemond is 18 and reader is 17

Ages of the Baratheon daughters:

Cassandra - 25

Maris - 22

Ellyn - 19

Reader (fawn) - 17

Floris - 13

ALSO you cannot change my mind - after having four daughters (canon) Borros Baratheon is def a girl dad!

Hope you enjoyed 💜

[monimccoythings]

Like Father Like Daughter

I have so many WIPs from different fandoms and this Wolverine fic ideas just keep coming and coming... I appreciate so much the support I've been shown, I don't look at the notes because it shows in activity that is 99+ and I get anxious lol. Logan has a nasty temper but is really fun to write.

Living with an ill-tempered man like Logan wasn't always easy, but living with him and his variant's teenaged clone turned adopted daughter who had the exact same temper as him, was proving to be quite the challenge.

As anybody would expect, those two were constantly butting heads at everything, be it food, curfews, or, just as they were doing at this very moment, Laura's choices in fashion.

The girl had chosen some shorts and black leggings, with black sneakers, and a crop top that was way too short for an old fashioned man like Logan to approve, to hang out with some friends she had made at her new high school. Barely sparing a glance at her outfit, Logan had snapped at her to go back to her room and change into something more appropiate, which Laura took it as well as any teenage girl that had spent part of her earliest teen years dressing and doing what she pleased in the void would. And then the screaming match had begun.

"NO CHILD OF MINE IS GOING OUT DRESSED UP LIKE THAT."

"IT'S JUST A SHIRT, IT'S NOT A BIG DEAL."

You let out a quiet sigh. You knew daughters were supposed to rebel against their parents, but having two superpowered beings at each other's throats at all times wasn't the great idea the universe thought it was. You knew they loved each other deeply and would kill for each other, but sometimes they were way too much alike.

"Sweetie, listen to Daddy on this one, he just wants what's best for you."

How the fuck had Wade gotten in and embraced your husband's muscular arm without anyone noticing. With a low growl, Logan pushed him away. Laura did not seem too pleased with him either.

"FUCK OFF, YOU AREN'T MY MOM!"

Wade covered his mouth and let out a shocked gasp that honestly was worthy of an Oscar nomination. You quietly thanked him for his presence, maybe that would help relieve the tension in the room. Laura turned at you, imploringly.

"Tell him he's just overreacting. Please."

You sneakily looked at your husband, who seemed to be red with rage, his lips pulled back in a feral snarl that clearly was a display of dominance, knuckles pressed against the wooden table so tightly that you started to fear for the well being of the furniture. His muscles were so tense he looked like he was going to burst out of his shirt, by the way the veins in his neck were swelling.

You didn't want to disrespect his authority over his daughter, but you also didn't want to make Laura direct her hate at you; you loved that girl and her attitude as if she was your own child. It seemed they needed some consesus, and you guessed you'd have to be once again the bigger person here.

"Laura, your father is just worried about you. If you want to wear that top, then you'd have to put a jacket on. And we want you back home by eleven."

"But my friends-" She started to protest, but you quickly cut her off.

"Eleven and that's more than your father was willing to give you."

She bit her lip, considering her options. With a huff, she stomped back towards her room to get that jacket. She slammed the front door on the way back out, not even bothering to say goodbye. Teenagers.

The living room got quiet. Really quiet. You could only hear Wade munching on some popcorn he had gotten from God knows where. Logan was fuming, not at you of course, but at his unruly adoptive daughter's behavior. He stormed towards your shared bedroom and slammed the door close hard enough, it made the pictures on the wall tremble. You sighed.

Well that went well.

It wasn't until half an hour later that he cooled off and decided to come out. You were cleaning up some dishes while Wade sat on the couch watching some cartoons. It made you smile, it was like you had two children running around.

You felt your husband's stubble and nose nuzzle against the back of your neck, as he embraced you from behind, his massive hands covering the entire expanse of your fourth month pregnant belly. "Feeling better now?" You casually asked.

His teeth nipped at the skin on your neck leaving a burning feeling that only his tongue could soothe. "I don't know what to do with her, she seems to fight against everything I do or say." His deep rumbling voice sent shivers running down your spine.

"Deep down she knows you love her. And she loves you too, even if she is too 'cool' to admit it." He let out a bitter chuckle, massaging your belly while leaning his chin on your shoulder, his sideburns made you tickle.

"I just hope this little one doesn't give us that much trouble."

"Hey, however they come out, we will love them the same, because they are a part of our family." He kissed your cheek and you leaned back into his embrace.

"Yes, our family." You let out a laugh at the sudden extra weight on your backs. Looks like Wade had gotten tired of the tv and had decided to join you into your little embrace.

"Wade..." Logan started warningly, carefully prying his hands away from your belly.

*SNIKT*

[idkyetxoxo]

Aemond Targaryen - A Dance of Ambition

Summary - A fierce young woman meets a brooding Targaryen prince who defies expectations. As tension crackles between them—both verbal and unspoken—she discovers they may be more alike than she thought.

Pairing - Aemond Targaryen x Harroway reader

Warnings - None

Word count - 2600

Masterlist for Aemond • House of the Dragon General Masterlist

My father's voice was soft as I ran the brush through my hair. "Please, be kind. He's a prince... a Targaryen prince, to be precise."

I set the brush down, smoothing the fabric of my dress as I turned to face him. "That means nothing to me," I replied, adjusting the neckline with a flick of my wrist.

"Please, my love. Just this once, try not to be so... brash," he murmured, almost swallowing his words, and I couldn't help the laughter that bubbled from my chest.

"Father, you speak as if I have no manners at all," I said with a teasing smile, watching the weariness deepen the lines on his face as he sighed.

"You know what I mean," he relented, his shoulders slumping. I exhaled, stepping closer to wrap my arms around his neck.

"Do not worry, I will be on my best behaviour," I assured him, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. I glanced at my reflection one more time, the smirk already forming on my lips.

"And that's exactly what worries me," he muttered under his breath, leaving the room without another word.

Since my mother's passing, my father had treated me as though I were his entire world. I was his only child, and in the wake of losing his great love, he never remarried.

I had become a living reminder of the woman he adored, a memory he clung to, coddling me like a fragile thing.

People whispered behind our backs, blaming him for my haughty behaviour, for my sharp tongue and indifference to the opinions of others. But their gossip didn't bother me.

I knew how deeply he loved me, and I wore that truth like armour.

This meeting with the prince—this potential match—was one of the few prospects my father deemed worthy of his precious daughter.

If he had gone to such lengths to arrange it, the least I could do was ensure that the prince, and his family, were as perfect as they claimed.

The grand hall of the Keep was as intimidating as I'd imagined. Its vaulted ceilings and towering columns stretched endlessly, and the air was thick with the weight of history and power.

My father walked beside me, his arm linked with mine as if to steady me, though we both knew it was his nerves that needed calming.

His grip tightened slightly as we neared the dais, where Prince Aemond awaited us, his figure tall and composed in black and silver.

"Remember, be courteous," my father whispered, though his voice trembled slightly. "Please."

I offered him a brief smile, more for his benefit than anything else. "Of course, Father. Always."

Aemond stood with the poise of a warrior and the air of royalty, his lone eye fixed upon me with an intensity that sent a thrill through the room. His other eye, hidden beneath a leather patch, gave him an ominous air, one that might have unsettled others.

But I had never been easily cowed.

Beside him, Queen Alicent watched carefully, her expression unreadable, while King Viserys, though weakened by age and illness, managed a welcoming smile.

"Lord Harroway," the king greeted my father warmly. "And this must be your daughter."

"Yes, Your Grace," my father replied, bowing low. "My daughter, Lady—"

I stepped forward before my father could finish, interrupting him without a second thought.

"I am Lady Harroway," I said, my voice cool and clear. I curtsied, but only just enough to avoid outright insult. I did not lower my head. "It is an honour, Your Grace."

My father tensed beside me, but I ignored the faint hiss of his breath.

The Queen exchanged a quick glance with Aemond, whose face remained impassive, though his eye did flicker with the slightest hint of interest.

His lips curled ever so faintly—not quite a smile, but something close. Something unreadable.

"We are pleased to meet you, Lady Harroway," Aemond said at last, his voice smooth but carrying a weight that demanded attention.

"And I, you, Prince Aemond," I replied, meeting his gaze without flinching.

His eye gleamed like polished amethyst in the firelight, and I wondered how many lords and ladies had been made uneasy by that stare. I would not be one of them.

"Though I must admit, I was under the impression that princes of royal blood had more important matters than to be paraded before potential brides."

My father nearly choked. "My love—"

But Aemond raised a hand, silencing him without a word. "Perhaps," he said, stepping closer, his tone as unshaken as his expression.

"But sometimes, even a prince must take note of what is placed before him. Whether it is worth his time is another matter entirely."

I smirked, tilting my head slightly, meeting his challenge without hesitation.

"Well, I do hope I prove worthy of such precious time. Though, I must say, the decision lies as much with me as with you, my prince."

Aemond's lips quirked again, and for a moment, I thought I saw something like amusement flash behind his gaze.

He took a step toward me, close enough that I could feel the sheer force of his presence. His silence was deliberate, and I knew he was testing me.

Waiting for me to falter.

But I held his gaze, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

"Indeed, it does," Aemond finally said, his voice low, his eye still locked on mine. "And what is your impression, Lady Harroway?"

"I have yet to be impressed, Prince Aemond," I said, though I couldn't quite suppress the mischievous edge to my tone. "But I'm certain you'll do your best."

The Queen shifted slightly in her seat, a flicker of disapproval crossing her face, while my father's knuckles turned white from how tightly he gripped the hilt of his cane.

I could feel his anxiety radiating off him, but I didn't care. I was too absorbed in the game being played.

My father had spent years building this fragile bridge between our house and the Targaryens, and here I was, dangling it over the edge.

Yet, for all his efforts, for all the whispered warnings, I couldn't help but wonder if I was destined for something more than the life they envisioned for me.

Aemond's expression didn't change, but his eye gleamed with an unmistakable spark.

"It seems I have my work cut out for me," he said, inclining his head ever so slightly. "I look forward to the challenge."

"I'm sure you do," I replied, a faint smile tugging at the corner of my lips.

My father finally spoke, his voice strained as he tried to smooth over what he clearly feared was a disastrous first impression.

"Your Grace, my daughter... she means no offence. She is simply... spirited."

The Queen's lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes flicking toward her son as if trying to gauge his reaction. But Aemond's attention never wavered from me.

"No offence taken, Lord Harroway," he said smoothly. "I appreciate honesty. It is rare to find."

I arched an eyebrow, a little taken aback by his words but intrigued nonetheless. He was calm, far too calm for a prince who had just been openly challenged.

Most men would have been insulted or, at the very least, unnerved. But Aemond seemed... entertained.

"Honesty is a luxury some cannot afford," I said, testing the waters further. "But I've never been one to spare words for the sake of pleasing others."

Aemond's gaze sharpened. "Good. The world has enough liars."

For a moment, the air between us seemed to crackle with something unspoken, something that neither of us was willing to break first.

It was as if we were locked in a silent battle, each waiting for the other to make a move.

Finally, the Queen spoke, her voice cool but polite. "Lady Harroway, we hope you will find your time at court... enjoyable."

I smiled sweetly, though my words were edged with sarcasm. "I'm sure it will be most illuminating, Your Grace."

As we took our leave, my father's face was pale with barely suppressed anxiety.

The moment we were out of earshot, he let out a low groan. "What in the Seven Hells were you thinking?"

I glanced at him, still feeling the strange, electric sensation from my exchange with Aemond.

"I was thinking, Father, that perhaps a Targaryen prince isn't as infallible as you've made him out to be."

"You're going to ruin this," he muttered, running a hand through his greying hair. "The Queen was glaring at you—did you not see?"

"Oh, I saw," I said, unable to hide the smug smile that crept across my face. "But did you see Prince Aemond? He wasn't angry, Father. He was intrigued."

"And that," my father sighed, "is what worries me most."

─── ✦⋅♡⋅✦ ───

The night air in King's Landing was cool, a refreshing contrast to the heat that had lingered throughout the day.

The moon hung low in the sky, casting a silver glow over the city, its quiet streets almost peaceful beneath the faint rustle of leaves and distant waves crashing against the shore.

I had never been one to stay confined for long, and tonight, the pull to escape the suffocating confines of the Keep had been too strong to resist.

I slipped out of my chambers with ease, the well-practised steps of stealth learned from years of dodging watchful eyes at my father's estate.

Wearing a simple dark cloak over my gown, I moved swiftly through the corridors, careful to avoid the guards who patrolled the castle.

The thrill of sneaking out, of defying expectations, made my pulse quicken.

My father would be furious if he knew, but that only made it all the more exhilarating.

The city below the Keep was alive in a way the castle could never be. While most of the nobles slept, commoners carried on their business, laughter and music spilling from taverns as the late-night revellers enjoyed their freedom.

But I wasn't interested in mingling with the crowds.

No, I wanted something more, something uncharted. The narrow alleys and hidden corners of King's Landing called to me, promising adventure.

As I wandered further into the maze of streets, my steps light and unhurried, I couldn't help but marvel at how different the city felt at night.

The oppressive weight of the court and its rigid rules seemed to lift, leaving behind a strange sense of liberation.

I had just turned into a quiet courtyard, the flickering lanterns casting long shadows across the cobblestones, when I sensed someone watching me.

My hand instinctively went to the small dagger I kept hidden beneath my cloak, a precaution that had become second nature.

"You know," came a voice, low and smooth from the darkness, "you really shouldn't be out here all alone."

I turned sharply, but I wasn't startled. I knew that voice.

Stepping from the shadows, Aemond emerged, his silver hair catching the moonlight, his lone eye gleaming with a hint of amusement.

He was dressed far more casually than I'd ever seen him—no heavy armour, no regal attire—just simple black leathers that clung to his form, emphasizing the quiet strength he carried so effortlessly.

My pulse quickened, but not from fear.

"I could say the same to you, Prince Aemond," I replied coolly, though a smile tugged at my lips. "Surely a Targaryen prince has more pressing matters than lurking in alleyways."

Aemond's eye flickered with amusement, though his face remained stoic as ever. "Lurking? Hardly. I was merely taking in the night air when I spotted something curious."

"Oh? And what curiosity might that be?" I asked, arching an eyebrow.

His gaze lingered on me, the intensity of his stare making the air between us crackle with tension.

"A lady of your standing, sneaking through the city in the dead of night. Unchaperoned. One might think you were up to something."

I stepped closer, refusing to be intimidated by the sharpness of his gaze. "And if I were? What would you do, Prince Aemond? Drag me back to the Keep? Lecture me on proper behaviour?"

He smiled then, just barely, the corner of his mouth lifting in a way that was both infuriating and intriguing. "Oh, I doubt anything I say would influence you in the slightest, Lady Harroway."

"You'd be right," I quipped, folding my arms and leaning against the stone wall behind me. "I've never been one for lectures."

He took a step closer, his boots clicking softly against the cobblestones, his eye never leaving mine.

"Then tell me," he said, his voice low, "what is it that brings you out here, sneaking through the city like some common thief?"

I shrugged, unbothered by his scrutiny. "Curiosity, I suppose. Or perhaps boredom. The walls of the Keep are far too stifling for my liking."

"You find the court dull?" he asked, his tone mildly teasing.

I smirked. "I find the people tiresome. Everyone so careful, so poised, afraid to speak their mind. It's all rather exhausting."

"Careful," Aemond said softly, his voice almost a purr. "If you speak too openly, someone might take offence."

I tilted my head, meeting his challenge head-on. "Let them. I've never been afraid of speaking the truth."

Aemond's eye darkened with something unreadable, but there was no anger, no offence taken. Instead, he seemed almost... pleased.

"You're an intriguing one, Lady Harroway," he murmured, his tone more thoughtful now. "Most women at court would go to great lengths to charm me, to flatter and appease."

"Well," I said simply, my chin lifting slightly. "I've never been one for flattery."

He chuckled, a low, almost dangerous sound that sent a shiver down my spine. "That much is clear. You don't bend, do you?"

"Not for anyone," I replied, my voice steady despite the strange tension simmering between us.

For a moment, neither of us spoke, the silence stretching out as we stood there, mere paces apart, locked in a silent battle of wills. His gaze held mine, searching, testing, and I refused to look away.

I could feel the weight of his presence, the sharpness of his mind behind that calculating eye. He was not a man easily impressed, nor was he one to back down from a challenge.

But I wasn't either.

Finally, he stepped back, though his gaze never wavered. "You are a rarity, Lady Harroway."

"I prefer the term 'unique,'" I said, a playful smile tugging at my lips.

He inclined his head slightly, a gesture of acknowledgement. "Unique, then."

There was a pause, a strange sense of understanding passing between us in the quiet of the night.

We were two people who didn't fit the mould, who defied expectations in a world that demanded conformity. And in that moment, I sensed that Aemond understood that better than most.

"Will you return to the Keep?" he asked, his voice softer now.

I exhaled, my earlier defiance softening just a fraction. "Perhaps. Or perhaps I'll wander a bit longer. The city has more to offer than courtly banter."

Aemond's lips quirked again, a rare hint of a smile. "I suspect it does."

We stood there for a moment longer, neither of us quite willing to be the first to leave. There was something unspoken between us, something simmering beneath the surface.

But neither of us would acknowledge it. Not yet.

Finally, Aemond broke the silence. "Until we meet again, Lady Harroway," he said, his tone formal but laced with something else—something deeper.

I smirked, my eyes gleaming in the moonlight. "Oh, I'm sure we will, Prince Aemond."

With that, I turned, disappearing into the shadows of the city streets, the thrill of our exchange still buzzing in my veins.

I could feel his gaze on me as I walked away, a smile playing at my lips. He hadn't rattled me. In fact, I had the distinct feeling I had rattled him.

And that, I thought with satisfaction, was a victory in itself.

A/n - I gotta start writing some quiet reserved characters as well tbh 😭

Aemond tag list - @darylandbethfanforever9 @lessdepressy @veesuguru

[lxdymoon0357]

when reading your Fic about Phileo Boleoti. Can I request a yandere Phileo Boleoti x GN reader x yandere Leonia (platonic) ? In which Y/n is Phileo's best friend and a mage with an active personality. Phileo Boleoti from I become the male lead adopted daughter

Leonia was really surprised to see you when you visited Phileo. In the novel, you were known as a genderless beauty, and of course, you also had amazing magical talent despite being a wandering mage.

You always have little pranks. You and Leonia get along quickly, especially when she always asks you to show her your magic after you turned the entire lawn in the mansion into a flower field. Phileo was helpless at that time, but you could only giggle, quickly turning the lawn back to normal. Leonia remembers in the novel, when the story ended you were dating some extra character.

(warnings: Leonia getting people killed, mentions of monster invasion but nothing happens, murder, mentions of mutilation, burning, hiding of murder evidence, mentions of human being fed to monsters for domestication, financial blackmail (to servants to clean a crime scene))

© Writing belongs to me, Lxdymoon0357. Do not plagiarize, but reblogging, liking and commenting is deeply appreciated.

Leonia and daddy's smiley!

Leonia giggled, noticing her father's bewildered and upset yet amused face as the entire garden of Boleoti manor is filled with flowers, almost Phileo's height, it was like a forest of flowers. This is probably what ants see. Leonia feels glad to be an ant today, but her father is not happy.

"You know you're just asking for the manor gardens to be infested with monster spawns" he said, amusedly as he pushed past a huge sunflower, pulling out a seed or two in her hands as he stood ahead of you, Leonia dangling from your arms as she giggled

"Papa! We're ants!" she said brightly.

Phileo was only nodding in agreement, as you dropped her before snapping your finger and turned the manor gardens back into their dewy gardens with little accents of snow.

"Awwhhhh" she huffed but shut up quickly when Phileo handed her those strawberry milk candies he usually gives her.

Leonia continued to pull you inside, her eyes falling on her father as you picked her up, his eyes bore into hers as she played into the child she was. She was smart enough to know what she was doing,

"Gosh! You know what I'm thinking, Smiley?" she asked you, she called you 'Smiley' because she thought it fit you with how much you smiled and brought a smile to her lips as you hummed in acknowledgement to her though looking ahead, "I was thinking how much you're like my parent!" she said brightly and enjoyed when you almost tensed up as you giggled.

Leonia wouldn't deny she was manipulating you, but you were just the perfect character in the webtoon, so playful, with such perfect chemistry..the female lead could easily be taken for a cardboard cutout, but the author had to pair you up with some stupid person. Gosh, how disgusting!

You were a genderless beauty, beloved by many readers alike and everyone wanted to see you end up with Phileo..But stupid author can't take a hint. But Leonia could see her daddy like you, you brought a smile to his face when stupid Rupert couldn't!!

Leonia clung to your neck as she kept babbling about muscles or you being her parent as you walked, when you and her bumped heavily into a servant as they scoffed, dropping the dirty dishes they were carrying, ruining yours and her outfits. But you somehow shielded Leonia, as the servant scoffed nearly, glaring up at you, "ugh, watch where you're goi-!" she hissed, before looking up and meeting you eyes and pausing as she smiled sheepishly,

"Ah...my grace, apologies for talking like that!" she whispered, bowing a bit as you used your magic to help her with the plates as she quickly tried to clean the floor.

Leonia grumbled as you handed her back to Phileo to go change your clothes, turning to her dad and huffed as Phileo sighed, "what's wrong?" he asked. no matter how cold, Phileo adored his little girl, as Leonia glared down at the maid,

"She made Smiley upset...! It's like she should pay for it!" she said as the maid giggled awkwardly, mostly taking it as a joke as Phileo dismissed her, "don't say that. It's rude" he told Leonia as they both waited for you.

After you came back, Leonia and you continued to spend time with each other because Phileo having some work to finish with Levipath and Cara occasionally checking in on you two, but seemingly they were also busy.

As the sun settled, Cara suggested you sleep over at the manor and Leonia wanted a sleepover so very grudgingly got Cara to agree to let you sleep in her room, as you grinned, playing cards with her or joking around. God, she took energy out of your body..but maybe you were just lazy..

You cradled her against yourself, humming some tune as you both read some old kiddy storybook, well silently reading and she'd pat your hand to tell you when to flip the page.

"And the princess asked the dragon to help her live out her life's adventure..."

You read the same last paragraph which you liked for the past twenty minutes in your head while waiting for Leonia's pat on the back of your hand to flip the page..It's been a while and she usually finishes reading quite fast.

"Miss Leonia, should I turn the page?" you asked only to receive a slurred, "hmmm...Smileyyy" as you leaned your head down to notice she'd fallen asleep on your lap, leaning against you, her back to your chest as she snuggled against you, her cheeky squished against your collarbones with a faint smile, as you grinned..

She really did feel like your kid... And by god, her dad was hella hot!

You smiled, awkwardly shifting to snap your fingers and use your magic to put some weight in the blanket ot make it slightly weighted for Leonia, so she wouldn't notice you being gone.

As you teleported out of her room, heading to your own room that Cara had prepared with Konnie, Leonia's personal maid. You hummed, walking past Phileo's office which was actually being cleaned right now by maids as you grinned,

"Wow..picky much?" you scoffed, poking Phileo as he grumbled, gently pushing your hand down with his own, holding your hand in his awkwardly, "don't start..." he huffed, crossing his arms but grinning nonetheless.

"Why are you cleaning it anyway?" You asked, since it was pretty unusual to clean your room at night.

"A monster bred somewhere in the manor and snuck in." he huffed as you looked at the doorway, since the room was closed shut and noticed splatters of blood and the wooden frame slightly smoky like a fire broke out in his rooms which were being scrubbed and cleaned to make it spotless.

"Oh my-..you okay?" you asked, a bit concerned as he nodded, "I'm fine..thankfully I was accompanied by Rupert and Levipath" he said as Rupert grinned proudly, "Nice!~" you high-fived Rupert.

Rupert almost flinched as you did that when your palms made contact making you smile in confusion as to why it occurred, "...uh....uhm.." he paused, looking away before clearing his throat,

"...has anyone told you you give out electric charge slightly?" he asked, making you grin sheepishly, as servants began taking their leaves..leaving only Cara, Levipath, Rupert, Phielo and Gabel as you turned to walk off, wishing everyone a 'good night!!' as you whistled.

Phielo immediately glared at Rupert who apologized formally, "I expect you to behave around them, Rupert. We may be friends, but you don't want this to happen to you, do you?" Phileo asked, motioning ahead of them, as Rupert shook his head, in a serious manner.

Thank god the servants who were serving this incident were the most loyal and financially or status-wise the weakest of the bunch, so no one would really believe if they explained what they saw to the authorities and they wouldn't want to jeopardize their future anyway.

Ahead of them, looking down at the mutilated bodies of two people; the maid from this afternoon and someone who was going to be your future "lover" as Leonia stated...Phileo wasn't sure about the latter, but who cares?

Apparently, Leonia said, "you know I can see this person be with Smiley in another world where you're all webtoon characters" she said..

Trying not to blow her own stupid cover, be a wingman to her dad and really, you had been spending a little too much time with this so called "lover" of yours..not sure if you liked them, but who cares? They're dead..

Rupert almost heaved as Cara looked away, Levipath and Gable were bit more easily able to stomach the sight infront of them..Two bodies, bathed in blood,

Their faces are messed up with scars beyond recognition, fingerprints and large parts of their bodies burnt off to get rid of some deadweight, multiple stabs wounds, slashes... Maybe at this point, they'll be a good enough meal fodder for domesticated monsters.

This evening was not a happy sight, none of the four of the servants thought they'd be seeing Phileo go so ballistic over simple interactions of people with you where they were just less than satisfactory!

Thank god you left earlier..Levipath and Gabel huffed and began removing the body from Phileo's room, each carrying one with them with difficulty as Cara huffed,

"I told you your room isn't the most suitable for such operations. Next time, please do such things in the basement..And yes, we've removed all evidence." she said, pushing up her glasses.

Phileo only nodded, disgruntled as Phileo scoffed, covering the face of the supposed "lover" Leonia said you had with a useless napkin he kept around to wipe his hands to not see their horrid, mutilated face.

But really, nothing should inconvenience Leonia and Daddy's Smiley! They're perfect after all!~

[galamalion]

𐕣. 𝐅𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐋, 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇

summary. time inevitably approaches all, but an otherworldly suitor has other plans for you.

⤷ contents. yandere!vampire!chrollo lucilfer x fem!reader, yandere themes, imprisonment, unhealthy relationships, blood // wc. 2.0k

⤷ notes. a very happy birthday to @ddarker-dreams! i wanted to write something cute and evil as a thanks for all the chrollo treats she's given out! hope you enjoy! <3

Dusk began to creep in across the horizon, dimly counting down the few hours before night would fall, allowing the silver moon to take its place among the stars. Golden rays began to dim, passing through the extravagant window in the room you’d been staying in, casting a faint glow across furniture and floor alike. 

Perhaps ‘staying’ wasn’t the correct word to use, though. It made you sound like a visitor, which you certainly were not. The metal lock on the door, the same shade as the setting sun, sealed you into a plush and comfortable tomb, only allowed to wander beneath illuminating moonlight. 

It was the only time he was allowed out too, after all.

You remembered the first time you met that man—Chrollo, as he called himself, though perhaps he had gone by a different name in years past. He called you glorious, a singular rose in a field of boring dandelions, waiting to be plucked and worshiped by a kindred soul. As the daughter of a farmer, his honeyed words made you feel warm inside. Night after night you would meet with him in the woods beside your village, listening to him speak about poetry, books, and the world outside your own quiet one. He made you feel alive—like setting a helpless dove free from a poorly made cage of twigs.

If only he told you the dove was just flying into a golden prison. Maybe you would have run then, told your mother and father about the wicked and beautiful stranger in the woods. But his stories and words wove you into a web too tight to escape, and too alluring to even want to.

You sighed, both out of boredom and out of anguish. Your sleeping habits had changed since you’d been brought to this ancient castle. Now you would wake up just before sunset, giving you time to prepare yourself for Chrollo’s bothersome speeches. Back when you were younger you would have found them poetic—dashing, even. But now, all you wanted was for him to leave you alone. Return you back to your family, your friends, and your village.

The first time you’d ever begged him for that he just smiled, wiping tears off your lashes and running his hand gently through your hair.

“They’re gone,” he had cooed, coaxing your back. “There is nothing for you to return to, my dear.”

His words only brought more tears, and broken sobs along with it. A cacophony of anguished screams and hopeless crying continued night after night, and Chrollo had left you alone for them. He returned on the third night, comforting you through your discordant howling and tears, not saying a single word. Only gently stroking your hair and humming a lullaby ever so softly, bringing your wailing to a whimper as you dozed off to sleep, tears still running down your face.

You should have hated him after those words, hated him until the sun and the moon and every last star in the sky burnt out. Until your bones turned to dust and that dust turned to nothing, as all good things should. But instead, you let him comfort you, as he had done before. You let him hold you and sing to you and your hatred dissipated almost as quickly as it came. Now, the only person you can hate is yourself.

The resounding chime of a bell echoed throughout the castle, finding its way under the door and into your ears, and one look outside confirmed what the bell had just screamed to you. The moon, illustrious and horrid—a grim reminder of your fate, stood proudly amongst its brothers and sisters in the inky sky.

Oh, how you preferred the sun.

A loud knock on the door—one you’d grown to expect—caused you to stretch out of bed and to the middle of the room, throwing the closet open.

Dresses in onyx and sangria were all you had, each only slightly different in design. Some had lace trims, intricately made and without flaws. Others had slits so high you were certain your mother would have chased you out of the village herself. All chosen by Chrollo, of course. You didn’t even know what sangria was before you’d met him, a drink too rich for you to ever experience on your own.

“I’m not decent,” you called out, scanning your limited options. A faint chuckle was barely discernible through the thick wooden door, a sign that Chrollo would wait, though not for long.

You shuffled out of the loose nightgown and tossed it into a basket. With Chrollo breathing down the door you had almost no time to carefully choose your dress of the day—not that it particularly mattered to you. But it was better than letting Chrollo have control over another aspect of your life.

A simple black gown, without lace or an indecent alteration, was your choice. The neckline was plunging—far more than anything you wore—but you had learned to push your own feelings down.

“Modesty only matters when around others,” Chrollo had told you. “But here, it is just you and I. There is nothing to fear, my treasure. I am no beast.”

The fangs that creeped out from his smile warned you otherwise.

With a resigned sigh, you walked over to the door, gently rapping your fist against the thick wood. The door slid open with a loud creak—just like every other antique in the ancient palace. Your gaoler smiled upon seeing you, taking the time to look at your body.

“You resemble an ancient tome of poetry, appreciated only by its author,” Chrollo said, stepping into the room.

“Are you calling me old?”

“I apologize if you took it that way,” he chuckled, brushing a stray hair out of your face. “I merely mean to say that you are a sumptuous artifact, deserving of being remembered by history for all time.”

You scoffed, crossing your arms and ignoring the shiver that never failed to arise when Chrollo was with you.  “I prefer a simpler life, thank you.”

“I believe this one suits you far better. If you gave it a chance, I’m sure you’d come to realize the same.”

“I liked my old one.”

“Come now, my dear,” he sighed, moving a cold hand across your shoulder blades. “You always insist on speaking of the past. Why not look towards the future? It has so much to offer you.”

“Have you grown bored of comforting me?” you spat, pulling away from his touch. “Where are your soothing words, your golden gifts? Have you found a new game to play?”

Chrollo frowned, not bothering to reach for you again. Instead his arms rested at his sides, peacefully. Lifelessly.

“I have grown tired,” he emphasized, “of your refusal to move on. I have given you so much, only for it all to be rejected. I thought time would sway your choice, but it appears that I have failed to consider your…stubbornness.”

His expression had changed in the blink of an eye, now sporting his usual disconcerting smile.

“Walk with me,” he commanded, already stepping out of the room.

Your feet moved against your will, gliding across the floor and after Chrollo. It was something you hated, even more than his smug attitude and unneeded grandiose vocabulary. You could always reject him with your words, but in the end he had the power to cut your actions short. An obnoxious monster, as always.

“I have been thinking,” Chrollo began, trailing the dark halls, “about us. And my offer. I believe that I have been…entertaining your behaviors for too long. Time is a fickle thing for beings like you, and I fear you may not have much left.”

“I’m not dying,” you snorted. “Or are you just worried that I might start wrinkling early?”

Chrollo laughed at your words, “I am not afraid of fine wine, my dear. Just that your behavior will soon spiral out of control. If something were to happen, I would hate to have to chase you down. That is all.”

Your walk ended in the garden, bushes towers high above you and Chrollo. It was a place that, despite its beauty, you weren’t too fond of. It was a maze of Chrollo’s making—intentional, knowing him. If something were to enter through the garden, they would never make it to the castle before Chrollo got to them. And more importantly, you would never make it out.

A clearing stood before you, a wooden pavilion with a dozen chairs surrounding a table. Where fancy ladies would meet for fancy tea and gossip about the fancy going-ons in the palace. Like in storybooks you would read as a child.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Chrollo said, approaching the table. Upon it laid a goblet, and, despite the distance separating you, you could make out the sharp gleam of a knife.

“Choices must be made my dear, and I’m afraid that this is one I must make myself. I cannot bear the thought of being without you, and I seek to make our union permanent.”

Chrollo raised a hand in your direction, willing you to stand right before him.

“I could sink my teeth into your throat,” he chuckled. “We would become closer, that way. But you are wearing a 12th century royal Gorteauan gown, and I’d simply hate to ruin it.”

Your blood ran cold as he grabbed the knife, bringing it between you. It was almost as sharp as his fangs, but just as dangerous.

You knew what it was for, undoubtedly. Chrollo had talked about it plenty—about turning you into what he was. About stripping your mortality and bringing you a step closer to eternity. To paradise, to Eden, he claimed. You always pushed against his wishes, though. Insisting you had more life to live, that you were too scared, anything to halt the inevitable. But Chrollo was inevitable, and at the end of the day, his wishes all came true. Never yours.

The knife made purchase with the palm of Chrollo’s hand, causing droplets of crimson blood to spill out from the wound. He brought his hand up to your face, close enough for you to smell the iron from the cut.

“You only need to ingest a little bit. More than a lick, of course. But I’m quite potent,” he smirked.

If you weren’t so terrified, you maybe would have chuckled. Maybe you would have ran.

Chrollo’s smile slowly fell as you continued to do nothing, “Go on. I would hate to force you to do this as well.”

You took a shuddering breath and looked at the pool of blood, “Will…will it hurt?”

“Not a bit,” Chrollo assured you, his smile returning. “It will be painless. You’ll fall asleep afterwards, and your old life will feel like a dream. A rebirth, if you will.”

He continued, “Just think of what you will be now. No longer and Eve, now a Lilith. You will have power, permanence among the living, and me."

“...And it won’t hurt?”

“Not a bit,” he smiled.

You slowly lifted his hand, still freezing cold, closer to your mouth. You let the blood touch your quivering lips, staining them crimson. Perhaps you looked alluring, shaking like a deer with your reddened lips. Especially to a beast like Chrollo. A beast you would soon become. 

With one final anguished cry, you drank of his blood. It was as cold as his body, perhaps even colder. It did nothing to freeze your nerves, nor stop the tears that rolled down your cheeks. Those, too, began to feel colder and colder.

Chrollo held you close, running his free hand along your shoulder, whispering sweet comforts in your ear. Already the world seemed to be getting darker as each touch felt more dull.

“Now, now, my dearest angel. Imagine what new heights we can reach,” he chuckled, wiping stray blood from your face.

“We have all of eternity to see them. Together.”

[mrkeatingsblazer]

The Prophecy [Oh, Was It Punishment?] Part One

Apollo x Child of Hermes! Reader

Part one Part Two

“No man of mortal blood could ever love you.”

It rings in your ears; the words of Eros haunting you till this day. It was no major exposure like that of Nico’s, who was forced to come out to both Jason and you to appease the love God, but still; you felt as though the ugly truth of your soul was revealed to the two boys and you recall that you never liked surprises. Even though the sentence rushes and pillages through your mind like a crazed wave, you’re strangely enough soothed by it. To know that every worry and concern of your ability to be loved was not from any fault of your own but rather the weaving of the fates comforts you to the point of sighing in relief. It’s not you but what was forced of you, a true demi-god faith if you do say so yourself.

You have never been a stranger to a prophecy, being a big aid to Percy during the war against Kronos and your half-brother, Luke, and being a member of The Eight, destined to defeat Mother Earth herself, Gaia. As much as you despise prophecies you can’t help understand the glory of the previous ones you’ve been a part of. Sure, a couple friends and families die but at least you get the title of Hero of Olympus, am I right? This prophecy [is it even a prophecy or just a God's way of giving a diss] is just downright depressing. Almost as depressing as when your Godly parent was revealed.

At 15 years old, after defeating Atlas and rescuing both Lady Artemis and Annabeth, you stood as an unclaimed child watching as the Gods debated if you should all just be killed. It was only when Artemis was asking you, along with Thalia and Annabeth, to join her hunt did anyone question parentage.

“And you [name], who has not been claimed by God or Goddess alike, allow me to claim you as my own and join as a member of my hunt,” Artemis spoke with such kindness, almost reminiscent of a mother. You shook your head at that thought; she was definitely more like a big sister. Before you could even begin to respond to the Goddess, Zeus raised his hand into the air.

“The child's parent should be given the chance to claim her,” he declared with an air of authority, ��before any decisions are made.”

“She is 15 solstices of age, has that not been enough time for the child's parent to claim,” Artemis rebukes with narrowed eyes only to be met with the same expression from her father.

“You first take my daughter, whom I allowed to be given,“ you heard Thalia scoff from beside you, “and now you fight against my order, purposely trying to disobey me in public.” His voice comes out icy and dangerous.

“father -” Apollo nervously begins from the throne beside his sister.

“Quiet Apollon!” Zeus demands. “If any one here owns the child speak now.”

The zoom grows silent, you watch as the Gods’ and Goddess’, interested or not, scanned the zoom waiting for someone to pipe in. Tears built up in your eyes and a lump began to form in your throat, you didn’t even have time to process or even blush when Percy slid his hand into yours, giving it a comforting squeeze.

Your eyes landed on Apollo, to his concerned frown and his perfectly furrowed eyebrow. You recall meeting him barely weeks before now, finding him alluring and bubbly as he chatted with you during the ride on his Sun Chariot. When we got to camp, you remember him engaging with his children in envy. He swung them around and messed with their hair, conversing with them with questions about their hobbies while also never failing to make them all laugh and feel included. You always kind of hoped he was your father ever since you found out you were a demi-god. You sloppily used a bow for a month straight before giving it up; everyone knew Apollo always claimed his kids a month into them being at camp. That didn’t stop you from hoping, from writing poetry and sending offerings to him every meal. Even now you hope he says something, eagerly looking at him like a moth to a light.

“She’s one of mine.” Everyone turned towards the direction of the voice, to Hermes who looked as though claiming you was the last thing he wanted to do that day. It made sense, really, and made you feel stupid for not realizing sooner. Grover always said you were a built in lie detector and you ran faster then anyone in camp, probably anyone in the world. You look up hopefully above your head to nothing; he didn’t even use his sign.

“So,” Artemis said, bringing back the attention to herself, “knowing now the God who conceived you, do you accept my offer to join my hunt?”

All eyes were on you, the deities’ large and looming forms leaned closer as if to hear your answer better even though they had perfect hearing. You once again looked, from Lady Artemis, to Lord Zeus, Lord Apollo and back to your father, Hermes. You caught a hint of interest in his deep brown eyes and sadly, that was all you needed.

“I appreciate your offer, my Lady, but I must decline.” you hear sighs from your friends beside you. Percy once again squeezed your hand, sending you one of his charming smiles that made your stomach weak. Hermes seemed quite happy with himself at your decision, as if he wasn’t forced to claim you moments prior, while Lady Artemis gracefully nodded in acceptance and that was it. There was no pulling you aside to talk with your father or even a look as far as you were aware. He partied into the night during the biggest moment of your life.

That memory fades from your mind, the lavish party of Olympus merging into the end of war celebration at Camp Half-Blood. Just like the former, you had no energy to join in with the festivities. With Leo dead there didn’t seem like there was much point to, the rest of The Eight agreed. From across the haggard bench you sat on, you watched as the sun set down upon the camp. It was poetically finite but still you had a stabbing feeling that this wasn’t finished, you weren’t finished.

[devoutekuna]

Sleepovers

Includes- Toji, Sukuna, Nanami, Gojo, Geto

Sukuna-

It wasn't meant to be a sleepover, it's just that his daughter decided to come join him outside near the lake. "Daddy, I want my friend to come" placing herself beside him as she leaned onto one of his arms. "She promises to be good when she's here." Trying to convince the man even more. "She better, cause I'll eat both of you" how could he threaten such his daughter like that? "Anyway, let me sleep here" arms wrapping around his bottom left one as she leaned her head on him. "No, go away"

Nanami-

The man hates sleepovers, he's already stressed enough with his daughter, now adding her best friend to the bunch? Somehow it wasn't a recipe for disaster, keeping calm as he made she she had the best time at there house, as it would probably be the only time when he babysat. "We want to make cookies Mr Nanami!" Jumping in front of the man in the hopes he'd give in. He had offered to bake them stuff a few hours ago, but they chose now, straight after he finished washing up? Sighing in disbelief. "How about we go and buy some?" "No we want to make them!" His daughter pitching in on the idea.

Geto-

He's already got a lot on his plate with twins and a cult to run, so of course he isn't allowing their best friends to come over for sleepover, no matter how much he felt bad. Somehow he caves in when it's the twin's birthday, allowing only 2 of their friends to stay over. "My mummy lets me eat on the bed!" Only promoting his hate for none sorcerers even more. He hated children who thought they could bring their house rules into his.

Gojo-

The man loves sleepovers, though it was supposed to be just him watching a movie whilst stuffing his face with food, yet somehow his son escaped out of his crib and then his gate. Making his way downstairs towards his father. "Papa!" Waddling over, even dropping his favourite toy. "Hi baby!" As much as he wanted to watch a movie by himself he couldn't deny his baby boy. Picking his twin (from looking so alike). "You've come to accompany me?" He was asking that as if he could even respond.

Toji-

It wasn't an actual sleepover, the man just fell asleep on his daughter's bed. It all started with his daughter refusing to go to bed so he had to pretend like her bed was so comfortable and that she should go to sleep in it, resorting to him laying down on her bed only to fall asleep. Much to her annoyance as he farther took up all the space. "Get up!" Slapping his face repeatedly with her hand in the hopes to get him up.

[affableramen]

Arranged marriage!Pantalone x reader Ch. 1

no smut wedding night angst+comfort (in some ways)

there’s one suggestive joke pantalone makes in the end but the fic itself remains completely sfw pantalone is not 375 y.o. here

note: one person said that she gets strong virgin vibes from Pantalone, so… you get what you asked for xD

Genshin impact masterlist

divider by @anitalenia

Ch. 1

“What will you give me as a collateral?”

The clinking sound of mugs filled the room. There was intense scent of black tea in his private office, though, the lingering smell of cigarettes was much stronger and obvious than the hot drink.

Two men were sharing somewhat a tea ceremony, one that was taller and rather emaciated had his clothes indicate he’s not at all poor. He held his cup of tea in a relaxed but dry manner, his expression didn't really express anything but contempt and his overall look screamed big ego. The other man, shorter and less sophisticatedly dressed who was sitting in front of him, held his cup with a trembling hand. As soon as the first man noticed the hint of anxiety in his motions, he placed his other hand on top to provide support.

“My lord—”, his voice was no less trembling than his hands.

“My lord!” The richer man parodied him. “Seriously, get a grip of yourself”, he took a sip of his tea, sighed, pleased with the taste, and put the mug back on the small plate. There was no behaviour more rude and cold than his current. As if the person were not sensible at all, he could only sadistically smile, addicted to the sense of power in his grasp. “I shall ask once again—what will you provide me with as a collateral?”

The man abandoned his tea and leaned forward hastily to grasp the richer man’s blazer in his calloused old hands. 

“I used to be wealthy—just like you sir—please have mercy on me! We are very much alike! Don’t swallow me and my family—oh, I beg of you!”

It took a few seconds for the magnate to process the unwanted physical contact that he used to receive from his customers or debtors frequently, especially when they were borderline begging him. “Get your hands off me!” 

Magnate’s aura was extremely condescending, if not disgusting, but the debtor knew he had to be obedient and less repulsive in order to get what he wanted. 

“You’re not easy to please, Mr. Pantalone”, he stepped back and ruffled his hair, clueless what he should do. 

“That I am.”

The audacity he had should have been quite natural for the man of rich fortune however from the customer’s perspective it looked like the problem was not entirely in his wealth but rather something inside this man, something he was made of that made you feel shivers run down your spine. He had such aura that could be described not only frightening but exhausting too. The poor, defensless man had become so desperate that he started pitying himself, although he knew that the banker evidently felt the same for him. It was horrible! He never felt so looked down on in his life ever. But that man did not leave him a chance, he was relentless and cruel. Oh, how cruel he was - to drive a poor father to such despicable crimes!

“I might have something—someone—as a collateral.”

Pantalone’s lips from had shifted from the sullen thin line into an eerie smirk. The poor man had already made his choice, alas, he couldn't avoid the contract now! But was it right? Was it all right to give his eldest daughter… to this man?

“This man! What is he like—I hope he doesn't beat ladies?”

You roll your eyes at the back of your head and let out a groan.

“I don’t know, little one, guess we’ll have to learn that won’t we?” You touch the cold marble of your bed table, the two of you sitting on your big, king-sized bed in the room for guests. The room looks not less than one assorted for a princess. You continue with a softer tone, sharing your sister’s worries.

“I only met him once. I couldn't even see his face properly - he gave me a short, rather dissatisfied stare and ran out of the room, the heels of his court shoes were louder than the words he uttered.”

“He doesn't sound like he’s interested at all in his marriage, Y/N…” 

“Well, he better not be—as I’m never going to fall for him! I hate rich people!”

“But we are rich people, Y/N. Are we not?”

You comb your sister’s hair, putting some of the flowers, dead flowers, into the braids of her hair.

“We were. Now we’re just like everyone else—average if not less—and we’re going to be looked down upon. You have to remember that.”

There is a sigh that escapes from your lips as you run your hands through the ‘gifts to the bride’: various jewellery items and other marvellous accessories which have not yet grabbed your attention for some reason, as the bigger underlying problem is occupying your mind.

“This man won't go easy on us, we’re just ants for him.”

The dress sits tightly but rather conveniently on you. At least they got something right - your body measurements. Your check yourself, the feeling of fabrics convinces you of their high quality, though it does not make you feel any less anxious. Your sister shouldn't know of your worries and how your heart shrinks at the thought your wedding in a half an hour. And the thought of the wedding night, which is more dreadful than anything else. But you can't let her know it, it’s still a child, she must not lose hope, otherwise there will be two depressed daughters in the family which is not exactly your dream plan.

“His mansion is rather big, isn't it?” you ask unexpectedly, staring at the window. So many people have gathered already, as if the whole city wants to watch your wedding, or, rather, your embarrassment. You think back: you could escape this outcome and run from your house as soon as you heard what your father did, but you did not. Perhaps you didn't want? You feel confused with yourself. It must be the natural desire to help your family that has made you stay and witness yourself being scooped by the unexpected wedding circumstances.

“Big…and cold”, she adds. 

“Well that’s because you’re not wearing a scarf, my darling. We’re in Snezhnaya, it never has warmth in it. Will you wear a scarf when we’re outside? Promise me.”

The stubborn child wastes a few moments thinking before she rolls her eyes (just like you did before) and utters not eagerly:

“I promise, I will put on a scarf.”

You boop her nose gently and turn around to see your cousin enter the room. He is not the most sociable person, in fact he’s rather shy, that’s why upon seeing you in your wedding dress he only whispers:

“Nice.”

“Why, thank you. I didn't expect you to visit me—I mean, not that I am unhappy.”

“I just thought…” he stands there not making an attempt to step closer. He is always like this - and he never gives out hugs. “That you might need some support.” 

“Thank you, really, I appreciate it, especially from you who is not exactly extraverted.”

Your cousin clenches and unclenches his hand a couple of times apart from biting his lips with obvious nervousness. It seems he’s not sure at all what to say as he has never before express his affection, hardly to his mother, by the way.

“I just wanted you to know, if that man—I mean, your future husband—hurts you in some way—you can rely on me. I..I will protect you.”

His voice appears to be slightly trembling but he finishes his sentence, filled with sincerity, successfully. You and your sister are both stunned for a couple of seconds before you finally manage to thank him once again.

“Well, if he does, I will not hesitate to grab a frying pan and smack him properly.”

Your little sister encourages you with a burst of giggle. The cousin gives out a soft smile and shares a few moments united with family. Not long after he nods to you briefly and leaves you to prepare for a few last minutes.

“Y/N, are we going to live together? All in this big mansion?”

“I don’t know, honey. That is if he decides so.”

The wedding ceremony starts and the day remains unapologetically cold. You mentally thank the tailors for providing you with a fur outerwear on top of your wedding dress, otherwise you would simply turn into an icicle yourself. When you start walking towards the altar you pray to the archons that you won’t twist your feet. You are not wearing the highest of heels, but if there was one person who’d argue that it was not a hassle to walk over the ice in the heeled shoes… well, they’d be a fool. 

You pictured him in your head many times, especially given the slight knowledge of his features that you memorised from your first meeting. But they are not enough, of course. What could you possibly comprehend about a man you saw only poor thirty seconds of your life? What was his core, his dreams? Does he beat women? - as your sister inquired. There was nothing. And your parents did not seem to be eager sharing a bunch of words on him. There was no praise, but no criticism whatsoever. What was he? What does he hide from the world? And why, by the name of Tsaritsa did he evn agree to this arranged marriage at all? Is he even worthy of—

He.

Is extremely handsome and radiates pure self righteous aura. Wavy blue-black locks neatly combed and styled into a middle parting, a bow on his little ponytail swung languidly on his shoulder. One streak of hair grey, either for style purposes or age - you couldn't know. He wears eyeglasses, the occassional sun light gleams on the glass, hiding his eyes. 

You step closer and closer to the altar before the both of you are just as supposed to be. Your eyes meet and you ought to judge him for his acceptance of such hideous collateral, but his whole appearance prevents you from being aggressive, at least right now.

“We’ve never been acquainted properly”, you say, but the words appear slightly softer than expected, almost as if you are being polite with him. No, that sucks, that’s not what you wanted.

“It was for the good of our further relationship. I would dislike unnecessary drama”, he responds, his lips periodically moving from your face to your wedding dress before he turns to the crows and listens to the priest’s speech.

His answer confuses you. “Some things are better left unsaid”, you think. Given the closeness you two share right now, you get a proper understanding of his appearance - the man looks not younger than five-and-thirty, yet there is hardly a single wrinkle on his face. There are, however, dark circles under his eyes, signalling that his sleeping schedule might not be the best. It’s also not difficult to guess that he is an office worker and, to your opinion, a very polished one. His looks are refined, distinguished and so far he seems very well-mannered, knowing the process of wedding all too well. It’s a good sign, after all, it feels much easier to go through this process with someone experienced and not shaking unlike yourself.

“Are you prepared, as you follow the path of Marriage, to love and honour each other for as long as you both shall live?" The priest asks.

You get the familiar feeling of your heart shrinking and you cannot stop yourself from being overwhelmed with thoughts rushing into your head, begging you to say ‘no’, but you do not really have a choice anymore. You could have escaped, earlier, but now? No, you should proceed to this path. There is nothing you won’t handle, even if it is an arranged marriage to the richest man in the world.

“Okay—I mean—yes, of course. I do. I am.”

“And so do I”, the rich man responds.

His cologne is subtle and not irritating which cannot help but revoke some of your stress. But once you get a grasp of yourself, pulling out of your thoughts, you realise that the lot is staring at you.

The man beside you clears his throat.

“Put the ring onto my finger”, he says gently, and he does not need to repeat that as you take the ring in your sweaty hands, feeling so lightheaded that you fear you might collapse just here and now. Your groom senses your anxiety, it is evident in his eyes, but for some reason he only stares at you, not rushing you into the action, instead carefully waiting for you to do as supposed.

You take his hand in yours and start slowly pushing the ring. Finally you manage, but upon letting his hand loose you notice how, despite of him escaping the age signs on his face, he has incredibly dry hands. You take a notice of it even firmer when he puts the ring on your finger after. Though, you are not given much time to comtemplate your observation when the most important question is raised:

“Exchange the kiss that will confirm your bond.”

You feel like fainting, but before you do, he raises your chin and delivers a kiss to your lips. The touch so brief, it was but a peck — nothing more, nothing less. And so, the bond becomes official.

You’re led by his staff to wait in the bedroom. Strangely, there is no maids here, but a butler - a considerable old, but wise-looking man from whom you get no ill vibes at all. He politely asks you to wait in your husband’s bedroom, apologising from on behalf of his master that he has some finishing business to attend. You walk to the bed and caress the silky sheets with your hand. And there you are, in his bedroom, waiting for your wedding night, but Pantalone is still not here. You try to reassure yourself, a weak attempt to negotiate it all inside you, to convince you that nothing bad will happen. It’s just marital activities - all newlyweds have to perform it. But the fact that you’re just given to him as a part of the contract stings somewhere deep in your soul.

It’s not really a long wait when the man finally enters the room, the doors swung wide open and he shuts them gently. He turns his head to look at you, you exchange glances before he removes his thin, frail-looking hands from the door and walks up to the bed very, very slowly. You immediately rise and rush to him, though your feet feel like they’re glued to the carpets. You stop in front of him, the white wine stain still on his shirt. Luckily it is not as visible as if it would be, were it for the red wine, you think.

“I’m once again sorry. My hand slipped, I didn't mean to embarrass you in front of everyone. Let me—” you do what an obedient wife should do, gripping the edges of his shirt and attempting to relieve him of it. But once your finger touches the first button, he catches your hand and slowly but assertively pushes it back.

“I’d rather you not.”

“Excuse me?”

“Not touch me.”

“Oh—I though we—”

“You don't say.”

Your hand is frozen in place and you wait until Pantalone says something. What is the meaning of this? Is this some sort of his mind game? This damn businessman, for archon’s sake, he’s perfectly shady and possibly one hell of a manipulator.

“They are not going to live here”, he suddenly says, breaking the tense silence.

“What?”

“The question you asked before.” 

“Ah, right…” It’s the question you discussed with your little sister. How did he evem learn about it? 

Your expression falters. You would rather prefer you all together in one place, but perhaps… perhaps it was for the best. Pantalone turns away, he starts rummaging in his wardrobe in search of something but still conscious of your questions.

“But they will be welcomed guests, right?”

He stops in his tracks, pulling something from the wardrobe and closing it tightly. 

“Any time.”

Pantalone places a wrapped gift onto the bed, seems to be neatly wrapped clothes. Right, your wedding night…

“So we won’t…” you lower your voice, and then your eyebrows raise in confusion but it was for a good reason. What a relief. 

“Spend the night? No, there won’t be anything like that. It’s just that we’re going to share this bed for one night until your family is perfectly convinced that we consummated.”

“But—what are we going to do then?”

“Sleep. Change (into your silk night robe I gave you) and don't ask me questions”, he walks to the further part of the room, his hand clenching around the handle. “I’ll be changing in the bathroom. Let me know when you’re finished dressing and I may come out.” He disappears in the bathroom with the soft click.

Really?!

You look at the wrapped gift: it’s not a lace lingerie, not even a seductive set of nightwear - it’s a dark burgundy night robe, perfectly covered and silky. You start easing yourself of the wedding dress - thank Archons yours was not of complicated designs, it was rather simply-looking, but obviously made of luxurious fabric, tailored privately for your body only.

Strange, but he has no maids in the mansion. Otherwise you’d be already served and helped.

After some suffering you manage to escape the wedding dress and put it neatly onto the chair. The gems sewn onto the dress were still shimmering with cold, moonlight-like twinkles.

“May I come out?”

“Yes, I’m ready.”

The man slowly opens the door, he himself wearing a tightly wrapped black night robe and a pair of trousers, his clothes showing not at inch of his skin except for the small area down his neck. But even witnessing him covered so properly, you cannot deny that his physique is rather bony.

“You have been sweating”, he walks up to the windowsill where a tall glass bottle is stood, and fills a cup with it.

“Sorry?” He offers you the cup before you can get even more confused.

“At the altar. I suspect you might be dehydrated.”

“Oh, I was nervous.”

“It’s a natural response to stress. Drink this.” You waver, and seeing your reluctant self Pantalone sighs with clear dissatisfaction. “It’s just water, not poison.”

You nod to him and gulp it all in one go. Yes, you were clearly dehydrated…

“Are you afraid?”

“Not of you, but of the consequence”, trying to make the conversation up you switch to another topic artlessly. “Why don’t you have female staff?”

Pantalone seems a bit sensitive to your question at first but he covers it pretty well, putting on a solemn smile.

“I have a cook who is a woman.”

“Thank God”, you say and immediately mentally scold yourself. Perhaps it’s the alcohol talking in you, loosing up you tongue and… senses. “I didn’t mean—”

“You seem relieved, or reassured, so I don't mind.”

The empty glass is soon rejected and you face the bed, contemplating. He did say he wants your family to believe the two of you had performed marital duties, which gives you an itchy feeling.

“There were so many people during our ceremony. I thought it was supposed to be humble.”

“They were fangirls. I wish it were humble, though, I am lacking the blessing of such desirable peacefulness.” 

“Do women… often act like this in front of you?”

He responds subtly, but his answer is enough to make you an understanding.

“I wouldn't say it’s not uncommon.”

“I don't know if I should feel sorry or happy for you.”

“Oh yes, women throwing themselves at me, it must be such a terrible life”, the corner of his lip twitches in a strange way.

At last the both of you sit on the bed. Pantalone takes his place on the edge of the bed, almost at its tail, as if making a futile attempt to not be a source of your distress. 

“When you said ‘until your family is perfectly convinced we consummated’, could you enlighten me what you meant by that phrase?”

His response to you is brief and dry.

“Your mother was most worried about me producing children with you. Her, and your father have two children, so she expressed to me her earnest concern for you to have heir with me. She is a smart woman and knowing that I do not come from an elite background myself she had not a single qualm to ask of me such audacious thing.”

“And… what did you say?”

Isn’t it laughable? Her daughter has just been given to an unknown man (well, actually a very famous man of high standing, but you do not know anything about him!) and instead of worrying wildly over your wellbeing in relationship with this man, she pushes him into consummation? At that moment you did not know if you harbour more disrespect and disappointment to your dad or mom. 

“I said that she does not have a single reason to worry.”

“But how will anyone know that me and you slept together if technically we did not? Did not you say you wish me not to touch you?”

“I have a few tricks up my sleeve. Your mother shall be convinced for now, and then… Well, I cannot speak for the future”, Pantalone leans closer, but not in a predatory way, in fact you feel like he eyes everything around you, except for you. 

“Grab the headboard.”

“What?”

“Grip. The. Headboard.” 

You submit to his harsh demand and do as he says. What the hell is he trying to make you do?

“Now shake it like you mean it.”

You shake it, and the wood makes a… suggestive sound.

Pantalone nods, his voice gets quieter, much quieter.

“Good. That will do it. Now, let me try something…”

The man grips the tail of the bed and with a sudden tug the bed moves in place, making the same creaking noise that you just pulled out from it. Your eyes widen. Oh my god, so that’s what he’s trying to do. He wants your parents, who are staying the night, to be aware of—

“Your mother expects me to properly court you, and the marital activities are of course a part of it. Now, please shake it a few times more.”

You do that, but mentally you lack the focus on the wood shaking in your arms. You think about something else. The mysteries take a toll on you.

“You’re not going to actually make children with me, I presume?”

Pantalone stops his act, his hand clenching the wooden tails. There is something about his look that speaks of innocence, though it’s not exactly on the nose.

“No… I’m not interested”, he stops your hand, with unknown tenderness in his touch. “Oh dear, don’t shake it so violently - they might think I’m being rough with you.”

“Right, sorry.” You shake the headboard, lightweightly. Wait, do people even talk during such activities? You doubt it. But Pantalone speaks quietly, almost whispering to you things, so you pray the two of you won’t be heard blabbering.

“I think they’ve heard enough. We should stop.”

“Hm. That should suffice.”

The performance turns out to be full of fun and upon finishing it you realise how your worries have gone away. You almost feel at ease, and to think that the two of you did not partake in consummation but instead played a little game is almost endearing… almost…

“Fine”, you pull yourself away from dreaming. Your voice a bit firmer than usual, and Pantalone’s attention is grabbed instantly. “Honestly, I’m tired. And I assume, we can't leave our bedroom tonight? Even for a cup of tea?”

“Can’t risk being spotted. Do you have any problem?”

“No… May I use the toilet?”

“To your left.”

“Thank you.”

Just when you leave the bed you feel a soft yawn and request following:

“But please, make it quick. I want to sleep too.”

You return soon, just as he kindly asked you to, and find yourself reluctant to join him in the bed. You don't even know him well, how could you just slip under the same blanket with him?

Pantalone senses your worries almost immediately, and you become even more flustered upon realisation how evident your fear is. But keeping in mind that the man has not touched you except for the ceremony, you let out a long pent up breath and pull the cover to tuck yourself in. The bed part was quite fun from your perspective.

“I’m a very light sleeper. Please, try to not kick me with those long legs.”

“I will behave.”

Pantalone sighs too, he pulls a cover a bit to his side and faces you with his back. Rude or just cautious?

“You don’t seem to be a very sociable person.”

“I find social interaction rather tedious.”

That said a person who was so effortlessly easy-going in public! Or maybe it was simply just a façade that you failed to wrap your head around.

“I thought differently. The way you carried yourself in public… I thought you were wholeheartedly enjoying those interactions.”

“They are but a part of my job. I am a businessman, I have to be able to, basically, talk.”

“I wouldn't dare to doubt you in this aspect.”

“Thank you.”

“May I ask you something?”

“Make it quick.”

“If you do not use me for… heir…. then what do you need me for, I wonder?”

After this tingling question is raised, Pantalone takes a long moment to think. You even suspect he considers you too audacious and unworthy to ask that, but instead he just responds in his usual dry manner:

“I might have my reasons, but that’s enough information for you today. I don't wish to overwhelm you. Sleep tight.”

“Good night, Pantalone.”

“Good night.”

You now face your back to him. Well, all’s settled, whatever tomorrow brings you got to survive it. The worst has happened, there are only a few shallow uncertainties left. 

[two-white-butterflies]

when he goes down on me

Description: A struggling accounting student meets a successful lawyer. A relationship blossoms. With a few social media excerpts.

Pairing: thranduil/reader

Warnings: age-gap

There was a saying around the school - only the accountings get the accountings. While all the students from the other majors were out partying and dancing until their heels hurt from jumping, the accountings were stuck memorizing business terms and calculating debits and credits until their fingers hurt from routinely tapping their calculators. It was a figurative hell on earth.

And you have always been fond of burning.

It was seldom to see you attend a party, but miraculously your schedule cleared up and there weren't any quizzes or lectures in the vicinity. "Are you already missing the comforts of Harvard?" your father teases and you crack a smile. "God, don't remind me of studying." You groaned while slumping on the leather couch.

You've almost forgotten about the comforts of your childhood home after being surrounded by flashing white lights and empty cans of redbull, comfort wasn't exactly in your vocabulary. "I'm just saying; you ditched school to attend the neighborhood gathering and you are cooped up in this humid living room, avoiding everyone who wants to talk to you." He emphasizes, encouraging you to come out.

"Please, those people saw me grow up. I hardly think that I'm missing out." You reasoned, returning your attention back to your cellphone. "- all they ever talk about is me getting married, or at least having a boyfriend." You added while scrolling past a TikTok video about some random guy bashing Crumbl cookies.

The people in your parent's close circle were typical upper-echelon folks whose only means of communicating with some 20+ year old is asking them about marriage. Of course, your usual reply would be that you are not seeing anyone and they'd blink at you like fucking reptiles. They can't fathom the idea that a young, intelligent and relatively good-looking (not ugly) woman still didn't have a husband.

It did make you happy that they found you interesting enough to have a husband but it was infuriating that being married was the only thing they cared about you. They belonged to a different time, you tell yourself before your mind drifts back into TikTok.

"We have a new neighbor, he's a good fellow but he's a little too young for our crowd. I don't think that he's old enough to relate to Geert's Hoover Deluxe jokes. You should talk to him, you've always had magic with your words." He encourages, and a sigh escapes your mouth. "Dad, I'm not talking to one of your golf buddies." You groaned. Maybe it was a mistake coming here.

You still needed to study for the licensure test, that test was something that you could not fail. It was the first step to your CPA to Lawyer plot-line, if you are unable to handle the pressure of the licensure exam then maybe you aren't equipped with Law School. Then, maybe you should just drop out and become a stay-at-home daughter like your other friend, Magnolia.

"He's a lawyer. He handled that case that you were fixated on, the one with the ballerina and her father. Of course, he defended the ballerina." He did his best to remember your teenage ramblings about Oonagh, the ballerina, and her treacherous ex-husband, Gilbert. "What?" You pry your attention away from your mobile phone. Johnson v Johnson was the court case that began your fascination with law, and the guy who defended Oonagh Johnson was in the same house as you! Goddamn.

Thranduil wanted to let the ground consume him whole. He's spent a lot of time with businessmen and world-leaders alike but BBQ with his neighbors was a different type of embarrassment. He couldn't relate to them in matters of American life or farming, and he honestly doesn't know enough about the outsourcing industry to make a decent connection with these folks.

Of course, he could relate to their wives about perfume, but he doesn't want to be that cunt who talks to random people's wives. He seriously wanted to go home, but then he sees a figure in his periphery. A woman with amazing hair, walking towards him and suddenly everything was happening in slow motion.

She takes a step, her hair moves along with her, the wind is her willing assistant and her lips turned upwards. A smile. Is she looking at me? He tries to hide the fact that he was looking over his shoulder. Maybe she's looking at someone behind me? He thinks, but then again, there was no one standing beside him, save the rose bush.

"Hey," you greet him and suddenly he finds himself leaning back into his true self. The confident defense attorney who charms everyone that he speaks to. "Hey?" He raises an eyebrow, as if he's teasing you. "My dad told me that you were the one who defended Oonagh Johnson back in 2012." You opened your mouth to speak.

Always straightforward. Time is gold.

"Yes, it was a terrible thing what happened to her." He breaths. The case seemingly close to his heart just like this case was to you. "I know that it sounds a little creepy but that is my favorite case in the history of the world. I was thirteen years old-" you rambled and he releases a breath that he was unaware that he was holding.

Thirteen years old in 2012. I feel so old. He muses.

"- I didn't know what I wanted to be, and then I saw you and Oonagh on the news. I knew then that I wanted to be in the same spot as you, defending women, minorities, children. I knew then that I wanted to give what was due. Justice." You finished rambling, he notices that smile on your face.

It reminded him of himself back in his rookie days, that hopeless glimmer in your eyes mirroring back to all the years before him. Some dreams remain dreams, and others turn into goals. "Well, that case is close to my heart. I don't think I've ever told anyone about this before but my mother was a victim of domestic abuse, her father was not a good man, and when I defended Oonagh, I felt some sort of retribution..." He pauses. I shouldn't tell this to a stranger.

"It is a different kind of power that you feel when you do something right. Yes, it is every citizen's right to defend themselves in the court of law whether or not they are guilty or innocent, but I think that you'll realize this when you do become a lawyer. It feels like a breath of relief when you bring true justice to the innocents." He continues. A feeling that feels so far from me now.

"Yeah, I don't know how I'll deal with choosing cases when I'm an actual lawyer but my dad says that I don't have to think about that until after I actually pass the bar." You chuckled nervously. He pries his attention away from his current woes, "Oh, are you studying law right now?" He inquired, his body leaning closer to yours.

"Oh no, I'm studying Accounting right now. It's my pre-law course." You informed, and he slowly finds himself respecting you. "I wish that I did something cool like that, my pre-law was Polsci and I wouldn't recommend it even to my worst enemy." He chuckles, his conscience floating away and instead is focused on you.

The shining starlight that has come to guide him away from this existential crisis. "I've heard a lot of things about that major. Some people say that it doesn't really equip you in law school, but the Polsci majors that I know are such cool people." You smiled, only beginning to realize that the man standing in front of you was h o t.

Hot with a capital 'H'.

He had a cleanly shaven face, and beautiful golden blonde hair that seriously rivaled those of the Targaryens that you watch on HBO. (You are still stuck in Season 5 of GOT due to being on studying jail.)

"That major did not help me in law school. It gave me an overview but law school is ultimately a different demon." He warns, staring deep into your eyes. She looks good, he thinks. "Well, hopefully if I pass next year I'll be able to apply for law school. Are there any universities that you recommend?" You ask and he ponders.

"I finished my degree in Harvard-"

"Fuck," you interrupted him. "No, I'm sorry." You gasp.

"I study in Harvard right now. It's just I found it - I don't know." You mentally cringe, accepting the fact that you've let go of your chance with dating this hot lawyer man. "It's alright, I was gonna say to not study in Harvard. Stanford is much better. I've found really formidable opponents who finished their degree in Stanford." He smiles, finding your quirks to be adorable.

It is not everyday that a woman walks into his life and talks about his best case to date, and then laugh about stupid stupid things. "The food isn't really that great to be honest," you mumbled. "Some things never change." He mused. "Oh wait, I'm sorry. I haven't introduced myself. I'm Y/N Saint." You offer your hand to shake and he takes it.

"Thranduil Greenwood." He smiles while shaking your hand. He lets go of it, and then remembers. "Daniel's your father?" He asks. "Yeah, but he's not really my biological father, he adopted me when he married my mom." You provided a bit of a background information.

He tries to make the conversation longer, in the hopes that you wouldn't walk away from him or that you'd leave at least an email or a number or a facebook profile so that he'll have some way of communicating with you. "He's a nice guy." He compliments.

"He's more than nice," you smile.

Suddenly, your phone rings. "Oh damn, sorry. I really have to catch a plane, but it was so nice talking to you attorney. Um, do you have a phone or anything. I'd love to keep in touch." You turn the alarm off, and focus your attention back to him. He unlocks his iphone and hands it to you. You glance at his wallpaper. "It's my son." he answers, not bothering to hide that fact about him.

"You have a wife?" You tired to keep your tone nonchalant, but it comes out jealous and icky. "No, his mother left when he was born. Funny enough, I couldn't blame her anyways. I was twenty, she was nineteen and she had an art degree." He jests and you try your best to find an instagram app on his phone.

How old is this man anyways? All he had on his phone was whatsapp, imessage, a few apps that were there when you buy the phone, and then two different email apps (email for apple and gmail.) Which made you want to laugh at him, as it was adorable, but you decide to open his notes app. "I don't have any social media except for instagram so I'll just write my username down and hopefully you do have an Instagram at home." Your voice turns nervous at the end.

There was a 50/50 chance that Thranduil had an instagram. "Goodbye, it was nice talking to you." You greet, handing him his phone, but before he could reply - you sprint away.

yournamesaint: mornings like these...

liked by 891 others

>comments

ingridhorstefe: the type of thing u see before going to bed - yournamesaint: chug redbull and the bed becomes a theory - ingridhorstefe: id reply something smart abt management theory but my brain is fcking fried

"Thank you for helping me set up an Instagram account, Tauriel." Thranduil thanks his intern before taking a sip of his coffee. "I don't think that you should post anything for legal reasons, but I already fixed your profile and privated your account. I also told everyone in the firm to follow you, Legolas says he'll only follow you after you get 10 followers so everyone won't think that he's following a bot." Tauriel continues, and Thranduil has no idea what those words mean.

"It is about time that I enter the realm social media. I mean, it is one thing to not have social media but Atty. Elros has an instagram and he's literally fifty something." Thranduil jokes. "I did tell you to sign up, which reminds me, you should follow Atty. Alfred." Tauriel presses the 'follow' button on his screen.

"As much as I hate Atty. Elros he has an amazing feed." He jokes again, and Tauriel nods agreeing with him. "He's actually an excellent photographer, I've heard a story about him actually. I heard that he wanted to be a photographer at first but then had a change of heart because his twin brother became a neurosurgeon..." Tauriel informs.

greenwoodlaw_ has requested to follow you

yournamesaint wants to call you.

"Hello," he greets seeing your face on the other end of the line. "Hey, I'm surprised to see you with an instagram. I mean I'm not stalking you or anything, it just says 'new' on your profile." You found yourself explaining to him, and he responds with a laugh. "Tauriel, my staff, helped me make this account. I figured that it was about time that I make one, I mean even the old lawyers in the neighboring firm have their own social medias." His big eyebrows merged together.

"I was about to give you my phone number yesterday but I remembered that I didn't have a line. I wouldn't be able to call you or reply to the text messages." You reply uneasily. Your father has pestered you about getting a line since the moment you bought your phone, but you shook him off saying that no one texts or calls people in their mobile number anymore. You were wrong.

"I didn't really bother paying for that since it's a distraction." You settle your phone on the desk in front of you, not bothering to adjust it to an angle that'll make you look better. There is no use fighting against what you really look like. "I understand. Shouldn't you be studying?" He asks and you shake your head.

"I'm free, miraculously, but I'll start on some reviewers in an hour. Better safe than sorry." You inform.

"You must always be on your feet." He says.

"You sound a lot like my professor." You teased. "- but thank you for the advise, I shall use it well." You add.

Tauriel walks inside of his office, carrying a stack of files. "Oh, it looks like you've got a lot of work to do." You smile. Tauriel raises an eyebrow but he gives her a glance telling her not to ask any questions. "I guess this is goodbye. I'll call you again tomorrow."

"Goodbye,"

"Bye."

[raven-dor]

mine, all mine, all mine

four times in which edmund is an overly cautious father

PAIRING: edmund pevensie x wife!reader, edmund pevensie x oc!children

WARNINGS: fluff, overprotective nature, sword fighting, fluff ending

WORD COUNT: 2.2k

🎶 : my love mine all mine - mitski

AN: This is set during the Golden Age, so all of them are adults!! also your title is fair, as in an adjective for just, not at all a description of what the reader looks like!! your children's names are caroline and stephen!!

one.

“Edmund!” A frantic voice called out through the west wing of Cair Paravel. “Edmund, come quickly!” 

The just king’s heart sank. He raced down the hall, pushing past lords, ladies, and servants alike to get to his wife. She was rather far along, he told himself. Perhaps she had gone into labor early… The very thought filled him with fear. Their rooms were in the east wing, completely across the vast castle. 

He wouldn’t want her to deliver in a place she was not familiar with, but unless she wanted to walk across the castle…

He burst through the doors, ready for anything. 

Anything except his very pregnant wife laughing at their eldest, who had ripped their rather expensive curtains and turned them into a tunic of some sort. The girl was merely five, but as his wife said, very conscious of her fashion choices. 

Edmund tried not to glare at the fair queen, walking beside her and placing a gentle hand on her stomach. “How is the babe?” 

“Fine.” She waved him off, kissing his cheek quickly as she watched their daughter. 

He smiled, watching her grin widen. “And you? How are you?” 

“Fine, Edmund. I’m fine,” She rubbed her stomach, grabbing his hand in hers. “He’s fine. We’re all fine.” Her eyebrows contorted with a sort of concern and humor. “Did you run here? I hope I didn’t worry-”

He shook his head, kissing her lips lightly. “How do you know it will be a boy?” 

“A mother always knows.” She smirked. “Just like I knew the last time.” 

Edmund rolled his eyes, turning back to their daughter. “Peter will be furious.” 

“At you perhaps,” Y/N murmured. “Your brother adores Caroline. He will find it hilarious.” 

“Caroline,” Edmund called out, distracting their daughter. “Come here, my love.” 

The small girl raced over, attaching herself to her father’s leg. “Papa!” 

He lifted his leg, groaning. “You are quite strong. Tell me, how did you rip the curtain?” 

The child giggled. “I cut it.” 

Edmund looked up at his wife slowly, who was hiding her laughter behind her hand. “Really?” 

Y/N nodded. “I got caught in the hall talking to Lord Dilitmov and she ran off.” Gesturing towards their very attentive daughter, she laughed again. “This is how I found her.” 

Edmund couldn’t help it anymore, laughing along with her. “You are quite the mischievous child.” He shook his head, walking out of the room with his wife’s arm through his and his daughter attached to his leg. “I wonder where you get it from.” 

Caroline giggled. “You, Papa!” 

Edmund scoffed, shaking his head as they (slowly) walked down the hall. “Nonsense. You get that trait from your mother.” 

Y/N raised her eyebrow. “I thought we established we were not to lie to our children, Edmund.” 

Caroline nodded, batting her eyelashes. “Are you lying, Papa?” 

Edmund sighed. “You two…” 

two.

“But Father-” 

“No!” Edmund snapped, staring at his children from his throne. It had been the middle of his weekly audience with the people of Narnia, and his children had burst in, interrupting for thirty minutes. He had explicitly told them to only interrupt if it was an emergency. While he loved his children greatly, his people needed his time, and they could not interrupt just because the wished to. 

Apparently that message had not stuck. 

“Edmund…” Y/N leaned over, whispering in her husband’s ear. “You know what I’m going to say.” 

He shook his head. “My love, that is completely out of the question. It is too dangerous-” 

She rose an eyebrow, halting him in his tracks. “Did we or did we not go into the Narnian woods alone when we were merely 11?” 

“That-” 

“Did we or did we not?” 

He sighed. “We did-” 

“Exactly.” 

“But…” His children groaned. “We had no idea of the danger that lay in wait. That the entire world was in.” He grabbed his wife's hand, kissing the back gently. “What if she comes back? What if there are assassins or-” 

“Edmund, she has been gone for twenty eight years. And since when have there been assassins? They will be perfectly safe.” Y/N kissed the back of his hand in return. “Trust me.” 

“Please father?” His son pleaded. “Caroline has wanted to show me-” The elder girl elbowed her brother, effectively cutting him off. “I meant, Caroline heard of a-” 

Edmund waved his hand. “Caroline, I expect you to watch over your brother.” He sat straight in his throne. “You may be eleven, Stephen, but you are my son, and I do not want you or your sister going into the Woods without telling us. Ever again.” He looked over at his daughter. “Don’t think General Oreius hasn’t been keeping me updated on your little excursions.” 

Caroline groaned. “Papa, I am sixteen, surely you believe I am capable of handling myself.” 

“Your father loves you my dear.” Y/N smiled. “You are an independent and strong young lady, but you are still a princess-” 

“Of Narnia, yes I know. I am constantly reminded.” Caroline crossed her arms. “May we please be excused?” 

Edmund nodded. “Be safe, please. For my sake.” 

As soon as they had left the throne room, Edmund gestured for a guard to approach. “Send a scout after them, ensure they are not harmed.” 

The guard nodded, walking away before the fair queen called after him. “Make sure you are not seen.” Edmund tilted his head, and she sighed. “We can’t let them think we don’t trust them, Edmund.”

He groaned, leaning his head against the back of his throne. “Caroline despises me. I can see it as clear as day.” 

Y/N laughed. “Oh my dear boy…” 

Edmund shook his head, looking over at his radiant wife. “Not a boy. Not anymore.” 

“You will always be a boy. That will never change.” She smiled. “Just as our daughter’s love will never change.” 

“She used to love me, always following me around and attending meetings. Now she cannot be in the same room as me without disagreeing.” 

“She is growing, Edmund. It is a confusing time for anyone, let alone a young princess with duties and responsibilities. She loves you, trust me.” 

“Why did she have to grow so fast?” Edmund’s eyes began to water. “My little girl.” 

Y/N laughed again, kissing her husband’s cheek sympathetically. “Shall we call the audience back?” 

He nodded, clearing his throat. “I believe we should.” 

three.

Edmund stood on his terrace, watching his son train in the courtyard. He was getting good, better even, than Edmund himself. In his prime, as he so often reminded his children, he had been the best swordsman in Narnia, better than their uncle. 

Now, he swapped his sword for a pen, making sure all the laws he had implemented over the years were documented correctly. His son, when he was of age, would take up the mantle of Commander of the Narnian Army. Until then, his cousin, Peter’s eldest son, would hold the position. 

Stephen was always trying to prove himself to his father, although Edmund could not figure out why. He thought his son was a fantastic young prince, kind, cunning, and just. He was well loved by the people of Cair Paravel, and he treated everyone with respect. 

Edmund couldn’t have asked for a better son than him. He loved his children more than anything, besides his wife, and hoped that they knew that. 

He waved as Stephen looked up, eyes widening when he realized his father was watching. His son waved back, only to be taken by surprise from his tutor, swiping his legs out from under him. Stephen fell backwards, landing on the ground with a thud, stilling. 

Edmund’s smile dropped, and he threw his quill to the ground, running to the courtyard. 

What he did not see was his son pretending to be hurt in order to catch his tutor off guard. 

Edmund burst through the large doors, yelling. “Where is my son? What-” 

Stephen froze, turning around with bright red cheeks. “Father, you’re embarrassing me-” 

Edmund raced over, hugging him tightly. “Are you quite alright?” 

“Father I am-” 

The instructor interrupted. “If I may Your Majesty, your son disarmed me.” He smiled. “Quite cunningly in fact.” 

Edmund laughed, looking back at his son. “Is that true?” 

Stephen nodded. “Yes, Father.” 

“Well…” Edmund clapped his hands. “I am sorry for overreacting.” 

Stephen laughed. “It’s alright, Father. Truthfully, I'm glad you were watching.” He nudged the king. “Perhaps we can spar each other.” 

“Absolutely not.” The crowd of knights and noblemen alike turned around, kneeling instantly. ‘Your Majesty’ echoed through the yard as the fair queen walked towards her family. Y/N kissed her son on the cheek. “You know your father has a bad shoulder.” 

Edmund glared playfully at his wife. “My love, it is fine.” 

“Oh, is it?” She crossed her arms. “I remember you saying just last night that-” Edmund kissed her quickly, much to the dismay of their son. 

“Really Papa? You two are much too old to be acting this way.” 

And daughter, apparently. The older couple turned around, smiling at the Princess. “I am never too old to appreciate your mother’s beauty, Caroline.” He smiled, kissed her cheek gently. “Never too old.” 

Y/N smiled back, watching as Caroline completely ignored her father, staring at her brother’s instructor with an intensity that Y/N could only compare to how she looked at Edmund. The instructor locked eyes, blushing immediately and taking his leave from the courtyard. 

Interesting, Y/N thought as she watched her daughter’s attention drift away. Very interesting.

four.

“Father!” A voice echoed through the west wing, and Edmund’s heart dropped. “Father, come quickly!” 

He ran like a young man again, whipping through the lords and ladies alike to get to his daughter. His grandchildren were young, and he had fussed over them almost as much as he had his own children. The thought of something happening to them, or his daughter filled him with a sense of dread. 

Slamming the doors open, he let out an audible sigh of relief when he saw the entirety of his family standing around the table, a birthday cake with too many candles in the center. He walked up to his daughter, kissing her on the cheek. “You almost gave me a heart attack, young lady.” 

Caroline laughed, kissing her father’s cheek in return. “Not so young anymore Papa.” She gestured toward the cake. “Make a wish.” 

Peter yelled out from his chair. Edmund’s heart always broke at the sight; his once full of life, powerful older brother, was now an old man, older than Edmund had ever imagined him. “Take your time Ed. I’m not getting any younger.” 

Edmund glared, shoving his brother playfully. “How does your wife put up with you I wonder.” 

Peter scoffed. “Probably as well as yours does. Poor Y/N.” He laughed. “She is a saint for marrying you. As are your children for putting up with you.” 

Lucy sighed. “Can you two please stop bickering?” 

Susan nodded. “It is quite exhausting.” 

Edmund rolled his eyes. “Where is your mother Stephen? I have not seen her all day-” 

The door creaked, and Edmund turned around, grinning. Aslan, she was radiant. As radiant as the day he met her, nearly eighty years ago. Approaching her husband, she kissed him gently, whispering so they were the only two that heard. “Miss me?” 

“Every moment you are away.” Edmund responded, taking her arm. “How was your day my love?” 

“It-” 

His grandchildren groaned. “Grandfather, cut the cake, please!” 

Caroline widened her eyes. “Behave yourselves. Honestly, I don’t know where you get it from.” 

The old couple broke out into hysterical laughter, as did the rest of the room almost immediately after. “Oh my dear girl.” Edmund said in between laughs. “We are quite similar.” 

Stephen scoffed. “Who does that make me like-” Caroline smacked her brother over the head, and he stopped, turning slowly toward his sister. “What was that for?” 

“Shut it.” She hissed, smiling sweetly back at her parents. “Shall we cut your cake Father?” 

Edmund nodded, approaching the cake. “What flavor is it?” 

“Raspberry and chocolate.” Caroline smiled. “Your favourite.” 

Edmund grinned, taking a deep breath. Closing his eyes for a moment, flashes of his life flew through, from when he first met his new neighbor (now wife) to now. Taking a deep breath, he opened his eyes, blowing out the candles with a single blow. The room erupted into cheers, his youngest granddaughter pulling on his tunic. “What did you wish for Grandfather?” 

He knelt down, whispering. “It wouldn’t be much of a wish if I told you, now would it?” 

She shook her head, giggling. “I suppose not.” 

He stood up, looking over at his wife with all the love he could muster. Y/N stared back, smiling gently. “Are you quite alright, my love?”

“Perfect.” Edmund whispered. “Thank you.” 

She laughed, leaning her head on his shoulder as they looked at their family. “Whatever for?” 

“Everything.” Edmund smiled. “Everything.”

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