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yeyinde · 7 months ago

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PRAIRIE WOLF | hinterland

John Price x Reader

MASTERLIST. AO3. [PREV]

“So,” he drawls, eyes skirting down the length of your body before coming to a pointed stop on your midsection, belly hidden under a thick cable-knit sweater he gave to you to wear. “What's the plan?”

It takes you a minute to realise he's talking about the baby.

allusions to abuse. descriptions of injury. trauma.

The sound of rain pelting against glass rouses you from a threadlike sleep, one full of loose, spooling dreams and fractured memories.

(dirty, blood-drenched snow. a hole in your belly. the acrid burn of heated, melting metal in your nose. a grunt—

come on, Coyote, hold still—)

It hums there, even with your eyes open. Even as you blink into existence. Sitting on the edge; little clots, microcosms you can reach out and pop like bubbles. Hypnopompia. A strange place where dream and reality blur—surrealism in fatigue blue. Ghosts pulled into consciousness.

It's dark in the truck when you blink again, sluggishly mapping the features that stretch out before you, all shaded in black.

Through the windshield is a world of dark green. Thick, dense clouds gather above the angular tops of conifers and giant evergreens. Thunderclouds rumble overhead, groaning with the heavy rainfall that pours down over everything in a howling baptism.

Only the orange of the truck cuts colour through the thick deluge of blue-green and slate. Warmed by the heat of the engine. The cable-knit throw covers the red leather seats. It's as close to comfortable as you think you've ever been. Swaddled in a Levi's jacket tucked under your bare feet resting on the bench of the truck, hanging loosely over your shoulders. It smells of smoke—thick and dense, but sweeter, earthier than nicotine. Scorched pine and soot. Bonfires. Laced with sweat and oil and dirt—humus. Like the soil after a rain shower. A summer storm.

It smells good. You sink into it a little more—into this cosm that you know won't last. A blanket of succour, soft wool that tickles your nose and warms your cold hands. Chases away the tendrils of a grasping dream reaching for the edges of your periphery—all claws and teeth and misshapen memories.

Fractured bones. Burst blood vessels. A knot your belly—

The radio crackles as the truck drives down the winding highway, crooning something low and melodic through the static:

—stopped into a church I passed along the way—

The clock on the radio reads that it's just after seven. A jarring thought; the slow, sinking realization that everything happened in the span of hours. Ended only an hour ago. And now—

He's a wild animal you're not sure how to breathe around. A bear. His hand curls loosely over the steering wheel, the other braced on the ledge of the window, fingers tapping to the music spilling out, filling the cab.

He doesn't look over at you, but you get the feeling he knows you're awake. Watching him. Hunter. Hunted.

—well, I got down on my knees and I pretend to pray—

You thought you knew better. Come on, Coyote—

“Gonna stop and grab some burgers,” he grunts, a low growl barely an octave higher than the brassy singer on the radio. Softly spoken—or as soft as a man like him could manage—to not startle you. “Takeout. Tha’ alright with you?”

You're not sure what to make of it. Him, this. Being asked, maybe. That alright with you?

When you don't speak, he peels his eyes away from the road, glancing towards you. A brow raises. Waiting.

You shrug.

He grunts again. “Fine.”

His eyes slip down briefly to the metal name tag still pinned to the faded pink of your shirt, staring at the slanted words stamped into the enamel pin.

Taking them in. Their shape. Then:

“Why Coyote?”

Another shrug. It pulls at the hand-shaped, fist-sized ache in your shoulder blade. “It's what everyone calls me.”

“It's not your real name.”

“No.”

“Why do they call you Coyote, then?”

You think of a different weight on your shoulder. Heavy metal. Stale, warm beer and cigarette smoke coming in a puff of air over your cheek. Stay still for me, pretty girl. Gonna be in a world a’hurt if your squirmin’ makes me miss my shot—

A hand on your thigh. On your neck.

Hole in your belly. Blood on the snow.

“They just do,” you mumble around the crooning verse that swallows the tremble in your voice. “They always have.”

Come on, Coyote.

John brings to you a small, rustic-looking drive-thru with a menu that has less than ten items on it.

It's made of log and glass and smells of sizzling grease. There's a small parking lot to the left of the rectangular shack with a big moose's head on the front. All long antlers and a broad snout.

MOOSEHEAD the sign reads in faded, firetruck red. home of the moose burger.

When he said drive-thru, you assumed McDonald's. Burger King. Harvey's. The small shack nestled in front of a looming, slate-coloured mountain was not what you were expecting, and as he twists the wheel, navigating the winding path to the bright yellow menu behind a brown box, something shifts in your belly. A knot. Hunger, maybe.

You can't remember the last time you ate. Not good for the baby.

“What d’you want?”

You blink through the haze of rain, the thick plume of condensation that gathers at the bottom of the window, and read the boxy letters pressed into the lit board. HAMBURGER. CHEESEBURGER. MOOSEBURGER. FRIES. SOFT DRINKS. MILKSHAKES.

John rolls the window down. The heavy scent of wet, oil-slick pavement and rust fills the cab.

The speaker crackles. “Hi. What can I get you tonight?”

“Moose burger and fries,” he grunts. “Coke to drink.” A glance is sent your way. “And—?”

“Um. The same.”

“Make it two of those.”

“Sure thing, hun. Come ‘round the front. Your order will be ready. Total is twenty-two seventeen. Thank you.”

He doesn't roll the window back up. Mist sprays against your arm, glistening under the smear of neon lights glistening through the wet windshield. It's cool outside. The mountain air is clean. Crisp.

You've never been to this part of town before. To this town, you suppose. An hour out from the flat valley that made up the port city. The bay at your fingertips. Claws in your neck—

It's nice here. Green. Dark. Everything shifts, like it's on an angle. A slope. And you know it is with the towering mountain that looked like craggy chevron from the valley below pressed, imposing and massive, at your back. Your ears pop at the elevation, and breathing is both easier and heavier at the same time.

The air is thin here, but you're so far away from that city, from him, that it doesn't matter if you suffocate now because it'll be your choice and not—

His hands on your neck. Ever try to run away from me again, Coyote, and it'll be the last thing you ever fucking do—

The bag is wet when he presses it into your arm. Dropping it down on your arched legs when you don't take it from him quick enough. You startle. Blinking. He doesn't glance over, just slides your drink into the cupholder beside his, and after a moment, mind reeling because how much did you miss just—

Thinking.

You hurry to settle into place. Legs twitching, sliding out from their protective curl against your chest—

A hand on your covered ankle stops you. “Don't need to move,” he murmurs, glancing at you briefly. But not—

Not really. Not looking at you but out the window, you realise, the truck dipping down on an angle as he hovers near the exit, waiting for the thin line of cars to pass before he turns back onto the highway.

“Get comfy.” It's a suggestion. “Eat.” But that's a command.

Your inside twist at the sound of it. Military, you remember Elliot saying. You feel it acutely in your bones, still thrumming, pulse tripping over that growling demand. Eat.

Your body moves without thought. Obeying. Hands snaking out of the warmth cradled on the back of his Levi's jacket, one he must have thrown over you in your sleep, and peel back the rolled paper bag that smells of grease and meat. It's warm in the bag. You fish out the first burger and can barely close your hand around the thick of it, blinking slightly in startled awe at the size.

Moose burger. A fitting name, but you think of home, suddenly, painfully, and wonder if it's real moose. Feel the clench in your belly at the thought. Of moose steak drenched in fat, seared on the stove. Moose stew in the slow cooker, left to tenderise in the simmering broth.

“Ain't real moose.”

You wonder how he knew, and can't be sure if you like the fact that he did. Guessed right. Chiselled inside of your head. Read you like an open book. It makes your pulse thunder, a roaring in your ears that dulls the scattered thunderclaps from above.

“Oh,” you say, and feel the disappointment trickling in, thick in your throat. “Just the size, then?”

He hums, and reaches into the bag, rifling around for a handful of fries. “Yeah. Jus’ the size. Ever had it before?”

You think of then, of being tucked inside pants that don't fit. A shirt that's too loose. Feet in boots a size too big. All tattered and aged, worn down. Holes. Patches where the fabric was ripped and sewn back together. Jagged lines from an unpractised hand. Loose threads. Knots. The scent of cigarette smoke clinging to your skin. A plastic bag. A bruised apple that your teacher slipped you during the first recess. Leftovers.

Moose meat stew. Rabbit. Ew, Coyote's eating something weird again—

Thirteen and crouching behind a bush as your dad angles the gun over your head. Big boy, he whispers. Gonna be eatin’ good this winter. Look’it the size of ‘im.

The smell of duck fat sizzling in a pan. The crack of a beer can. Squeals of wood on slippery, cheap vinyl. Fried dough resting on the counter next to a tower of pop cans and an old Costco popcorn bottle filled with tabs. remind me t’send Robbie in the mornin’ to drop ‘em off. need the money for cigarettes.

Then:

Moose tonight. Go’an an’ get your sister.

It's mild. Like beef but better, you used to think. Less tangy. Less thick. Depends on the season, your dad would say. Best cut is when they're just on the end of their rut. When they're eating big. Getting nice and fat. Tastes better like that. A bull not in rut, a skinny one, ain't as good.

Moose is a strange meat. Prey animal, but it tastes nothing like a caribou or a deer. Rabbit. Not gamey, like a predator, either—like bear (braised black bear with gravy to make it tender; the fat stored away for later—another staple you think about). It's good. Different.

You miss it—even if the idea, the memories, that come with it make you feel scraped out and raw. Hollow. Empty.

Your tongue thickens. You don't think you can speak. Not right now. So you nod instead—this shallow, jerking thing. Too solemn. Too low. Chin to your chest.

John hums, and sinks the handful of fries into his mouth before he turns on the highway, one hand on the wheel. Knuckles raised. Marbled mountain peaks. Purple and red. Blotchy in the washed out glow of the dashboard. Swollen and painful looking but he doesn't even flinch when he grips the wheel, and the clotted scab peels, lifting off skin. Oozing thick, syrupy blood out from under the cracked shell.

He pulls back when it beads too much, wipes it on his shirt, careless and unbothered by the stain it leaves, and then puts his hand back on the wheel. Smeared ink black in the gloom.

That hand sunk into his—Sam’s—face. Caught on his sneer, knuckles tearing. Leaving blood between Sam's teeth. A split on his lip that made you think of the one—the ones—he left on yours. Tender and painful and swelling up in an instant. A pulsing throb, a heat.

Over and over again—

His hand rifles through the bag. “Eat,” he says again, low, muffled around the dangling end of a fry. “s’gonna go cold.”

It already is. Somewhat. A soggy, grease-soaked bun. Patty still warm. Dripping ketchup and mustard down the sides and onto the plastic wrapper. It's heavy. Thick. You bite the end flattened by the press of your thumbs, teeth sinking into the burger. Taste familiar on your tongue.

It's good, you suppose. Filling. You eat half before dropping it back onto the paper, reaching for the fries in the bag. Thick cut and crispy. Salted.

The truck smells of salt and grease, and when your stomach knots—too much food after too little for so long—you wrap the leftovers up and slip it back into the bag for later.

He doesn't say anything after that. His hand slides over the wheel as he turns up the winding road. Up, up. Deeper into the mountains where the air thins, and the trees thicken. An endless sprawl of darkness cut only by the muted gold glow of his headlights illuminating the wet, twisting pavement.

You sink into the silence. Feeling the heavy, warm weight of the half-eaten burger on your thighs. The stretch of leather beneath your ankle.

Heavy-lidded. Stuck in the sticky cobweb of fatigue and hyperarousal. Never really sleeping for more than a handful of hours at a time. Survival, you think. It's what the text in the pamphlet said, the one the lady shoved into your hands when you went to buy a pregnancy test from the store. It's not your fault: how to seek help for domestic abuse.

Her eyes were kind—like the paramedics. Oh, hun. It ain't your fault.

The problem is you don't think that's true.

He—Sam—was a good man before he met you, wasn't he?

But every so often, your gaze will slide towards his hand still curled around the steering wheel, knuckles split. Eyes suddenly heavy enough that you think you could fall asleep again.

His cabin is perched on the maw of a bay, accessible only by boat.

He seems hesitant as he unloads the luggage from his truck, throwing them into a sleek-looking fishing boat bobbing from where it's anchored in a dock. Wary. Watching you closely like he expects you to run.

And you know there should be trepidation. A strange man you've had less than a handful of conversations with, one who stuck his nose where it didn't belong, and is now herding you into a boat late at night.

Jarvis Inlet, he grunts. A place called Dark Cove. And then he looks at you, just stares, as if waiting for something. A fight, maybe. More questions. But you've slept in worse places, and the idea of being out of the rain as quickly as possible is more appealing than your potential doom.

You slide into the boat, hands curled into his jacket. He follows after a beat, unlatching the ties holding it to the dock, and steps inside, murmuring something when it shifts under his weight. Starts it up. He digs under his seat for a moment, rifling through a box, before grabbing something out and turning towards you. A blanket. He tosses it your way, grunting under his breath about keeping warm.

It's a short trip through the water. You spend most of it huddled under the blanket, hands squeezed between your thighs as he navigates around a massive, jutting rock with thick, dense conifers clustered along the sloping edges of the island.

You expected it to be higher up. Hidden in the mountains. But it sits at an arcing curve that cuts through the ocean. Tucked in the protective curl of his land is the still, ink blue waters of the bay before it bleeds into the sound.

Mainland is a craggy, green rock on the horizon. The ocean dips, dizzyingly vast and unfathomable, behind the jagged mass littered with the lights. A city in light polluted pointillism.

He pulls the boat up to a bigger one. A yacht. Sleek and white and bobbing in the waters. It's tethered to a dock out in the lake. A bridge connects it to the shore.

He reaches over when he cuts the engine, yanking on the makeshift hood you crafted from the loose throw until it covers more of your face. “Hold onto the railings when you walk. Gets slippery.”

John turns away after, hefting your meagre luggage on one shoulder as he pulls the tarp over the boat, shielding it from the rain. You step back onto the dock, back nudging the pristine boat behind you.

The world is awash in shadows. Dark, jagged peaks. Crooked trees drooping in the downpour. Ink black. An abyss that yawns out for an unfathomable stretch before kissing the dark mass of a mountain cutting out from the sprawling pool.

You've heard people say before that places like this can swallow you whole. Slip beneath the waves, turn behind a tree, and no one will ever see you again. But you've always found that sentiment to be wrong.

Cities are where you disappear. Indifferent places made of concrete and money. No one cares if you go missing, but out here—

You think this land spit you back out.

“Come on,” he grunts, sliding beside you. His hand is heavy on your waist. Urging. “This way.”

You follow, clinging to the firm hold he has on your back as you wobble along the slick bridge to the rocky embankment just up ahead.

The bridge continues even on land, sloping up in a set of stairs before coming to a stop on a small cliff above the beach.

You turn back towards the mainland when John stops, hand rifling through his pocket for the keys.

The distance, the knowledge that this mass you stand on—all soft, wet moss; peat soil—is so far away from that place that it clumps, black and jagged and imposing, against the shoreline is calming. In shades. Small increments, like the loosening of your shoulders. The ache there, too. The breath in your lungs comes a little easier when you stare down at the mainland, at the stretch of blue between it and you. The little thread in the distance that ties it together.

He nudges you quietly with the muted clearing of his throat. Not touching you, but—

Hovering. In sight. On the edge of your periphery. Making his presence known.

You're not sure what to make of it.

What to make of any of this.

His chin jerks towards the cabin bracket between a dense thicket of trees. “C’mon. Let's get you outta the rain.”

His cabin is modest in size.

The entrance is on a deck overlooking the bay. All open. Big, ceiling-to-floor windows. French doors. It's framed in thick cured timber. Logs stained a warm, honeyed brown.

Inside is simple in design, too.

The kitchen is to the left. A living room to the right. Straight across is a loft with a staircase angled into the kitchen. A small, dark hallway rolls out from beneath the balcony and leads to two bedrooms, the laundry room, and the bathroom.

The living room is cosy. An old, worn couch is pushed against the vaulted window overlooking the deck. A chair tucked beside it. Against the right wall is a hearth next to another big, open window angled into the forest.

A coffee table sits in front, cluttered with stacks of books—carpentry, woodwork—and pieces of wood. Blocks shaved down into the idea of an object. Incipient creations. A knife lays overtop. Pens, markers scattered around.

Along the log walls—all the same warm honey-coloured—are trophies. A moose head. Antlers. Books line the shelves. Newspaper rests in a thick stack by the armchair.

The kitchen is tucked into a nook, hidden behind an island. The same rustic brown as everything else, save for the faded, yellow refrigerator and the off-white stove.

Where a dining table might sit, is a workbench. Tools. A saw. It spills over the surface.

It's lived in, you know, but something about it feels detached. Cluttered madness, but—

Not really.

Everything, even in this disordered chaos, has a place. From the scattered markers to the books on the walls. It all fits some unseen cohesion even if you thought his house would have been neater. Military.

There's a blanket on the couch that catches your eye. The design—the pattern. Achingly familiar.

“Loft or bedroom?”

You tear your gaze away from it, swallowing down the acrid longing that surges in your throat. “What?”

He jerks his chin towards the balcony. “Wanna sleep up there or in the spare bedroom?”

“Don’t you sleep up there?”

“No. Used to. S’more of an office now.”

There's a guest house to the left of the cabin. A bachelor with the kitchen running into the bedroom. The washroom closed off. But it's not finished, he says, something frissoning over his expression. Knotting between his brows. Something about the look on his face screams don't ask because he'll never tell.

You glance away. It's not in you to pry. To care. Whatever secrets he keeps are his and his alone. Just like yours. Why Coyote—

The only other choice is the spare bedroom tucked inside the dark hallway beside his. Close. Barely an arm's length away—

“Loft.”

He nods like he expected it. Jerks his chin again towards the back, holding your duffle bag out for you to take.

“Showers through there. Go get warmed up. And I'll heat up some stew.”

The bag dangles on the width of his hand, swaying from the momentum. This ugly, tattered black backpack—

“I don't—I didn't bring any clean clothes—” it's embarassing to admit now that inside your meagre bag is nothing but four hundred dollars and an old, tattered blanket. A sweater. Dirty, bloodstained pants. Everything else is with—

With Sam.

The plan had been to cash your last cheque, and go back to the motel. Grab the rest. A stupid decision in hindsight.

There's a tick in his jaw. A terse set to his shoulders. He lowers the bag, letting it fall to the floor, collapsing in on itself. Empty.

“Nevermind,” you say, slipping the wet blanket from your shoulders, letting it pool in your arms. “I can just wear this—”

His eyes rive over the crumpled, wet uniform shirt. Faded pink—bubblegum, you think; with chocolate brown trim—and stained with grease. Coffee.

Another tick. His brow furrows. Knots. Anger slashing over his face, rucking three, jagged lines through his forehead.

“No. I'll bring you somethin’ to wear. Somethin’ warm. Gets cold out here. Go.” Another jerk of his chin. A command.

He does that a lot, you realise, shivering at the bite inside the cabin, the chill ghosting over your damp skin as he turns away from you, walking deeper into the house. Towards his bedroom. The broad expanse of his back bigger than anything you'd ever seen—

All height, and heft. Soft in the middle, but thickened with muscles. And with it, he commands. All biting, unignorable demands. Do this, eat. Go. Get warm.

You're used to it, you think. Being told what to do. How to act. Marionette on strings. All you're good for.

Sam used to say the reason you made him hit you so much is because you never listen. Gotta box you around the ears a bit, just for you to even pay attention to me, Coyote. It's not my fault, baby, you make me do it—

But there's something about his commands that sink beyond noise. Reaching into the slick, pulsing gyri, and sending off his own current of obeyance. Innate. Unconscious. He says eat and you find yourself taking a bite of a burger you didn't think you even wanted. Weren't hungry for. Chewing. Swallowing. Another bite. Chew. Swallow. Again. Again. Again. Utters watch your step and your eyes drop to the slick ground, carefully treading the planks.

Get warm. Go shower. You drop the blanket on the back of the chair, covering up the other one, and walk towards the bathroom. Thoughtless. Head silent. Empty and still. Quiet for the first time since you were thirteen—

It's because you're tired, you think. Exhausted.

That's all.

But when you finally sink into the bed—lumpy and thick and perfect—sleep evades you. Skirts just out of reach until you're staring up at the log ceiling, thinking about nothing. Everything.

Sam. Blood on the pavement. The split in his knuckles. Grease. Burgers. Come on, Coyote—

The knot in your stomach—

Your hand goes there. Slips under the thick cable knit sweater he gave you to sleep in, the boxers that fit like loose shorts, and curls around your lower belly. Flat and empty because this thing inside of you isn't even really there. Small, the book said. Tiny. A speck.

A life-changing, mind-melting thing.

You—

A mother.

The thought is soaked in the rotten, fetid sludge of the past. Of your own mother with her dark hair and her hard eyes. Her strange moods. Don't touch me, Coyote. I don't wanna be touched right now, fuck. Can't you ever listen? Mercurial. How come you never hug me? Actin’ like I ain't your mom an’ shit. Shifting. Evolving. Changing shape depending on who she was with at the time—

Unravelling at the seams ever since your dad died. You look like your dad, Coyote. It makes me fuckin’ sick—

You can't think about it. Won't.

So you don't. Swallow it down. Cotton in your ears. Noise in the back of your head.

Memories on your skin. Ghosts in your veins.

Come on, Coyote.

You'd be a terrible mother, you think, and peel your hand away, knotting it into a fist by your side until your nails sink into skin.

There's something a little grounding about the pain this time.

You stare up at the ceiling all night until the sun rises, golden and warm, and spills in through the vaulted window.

Below you, you hear John stir. Rising.

You follow his lead.

He does odd jobs, he says.

Carpentry. Woodwork. Makes things that people want. That they need. Most of it gets sold in town—patio chairs, kayaks for the tourists—or by the few locals in the bay who need things made. Repairs, too. Easy fixes.

Most of it is on backlog, but he'll get the occasional phone call asking for something to be done.

And that's where you come in.

The loft has a small space made up of a makeshift office. A phone. A ledger. Papers. Pens. It's pushed up against the railing of the balcony, right across from the top of the stairs.

All you really have to do is answer when people call, take their information, and find out what they want him to build. He doesn't do cabins, he grunts. Say no. Always.

Everything else goes into the ledger for him to look at later.

“Don't worry,” he rumbles, scratching at the thick curls beneath his chin. “Most of the orders come from Elliot. You'll just be fielding local work. Kayaks, mostly.”

And he's not wrong. The first week, you get all of a single phone call—a woman down in Osoyoos who wants a kayak. Her information is penned into the thick, waterlogged ledger next to the other names. Contact information. He'll get back to you soon, you say, but John just grunts when you tell him about the woman.

Its mostly just—

Laying around. Organising the mess in the loft. The boxes he shrugs at, and tells you to put them in the closet along with whatever else is clogging the upstairs. Forgotten remnants he seems disinterested in going through.

Or watching him.

John fills space as easily as breathing. Makes noises. Commands. The order he's working on is spread out over the deck, and spills into the cabin. Little saws on the workbench. Tools. He wanders in and out with purpose, grabbing things, using them, putting them back. Silent as he works.

He's a mystery. An enigma. Seems unbothered by you being here, sinking your fingers into his things. He adjusts in that strange, quiet way of his. Makes dinner for two as if he'd been doing it the whole time. Leaves clean towels in the bathroom. Runs into town and comes back with clothes—from Savannah, he grunts out, thrusting the bag in your direction; Elliot's wife, said she'd be about your size—and pads, tampons, that he shoves under the bathroom sink. An extra toothbrush. Shampoo that isn't five-in-one and smells of honey and oats.

But it's not seamless.

Sometimes, you think he forgets. Walks in—caked in sawdust and covered in sweat—and peels his shirt up, baring his thick, hairy damp chest without a second thought, scrubbing his face, his neck, with the bottom of his stained shirt. Or rips it off. Comes in drenched in sweat, and reaches behind himself, one hand curling into the fabric against his nape, and pulls—

Broad, slick skin. All covered in a dense layer of fur.

Bearish.

Remembers himself only when you make a noise. A huff. Silent laughter because this whole thing is a little unreal—

He doesn't apologise, though. Just shrugs. Reaches for a face cloth he keeps slung around the back of the couch and pats himself dry.

Dinner is quiet, too. Sombre. He leaves food out for you, but eats between work. Often outside, reclining on the patio chair on the deck. Pours himself a glass of whiskey. Has a cigar. Inhales his food before you've even put together a plate, and then the saw starts up again. Back to work.

It's tense. The atmosphere is thick. It feels like you're dancing around each other, trying to make room in a space too small for even just himself.

You stay upstairs most of the time. Staring out at the sprawl of glinting blue. The jagged green.

The bay is prettier in the daylight when the sun is high in the sky casting a golden yellow arch across the veridian world around you. Still. Silent.

The city was loud. Cars on the pavement. Horns. Chatter. Noise. People. An endless spill, a cacophony of life. Sirens. Motors. Barking commands.

Sam's condo downtown was never quiet. Too close to the harbour—foghorns, the roar of ships entering the port. Television playing something he was interested in at the time. The radio on. The sounds he made spilling out—fuck, Coyote. Can't you do anything right?

Noise, noise, noise—

More coffee. When's my breakfast comin’ out. Hey, cutie, what time you done work at?

You should really leave him, Coyote, because what the fuck? Have you seen your eye? It looks worse with makeup, come on, girl, you're fuck up our tips!

And now—

The saw. Scrape of a knife on wood. A grunt. Fuck. A loon in the distance. A splash. Watch your step on the deck, Coyote. Got shit everywhere. The lap of the sea against the rocks. The rustle of the trees in the breeze. Makin’ stew tonight. Want some? The ringing of the telephone. Etta James crooning on the radio. The knock of the metal boats against the dock. Grab yourself a beer if you want. Only got that or whiskey. Help yourself. The soft shlick of the fridge peeling open. The hum. Clink of a bottle on glass. The hiss when you open it. A saw. A splash. Rain on glass. The thunk of his boots across the deck. The soft thud of a door.

Anyone call? A grunt. The rip of laces as he peels his boots off. You shake your head, reaching for a bun. No. A sigh. Good.

Most of the noise is in your head.

Memories. Malformed dreams dancing in the recesses of your mind.

Crack of a twig. Hands on your throat. Come on, Coyote—

Inescapable.

Inevitable.

And that's what it all is, isn't it?

He stares at you, too. Sometimes you catch him watching in that careful, measured way of his. The same look on his face as before, in the diner—anger: what happened to you; wariness: whatever it is, don't bring it over here—but morphing. Shifting. Dropping from the curve of your neck tucked under the fold of a pink collar, bruises melting seamlessly into your skin, to the roll of his sweater over your midsection. Pausing there, like he's expecting to see something more than the curl of cream yarn woven together.

It makes you a little sick. Like that time when he and the paramedic hovered. You hate them both, you thought. Felt. An acid burn in your chest. Go away, stop staring. Stop gawking. Leave!

The woman in the drugstore. Oh, you poor thing. Pushing an unwanted pamphlet into your hands. Don't worry, hun, it'll get better.

People look at you and see what they wanted to see. Unwrapping you until they found the hurt below. A reason for their sympathy.

Because girls like you aren't deserving of pity unless you're all broken up. Shallow graves and forgotten names. A box collecting dust.

They looked for the marks, the bruises, and sighed with relief when they found them. Oh, you poor thing.

It's petty, and you hate yourself for it. Just a little bit. But you know how far sympathy will go before it dries up and oh, you poor thing becomes well, you kinda deserved it.

You're not special in this regard. All of your friends had similar stories growing up but what always set them apart is that people would have looked into that room, seen a grown man with his hand on their thigh, a sixteen-year-old child, and thought oh, your poor thing.

When it happened to you, their lips curled in disgust. Stay away from my husband, you slut—

Because at the end of the day, it's always your fault for looking the way you do.

("Like you want it," he grunts into your ear, spiteful and ugly, fingers digging in because they can.)

You figure it's only a matter of time John, too, stops finding reasons for his pity.

His charity.

Because, really—

"What makes you so special, Coyote?"

A pretty face. Split thighs.

The only thing you're good for is being on your knees—

Come on, Coyote. You should know this already.

But the dance continues.

He leaves in the mornings. Goes on runs. You haven't gathered the courage yet to go farther than the deck, too worried about the call of the forest. The sprawling blue. Of sinking into evergreen and sleeping forever—

John doesn't seem to mind your reclusiveness. Only a matter of time. He brings back books when he leaves the island. Little things for you to occupy yourself with. You never ask, won't. The fewer favours you owe, the more of yourself you can keep when the good Samaritan act has run dry.

You don't say thank you. It wasn't your choice to begin with. You clean up after yourself, but that's it. A guest in his house. Nothing more, nothing less.

You do your job, even though it's obvious it was a joke.

No one calls besides the woman in Osoyoos and Elliot—

Something that shouldn't have surprised you as much as it had. Military dogs, he once said as you poured him another cup of coffee. We tend to mingle.

But hearing his voice is a cruel relief. The only exception to the rule has ever been Elliot, a man who seemed to adopt an uncle stance when it came to you.

Kin, he'd said, and laughed when you scoffed. We're practically cousins.

“Might stop by soon. See how you're holdin’ up.”

“Don't bother. I'm fine.”

“Well, maybe I'll come bother Price. He loves it when I visit.”

“I'll pass on the message.”

“No, don't do that,” he laughs, loud and free. It tickles your ear. “He'll call the dock and tell ‘em not to rent me a boat.”

“Should take it as a sign, then. That John—Price doesn't wanna be around you.”

“Ah, cruel girl. You wound me.”

“You don't wanna get hurt, then stop calling.”

“Gotta check in on ya. You get into all kinda trouble when I’m not around.”

It makes you tense. Belly knotting. “No one asked you to do that, Elliot. I didn't ask you to.”

“You're a lot like Price, you know. Both of you…you don't like askin’ for help even if you need it.” He breathes into a line. A heavy sigh.

Elliot is a good man, you know. The best. But—

“I'm fine, Elliot.”

You tend to hurt people like that.

“You're a good kid,” he says instead. “Just—be gentle with him, huh? Been through a lot.”

“He's six foot and like, three hundred pounds. How much damage could I really do?”

More’in you think, is what he says after a long pause, low and solemn; voice full of things you can't unravel. Unwrap. And you scoff in response because what does he know? Huh, Elliot? Be so serious, ta.

A man like John—Price—could rip you apart before you even put a scratch on him.

“Not everyone hurts with their hands, Coyote.”

John's been through a lot. Please remember that.

Something has to break, you think.

And you can feel it, too. This thickness in the air. In the coil of his shoulders. The line between his brow. Anger, inward. The heavy, measured way he stares as he dances around you. Moving in circles. A clumsy routine built on mutual avoidance.

It's I didn't ask for help and don't bring that over here merging into a whitewater confluence. A narrow channel where one must go under first in order to fit.��

You're tired of it being you, but you don't think a man like Price has ever backed down from anything in his life.

Stalemate, maybe.

Or—

It cracks after dinner when he lingers. Hovering in the kitchen as you slip down the stairs in search of something to fill the chasm in your belly. The thing growing—

He meets you there, shoulders tense. His head is bowed between them, hung low as he looks over the plans spread out on his workbench. You make to skirt around him, but he looks up when you get close. Pins you in place with his stare.

It takes you a minute to realise he's talking about the baby.

“Adoption,” you force out, squeezed between the ache of the past chiselling inside rotted marrow and the shape of your future; a hole in your belly. Blood on the snow.

You were always meant to die, you think. Snuffed under the heel of a boot or at the end of a shotgun—the how never mattered much over the spread of a carcass on the ground. Inevitable, maybe. Just like—

Just like your mother.

But at least this way, this little thing leaching off of you, an unwanted seedling, will grow. Might have a chance to be different. Escape the generational trauma that plagues your lineage—an inherited curse. Inescapable. Maybe it'll be different. Better.

“I think—adoption might be best. Maybe.”

He says nothing, just stares in that strange, measured way of his. But then—

Why would he? It's not his kid. Not his choice.

It seems to dawn on him all the same. His jaw clenches tight, bruised knuckles peaking as he curls his fingers into a fist.

Something fractures over his expression. Gaze turning inward. Shuttered. Haunted by ghosts older than you, maybe. But he's good at shaking them off. Putting them away.

He catches your stare, eyes following it down to his bloodied knuckles, and his mouth pulls into a taut, absent smile. He knocks them on the wood once, twice. Leaves a drop of blood smeared on the grain.

“Alright,” it's strained, pinched. “If that's what you want.”

It is. It's an unfathomable kindness you wish your mother graced onto you. It—it—will understand. Eventually. With time. Once they realise the only thing in their future was sleeping in the back seat of a car while you worked odd jobs—waitress, stripper, labourer in a factory—and barely having enough money to scrape together to get a happy meal, they'll come to thank you for this choice.

You nod instead, and his lips twitch again in that mockery of a smile. Something shatters. Breaks.

There are more ways to hurt, Coyote, than with teeth and claws.

He peels away after a beat, muttering something under his breath about an order. A kayak the neighbours ordered.

You don't watch him leave. You're too busy staring at the smear of blood left behind, the smear he didn't seem to notice.

for those wondering what John's cabin looks like. Jervis Inlet is just perfect for this little fic.

#captain john price x reader #john price x reader #price x reader #fic: prairie wolf #i hate picking names for people/ocs but i also have plans so the exbf couldn't be a nameless entity 😮‍💨#cod mw2 #cod x reader #john price #captain john price #price/reader #price x you #captain price #cod price

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elisedonut · 4 months ago

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i need more ribbon apparently because all i have is apparently lace

which honestly doesn't surprise me tbh

so i guess ill have to go with normal fabric which booo i don't want to have to hem the cloth pieces dksfjdkjsd

weird robes attempt for my Percy bjd are slowly coming along btw! if anyone was curious about that

i found this cute star one i decided to try to use I kinda want to hem it with a different color to help break up the pattern a little bit ill have to look and see what ribbons and bias tapes i have to find a good one

the top and bottom became different pieces because i fucked up the first time and the hand holes were so small i messed up the stitching when i had to turn it right-side out

but i don't have like a ton of this fabric and didn't have enough in one peice to just try the full thing again so decided to try cutting the top off and just redoing that part

it's not as flowy which is kind of sad but like it's decent enough so i think im just going to decide this style doesn't have as flowy of sleeves kdfjklsd i might be able to make it a little better if i take them in a bit closer to the shoulders but the smaller the arm hole the more of a annoyance it is to put on and off so it's questionable

i was going to just sew the two pieces together and just continue the cut all the way up but i actually kind of like the top as a shirt too so idk if ill do that maybe i still might cut it though idk we will see

ignore the weird edge on the bottom that's because i just left the different colored edge knowing ill be covering it with what ever i decide to hem with kdjsfkdlf

also the arms and the robe are too long currently because i figured it's easier to take length away then to add it

#should have done my pink polka dot fabric exclusively because i have two different thin pink ribbon spools lol #even though it would give nightgown even more lol #like i do have a pale green which might be ok #but also i don't know about that #other then that it's just a lot of white lace some black lace this weird heart studded fake leather ribbon and a different one w #with a like corset cross lacing pattern #maybe i still have some iron bonding stuff #im probably going to do that lol

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icanbetrustedwithnukes · 8 days ago

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items taken from both eric harris and dylan klebold’s residences, credit to petsalamander on reddit (items may be repeated):

Taken from the Harris residence:

Sony 8MM video camera, green Steno book, piece Steno paper w/computer information, two glass test tubes w/plastic caps, eight 1½" x 2" mirrors, metal pieces, magnets, four boxes pellets, 9mm bullets, paper bag w/2 metal boxes w/nails, canvas bag w/shot, two boxes match sticks, broken jar w/metal pieces, floppy discs, misc. documents, Gateway 2000 CPU, misc. components and cables to computer, misc. discs, NEC 3FGX computer monitor, HP 682C printer, contents of trash, paperwork of Eric Harris, poster, "DANGER" sign, batteries and packaging, Micronta tester, heavy duty lamp bulb, two pieces of PVC pipe, Sony micro cassette recorder, two 2.5 gallon AMF oil containers, roll duct tape, cardboard box, papers, videotapes, micro cassette tape (Maxell), roll black electrical tape, baggy of broken glass fragments, photographs, bank account information, knife and tool, Dylan Klebold's papers, one shotgun barrel w/fireworks shell tube, roll electrical wire, 4 fuse, detonation cord, nails, end of rifle barrel, blue case w/shot, purple case empty, wire connections, plastic dish w/small rocks, misc. electrical parts, cigar box w/ shotgun shells, firecracker fuse, 1 firecracker, misc. electrical components, duct taped papers, five Doom books, receipts, card, school books and papers, two handwritten notes on Day Planner paper, two Schematic and note, fireworks, small rocket engines, 8mm tape, 1 empty shell case, 2 slugs, empty case w/ wood, stock of gun, PVC end cap, box playing cards, metal rods, 2 Morse code, electrical parts, US Calvary magazine, packages of ignitors, fireworks catalogs, tools, igniters, Anarchy cookbook document, bottle of Jack Daniels, glove, web straps, black BDU's, black torn t-shirt, two lighter fluids, gray file case, shotgun shells, detonator fuse, ball bearings, fuse cord, notebook, CDs, magazines, wood target, black toolbox marked "explosives" and contents, papers w/names and numbers, wood plaque, yearbooks, Black Cat bag, Black Cat paper, Maxell CD, diagram, folder w/papers, Hobby Lobby bag, Klebold label, bag shotgun shells, knife box - empty, gun box - empty, notepad map, yearbook '98, voodoo doll, match sticks taped, laser disc, calendar, stuffed bear w/CO2 cartridge, bullet, laser pointer, calendar, five cut fingertips from black glove, torn calendar page, three pictures of suspect, graduation announcement, five pages graduation list, Marine info packet, spool wire, Quick Tite glue, class schedule for Eric, report card in State Farm envelope, two '96 and '97 CHS yearbooks, medicine bottles, handwritten note

Taken from the Klebold residence (a considerably shorter list):

misc. wooden matches, batteries, newspaper article, homemade brass knuckles, misc. paperwork, misc. piece of radio and shotgun wadding, 8mm tape, electrical components, micro cassette, micro cassette recorder, lighter fluid, knife, shotgun shell casings and boxes, four 9mm, report card, BB's in dispenser, plastic case w/BB's, cassette tape and paper, shotgun barrel, metal tube, two pictures, documents and mail of Dylan Klebold, Acer CPU marked "Larry Brooks," Daisy CO2 BB pistol, BB's in box w/BB pistol, Remington mag bullet, Apple CPU, Newsweek magazine article, yearbooks and notebooks, scopes, wiring, two ladies watches, UMAX Astra 1220U scanner, mini tower CPU, catalogues, keyboard and mouse, NEC MultiSync 3FGX monitor, inert grenade, dish, turquoise suitcase, discs, two black t-shirts, film negatives, alcohol bottle, wall decoration of KMFDM (spelled in the police report "KMFDDM" which I find amusing), coat liner and belt, destroyed Coca-Cola can, CDs, black nylon bag, seven VHS tapes in bag, Marilyn Manson CD and electrical wire w/Alligara, three papers in bag, rubber hose, jar of black colored powder, broken electronic pieces, pipe w/end caps, two Daisy 856 BB rifles, twelve misc. floppy discs, can of Zippo lighter fluid, pink and black box containing BB's, misc. items

#tcc columbine #columbine 1999 #dylan columbine #eric columbine #columbine school shooting #tcctard #tcctwt #tcc shitpost #tcc tumblr #tccblr #tcc dylan #tcc eric

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littleacebee · 10 months ago

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I finally did it! So here is my silly little contribution to Fiction Podcast Zine Event!

ID in alt texts and under the cut (I did try my best with them)

[ID: Photo of the front page of a zine. On the top of the page there is text in big pink letters: „What to do while listening to a podcast”. Below is smaller text in purple and black: „LittleAceBee’s helpful fun guide”. Below is there is doodle of a bee wearing purple headphones. Next to it, in blue spicy cloud, there is a text: „with illustrations”.

Page 3. In the middle of the page there is big colourful text: „Make art & craft”. Above it, on the left there is drawing of cross stich project with „Podcast tim” written on it and there is text reading „cross stitching!” below it. Next to it, on the right is drawing of thread spool and needles. There is text above it reading „sewing!”. The furthest on the right there is a drawing of a painting on an easel with text „painting!” below it. Below the big text, on the left there is a drawing of hand drawing a drawing of two stick figures, one is signed „podcast blorbo”, the other one „me”. There is text saying „drawing!” above it. On the right of it there is a drawing of half knitted scarf and ball of yarn. Above it is text saying „knitting!”.

Page 2. On the top of the page is big dark blue text: „Clean”. Below it are to drawing of two girls wearing purple headphones. One on the left is holding feather duster and dusting a drawer. One on the right is mopping the floor.On bottom part of the page is bus window with a word „commute” written on it in cloudy font. On the right of the text is standing a girl in purple headphones.

Page 4. On the top half of the page there is drawing of a path in woods and girl with purple headphones walking on it. Below it there is green text: „Take a walk”. On the bottom half of the page there is drawing of a pink computer. On its screen there are three text posts: „Emotional liveblogging”, „hxkboayzmjkl” and „oh my god…”.

Page 5. On the top of the page, on the left there is a drawing of a person with short hair and there is a cloud with big word „talk” written in it. On the right there is a girl knitting a scarf with unimpressed expression on her face. Next to her lays a phone. Below is similar scene but instead of person with short hair there is a skeleton in their place and from girls eyes there are two lasers pointing at the skeleton. Further below there is word “talk” crossed out. On the bottom part of the page there is drawing of chopping board with knife rested on its corner. On the board there are pieces of vegetables spelling “cook”. Next to the board there is a phone and its screen there’s logo with big P and text “podcast”.

Page 6. On the top half of the page there is a drawing of a girl eating. Above her is big green text: „eat”. Next to her on a table there is phone with P on its screen. From the phone there is speech bubble and inside there is text: „choose episode carefully or you might hear the grossest thing ever”. On the bottom half of the page there is vertical written word „play”. Overlapping with its „a” there is „game” written. On the left of the text there are scattered ten colourful puzzle pieces. On the top right there are cards laid down for solitaire. Below there is computer with little house on its screen.

Page 7. On the top half of the page there is drawing of face of girl in purple headphones. She has horrified expression and tears streaming down her face. The background is dark. Above her is simple text: „stare into the void and cry*”. Below her is another text: „remember to cry quietly to still be able to hear the podcast”. On the bottom half of the page there is a drawing of a girl in purple headphones. She is watering flowers spelling a word “gardening”. Above there is flying bee.

Page 8. On the top of a page there is purple text saying: “I hope my helpful fun guide was helpful.”. Below in big pink letters there is a text saying: “thank for reading!”. On the bottom of the page there is small text saying: “#fiction podcast zine event”]

#that was fun!#it was supposed to take 20 minutes and involve stick figures but things got a lot out of hand #fiction podcast zine festival #fiction podcast zine event

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jasperthehatchet · 2 years ago

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I upgraded my altiods tin sewing kit! (More details are in the image ID)

I added more needles, safety pins, thread, and a sharp pair of thread scissors just small enough to fit inside the tin. There's usually two needle threaders in here but one is in use atm. And there's enough stuff inside to fit perfectly so that the lid can close all the way and nothing slides around so that's nice

I am gonna post my little altiods tin emergency chronic pain/migraine kit within the next few days as well so keep an eye out for that if you're intrested

[ID: various pictures of a metal altoids tin, about 3.5 inches by 2 inches, with sewing supplies inside. A little bag of silver safety pins, varying colors of thread on 5 small spools, more colors of thread wrapped around two small rolls of paper and inside a small plastic bag, a folded piece of paper measuring tape, a small pair of orange thread scissors, a needle threader, and some buttons inside a little bag. There are varying sizes and types of sewing needles that are stuck in a small rectangular piece of green felt that fits on top of everything inside the tin. It has sharps, darning needles, embroidery needles and one curved needle.

The colors of thread included are: light pink, a muted rusty orange, white, a few shades of light brown and off white all wrapped around one piece of rolled paper. The other paper rool has more vibrant saturated colors including red, blue, yellow, dark green, and orange. The little bag had extra recycled pieces of thread i salvaged from other projects that are long enough to still be used. And the colors on the 5 small spools are black, dark mossy warm green, dark brown, light brown and white. End ID]

#solarpunk #solarpunk diy #solarpunk aesthetic #punk #punk diy #sustainability #recycling #upcycling #hopepunk #ecopunk #diy #hand sewing #sewing #hatchet makes stuff

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kckt88 · 2 months ago

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Imzadi VIII

Summary:

Aemond's reign begins with bloodshed and a new council is assembled.

Warning(s): Angst, Drama, Language, Uncle/Niece Incest, Kissing, P in V, Multiple Positions, Interupted Sex, Knotting, Character Death, Blood, Violence & Arguements.

AEMOND x O.C NIECE

ALPHA/BETA/OMEGA DYNAMIC

Word Count: 7040

A.N - 'Imzadi - Beloved'

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon or Fire & Blood characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used.

Comments, likes, and reblogs are very much appreciated, do not copy/post to other sights without my permission.

Tag List - @jasminecosmic99 @kaelatargaryen @yesterdayfeelings-blog @immyowndefender @0eessirk8 @darylandbethfanforever9 @killua2dot0 @msassenach @xcharlottemikaelsonx @moonnicole @zenka69 @aemondsbabygirl @aphroditesblunt @iamtoriasworld @persephonerinyes

“Lord Otto Hightower-”

Gasps erupted across the Dragonpit. The crowd recoiled, stunned, some even blinking as if they had perhaps misheard.

Otto’s smile shattered. Gone was the polished expression of smug satisfaction.

His lips parted, eyes wide with dawning horror, as if the very ground beneath his feet had cracked open.

Alicent stared at her father, lips parted, eyes wide with disbelief. “F-Father-” she whispered, but the sound was swallowed by the wind and the growing unrest.

Nearby, Aegon clutched Helaena’s arm and tugged her back. Her eyes were distant, as her mouth moved with eerie calm:

“The Hand no longer turns the loom; No spool of black, no spool of green; a traitor’s blood spilled at the seam”

Otto took a staggering half-step forward, his voice cracking:

“Your Grace, surely, this is a mistake—”

But Aemond’s voice rang like thunder “GUARDS—SEIZE HIM!”

For a heartbeat, the Kingsguard looked to one another, uncertain. Then, at a silent nod from Ser Harrold Westerling, they surged forward.

Otto flinched, trying to step back, but gloved hands grabbed him, dragging him forward.

He struggled and protested as he was forced to his knees before his grandson.

Aemond stepped down from the dais slowly, his fury burning. He stood before Otto, looking down at him with cold finality.

He leaned in, voice low and venomous. “Did you truly believe that you could get away with it? That I wouldn’t find out what you were doing?”

Otto’s lips trembled “I—I know not of what—”

“Do not fucking lie to me-”

Otto flinched at the snarl, eyes darting, desperate “Aemond, pleaseI did what—”

Aemond stepped back, turned to the crowd, his voice booming:

“The Hand of the King. My own grandsire. Skulking in the shadows. Hiring assassins and plotting not only my death—but the death of my Queen-the only Omega to exist since Queen Rhaenys-”

The crowd erupted in fury.

“Traitor!” — “Snake!” — “Hang him!”

The air crackled with rage, the voices of the people rising in a storm of hatred.

But Aemond wasn’t finished.

“Yet he did not act alone. Larys Strong. Jasper Wylde. Tyland Lannister. Maester Orwyle—all complicit in his schemes. SEIZE THEM!”

Before the accused could react, more guards closed in, seizing them roughly and dragging them forward to kneel beside Otto.

The boos and hisses grew louder. The air itself seemed to boil with disgust and betrayal.

Alicent rushed forward, grabbing Aemond’s arm.

“Aemond—what are you doing?” she cried. “You cannot execute your entire council!”

Aemond turned on her, voice rising “Can’t I? Tell me, Mother—should I simply smile and say all is well? Shall we all hold hands and dance around in a circle singing rhymes made for children. Or mayhaps I should let the traitorous cunts go free?"

Alicent sighed "Aemond-"

"What message does that send?! That it’s acceptable to plot the death of the King and his Queen?!”

Alicent tried again, voice shaking “I know you’re angry—”

“Angry?!” Aemond’s voice cracked with pain, fury, grief. “They were going to kill her—reduce her to nothing but a broodmare, use her body like a vessel for heirs they’d rip from her arms"

“Your Grace-”

“I can’t—” Aemond’s voice broke. “-Live without her. She is my mate. I love her.”

Tears shimmered in his eye and Alicent's expression softened. Her hand rose, cupping her son’s cheek tenderly, the way she had when he was a child.

“Then do what you must, my son.”

Aemond drew a breath, steadying himself. He turned toward Rhaenyra and Daemon, who both gave firm, solemn nods.

The lords beside them—Cregan, Jeyne, Borros, Corlys, and Rhaenys—all looked on in stunned silence, their expressions hardened with disgust at the traitors.

Aemond turned to Lucaera, cupping the back of her neck gently as he pressed his forehead to hers.

“Go stand with your mother,” he whispered.

“I wish to remain by your side—”

“No,” he breathed. “This is something I must do alone. The man who passes the sentence must swing the sword-”

Lucaera kissed him gently, her lips soft and sure, and moved to stand beside her mother and brothers.

Aemond returned to face the kneeling traitors, his eye narrowed and cold.

“The dogs that kneel before your King,” he declared, “-have conspired against the crown for years, plotting and scheming in the shadows for their own personal gain and today they will pay for their betrayal-”

The crowd booed louder, vengeful and furious.

Jason Lannister pushed through the crowd, kneeling before the dais. “Please, Your Grace—he’s my brother—have mercy—”

“Silence-” Aemond growled, “or Casterly Rock will be turned into another Harrenhal and House Lannister will be buried beneath it's ashes”

Jasper Wylde then began to beg “My king—I only did what I thought was best—”

“Save your breath-” Aemond hissed. “Nothing you can say will save your head from being parted from your fucking neck.”

Larys Strong said nothing. His gaze was fixed on Lucaera, lips curled in a perverse smile.

Aemond noticed and his fury surged. “You dare look at my Queen?” Aemond snarled, stepping forward as he drew Blackfyre. “You filthy toad.”

Maester Orwyle whimpered out a plea, but Aemond didn’t even look at him.

“Otto Hightower. Tyland Lannister. Jasper Wylde. Larys Strong. Maester Orwyle—” His voice rose, echoing through the Dragonpit. “I, Aemond of House Targaryen, the First of My Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm—sentence you all to die.”

And one by one, he swung.

Tyland. Jasper. Larys. Orwyle.

Four heads fell. Four traitorous lives ended.

Then Aemond stood over Otto, the blade of his sword dripping with the blood of his co-conspirators, the tip pointed at his throat.

“Any last words, grandsire?”

Otto’s lip curled. “You’ll never be the King your father was”

Aemond’s eye narrowed. “No. I’ll be greater”

Blackfyre rose in the air and then came down in a graceful arch. The metal easily slicing through skin and bone as Otto’s severed head dropped to the floor with a wet thud, his body slumping forward.

For a moment—silence.

Then—

“LONG LIVE THE KING! LONG LIVE THE QUEEN!”

Aemond cleaned Blackfyre on the hem of his cloak and sheathed it with finality.

He turned, holding out his hand to Lucaera, and she stepped forward, placing her palm in his.

Love and understanding surged through their bond, anchoring him.

“Put their heads on pikes-” Aemond ordered coldly. “Feed the bodies to the dragons.”

Just before turning to leave, Aemond stopped before Ser Criston. He leaned in, voice low and dangerous.

“I pray that you were not involved in any of this. Because if I find out that you were—by the time I’m finished, you’ll beg for death.”

Criston swallowed hard. “I swear it, Your Grace—I was not.”

Aemond narrowed his eye.

“It is by my grace that you remain in the Kingsguard. But your dalliance with my mother ends. NOW-”

Criston opened his mouth to speak, no doubt to deny it—but Aemond growled.

“Do not fucking speak. I know, Cole. I’ve always known-”

Without another glance, Aemond and Lucaera turned, walking from the Dragonpit surrounded by the kingsguard as they made their way to the waiting royal carriage.

The Iron Throne loomed large behind him, the metal jagged and cold, but Aemond sat with ease, his long fingers tapping slowly along one of the steel edges—measured and thoughtful, in the silence of the throne room.

Below, gathered in respectful anticipation, stood the lords and ladies of the realm.

Considering that most of the council had been executed that morning, Aemond now needed to reconstitute it—offering positions to those who would be loyal, honest and faithful, not only to the crown but to the realm itself.

At the base of the throne stood Lucaera. Regal and radiant in her silvery crown—the light danced across the polished metal, casting her in an ethereal glow. Her hands resting gently on her stomach, where their pup grew.

Aemond caught her looking up at him, her violet eyes meeting his.

Through their bond, he felt her warmth—her love—and the subtle flush of embarrassment as she picked up on his growing arousal.

She blushed, her cheeks dusted with rose, and Aemond had to will himself to focus.

The Alpha Prime within him growled low with appreciation, imagining his Queen wearing nothing but her crown as she writhed and moaned beneath him.

Aemond shook his head and took a deep breath, shifting slightly on the Iron Throne, now was not the time to get a cock stand.

Cleared his throat.

“Lord Corlys Velaryon. Step forward-”

Corlys took a stedying breath, and stepped out from the crowd, bowing his silver head. “Your Grace.”

Aemond’s voice rang clear, steady “You served on my father's council for many years as Master of Ships. You proved wise in your counsel and loyal in your service. I would see that continue. I name you again as the Master of Ships”

Corlys gave a solemn nod “I accept the honour, Your Grace. Thank you.”

“And I take this moment to confirm that Lucerys Velaryon is named heir to Driftmark, and the future Lord of the Tides.”

The throne room rippled with shock—murmurs spreading like wildfire, a surprising offer considering the history between Aemond and Lucerys.

But Corlys only bowed again, deeper this time, and returned to stand beside Rhaenys.

“Lord Lyman Beesbury has long served as Master of Coin. However, he now desires time with his family—and I have granted his request- which leaves me without a Master of Coin—Lord Thaddeus Rowan, step forward”

Lord Thaddeus blinked, visibly startled at his name being called, but he took a deep breath and stepped forwaed.

“Your Grace.”

“I have no doubt that your intelligence and shrewdness will benefit not only the crowns coffers, but the realm also. I name you Master of Coin”

“I-I accept. Thank you, Your Grace.”

Aemond pursed his lips “Know that I will be watching you, Lord Rowan, I intend to see our fortunes flourish- not diminish under greed and selfishness”

Thaddeus nodded quickly and returned to the crowd.

“Lady Jeyne Arryn. Step forward-”

Jeyne moved with poise, her features calm, as she bowed respectfully “Your Grace.”

Aemond eyes her curiously “You strike me as a woman of great intelligence and strength.”

Jeyne nodded “I’d like to think so, Your Grace.”

Aemond offered the barest smile “Then I offer you the position of Mistress of Laws-”

Jeyne inclined her head “It would be my honour”. She then returned to her place in the crowd, composed and steady, even though the crowd was whispering curiously at Aemond’s appointment of a woman on his council.

“Prince Daemon Targaryen, step forward”

Daemon who seemed unbothered by his summons, stepped forward with a wry smirk

“I would hope to never need a Master of War-” Aemond said, “but it is wiser to have one than to find oneself lacking and given your victories in battle—particularly the Stepstones—I shall name you Master of War”

The crowd erupted into gasps, many surprised at Aemond’s offer. Daemon cocked his head to the side and rested his hands on the hilt of Dark Sister studying Aemond for a long moment before nodding.

“I accept the offer, Your Grace” replied Daemon before returning to the crowd and resuming his position next to Rhaenyra.

Aemond the cleared his throat “Aegon Targaryen. Step forward-”

Aegon who had been eyeing up one of the noble lords daughters, looked confused and almost dazed—but slowly shuffled forward.

He quickly glanced at Lucaera who shrugged.

Aemond leaned forward slightly “I have no official position to offer you. But you shall sit on my council, nonetheless. You will not spend your days wasting away in wine, you will make yourself useful brother-”

Aegon huffed, rolling his eyes. “Of course, Your Grace.” He then bowed—half-heartedly and slunk back into place next to Helaena, who was smiling brightly.

“Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen. Step forward-”

A hush fell on the crowd. All eyes turned eagerly to witness what was about to unfold.

Rhaenyra moved forward with quiet dignity, bowing slightly. “Your Grace.”

Aemond spoke with full authority “As King, I confirm your possession of Dragonstone. It shall pass to your heir, Jacaerys, upon your death. When your younger sons—Aegon and Viserys—come of age, they shall be given places of high honour at court.”

Rhaenyra nodded. “Thank you, Your Grace I—”

Aemond held up his hand “-I’m not finished”

The entire hall went still, everyone holding their breath in anticipation.

“Tradition demands that I name a Hand of the King. A trusted advisor. A person that can be counted upon to help govern, guide, and safeguard the realm-Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, I name you Hand of the King-”

The room gasped. Murmurs rose—everyone remained rooted to the spot.

Rhaenyra stared at Aemond stunned, clearly not expecting him to make such an offer, and it seems as though she was not alone in her surprise as Lucaera was now staring open mouthed at Aemond, before she quickly regained her composure.

Aemond cocked his head to the side and smirked “Gaomagon ao mazōregon mandia?” (Do you accept, sister?)

Rhaenyra’s breath caught—but then she nodded. “Gaoman, lēkia.” (I do, brother).

Aemond nodded and watched as she returned to Daemon’s side, still visibly taken aback.

“Princess Rhaenys Targaryen.”

Rhaenys stepped forward, expression unreadable. “Your Grace.”

“You are wise, and you are just. And If I may say so, you do not fear speaking truth. I would have you on my council as an advisor—to help keep my rule tempered and sound.”

Rhaenys smiled faintly. “I accept. And I thank you, Your Grace.”

“Lord Cregan Stark-”

The northern lord moved forward, bowing first to Lucaera, then to Aemond.

“Though the North is far-” Aemond said, “-I would like to have your voice here. As an advisor, one I can trust to speak with honour and without ambition.”

Cregan nodded thoughtfully. “It is a wise request, Your Grace. And one I am happy to accept.”

He turned briefly to Lucaera, nodding respectfully, before returning to the crowd.

Aemond rose from the throne. “Now that my council has been named, we shall meet on the morrow, after breaking our fast. Change must come—and swiftly. For the good of the realm. Now, if you will excuse me. I desire a moment alone with my Queen. I shall, of course, see you all at the celebration feast later tonight-”

The crowd bowed, as Aemond descended the Iron Throne’s steps. Reaching Lucaera, he took her hand in his.

Their bond pulsed with shared desire, devotion, and a growing anticipation neither could quite suppress.

Just as Aemond and Lucaera reached the great doors of the throne room, a voice cut through the reverent silence behind them.

“Aemond—” came Alicent’s voice, sharp, urgent. “Please, wait.”

Aemond stopped, his back still turned. He inhaled slowly through his nose, his jaw tightening.

“Not now, mother.”

Aemond didn’t wait for her reply.

With steady steps, he guided Lucaera out of the throne room, the huge wooden doors slowly closing behind them with a low thud.

“Ivestragī issa rȳbagon ao” growls Aemond (Let me hear you).

“A-Aemond. Oh god. Please” moaned Lucaera.

“I know your almost there. Let it happen my sweet. Come for me” whispered Aemond.

Lucaera arched her back and let out a scream as her pleasure erupted.

“Fuck” groaned Aemond, his fingers digging into the flesh of his wife’s hips.

“God. Yes. Aemond” moaned Lucaera, as he began to thrust in and out of her in deep achingly slow thrusts.

Lucaera took one of Aemond’s hands that was on her hip and brought it towards her head.

Knowing what his naughty wife wanted, Aemond placed his large hand on the back of her head and pushed her face into the mattress, her back arching beautifully.

His cock reaching deeper inside her as he moved with such ferocity it could rival an animal, his long silver hair unbound, sticking to his sweaty back, his abdominal muscles flexing taut as he pounded into her.

Aemond then grasped both of Lucaera’ arms and held them behind her back as he thrust into her, the sound of his hips slapping against hers echoing around their chambers.

Her screams of pleasure muffled by the mattress, her silver crown sitting lopsided on her head.

“Fuck. Lucaera-that’s it” moaned Aemond.

He took hold of Lucaera’ hair, twisting his fingers into the messy braid before he pulled her backwards, her sweaty back colliding with his chest.

The crown falling onto the mattress with a thump.

Aemond held Lucaera tight too him as he fucked her, his cock reaching deep inside her.

One hand grasped her hip, his blunt fingers digging into her flesh. Whilst his other released her hair and moved round to her throat, squeezing gently.

“Give it to me please” pleaded Lucaera her head lolling back onto Aemond’s shoulder.

She reached behind her and tangled her fingers into his silver hair, turning his head towards hers.

Their mouths meeting in a messy kiss, consisting of teeth and tongue.

Aemond could feel the tension building in his abdomen, his knot swelling as he thrust his cock inside Lucaera.

“I want you to peak on my cock again, but not like this-” muttered Aemond as he once withdrew from his wife’s wet heat and propped himself up against the headboard.

“-Aemond” exclaimed Lucaera breathlessly.

“Ride me” replied Aemond as he pulled Lucaera on top of him. His hand moving to his cock, rubbing it along her folds before she sunk down and completely engulfed him.

“Oh” gasped Lucaera as she rolled her hips against Aemond’s.

“That’s it baby, take it. Take all of me”.

Then the sound of knocking made both of them pause momentarily.

“Ignore them” urged Aemond as he placed his hands on Lucaera’ hips and encouraged her to keep moving.

“Oooh Aemond” gasped Lucaera as she resumed her movements.

Lucaera dug her nails into Aemond’s chest as she moved her hips against his. Aemond let out a frustrated snarl as the sound of knocking continued.

“FUCK OFF”

“Your Grace-“

“What?” snapped Aemond as he planted his feet on the mattress and began thrusting harder and deeper.

“T-The Dowager Queen- wishes to see you”.

“I don’t give a flying fuck-I’m busy“ snapped Aemond, his fingers digging into Lucaera’ hips.

“W-What sh-shall I tell her?”

“T-tell h-her -that’s it. Fuck-you’re taking me so well-my wife, my Queen-” moaned Aemond, his head lolling backwards against the wooden headboard.

“Y-Your Grace?”

“FUCK SAKE-tell her I’m performing my duty as husband, and I shall be there once my desires have been thoroughly satisfied” replied Aemond.

“B-But Your Grace-“

“I swear the next person to interrupt me whilst I'm making love to my wife will be skinned alive and fed to Vhagar-“ snarled Aemond pausing momentarily.

As no more interruptions came, Aemond resumed his hard thrusts.

“A-Aemond” moaned Lucaera as he sat up, moving his hand to her breast and taking her nipple into his mouth, his teeth gently grazing the sensitive rosy bud.

“That’s it-gods it’s so good” groaned Aemond his face pressed against his wife’s soft breasts.

“Aemond-“ whimpered Lucaera.

“Let go baby, I can feel you clenching around me” exclaimed Aemond, as he moved to the other breast and lavished it with the same attention as the other.

Lucaera’ thighs began to burn, as she felt her peak approaching.

“AEMOND” screamed Lucaera as she peaked, her eyes rolling into the back of her head.

As her movements slowed Aemond rolled her back onto the bed his cock never leaving her warmth as he pounded into her, her legs wrapped around his waist.

With a low, rumbling growl from deep within his chest, Aemond sank his teeth into the curve of her neck, breaking the skin.

The taste of her blood upon Aemond’s tongue was warm and rich, intoxicating, and it sent the Alpha Prime within him roaring with delight, claiming her once more, not out of dominance but love—deep, protective, and consuming love.

Lucaera gasped, her fingers curling tightly into his back, but not in pain—in pure ecstasy.

Their bond flared, and her own instincts surged forward. With a growl of her own she twisted beneath him, and sank her teeth into his neck in return, her claim just as fierce and unyielding.

“God. Lucy- My Lucy-” groaned Aemond as he forced his knot inside her and exploded. His cock throbbing and twitching as he finally spilled his seed, collapsing on top of his wife, breathing hard, the Alpha Prime elated at the sound of his sweet Omega purring happily in his arms.

Aemond lay beside Lucaera, his long fingers slowly trailing over her belly, where their pup grew within her womb, the sheets stained with their blood, and the mingled scents of Alpha and Omega lingered in the air.

Her scent was rich and comforting, apples and cinnamon—but tinged sweetness of milk.

The Alpha Prime in him swelled with a quiet, primal joy. It was the scent of life, of their legacy. He leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to her stomach, murmuring—words of protection, devotion, and fierce, undying love.

A soft, steady snore pulled his attention upward.

Aemond looked to find Lucaera sleeping, her dark hair spread across the pillows like spilled ink. A small, peaceful smile curled her lips even in slumber.

Aemond’s heart ached at the sight. She looked every bit the goddess he knew her to be, and in this rare stillness, he allowed himself the privilege of simply gazing and adoring her.

He pressed a kiss to her temple, lingering there for a heartbeat longer than needed, before slipping out of bed. He didn’t bother washing—her scent on him was a mark he bore proudly, almost possessively.

Instead, he pulled on his trousers, cotton shirt, and his dark leather jerkin, tightening the cuffs with precise fingers.

Aemond paused. One last glance.

Lucaera shifted slightly, and the sheet slipped lower down her body. He gently pulled it up, covering her naked form with a care that only she ever saw from him.

Then, with quiet steps, he left the chamber.

“Ser Arryk-” he called, and the knight at his post turned immediately.

“Your Grace.”

Aemond adjusted the cuff of his jerkin, eyes lingering on the seam as he spoke. “How is your brother?”

“Erryk is healing well, Your Grace,”

Aemond allowed himself a faint smile. “I’m glad to hear it.”

Ser Arryk nodded sharply “Gratitude Your Grace”

Aemond straightened, taking on the mantle of King once again. “My presence has been requested by my mother. While I am gone, I need you to stand guard here. Watch over my Queen-”

Ser Arryk bowed deeply. “I will ensure her safety and well-being, Your Grace.”

Aemond gave a curt nod. “I should not be too long.”

He turned and walked the corridor, the familiar sound of Ser Harrold Westerling’s boots falling into step behind him.

As they passed through the Red Keep, courtiers and lords bowed, “Your Grace,” murmured from every corner. Maids curtsied, eyes darting shyly toward him.

But the Alphas, he noticed their glances. They caught the lingering scent on him—his Omega’s claim, her love, their bond.

It clung to his skin like sacred perfume. He didn’t hide it. He welcomed it.

Finally, they reached Alicent’s chambers. Ser Rickard, standing dutifully at the door, knocked twice.

“Come,” came his mother’s voice from within.

“The King, Your Grace,” Rickard announced as he opened the door.

Aemond stepped inside.

The door closed behind him with a soft thud, and he found his mother standing near the window, picking nervously at her fingers.

“You asked to see me,” Aemond said, his voice cool, folding his hands behind his back.

Alicent turned, her eyes roving over him.

Aemond was usually immaculate in his courtly appearance—But now, he was dishevelled.

Blood still dried at his neck. His long silver hair tousled from bed; and the collar of his jerkin was undone.

She took a step forward, lifting her hand to brush the mark on his throat—but he caught her wrist.

Aemond snapped “Don’t-”

She lowered her hand, embarrassed. “Do you think it’s wise for people to see their King in such a state?”

Aemond let out a dry scoff. “I was enjoying time with my wife. Time which you saw fit to interrupt.”

“I needed to see you. To explain. To make you understand—”

“What is there to explain?” he snapped, not angry, but exhausted. “You condemned Rhaenyra for years for her affairs and yet here you are. Guilty of the same thing-”

Alicent’s cheeks burned red. “It’s not the same- ”

“Oh, I think it is,” Aemond said sharply, stepping closer. “You have bedded the same man she has.”

Alicent froze. “How do you know about that?”

He smirked. “Lucy told me. Seems Rhaenyra is an honest mother with her children. Can you say the same?”

Alicent flinched. “This isn’t about Rhaenyra-” she tried again, but Aemond cut her off once more.

“-Isn’t it? You reside in her old chambers. Now you’ve taken her old paramour. Don’t think me a fool, Mother. I see how you look at her. You've always looked at her-”

A flicker of something raw passed through Alicent’s eyes—guilt? Pain? Longing?

“I know not what you’re implying,” she whispered.

“Oh-I think you do,” Aemond said quietly. “You can’t have the one you truly wanted, so you took the next best thing”

Alicent raised her hand to slap him, but he caught her wrist once more and gently shoved her away.

Not in violence—in disappointment. For a long, heavy moment, silence hung between them.

Then, Alicent whispered, “I did my duty. I married Viserys. Bore his children. But I’ve been lonely. For so many years.”

Aemond’s face softened, just slightly. “You think I don’t know what that feels like?” he said. “I was different. I was alone. They all laughed at me-”

Alicent looked up at him—and in that instant, she saw the little boy who once clung to her, his eyes red from crying over a pig with wings, and ashamed of having no dragon.

Now he was a man grown, the rider of the largest dragon in the world and the King.

Alicent stepped closer. He tensed—but didn’t move. She reached up, her fingers brushing the scar on his cheek.

“I’m sorry for what I did with Criston,” she whispered. “I just needed to know what it felt like”

Aemond frowned. “What do you mean?”

“To choose-” she whispered. “I was but a girl when your grandsire placed me before Viserys. He was grieving his beloved Aemma and Otto used that for his own personal gain and in no time at all I was wedded to a man twice my age and the father of my dearest friend. I just wanted to be seen. Desired. Wanted for who I am. Not as obligation. Not as duty.”

Aemond took her hand and squeezed it gently. “I understand. I spent years in Rhaenyra’s shadow. Even in the end, Father didn’t choose me. He chose Lucaera-”

Alicent blinked. “He did?”

Aemond nodded. “He called her to his deathbed. Spoke to her of a dream. Something only a King would share with his heir, if he couldn’t have Rhaenyra on the Iron Throne, he would have Lucaera in her stead”

Alicent’s face softened. “Oh, Aemond-”

“But do not mourn me mother. I may not have been his choice. But I will be a worthy King-this I swear”

“And Lucaera?” Alicent asked softly.

Aemond offered a small smile. “She will be a fine Queen”

Alicent’s brow furrowed. “Is she really who you want?”

“More than anything,” Aemond said, without hesitation. “I choose her and she chooses me. We complete one another.”

Alicent nodded, voice barely a whisper. “That’s all I ever wanted for you.”

Aemond looked at her, firm and certain now. “I want you to serve on my council. As an advisor.”

Alicent stared, stunned. “Oh Aemond. I—I don’t know-”

“You served the realm faithfully while Father was ill,” Aemond said. “I need you. Please-”

Then suddenly he was that boy again—lost and longing. And Alicent saw it, for in that moment he was not a King—but her son.

Alicent nodded “I accept-”

Aemond exhaled, relieved. And before he could speak again, Alicent embraced him.

He stiffened at first, startled by the gesture, before slowly melting into her arms, his head lowered toward her shoulder.

Aemond sighed, closing his eye. Letting her hold him. Letting her be his mother once more.

The music echoed through the great hall of the Red Keep, triumphant and jubilant, a lively tune fit for celebration.

The scent of roasted meats and spiced wine filled the air, mingling with perfumes and the heady aroma of court.

It was a night of joy, a night to honour the newly crowned King and Queen, and the nobles of Westeros drank deep of the moment.

But Aemond, King and Alpha Prime, was not celebrating.

He sat rigidly on the dais, his fingers curling around the carved wooden armrest of his chair, his jaw clenched so tight it ached.

His single violet eye was fixed across the room, unwavering, sharp as a blade as he tracked every movement of Lucaera as she danced across the floor.

Her red and black silk gown flowing like fire and shadow as she danced. Her hair was braided in the style of Old Valyria, half-up and simple, the rest cascading in ink-dark waves down her back. The silver of her crown gleamed beneath the torchlight.

As she laughed—a sweet, melodic sound that curled into his chest and simultaneously soothed and maddened him as she danced with Cregan Stark.

Aemond’s nostrils flared as his inner Alpha Prime snarled, primal and possessive. He could feel the throb of his bond with her, pulsing at the back of his mind, and yet the sight of another man touching her—even with the innocence of a dance—was enough to make his blood simmer.

Aemond’s fingers flexed against the armrest of his chair.

“If you clench your jaw any harder,” came Aegon’s drawling voice beside him, “you’ll shatter your bloody teeth.”

Aemond didn’t even glance at him. He growled low in his throat, his gaze still locked on his Queen.

Aegon followed his brother’s eye line and smirked. “Daughter of the Realm’s Delight indeed-”

Aemond finally turned, sharp and biting. “Is there something you want, brother, or are you just deliberately being a twat?”

Aegon snorted, swirling his wine. “Your ridiculous appointment of me on your council—”

“I offered you no position,” Aemond snapped. “But you will attend meetings. I won’t have you drinking and whoring your days away-you will learn valuable skills”

“Ahh yes-” Aegon said dramatically, raising his cup. “-Sitting around a table full of boring cunts droning on about taxes and grain.”

“The governance of the realm’s matters are important-” Aemond said coolly, “being King is not about barking orders. It’s about listening to the people, understanding their struggles, and guiding the realm toward prosperity.”

Aegon blinked at him. “You’re really determined to be a worthy King, aren’t you?”

“More than determined,” Aemond said softly. “It is unfortunate however that my reign began in blood. But it—”

“-Was necessary,” Aegon cut in. “Traitorous dogs deserved their heads. Speaking of which dragon got the honour of roasting our grandsire’s corpse?”

“Caraxes,” Aemond said, lip curling in faint amusement. “Daemon insisted, after his dragon mysteriously showed up the day prior.”

Aegon snorted. “Let me guess. He said it was merely coincidence.”

“Something like that.”

The brothers shared a brief smirk, their rare moment of camaraderie settling between them. Aegon looked toward Daemon and Rhaenyra, who were seated closely, their hands entwined and their expressions soft.

“You know what’s funny?” Aegon said.

“What?” replied Aemond curiously.

“The fearsome Rogue Prince, reduced to nothing but a cuntstruck fool”

“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with loving one’s wife,” Aemond murmured. “Advice you might consider heeding brother-”

Aegon sighed. “Regardless of what anyone thinks I do love Helaena. But only as a sister. I’ve tried to feel more for her as a wife. I-I just can’t.”

Aemond turned to him, nudging his shoulder. “That’s the first honest thing you’ve said.”

Aegon muttered “Don’t get used to it.”

Aemond sighed “I wish things could be different for you-”

Aegon shrugged, taking another sip. “Hellie and I have an understanding. She has the children and her bugs. I have wine and women.”

Aemond exhaled. “So long as she is happy, that’s all that matters. She’s the best of us, she deserves happiness”

“She does-” Aegon agreed. “Helaena is a diamond in the rough of this family-”

They both exchanged a curious look before laughing, the two of them clinking their cups together and sipping wine.

Until someone cleared their throat.

Aemond looked up to see Floris Baratheon standing before him, cheeks dusted pink, her dress clinging a little too tightly to her form.

Aegon whispered, “That’s my cue to leave.”

“Don’t you dare,” Aemond snarled lowly.

“Oh, I dare,” Aegon giggled as he stood up and disappeared into the crowd.

“Twat,” Aemond muttered before rising slightly in his chair.

“Your Grace,” said Floris with a curtsy.

“My lady,” Aemond replied with polite detachment.

“I was wondering if you fancied a dance Your Grace?” asked Floris

Aemond furrowed his brow. “In truth. I’m not much of a dancer, my lady.”

“Then perhaps a drink?” she offered, already sitting beside him.

Aemond hesitated but then nodded. “Very well.”

Floris poured them both a cup of wine, her fingers brushing his as she handed him the goblet, her cheeks flushed pink. He took it without comment, then turned his attention back to Lucaera.

She now danced with Jacaerys, her laughter still echoing. Her joy. Her light.

Floris leaned in. “The celebration is quite grand, Your Grace.”

Aemond gave a tight smile. “Fit for a King, some would say.”

Floris leaned even closer. “To think I could’ve been your Queen.”

Aemond blinked. “You what?”

Floris smiled, coy and confident. “Didn’t you know? When you first presented as Alpha Prime, your grandsire was in talks with my father. A betrothal between us was nearly settled.”

Aemond’s voice turned cold. “My grandsire was a treasonous cur. Nothing he arranged holds weight.”

Floris’s smile curdled. “Not now that that Strong bastard presented as an Omega and opened her legs for you.”

The rage was instant.

Aemond’s eye snapped to her. His lips curled back in a snarl. The Alpha Prime inside him roared, snarling with fury at the insult to his Queen.

“What,” he growled, voice dark and deadly, “did you just say?”

Floris paled but pressed on, foolishly. “That should be me carrying your pup.”

Aemond surged to his feet.

“You have seconds to remove yourself from my sight,” he snarled. “Or I will slit your throat. And if you ever insult my Queen again, I will slaughter your entire fucking family.”

Floris gathered her skirts gathered and bolted. The fury in Aemond’s scent was so potent now that other Alphas were lowering their heads instinctively, stepping away.

The music faltered. The silence spreading throughout the throne room.

Aemond stood shaking, his body tight with rage, his fists clenched—Until a soft, warm hand wrapped around his arm.

Lucaera.

Her scent—apples, cinnamon, milk—wrapped around him, rich and grounding. The Alpha Prime in him quieted.

She stepped forward, wrapping her arms around his waist, and he buried his face in her neck, pressing his nose against the mating mark he’d renewed earlier that day.

Aemond’s rage melted into a low hum of possessive protectiveness and bitter annoyance.

The entire hall watched in silence—the bond between Alpha Prime and Omega laid bare for all to see.

“Guards,” Aemond said, voice clear and sharp.

Ser Harrold Westerling stepped forward. “Your Grace?”

“I want the Baratheon’s gone from court. All of them.”

Harrold bowed. “At once, Your Grace.”

As the guards moved to carry out his order, Lucaera cupped his face in both hands, her eyes searching.

“What happened?”

Aemond shook his head. “I’ll tell you later. For now-just remain at my side. Please.”

Lucaera nodded.

And Aemond held her close, in the flickering torchlight, surrounded by music, wine, and whispers—but none of it mattered.

Only her. Only this.

Aemond hadn’t let go of Lucaera's hand once since the moment she calmed him with her scent, wrapped her arms around him, and pulled him back from the edge of wrath.

She had become his anchor amidst the storm—the only thing tethering the Alpha Prime inside him to reason.

The coronation celebration continued around them in all its grandeur. Lords and ladies laughed and feasted, music floated on the air, and gold gleamed from gifts offered by the great houses.

But Aemond felt none of it. The insult from Floris Baratheon had fouled the air. Her words still hissed in his ears like a viper hiding in the court’s finery.

His Queen moved gracefully by his side, regal and radiant in every step, but she never left him—because he wouldn't allow it.

Not even for a moment.

Every time someone came close, every time a lord looked at her for too long, or a noble's words lingered with honeyed intent, the Alpha Prime in Aemond flared.

His hand on the small of her back was firm, possessive. His eye swept the crowd with a warrior’s caution, and more than once, his gaze caught a glance that made his blood simmer.

Floris’ words, her presumption and—her insult—had cut through the joy like a blade, poisoning every congratulation that followed.

And worse still, it resurrected ghosts he’d thought buried. His grandsire may be dead, his head severed from his traitorous body and devoured by Caraxes, but Otto Hightower’s legacy still lingered like a curse.

Schemes. Promises and alliances made in shadows. Even in death, his grip stretched on like creeping ivy through the cracks of the realm.

Aemond’s eye swept the crowd. Lords and ladies, all raising goblets with smiles stretched too thin.

How many of them had once been whispered to by Otto? How many of them had plotted to place a Baratheon Queen beside him and cast Rhaenyra’s line into the void?

How many still dreamed of it?

The Alpha Prime inside him stirred, restless and snarling, pacing against his ribs like a caged beast.

Don’t trust them. Don’t turn your back. They're waiting, all of them. Waiting for you to falter.

Lucaera’s fingers squeezed his.

Aemond blinked, torn from the spiralling darkness in his mind, and turned to look at her.

Her violet eyes were soft, steady.

Through their bond, she could feel it all—the turmoil, the mistrust, the anger, the rot festering deep inside him.

“My love,” she whispered, her lips close to his ear, “I can feel your ire through the bond and it’s quite unsettling.”

Aemond exhaled slowly, as if the breath alone could cool the fire inside him. “Apologies my love.”

Lucaera leaned in closer, her temple brushing against his cheek. “Tell me what troubles you,” she urged softly, “before it eats away at you completely.”

Aemond hesitated for a brief moment before he spoke “When I first presented as Alpha Prime, Otto opened negotiations with Lord Borros. A betrothal was arranged. Had you not presented as Omega, I would have been wed to Floris and she would now sit where you are.”

Lucaera stilled, her lip curling faintly at the thought. Her gaze swept the room once, then returned to him.

Then she said, quiet but resolute, “If that had come to pass, then half the people in this hall would not be here tonight. Myself included. No doubt, we’d have been cast aside. Until Vhagar’s shadow swallowed us whole.”

Aemond’s jaw tightened, and his fingers reflexively gripped hers more firmly.

The meaning behind her words struck hard. He could see it—Otto, whispering poison into his ear, convincing him to rid himself of every threat: Daemon. Rhaenyra. Jace. Luke. Lucaera.

All of them. Slain for the sake of ambition. A kingdom built on ash.

The very thought of never knowing Lucaera, never feeling her warmth beside him in bed, never tasting her lips or hearing the way she moaned his name when overcome with need—never seeing her swell with their pup—It made the Alpha Prime inside him writhe with revulsion.

Aemond’s hands shook with restrained rage, at the past that had nearly stolen everything from him.

“Otto would’ve succeeded, Lucy-” said Aemond bitterly. “He would’ve poisoned my mind until I tore my family apart. Until I lost you. Before I’d even had the chance-”

Lucaera’s hand rose to his cheek, her palm warm and grounding.

“Then it’s a mercy that you’re no one’s puppet,” she said. “You saw through him in the end. You chose your path—not his. And this is your reign, my King. Not Otto’s. His legacy will fade into memory. And that memory will be stained with treason.”

Her words worked their way past his armour like sunlight breaking through the clouds. She was his clarity. His reason. His strength.

“Perhaps I’m right to be cautious,” Aemond murmured, “But I cannot let it consume me.”

She nodded. “Be wary, yes. But don’t let Otto’s shade rule your reign”

Aemond looked at her with something soft flickering behind the steel in his eye.

She was right. As always. He would not become a man haunted by the ghosts of another’s ambition.

Not while he had her. Not while she stood beside him.

He lifted her hand to his lips, kissed her knuckles, and let his lips linger on her soft skin.

“Avy jorrāelan ābrazȳrys,” he whispered against her skin (I love you wife).

Lucaera smiled, the tension easing from her shoulders as she whispered in return:

“Se avy jorrāelan valzȳrys.” (And I love you husband).

The music played on, the nobles cheered and danced and drank—but the King and Queen stood together, hand in hand, their bond unshakable.

TBC

#house of the dragon #aemond targaryen #hotd aemond #aemond fanfiction #hotd fanfic #aemond fic #hotd fic #aemond one eye #aemond x oc #aemond #aemond smut #prince aemond #aemond targaryen smut #prince aemond targaryen

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apiswitchcraft · 11 months ago

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altars for greek heroes

ACHILLES: hero of the Trojan war, son of nereid Thetis

Colors: gold/bronze, red for Trojan War. blue, white for his mother Thetis

Offerings: yarrow, gold/silver, shells, gull feathers, olive, laurel, gemstones

Crystals: aquamarine, sodalite, jaspers (red, yellow, ocean especially)

*to honor Achilles you must also honor Patroclus*

PATROCLUS: hero of the Trojan war, son of Argonaut Menoetius

Colors: gold/bronze, red for war. purple for royal birth

Offerings: incense/fire, oil, olive, laurel, gemstones, gold/silver

Crystals: agates (moss, tree especially), amethyst, lepidolite, rose quartz, citrine

ADONIS: lover of Aphrodite, became god of rebirth and beauty

Colors: pink, purple, red for beauty and association with Aphrodite

Offerings: fast growing plants (lettuce, fennel, barley, wheat), anemone and other flowers, dead plants, cake, honey

Crystals: flower agate, rose quartz, amethyst, rutilated quartz, jaspers (specifically rainforest or other green ones)

ARIADNE: helped Theseus to defeat the Minotaur, later married Dionysus and became goddess of labyrinths

Colors: gold for noble birth. purple for association with Dionysus

Offerings: grapes, puzzle toys, spools of thread or fabric art, wine, herbal tea, saffron

Crystals: grape agate, celestite, star jasper, pyrite, amethyst, scolectite, selenite

ASCLEPIUS: god of healing, son of Apollo

Colors: yellow, white for association with Apollo. red, pink, orange for healing

Offerings: snake skin, clay/bronze humanoid figurines, cypress, pine, olive trees, medicinal herbs

Crystals: quartz, rhodonite, amethyst, fluorite, selenite, citrine

ATALANTA: one of the Argonauts, devotee of Artemis, killed the Calydonian boar

Colors: brown, green for the hunt. white, blue, grey for association with Artemis

Offerings: pork, boar hide, apples, laurel, forgeables, lion/bear imagery

Crystals: jaspers, moss/tree agate, petrified wood, amethyst, rose quartz, selenite

CASTOR AND POLLUX: Pollux was a son of Zeus who shared his immortality Castor, they were turned into the Gemini constellation, saviors of seafarers

Colors: purple for noble birth. white and grey for association with zeus. black for the night sky

Offerings: shells, laurel, olive, meat, wine, two things conjoined (like two cherries or two grapes on a vine)

Crystals: star and ocean jaspers, sodalite, aquamarine, obsidian, hematite

HERAKLES: went mad and killed his wife and kids, did 12 labors as penance, god of strength and heroes

Colors: red, gold for strength and heroes

Offerings: hellebore, olive, laurel, meat, alcohol, yarrow

Crystals: bloodstone, carnelian, garnet, red jasper, smokey quartz, pyrite

HYACINTHUS: Spartan prince and lover of Apollo, became god of vegetation

Colors: pink, yellow, green for vegetation. yellow/gold for association with apollo

Offerings: iris (they were called hyacinths by the Greeks) and other flowers, grain, yarrow, clove

Crystals: tree/moss/flower agate, jaspers (especially bumblebee), citrine, carnelian, pyrite, honey calcite, amber

ODYSSEUS: clever hero of Homer's "The Odyssey," favored by Athena

Colors: gold, purple for royal status. grey, white for wisdom

Offerings: owl feathers, shells, boat imagery, poetry/speeches, laurel, olive, cypress

Crystals: jaspers, obsidian, quartz, aquamarine, turquoise, sodalite, bloodstone

ORION: lover of Artemis, was turned into a constellation after death. Sirius is his dog and Scorpius the scorpion that slayed him

Colors: black, white for night. brown, green for the hunt

Offerings: forageables, apples, hides/leather, mugwort, cypress, moon shaped items

Crystals: star jasper, bloodstone, selenite, celestite, howlite

ORPHEUS: son of Apollo, famed musician and poet of the Argonauts, travelled to Haides to try to save his wife Eurydice

Colors: yellow, gold, white for Apollo. black for the Underworld

Offerings: music (especially lyre), poetry, hymns, honey, laurel, wine, meats

Crystals: aventurine, obsidian, black tourmaline, smokey quartz, selenite, yellow jasper, honey calcite

PERSEUS: son of Zeus, slayer of Medusa, has a constellation

Colors: gold and red for hero status. white, grey, blue for association with Zeus

Offerings: meat, laurel, snake shed, alcohol, fruit, honey, milk (to honor his mother Danae)

Crystals: jaspers (red, star especially), bloodstone, serpentine, quartz, obsidian

THESEUS: slayer of the Minotaur, united Attica, completed six trials for the entrances to the Underworld that he passed on the way to Athens

Colors: blues for ocean, being a son of Poseidon (in some stories)

Offerings: ship imagery, meat, olive, yarrow, gold

Crystals: pyrite, sodalite, lapis lazuli, coral, blue aventurine, aquamarine

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yanyandam · 3 months ago

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Watermint-colored dress -Mitsuya Takashi x fem!reader

Mitsuya falling in love with a girl too drowned in her own dreams

DISCLAIMER: angst, mitsuya's crush is one sided lmao, reader wants to become an actress

She was wearing makeup like a movie star. A girl from the theater club, just next door to the sewing room at their high school. Funny how things worked out: drama and fashion, two worlds stitched side by side.

They helped each other out sometimes. The theater kids needed costumes, and the fashion club needed models who could bring fabric to life. Mitsuya had seen her a few times. She always had lipstick smudged at the corner of her mouth, and this laugh that made her head tilt all the way back. He thought it was ridiculous. He also thought it was kinda beautiful.

Mitsuya Takashi. Oh he wasn’t like the rest of the gang. He wasn’t in it for the fights. Not always. He was in it for something else. Call it art. Call it vision. Call it therapy, if you wanted to get real. He’d punch someone in the face at lunch, and then sketch a runway collection before sunset. That was Mitsuya.

But really, do we need to explain Mitsuya Takashi? You either knew him, or you didn’t. You either got it, or you never would.

Sometimes, she’d just lean against the fake jukebox in the club hallway. It didn’t even work. It had been there since the ‘80s, part of some forgotten school renovation plan, collecting dust and stickers from generations of bored students. But she made it look like a prop on a movie set.

She’d lean there in her uniform, one leg crossed over the other, her head tilted. And in her head, Mitsuya could tell, she wasn’t in some aging high school. In her mind, she was waiting for a screen test at Century Fox. The first time Mitsuya saw her there, he had a spool of golden thread in his pocket and a rolled-up sketchpad under his arm. He didn’t even mean to stop. But something about her, the posture, the subtle curve of her lips, the way she looked at the world like it owed her a spotlight, made his feet halt. “You know that thing doesn’t work, right?” he asked, nodding at the jukebox.

She didn’t look at him right away. Just kept chewing her gum like she was in a scene he hadn’t been cast in. “I like the way it looks,” she said eventually, eyes still fixed ahead.

Mitsuya leaned beside her, careful to keep some space. He wasn’t pushy. Just present. He had this soft confidence about him, like he knew he belonged there, even if the rest of the world disagreed. “You act like someone who’s been in a movie before,” he said, glancing sideways.

That earned him a look. Eyes rimmed in perfect black liner, lashes curled to perfection. “Maybe I will be.”

He smiled, the kind that crept up one side of his face. “Yeah? What kind of movie?”

She shrugged, the leather strap of her schoolbag slipping from her shoulder. “Anything where I don’t have to play the good girl. I’m tired of that script.” Ah, the rebellious act girls liked to have in high school. Mitsuya liked that. He got tired of scripts too.

They didn’t talk every day, but they shared something wordless over the weeks. A nod here, a glance there. She’d be in the theater club. He’d be in the sewing room, hunched over fabric, stitching dreams into seams. One day, he found her leaning against that jukebox again, but this time, she was quiet. No gum. No attitude. Just her, folded into herself like she’d lost the lead role.

Mitsuya approached, hands in his pockets. “Rough rehearsal?”

She glanced at him. No eye roll this time. Just a small sigh. “I want a dress.”

“A dress?” he echoed.

She looked away, almost embarrassed. “A mint-green one. Like… soft mint. Almost like water, you know?”

“Color of ‘menthe à l’eau,’” he said, nodding slowly. “That kind of shade?”

She raised an eyebrow. “You speak French now?”

He smirked. “Enough to understand good taste.”

A pause. Then, she smiled, barely, but it was there. And Mitsuya felt something click in his chest.

“You gonna make it for me or what?” she asked, pretending to be bored, but her voice had a lilt to it. He leaned forward just a little, enough for her to feel the warmth in his tone. “You really want it?”

“Of course I want it. I want to feel like Audrey Hepburn if she’d grown up in Kabukicho.”

He laughed, really laughed. Not the polite kind, not the usual smirk. It came from somewhere real. “You’re a strange girl,” he said.

“And you’re a strange delinquent,” she shot back.

That night, Mitsuya went home and sketched for hours. Not just a dress, but her dress. Something that would catch the light when she moved, that would flow like smoke and memory and that mint-green haze she always talked about. He wasn’t just designing fabric, he was tailoring a dream. And he didn’t know it yet, but he was already falling.

Not because she was “different.” Not because she was better. But because she made him want to create, not destroy. Because when she said she wanted a mint-green dress, he didn’t think “why”—he thought how soon can I get it done?

That’s how Mitsuya Takashi, gang member and future stylist, began to fall. Not in slow motion. Not in dramatic fireworks. But in a hallway, beside a broken jukebox, because a girl with movie star eyeliner said she wanted to wear a dream.

–

She was always doing the most.

The girl who wanted a mint-green dress, like something from an old French film. She talked like she was in a perpetual audition, shoulders tilted, eyes cast just slightly to the side like a spotlight might fall from the ceiling any second. Always looking up, searching for some kind of divine projector to validate her performance. And Mitsuya couldn’t take it anymore. He didn’t even know what “it” was.

Theatrical girls never surprised him. He’d seen dozens, he grew up around noise, fake tears, loud laughter that never reached the chest. But this one? She wasn’t pretending to be the center of the world. She believed she was.

She wasn’t just eccentric. She was deluded, wrapped in her own fantasy like a silk robe, floating above reality while the rest of them stumbled through their days on tired feet. And he was always watching her from the side, sketching out ideas in his head, pretending it didn’t bother him. Pretending she didn’t make his pulse hitch when she walked past the sewing room with her perfume lingering

Today was worse than usual. She was back at it again, leaning against the fake jukebox in the hallway like it was some sacred prop from a 60s movie set. The machine didn’t work. It hadn’t worked since before he joined the school. But she leaned against it like she was waiting for Dean Martin to come kiss her hand. She didn’t see anyone. Not really. Not the other kids. Not the hallway. Not the rusted lockers or the posters curling at the edges. Not even him.

And Mitsuya felt something stir deep in his gut. An ache. Not anger. Not infatuation. Something uglier. Something in between.

He kept his distance at first. She didn’t talk much in groups, but she always found a way to make the air shift when she entered a room. Like she changed the temperature just by existing. She wasn’t loud. She was felt. And that scared the hell out of him. Because people like that got under your skin before you even noticed they were there. And then she said it. She said she wanted a dress.

God, she was so full of herself.

But here was the part that twisted him up inside: He believed her. He could see it. The way the fabric would fall off her shoulders, pool at her waist, catch the light when she turned on stage. He could already hear the applause. And that’s when he realized something that pissed him off more than anything. She wasn’t full of herself. She was full of need.

A deep, bottomless hunger for beauty, for fantasy, for a world that made sense the way cinema did. She wasn’t deluded, she was desperate. And it clawed at him. Because Mitsuya knew that feeling too well.

That ache to make something beautiful in a world that kept breaking everything you touched.

She was so lost in her own little show, her little orbit of glitter and projection, and he was the extra. He was never in her frame. He was just… too much for reality, and still not enough for her dream.

And yet… here he was. Still watching her lean against that stupid jukebox. Still sketching lines in his notebook, imagining how that mint green would look on her skin. Still wondering how someone so far gone could make him feel so seen. Maybe she didn’t know. Maybe she never would. But Mitsuya Takashi was already making her dress. And he hated himself for it.

–

It was one of those stolen hours between classes, when the school thinned out and the sun fell lazily through the smudged windows of the sewing room. Mitsuya waited for her there, sitting cross-legged on the floor surrounded by spools of thread and sketches. He had cleared the room, just for her. Not that she asked. She never did. That was part of it. She floated through the world expecting it to rearrange itself around her, and somehow, for him, it always did.

When she walked in, she didn’t knock. Didn’t say hi. Just moved like she belonged there, like the world was her set and she was stepping back into a spotlight. She wore a pale cardigan over her uniform blouse, and her hair was pulled up, just messy enough to look effortless. In her hand, she clutched a cheap notebook covered in lipstick kisses and names of old films. Probably full of monologues. Probably full of dreams.

“You called for me, Monsieur ?”she teased, her voice lilting with amusement, faux French accent barely convincing but entirely charming.

Mitsuya rolled his eyes and stood up. “Don’t flatter yourself. I needed a body to work with.”

She put a hand over her chest dramatically. “How romantic.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re patient.”

He didn’t respond to that.

Instead, he motioned toward the stool in the center of the room. She stepped onto it gracefully, almost like she expected music to cue up. He draped the soft measuring tape around his neck like a scarf, and for a moment, he allowed himself to look at her: not the way a tailor studies a client, but the way an artist studies a painting that shouldn’t exist.

Her eyes sparkled even when she wasn’t looking at him. That was the thing. Her joy, her sorrow, her entire being was always directed toward something just beyond reality. She talked like every hallway was a red carpet.

But here she was quiet. And he was close. He leaned in to measure her waist, fingers brushing fabric. She didn’t flinch. Why would she? She trusted him. He was Mitsuya. The costume boy. The safe one.

“Thanks for doing this,” she murmured. He blinked. It was the first time her voice had dipped low like that. Sincere. Honest. Almost human. “No problem,” he muttered, looping the tape around her shoulders now.

“I know I’m a lot,” she said. “People say it.”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t want to lie. Instead, he looked up at her. “Why mint green?”

She blinked, surprised by the question. Then she smiled, soft and faraway. “Because it’s sad,” she said. “It’s the color of old love stories. It’s not pretty in a loud way, it’s pretty in a forgotten way.”

Mitsuya didn’t say anything. He just let the tape fall into his palm. And in that moment, he knew.

It wasn’t sudden, like a punch to the chest. It was soft. Painful. A realization like swallowing something sweet only to realize it was laced with bitterness.

He loved her.

Not because she saw him. Not because she returned anything. But because she didn’t. Because she couldn’t. She was in love with something too big for the world. A dream too delicate to touch. She didn’t belong to reality, and Mitsuya did. He always had. Thread, bruised knuckles, gang meetings, role of the oldest, poverty. He belonged to the silence between loud scenes, to the background. And if he even tried to pull her down from that Hollywood cloud she was perched on, he’d break her heart. Shatter something sacred. She needed to believe the world could be more. And he was a reminder that it wasn’t.

“You good?” she asked, tilting her head. Her voice brought him back. “You stopped measuring.”

“Yeah,” he lied, clearing his throat and stepping back. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

“Nothing important.”

She grinned. “You’re weird. But I like that.”

Then she hopped off the stool, twirled once, and said, “Tell me when it’s ready, alright? I want to wear it under the cherry blossoms in April. Like a real movie.”

He nodded, hands in his pockets. She waved over her shoulder and walked out, her perfume trailing behind her like the last scene of a black-and-white film. Mitsuya stood there for a long time after she left, staring at the stool. It wasn’t her fault. It was never her fault. She didn’t even know she was breaking him. And maybe that was why it hurt so much. Because somehow, without trying, she’d stitched herself into the lining of his heart.

And now, no matter how perfectly he made that dress, she’d never wear it for him.

Today was Monday, and Mitsuya didn’t mean to find her. He had only come back to grab a sketch he forgot, a quick detour before heading home. The door to the small side room near the sewing club was cracked open, light spilling faintly into the hallway. And there she was.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by crumpled paper and pencil shavings, hair messy and eyes glowing like she was mid-spell. Her lips moved silently as she read something from the notebook balanced on her knees, then stopped, crossed it out, and started again. There was a stack of scripts beside her, most of them printed, some still handwritten. She didn’t see him. Not even when he leaned his shoulder against the doorframe and cleared his throat softly. She was too far gone. He could’ve knocked. Could’ve said something. But he didn’t.

Because something in him wanted to watch a little longer. Her voice echoed in the room, like she was auditioning for the heavens. She paused, frowning at the line, chewing on her pencil. He felt his chest tighten.

It wasn’t just a script. It was her. That was how she thought. How she processed the world. Through silver screens and dramatic lines, through monologues meant for audiences that didn’t exist. And in this dim-lit room, she wasn’t a student. She wasn’t just a girl from the next-door theater club. She was someone else entirely.

He stared at her like someone watching a ghost they used to know. Like maybe she had never really been here in the first place. Her fingers danced over her notebook as she scribbled again. A soft, breathy laugh escaped her lips as she re-read something, eyes bright with that dizzy joy she only got when she created.

He was still there. Visible. Physical. Just steps away. And completely invisible. That’s what hit the hardest. Not that she didn’t care, he didn’t believe that. But that, right now, her heart, her mind, her everything was tied to something untouchable. Some version of herself that lived years ahead in some glowing marquee, not in this worn-down classroom. Not in the present.

He wasn’t even competition to her dream.

He wasn’t even in it.

He took a quiet breath and leaned against the wall, arms crossed. He could picture the scene, if someone else was writing it. The way he looks at her like she’s art. The way she doesn’t see him at all. It would be poetic, probably. Romantic, if it didn’t ache so much.

He felt like a costume someone forgot to wear.

–

One day, some guy walked in from God-knows-where, and just like that… The spell broke.

The room, which always seemed lit like a silent film set whenever she was around, turned harsh and fluorescent. The kind of light that made you notice how old the paint on the walls looked, how the jukebox wasn’t even real, just a plastic prop left from an abandoned school festival. Mitsuya was sitting by the back table, half-focused on sewing a new pattern for an assignment when the door creaked open. He didn’t even glance up at first. But then, he felt it.

A cold breeze without any wind.

A new presence in the room that didn’t belong to the softness of theatre girls or the quiet buzz of creativity. He looked up.

The guy was tall. Lean. Almost handsome, in that kind of mean, angular way. Dressed like he didn’t give a fuck but somehow still managed to look intimidating. He wasn’t from the theatre club. But it wasn’t just that. It was the eyes. Those eyes, jet black, deadpan, scanning the room like he was picking out weaknesses. They didn’t blink. Didn’t soften. They looked like Tokyo’s wet sidewalks after the rain. And she saw him.

The girl in the imaginary mint-green dress.

She was sitting right where she always sat, notebook open, eyes glittering with some made-up scene. She was halfway through a line, Mitsuya knew because her lips were moving. Whispering words only she heard. Living in her own movie. But then she saw him. And suddenly it was like someone yelled “cut.”

Her expression dropped, the light dimmed from her eyes. Her hand froze. She shut the notebook. Not slowly, not like she was finishing something. She snapped it shut like slamming a door on her own daydreams. Just like that, the fantasy was gone.

Her Hollywood vanished. Century Fox, the blinking marquee, the impossible script, all of it stuffed back into that stupid little notebook with a quiet snap. She stood. Walked toward the guy.

Mitsuya didn’t even know if she knew him. Maybe she didn’t. He watched as she stood straighter, spoke softer, smiled like it wasn’t hers.

The girl who used to act like she had a spotlight on her every second was suddenly standing in someone else's shadow. And for some reason, she seemed... fine with that. No, not fine. She looked relieved. Like someone had finally arrived to ground her. Like the sky was too big, and this guy’s stare was the first thing heavy enough to pull her back down. Mitsuya felt something twist in his chest.

He should’ve looked away.

He kept watching as she laughed at something the guy said, though it wasn’t really a laugh. It was more like an offering. Her eyes flicked up to the jukebox for half a second, the one she used to lean on like a prop in her invisible Broadway. But now she looked at it like it embarrassed her. Like she was embarrassed of herself. That hurt more than anything.

Mitsuya pressed his fingers into the fabric in his lap, letting the needle scratch his skin just enough to sting. That guy didn’t say a single word to him. Didn’t even glance his way.But he still managed to take something.

Not the girl. That was too easy. He took the illusion. The belief Mitsuya had been feeding himself little by little. That maybe she’d look back one day. That maybe the boy with the needle and thread could sew himself into her dream. But that dream was gone now.

And he was too much for her fantasy. Or maybe... not enough. Either way, the scene was over.

Mitsuya was just watching the credits roll.

It had been weeks. Thirty-four days, to be exact, not that Mitsuya was counting. But he was. He always did. Not because he was waiting for her, no, he knew better now. It was just muscle memory. Like breathing through a stitch, or threading a needle in the dark. Some things, you do without thinking.

And today, the hallway felt too narrow. The sun leaked through the dusty school windows, slicing sharp shadows across the tiles. His hands were ink-stained from morning club work, and the sketch of her mint-green dress was folded in the back of his notebook, nearly worn through from how many times he’d taken it out just to look.

He should’ve let it go.

Should’ve cut the thread the moment she walked away.

But instead, he worked.

He kept cutting, measuring, folding satin and tulle with hands steadier than his own heart. He even hand-stitched the lining, he never did that, not for school projects. Not for anyone. And today, he finally saw her. At the end of the corridor. Her silhouette, framed by the chatter of students and the echo of slamming lockers. She was laughing again. But not the loud, airy laugh he used to hear echo off the drama club walls. This one was quieter, folded in on itself. The kind of laugh you give someone when you're afraid of them getting bored.

He knew who she was with before he even saw him.

The guy with the sidewalk stare. Black-eyed, sharp-mouthed. Standing just close enough to make a point. Mitsuya didn't hate him, not exactly. You don’t hate the sky for raining. It just ruins your plans.

Still, his legs moved. He didn’t plan it. One second, he was gripping the strap of his bag, and the next he was walking toward her like he’d rehearsed this scene in a dream a thousand times. “Hey,” he called, soft but clear.

She turned. Their eyes met, just for a second. He didn’t know what he was hoping for. But all he got was that distant, polite confusion. Like she couldn’t quite place where she’d seen him before. He cleared his throat. “The dress. It’s almost done.”

For a moment, she just blinked. Then she tilted her head slightly. “What dress?”

He swallowed. “The mint green one. You said you wanted something soft, with a back slit and a square neckline. You wanted to wear it under the lights of a stage. Remember?”

She let out a soft breath. Not quite a laugh.

“Oh,” she said. “That was just a childish caprice.” The words didn’t come out cruel. That’s what made them worse. They were said with the kind of calm you only get after giving up completely. The kind of detachment that didn’t leave room for mourning.

Before he could reply, the guy beside her shifted, his arm brushing against hers. Possessive. Silent. And she moved with him. Just like that, she turned back to the hallway and kept walking. No look back. No pause. Her voice echoed one last time:

“Thanks, though.”

Mitsuya stood still for a while.

Long enough for the hallway to empty. Long enough for the fluorescent lights to flicker. Long enough for the quiet to stretch out into something cold and unspoken. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t call her name, didn’t ask what changed.

He just pulled his sketchbook out of his bag. Flipped it open. There it was. Page fifteen. A mint green dress with a hem like a soft sigh. Her dream, his hands. A piece of something neither of them had the words for. He looked at it one last time.

Then, without a sound, he tore the page out. Folded it slowly. And slid it into the trash can by the window. Some dreams don’t fall apart all at once.

Sometimes, they just keep walking down the hallway with someone else.

–2017

The room smelled like fresh flowers and polished wood.

A soft quartet played in the background, some classical piece Mitsuya couldn’t name, and didn’t care to. The music swirled around the ornate hall like smoke, curling between crystal chandeliers and white silk ribbons.

Everyone was smiling.

Mitsuya was not.

He stood at the back, dressed clean and quiet, his hands folded in front of him like a man attending a funeral. But there was no casket today. Only a woman in white, glowing under the golden light pouring through stained glass windows. And she was beautiful. God, she was beautiful.

Even after all these years, his chest still clenched at the sight of her. Not like it used to, back when he’d catch glimpses of her behind half-drawn velvet curtains or leaning against fake jukeboxes in the school corridor. No, this ache was deeper now. Quieter. It lived in the marrow of him.

But she wasn’t wearing mint green.

Not that he expected her to. That dream had died long ago, burned in the silence between hallways, buried under a careless “Thanks, though.”

She wore white.

Simple. Elegant. The kind of dress someone else probably helped her choose. Maybe the same man whose hand she held now, black-eyed, still sharp-edged, though his hair was slicked back and his suit crisp. The same guy from the hallway, years ago. Still the same, only older. Mitsuya watched as she leaned in and laughed at something her soon-to-be husband said. The sound hit him like a fist, soft but precise. She hadn’t seen him yet. She didn’t even know he was here. He hadn’t sent a message. Just showed up. Like a ghost, like someone caught in his own past. Some people might call it masochism. But Mitsuya called it closure. At least, that’s what he told himself. The minister began to speak.

And Mitsuya tuned it all out. He looked at her instead. Her profile, so familiar and still impossibly far. He remembered her younger eyes filled with artificial stars, talking about Fox Studios like they were just across town, asking for a mint-colored dress like it was a passport to another life.

But she was always chasing lights that didn’t exist.

He was always too much.

Too invested, too sincere, too willing to hand over his craft, his time, his heart, to someone who only saw him as the boy from the sewing club. He thought maybe, just maybe, she’d look back. But she never did. Not then. Not now. Her fingers curled around her husband’s, steady and sure. No hesitation. No looking over her shoulder at the past. He realized something then, as her voice echoed through the hall saying “I do.”

The dream wasn’t hers. It never was.

It was his.

She was never really the one lost in fantasy. He was the one who kept holding on to something she’d already let go of. And this wedding? It wasn’t a betrayal. It was just… life. But it still felt like a lie.

A mint-water-colored lie. The prettiest one he’d ever seen.

He closed his eyes. The applause thundered. A kiss. A veil pushed back. The beginning of something. But not for him. For Mitsuya, this was an ending. When he opened his eyes again, she still hadn’t seen him. Good. She didn’t need to. He turned and left the hall before the photos, before the toasts. The sun was warm on his face as he stepped outside, but it didn’t touch him.

After the ceremony, he returned home to find some of his old creations in his belongings, including a mint-colored dress.

She never wore it. He never finished it. But it was the most honest thing he ever made. And now, it would stay just that. A memory of a dream he once loved.

Too much.

#tokyo revengers #tokyo rev x reader #tokyo rev x you #tokyo revengers x reader #mitsuya takashi #takashi mitsuya #mitsuya x reader #tr mitsuya #tokyo revengers mitsuya #takashi mitsuya x reader #mitsuya takashi x reader

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alicentofhightower · 1 year ago

Text

the dragon and the crab

pairing: aegon targaryen x fem!celtigar!reader

synopsis: boys seem to catch your eye more, as of late. you wonder if that’s the reason why you’re helping this drunken fool of a prince.

includes: drunk aegon, he’s actually not that bad here. so sorry if this is ooc this is my first time writing a oneshot for him!

WC: 1.5k

a/n: this was written with ty tennant’s aegon in mind because it’s set during laena velaryon’s funeral, but you can envision tgc’s aegon too i don’t really care. i did not proofread this so im sorry for any mistakes, i literally just wrote this on my phone in bed because i miss aegon and im bored. i might write a part 2 idk

The first time Aegon sees you, he cannot help but wonder why you take such a liking to Helaena.

Laena Velaryon’s funeral had been an uneventful one. A bore, to be honest, but his mother would smack him if he’d ever voiced that thought aloud. He’d never known the noblewoman well. Honestly, his mind was more preoccupied with the looming thought of his upcoming wedding.

It was tradition for Targaryens to be married to relative. They’d practiced it for hundreds of years, long before the doom of Old Valyria. His mother had always seemed so intent on practicing the customs of her Andal forbears, and Aegon wished she’d been the same for his marriage.

Deep down, he knew why Helaena would be his wife. It was to keep her close to Alicent. If she’d been wed to some fat lord in the Riverlands, or a foolish one from the Reach, it would make no difference; there was no real confirmation that she’d ever be kept safe. His mother would not have another Aemma be made of her only daughter.

“We have nothing in common,” Aegon complained, constantly having to brush his silver waves away from his face. The wind from the beach was relentless.

He stood off to the side next to Aemond, away from where you yourself sat next to the Princess. She seemed to speak in riddles, with the way she mumbled of ‘spools of green and black’, but you did not mind. You could tell she was of a sweet nature.

Helaena handed you another shell to hold, her fingertips tracing the texture of it. “She’s our sister,” interjected Aemond.

Everything about Aegon was improper. The way he could not seem to let go of his cup of wine for even a minute, the way his eyes wandered towards the skittish maids, even down to his posture; hunched and lazy. “You marry her, then,” The elder prince said, his fingers loose around his chalice. If he wasn’t careful, he’d probably drop it, make a fool of himself as he always had.

“I would perform my duty. If mother had only betrothed us.” Aemond did not speak out of genuine desire for his sister, only his yearning to be the firstborn son. To be given the duties of his unwilling brother.

“If only,” He scoffed.

His blue eyes traveled to where you were, listening closely to every word of his weird soon-to-be wife. Aegon did not pay much attention to his Old Valyrian lessons, much less his history, but even he could recognize which house you were from by the dress you wore; ivory and scarlet, the colors of House Celtigar.

Your house was a Valyrian one itself, though far less proud than the one of his own or the Velaryons. You wore a veil of mourning to honor the late Lady Laena, but he could see the earrings you adorned beneath it; crabs, closely resembling your sigil.

You could not hear what the young princes spoke of, but your eyes had averted over to them occasionally, though most of your attention was paid to Aegon. His face was scrunched together as he studied you, trying to figure out why you’d ever willingly be in the company of Helaena. Mayhaps you were just as off-putting as she was.

Blooming into womanhood, you could not help but take notice of boys your age; Aegon himself was quite handsome, though lustful and foolish, and your mother had personally warned you to stay away from him on the way to Driftmark. It only made you want to talk to him more.

Soon enough, Aegon made his way over to another servant, grabbing the pitcher on the platter she held and pouring himself more Arbor gold… away from where you were. You wondered if that’d be the last you saw of him.

It wasn’t.

Sleep had escaped you. Taking a stroll outside was far more appealing than tossing and turning in your bed, so you’d wrapped your robe around your nightgown and snuck out of your chambers.

You almost gasped when you saw him. There he was, at the end of the stairs, drunk and hiccuping with his eyes closed. He sat against the stone of the railing, head drooping and hands still grasping his goblet tightly.

“My Prince?”

No response.

Descending down the steps, you poked his hunched shoulder. He did not even start. It took a harsh shake of his forearm to wake him, and Aegon threw his head back when he did, smacking it against the marble behind him.

Aegon’s pale hand flew to cradle the back of his skull. He hissed, features squeezing together as he let out a sharp breath. It reeked of wine, and he appeared to be startled that he hadn’t been smacked yet. “Grandsire?” He asked, eyes still scrunched shut.

“No,” You said softly. “It’s just me, my Prince.”

His eyelids shot open. It took a moment for him to recognize you. “Why are you out here? Shouldn’t you be abed?”

Gods, maybe your lady mother was right about avoiding him. He’d already begun to irritate you, and you’d been speaking to him for less than a minute. “Shouldn’t you?”

His head lolled to the side, falling to rest on his shoulder. “What will you do? Tattle on me to my mother? I’ve already been scolded today,” He grumbled, his words slightly slurred.

Really, you should just leave this fool of a prince alone, act like this never happened, and climb back into bed. You won’t. It’s normal for men of his age to indulge in their vices, but some part of you tells you that this is wrong; that he shouldn’t be out here in the cold night, slumped into a mess of his own limbs. You feel bad.

Boldly, you reach forward again, grasping his wrist. “Come on,” You say to Aegon, your tone softer. “I’ll help you back to your chambers.”

“I’m too tired.”

He yelps when you yank him up, stumbling forward, his hands scrambling to grab your shoulders to keep him upright. “You should not treat a Prince so roughly.” Despite his words, Aegon allows you to wrap an arm about his shoulders, guiding him forward.

His eyes are wide as he looks down at you, seemingly trying to figure out why you’d pour this much time into someone you don’t even know. There’s a flush becoming all the more apparent on his face, and unbeknownst to you, it’s not because of the wine.

You’re sure there will be a scandal made out of this. An unmarried young noble-lady taking King Viserys’s firstborn son, drunk, back to his chambers during the hour of the owl? Certainly the maids will begin to whisper false tales of your relationship with the Prince, and your father will reprimand you on the ship back to Claw Isle. He might have you married even sooner to dispel them. You cannot find it in yourself to care.

“This way,” You whisper, walking towards where the innermost hall is, where the royal chambers are. Aegon’s steps are uneven and irregular. If you’d not been holding him, he’d probably have fallen twice already.

He’s even more beautiful under the torchlight. Soft cheekbones and plush lips, he’s the very image of his mother, though he certainly does not act like it. Your lips almost part at the feeling of his nose nudging against your cheek, though you attempt to ignore it.

He’s drunk, you tell yourself. Pay no mind to him.

The knights on patrol raise their brows at the sight of you when you make your way past them. An awkward position you’re in. Both his and your arm are wrapped around the other’s shoulders, and his knees are bent so he can be at the level of your face. He’s not even looking forward to where you’re trying to go, his eyes analyzing the look on your face.

He was so talkative when you woke him. You wonder why he’s gone quiet, but reason it to be that he’s exhausted. “What’s your name, again?” He sputters.

He nods rapidly when you tell him it, as if he’ll remember it on the morrow.

Finally, you make it to his room; even the doors to it are grand and tall, befitting one of his status. Yours are farther away from his, in the corridors practically across the keep. It’ll be a long walk back.

You find you don’t know what to say. “…Well, good night, my Prince,” You say softly, letting go of him to let him stand by himself. He wobbles.

Aegon turns to leave, but whips his head around before his pale hand can grasp the handle of the door, his eyes darting around the features of your face. He wants to remember you, it seems.

“You won’t stay?” He can barely pronounce the words correctly, let alone stand up, choosing to lean on the door behind him to keep his balance. Somehow, it’s both endearing and pathetic.

Your cheeks flush at the mere idea of following him into his bedchamber. What was he thinking?

“No, my Prince. It’s best I leave you be.”

Aegon nods solemnly at that, tongue running over his slightly chapped lips. He bows his head in thought, then raises it again, a peculiar glint in his eye that you cannot decipher.

“….’s Aegon. Just Aegon,” He says, quiet, like it’s a secret only the two of you know.

“Good night, Aegon.”

#hotd x reader #house of the dragon x reader #team green x reader #aegon ii targaryen x you #aegon ii targaryen x reader #aegon the usurper x reader #aegon the elder x reader #hotd fluff #aegon ii targaryen fluff #house of the dragon fluff #the greens x reader

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