#a patchwork family series

[adore-laur]

Omgg I would love to see different times dadrry gets protective !! Like I can so see him being one of those dads that set boundaries the first time the baby is being introduced to family. He’d be like “no kissing on the face, no taking her away from mom without asking her first and wash your hands before holding her” etc etc. Or him getting defensive when people start to pity him when they find out he’s having a third girl and he gets annoyed and defends his girls 😭😭

Also ofc need to say your dadrry series is the best thing ever I still have tumblr solely to read your writing ☺️☺️

PROTECTOR

——

Pacific loons wailed hauntingly near the shoreline as you sat in the patio's swing chair, listening to the sundry sounds of nature. The oceanic view was a calm presence, one that often lulled you into a hypnotic trance with the endless ebb of waves and the horizon's dying light. Above the railing, brass wind chimes produced a plinking melody in the wind. The atmosphere of home engulfed you like a warm hug.

It was a moment of serenity while Harry went on a grocery run with the girls. He had offered to take them after work, and it was sweet of him to give you time to decompress after parenting alone all day. Plus, it got them out of the house. You would usually be able to take them somewhere for fresh air and fun sights to see, but pregnancy fatigue prevented any hopes of traveling past the front door.

A month had elapsed since you surprised Harry with the news of a third baby. Two weeks since you both had found out it was a girl. In that time, life had coasted by blissfully between the routine of working part-time, daycare drop-off and pick-up, and bonding with your little family over the weekend.

As much as you cherished the hustle and bustle, it was necessary to prioritize personal time. Sometimes it came in the form of sinking into a hot bath, venturing to the beach with a novel, or catching up on much-needed sleep. Today, it consisted of feeling the breeze pass through your hair and appreciating the beauty of southern California.

It would be easy to fall asleep out here. The crashing waves, birdsong, and rustling trees were a lullaby. But you knew the moment you closed your eyes, you would miss the last streaks of the sunset, with its delicate wisps and golden clouds. So you shifted slightly to wake your limbs that were becoming jelly-like, and as you did, the blanket previously draped across your collarbones pooled into your lap. You stared down at it, smiling. The bedroom's storage ottoman held approximately a dozen different blankets, all with some sort of sentimental value attached to them. The crocheted quilt your first daughter had come home from the hospital with; the heated one with Mom embroidered on it; the oversized fleece one Harry liked to specifically use for cuddling either you or his girls.

The one you had chosen for your peaceful patio time was a ragged, faded patchwork quilt that Harry had kept (possibly stole) from the walk-up apartment you lived in together nearly eight years ago. It had watched your love for him grow beyond your wildest dreams. Had seen moments of rib-aching laughter, frustrated tears, pain and passion, and a commitment that would always withstand rough waters. Neither of you had wanted to part with that blanket, so now it stayed in a special place in the home that had once been a far-fetched fantasy.

As your fingers plucked loose threads from the fabric, you felt your phone vibrate with an incoming call. It was hidden somewhere under the thick blanket, and after a moment of searching, you picked it up and looked at the screen. It was Harry, made evident by his contact photo—a family picture on the Temescal Canyon Trail, your youngest strapped to your chest in a carrier and Harry carrying your oldest on his shoulders. A generous elderly couple had offered to take it, with the stunning backdrop of the expansive coastline. You especially loved the picture because it showed off Harry's legs in his athletic shorts, all long and tanned.

"Hey," you answered, assuming he was calling from the grocery store. He often did with ideas for meals or questions about kiddie snacks. Sometimes he'd ask what desserts you were craving, and then he'd spoil you by bringing home more than you could even fathom eating.

"Hi, baby," he said, sounding winded. "Can you unlock the door for me? Both girls are out like a light in my arms."

"Oh!" you said, not expecting him back so soon. Nature's hypnosis made you lose track of time. "Okay, I'll be right there."

"Thank you. I'd hang up, but my phone is balancing rather precariously on my shoulder."

You laughed and hung up for him, then untangled yourself from the cozy confines of the swing chair before heading inside. You were careful to hop over the dolls and picture books and blocks scattered across the living room carpet.

When you reached the front door and opened it slowly, your heart melted. Harry stood there holding one daughter on each hip, their little bodies slumped against him as they slept. You could tell your youngest was in a deep sleep. Your eldest, though, was definitely pretending so she could be carried inside like a princess. The sunset's pink light peeked into the garage and softened Harry's handsome features ethereally. Who else could look this good after grocery shopping?

"We're home," he whispered, and those two simple words filled your heart with an unspeakable amount of happiness.

"I'll help put stuff away," you replied quietly, taking his phone to relieve him from his uncomfortable position. "You go tuck the girls in." It was nearing their bedtime anyway, so better to take advantage of a smooth transition.

Harry smiled with that attentive look on his face, then bent to tenderly kiss the sweet spot on your neck. "You're glowing," he murmured in your ear, then walked past you, leaving your cheeks flushing like a besotted teenager.

Once the groceries were put away and the kids were down for the night, you and Harry went to relax in the bedroom. The sky was now devoid of color with stars twinkling faintly, and the full moon spilled its light through the bay window.

You were already in your pajamas, collapsing onto the comforter, when Harry asked, "How was your day?" He shut the closet light off, dressed in just a T-shirt and black boxers. There were those legs again, the lean muscles a feast for your eyes.

"Mellow," you said. "We stayed inside mostly. Morning sickness has been kicking my ass."

"Good thing you didn't have to work today."

You nodded. That was the nice part about working part-time and partially from home—it allowed for the freedom to be with the kids more often. You didn't mind taking them to daycare, especially since it was imperative for socialization, but it lessened your anxiety when you had them under your supervision. It was a suitable balance.

"Did everyone behave at the store?" you asked, sliding your socks off under the sheets.

"Yeah. No tantrums." Harry raised his eyebrows proudly, and you both shared an air-five. "They seemed knackered. Slept all the way home."

"I tried my best to tire them out."

"Well, you succeeded," he said appreciatively, then joined you in bed, stretching his limbs. You were so thankful for his diligence. To work ten hours and then parent to take some responsibility off your plate was admired more than you could ever put into words.

Harry reached his hand over to the nightstand to resume the book he'd been engrossed in recently but paused and turned to you instead. "Can I gossip with you?" he asked.

You quirked your brows. "What happened?"

He breathed deeply and stared into the distance. "So, I was in the cereal aisle, right?"

You laughed while cuddling up to him. "This is juicy so far."

"It's not even gossip, really," he said. "Just something that irked me."

"Please continue."

He wrapped his arm around your shoulders and painted a picture of the scene. "I had the girls sitting in the shopping cart, and an old lady nearby started fawning over them. Which is fine, because they're adorable. Anyway, she started asking a bunch of questions—how old they are, what their personalities are like. Somehow I accidentally let it slip that we have a third one on the way, and I know we're telling our families next week, but I got caught up in the conversation and—"

"You're so bad at keeping secrets," you interrupted with a good-natured groan.

Harry kissed your forehead apologetically. "The worst. So, this lady had the audacity to act all surprised that I was going to be a father of three girls. Gave me a face like she pitied me. And then guess what she said..."

"I assume something mildly offensive," you replied.

"She goes, 'I bet you were hoping for a boy. To bring some balance to your home.'"

You scoffed and said, "More like chaos. What did she even mean by that?"

He shook his head, equally puzzled. "I don't know, but I just said, 'I'm very happy with my life,' then grabbed a box of Cocoa Puffs and went on with my day."

You frowned. "Why do some people think having daughters is such a burden?" It was mind-boggling. They had taught you so much and would continue to as they grew and spread their wings. It was your purpose to shape them into resilient, kind, and empathetic women. What a beautiful honor anyone would be lucky to experience.

"I'll never understand," Harry mused, locking eyes with you. "It's the most..." He trailed off with an emotional smile, and you stroked his cheek, letting him take his time. It wasn't often you or he could speak so rawly about the life you'd created together. "It's just the best feeling imaginable, you know? I can't describe it. All I know is that I wouldn't want it any other way."

You kissed him softly, feeling the sincerity of his words in the way he gracefully slipped his tongue past yours. With your palm still cradling his cheek, you halted his kisses using your thumb to say, "You're this family's heartbeat."

His lustful green eyes opened, his pupils dilating as if absorbing your admission. "If I'm the heartbeat, then you're the lungs."

"Sweet-talker," you teased.

"You started this love fest."

After a stretch of comfortable silence, Harry settled his hand on your small bump, a warm and knowing touch. "Please don't think I'm waiting on a son," he said.

You snorted. "Don't be ridiculous. I know more than anyone else how much you wanted daughters. You told me during our first date."

"I did?"

"We talked each other's ears off that night about our futures. The universe must have been listening." The conversation was burned into your brain. In that dim oceanside restaurant, you had known he was a keeper.

"Yeah," Harry whispered, kissing all over your stomach, leaving no skin unmarked by his gentle lips. He then rested his head in your lap. "I can't wait to meet her."

You hummed. "Have you ever thought about what she'll be like?"

"A combination of all four of us."

A ghost of a smile spread on your lips. "We're going to have our hands full then."

"I'm ready."

"I know you are," you said while playing with his hair. "That's why I chose you."

He was a protector, down to the fibers of his being. You didn't have to be in the room for him to remind the world of his devotion to being your husband. To being a father. He laid it all bare, and you could only hope that it would be passed down to your daughters like an heirloom blanket.

——

[rafesgreasycurtainbangs]

the pogues throwing baby girl cameron a welcome home party when you first come home to the hospital because they’ve always been your family; and without them you wouldn’t have met rafe 🥹

༄｡° welcome to the family, jojo - rafe cameron

series masterlist

The sun hung low over the Outer Banks, casting a warm golden glow across the sandy shores of Figure Eight. The air buzzed with excitement, the kind that only comes when something truly special is about to happen. Today was that day—the day you and Rafe Cameron were bringing your newborn daughter, Josephine—named after your late grandmother—home from the hospital. But it wasn’t just a quiet homecoming. No, the Pogues—your wild, loyal, chaotic family—had other plans. They’d insisted on throwing a welcome home party, because to them, this wasn’t just about celebrating Jojo’s arrival. It was about celebrating you, Rafe, and the unlikely, beautiful journey that had brought you all together.

The driveway of Tanneyhill was a sight to behold as you pulled up in Rafe’s truck, Jojo nestled safely in her car seat behind you. Streamers in soft pink and white fluttered from the porch railings, tied up with the kind of haphazard care that screamed JJ’s handiwork. A hand-painted sign hung crookedly over the front door: “Welcome Home, Jojo!” The letters were uneven, and there was a smudge of paint that looked suspiciously like Pope had tried to fix it while Kiara argued for artistic flair. Balloons bobbed in the breeze, some already drifting off toward the marsh, and the faint hum of chatter drifted from the backyard, where the real party was clearly unfolding.

Rafe glanced over at you, his hand resting on your knee as he parked. “You sure you’re up for this? We could tell ‘em to scram if you’re too tired.” His voice was gruff, protective, but you could see the flicker of amusement in his blue eyes. He knew the Pogues were non-negotiable—they’d been your family long before he’d stumbled into your life, and without them, he wouldn’t have you. You wouldn’t have her.

You smiled, tired but glowing, and squeezed his hand. “No way. They’ve been planning this for weeks. Besides, Jojo deserves to meet her crazy uncles and aunts.” Rafe chuckled, shaking his head as he climbed out to grab the car seat, his movements gentle and deliberate, like he was still getting used to the idea of being a dad.

The moment you stepped into the backyard, a cheer erupted. JJ was the loudest, of course, letting out a whoop as he bounded over, a beer in one hand and a tiny pink party hat perched crookedly on his head. “There she is! Little Jojo—and the prettiest Cameron yet, no offense, Rafe!” He clapped Rafe on the shoulder, earning a mock glare, before leaning down to peek at the baby. “Dude, she’s perfect. Look at those cheeks. You sure she’s yours?”

“Watch it, Maybank,” Rafe shot back, but there was no venom in it—just the easy banter that had become their norm over the years. You laughed, feeling a warmth settle in your chest as JJ stepped aside to let the others swarm in.

Kiara was next, her arms full of a handmade quilt she’d clearly spent hours on, the fabric a patchwork of soft pastels and little sea turtle patterns. “For Jojo’s crib,” she said, pressing it into your hands with a grin. “Figured she should have something from the Cut to remind her where her mom’s roots are.” Her eyes softened as she looked at you. “You look amazing, by the way. How do you feel?”

“Exhausted,” you admitted, “but happy. Really happy.” She hugged you tight, careful not to jostle Jojo, and you could feel the love radiating off her—the same love that had carried you through every storm the OBX had thrown your way.

Pope approached more cautiously, holding a tiny onesie with “Future Rocket Scientist” printed across the front in bold letters. “Had to fight JJ to keep him from writing ‘Future Beer Pong Champ’ on it,” he said with a grin, handing it over.

John B and Sarah were already by the fire pit, laughing as they tried to set up a makeshift banner that kept flapping in the wind. Sarah’s blonde hair was tangled from the breeze, her eyes bright with excitement as she jogged over first. “Jojo’s gorgeous,” she cooed, leaning in to admire her niece. “I’m calling dibs on babysitting first. Sorry, everyone else.” She shot a teasing look at the group, then turned to you. “You know, I still can’t believe my brother’s a dad. But seeing him with you? With her? It’s like he was always meant to be.”

John B followed, grinning wide as he clapped Rafe on the back. “She’s a beauty, man. Takes after her mom, clearly.” He winked at you, then stepped back to let Sarah fuss over Jojo a little more.

You glanced at Rafe, who was holding the car seat like it was made of glass, his jaw tight with that mix of pride and nerves you’d come to adore. “Yeah,” you said softly. “He was.”

The party unfolded like all Pogue gatherings did—chaotic, loud, and brimming with heart. JJ insisted on a “toast” with root beer, raising his bottle high as the others gathered around the fire pit. “To Jojo,” he declared, “may she inherit her mom’s 'badassery', her dad’s… uh, let’s call it determination, and the Pogues’ impeccable taste in chaos. Welcome home, kid!” The group cheered, clinking bottles and cans, and you couldn’t help but laugh as Rafe rolled his eyes, pulling you closer to his side.

Later, as the sun dipped below the horizon and the sky turned a deep indigo, the mood softened. The crackle of the fire blended with the distant crash of waves, and Sarah and Kiara were taking turns holding Jojo, cooing over her tiny fingers, while Pope and JJ debated the best way to roast marshmallows without setting something on fire. Rafe sat beside you on a blanket, his arm around your shoulders, watching it all unfold with a quiet contentment you hadn’t seen in him before.

“You know,” you murmured, leaning into him, “if it weren’t for them, we wouldn’t be here. I wouldn’t have met you that summer at the Wreck. Wouldn’t have gotten dragged into that mess with the gold. Wouldn’t have fallen for the kook prince who turned out to be more than just a pretty face.”

He smirked, brushing a kiss against your temple. “And I wouldn’t have realized the Pogues weren’t all bad. Just mostly bad.” You elbowed him playfully, and he laughed, the sound low and warm. “Seriously, though. They’re your family. And now they’re Jojo’s too. I’m good with that.”

As the stars began to peek out overhead, you looked around at the scene—the Pogues, Jojo, Rafe—and felt a swell of gratitude. This was home, messy and imperfect and full of love. Jojo’s first day back wasn’t just a welcome. It was a promise—of a life surrounded by the people who’d shaped you, who’d brought you to this moment, and who’d be there for every moment to come.

©RAFESGREASYCURTAINBANGS ⋆˙⟡ est. 2025

[onlyblankanswers]

trying to make a severitus animatic based on the amazing series A Patchwork Family by aspionage, hopefully i'll finish it soon..

[pixiishi]

replied to a comment about this, but i want to share it as a post, too: god, i love the women of 300 fox way. they aren’t talked about enough.

here is a patchwork blanket of people who found each other, and built a home together; they are the people blue has grown up with and can always return to, no matter what. 300 fox way is family (both found, and by blood) in the truest sense—the very heart of this series—and not only that, but they are all women. women who are messy and beautiful and ugly and strange, who contrast and compliment each other, who are unapologetically themselves, to their best and worst. they raised blue into the girl she is, and it is this foundation, these bonds, this understanding that becomes increasingly important to blue as she leaves the nest, and adventures alongside the raven boys. two completely different worlds whose differences exemplify what makes each of them so valuable and vibrant, slowly blurring and blending into a pot of all the love blue holds for the people in her life, and the magic of the ley line running beneath their feet.

[astheskycries]

Twisted Games- Meetings

Growing up with a hitman for a father, Andy Barber has never wanted to go near the mafia and used the money from the family to go to law school. When Steve Rogers offered him help after a hit on his family, he was more than happy to ensure no more unnecessary hits were made. As long as everyone is at arms’ length, he can keep them safe.

I want to take the time to give a MASSIVE shout out to @stargazingfangirl18 , who not only read this over for me but also has listened to me ramble and brainstorm over this AU and gave me amazing advice. This series wouldn't exist without her ❤️ I hope you all enjoy! If your name is not tagged it means I physically can't tag you, but I will be redoing my Tags soon so please keep an eye out for that!

Masterlist Buy Me a Coffee

The sun sparkles over the water of the Harbor, starting to set over the horizon as I review the documents for the umpteenth time. Though the hours are long, it’s been well worth the investment. Taking out money from a waitressing job was a huge risk, especially for someone who can’t afford college or a car that ran without being patchworked together, but somehow I turned a small business worked in the little time between jobs into a booming construction company, expanding into design and even buying out several companies in the greater Boston area.

“Ma’am? Your appointment is here.”

Speaking of.

I relax back a bit as I watch the lawyer slip inside, my assistant nodding once before shutting the door behind her. In other circumstances he would be a welcome distraction- short but soft brown hair styled up, a full beard with just the slight hints of grey, and the most beautiful baby blues I’ve ever seen. Tall and well-built, it’s no wonder Andy Barber has the reputation he does.

“Good Afternoon,” He greets smoothly, relaxing in his chair as he grabs his file folder. “I’m assuming you’ve reviewed everything?”

“Of course,” I lock the computer and move to my own paper copy, lazily opening it with a finger. “You’re nothing if not thorough, Mr. Barber.”

He hums, a slight smirk on his lips. “Well, it’s part of the job. Mr. Rogers wanted to make sure everything was covered.”

Yes. That.

“I saw that,” I flip through to a specific section, humming once. “Unfortunately, I’m still not interested in selling.”

Mr. Barber raises an eyebrow, watching me carefully. “Mr. Rogers has offered an unusually high payout for this company. If it’s stability you’re concerned about, he’s clearly stated money is no object.”

“It’s no object for me either, the answer is no.” I let the file close with a little smack, relaxing against my chair. “Will that be all?”

Mr. Barber shifts to lean closer, toying with a pen. “On a personal level, I think you may want to reconsider. Mr. Rogers has hired me for all of his business dealings; I know how he works. He’ll wait as long as it takes to acquire the company.”

I mirror his movements, leaning closer and crossing my hands on the desk. “I’ve done my own research, Mr. Barber. I’m fully confident that I will not be signing any deal that hands my company over to him.”

He makes a noise, putting away the file and slowly rising to his feet. “I’ll inform Mr. Rogers of your response. I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other again shortly.”

I hum, watching him until the door shuts before sagging against the chair with a breath, glancing over at the clock and seeing how late it is. I turn to look out at the skyline again, biting my lips as I let my mind wander.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow we can plan for the next one.

…

“I assume it didn’t go as planned?” Steve muses, pouring a glass of bourbon as he watches Andy pace the floor of his private office. Though the leader of the group, the blonde looks innocent, almost angelic with his bright blue eyes and clean shaven appearance. He's a walking Greek god, a perfect covering for the horns holding up the halo.

“She turned the offer down. Again.” Andy fumes loosening his tie as he continues to pace, flipping through the file for the hundredth time.

“Is this the third time? Or second?” Steve leans against his desk, eyebrows raised as he looks over his drink, downing it in one swig.

“Third offer. Second refusal- no one ever refuses your deals.” Andy turns, unamused by Steve’s expression. “I even warned her you wanted to continue negotiations. She said money wasn’t an object and sent me packing.” He sighs, accepting the new glass Steve offers. “I told her I’d let you know and be in touch.”

Steve smirks, hiding it behind another drink. “See if you can find what she wants, come up with an agreement. Take her to one of our best restaurants.” He lets his shoulders relax, taking a moment to observe how ruffled the lawyer is. “I have to admit, this is refreshing.”

“Fuck off,” Andy mutters, finishing the glass. “I’ll get to work tomorrow.”

Steve hums, taking a slow drink. “I mean it. I haven’t seen you this animated in a while.”

Andy hums, rolling the ice in his glass. “I can’t get a read on her. It’s frustrating, you know how long I've worked on our offers being airtight? We’re more than generous when we buy out.”

“Well, it’s good for you. Something different.” Steve takes his friends’ empty glass, setting them aside. “I trust you to handle it. I’m not sparing any expenses, this would give us control over the other side of town. More leverage.”

Andy nods, glancing at his watch. “I’ll make it happen.”

“Andy?” Steve waits for the man to pause and look back, hand still on the handle. “Take her to that high rise restaurant.”

“I’m not taking her on a date.” Andy swiftly leaves, leaving a new voice to laugh from their place lounged on the sofa.

“You’re setting up the hard ass?” Lloyd muses, smirking over his drink as his rings gently tap against the glass. His loafers are shining in the light as he crosses his ankles, thick mustache doing nothing to hide his amusement. “You really think this is a good idea?”

Steve hums, moving back to his seat. “You’re complaining?”

“Fuck no.” Lloyd grins, continuing to spin his knife in his fingers, enjoying the way it glints from the lamp light. “Just determines whether I plant those cameras in his office.”

“No.” Steve focuses on his computer. “But send him my black card. I’ll cover his ‘dinner’.”

Tags: @janeyboo @mylittlefandomfanfictions @palaiasaurus64 @averyrogers83 @guera31 @soulmates8 @coffeebooksandfandom @sweater-daddiesdumbdork @pegasusdragontiger @mizzzpink @onetwo3000 @see-you-again-my-sun-and-stars @sleepylunarwolf @wheresmyplums @smoothdogsgirl @marvelouslyme96 @esoltis280 @jtargaryen18 @k-evans-writes @rainbowkisses31 @buchanansebba @katiew1973 @patzammit @time-for-a-lullaby @openup-yourmind

Twisted Games: @hangmanscoming

[theresattrpgforthat]

SYSTEM OVERVIEW: Powered by the Apocalypse (PbtA).

This week I’m taking a break from my regular recommendation posts to talk about some indie ttrpg systems that have gained some well-deserved attention over the years. I’m going to introduce you to how they work, why I like them, and what kinds of games are out there!

Powered by the Apocalypse is often described by its progenitor as a game philosophy more than a game system. If you want to learn about the ins and outs of Vincent Baker’s thoughts on this game philosophy, I recommend looking at his series of blog posts about the system, starting here.

There are a lot of things that can be housed within the family of PbtA games, but a game that advertises itself as Powered by the Apocalypse is probably going to have the following elements.

Moves

To do anything, PbtA games have a list of moves available to the whole party, and then certain moves specific to any given players. When you do something that fits the description of the move, you follow the move’s instructions.

Generally, this involves rolling 2d6 and adding a relevant modifier, somewhere between -1 and +3. The most common source of these modifiers comes from player stats, 3-5 player traits assigned to you during character creation that represent your strengths and weaknesses. These traits might be Cool, Sharp, and Hot, like in Apocalypse World, or Spirit, Wit and Heart, like in Thirsty Sword Lesbians, etc.

Other games use different sources of modifiers. In Apocalypse Keys, you’ll spend Tokens gained by roleplaying according to certain prompts, such as feeling lonely or forgotten. In Patchwork World, your modifiers depend on the moves your character takes. Can you become cats? When you burst into 1d6 cats, roll -CATS. Do you have Bee Resonance? You’ll roll +Stress marked.

Some moves might not even require you to roll dice - maybe you just have to use up a resource, or answer a question before that action happens.

Staggered Successes

PbtA games are not the only games to use this kind of metric, but they’re certainly the most well-known. When you roll dice in these kinds of games, there are generally three different kinds of results you can get: 7-9, 10 and higher, or 6 and below. Usually a 10 or higher allows something spectacular to happen, with a greater amount of narrative control given to the player. A 7-9 is partially successful: the player and GM will likely share narrative control. On a 6 or less, a significant amount of narrative control is given to the GM. 6 or less is usually seen as a turn for the worse, but what that turn looks like is dependant on the game and the genre.

What I like about these results is that regardless of the outcome, the results are meant to be narratively engaging, and push the story forward. Failing to sway the bartender doesn’t stop your plan in its tracks - it leads to the bartender calling forward security, or maybe calling you out on your shit. In a game like Last Fleet, these outcomes push the characters closer and closer to a meltdown. In Urban Shadows 1e, they encourage the characters to deal more intimately with favours and debt. Each outcome should propel you into another fraught situation.

Social Currency.

Having some kind of personal connection to other characters becomes a useful resource in many PbtA games. At the beginning of the game, you’ll answer leading questions that tie you to other characters, in both positive and negative ways. What exactly that personal connection is depends on the game.

In MASKS, your teenage superheroes have Influence over each-other. This Influence is either present, or it isn’t, but when it’s present, it can be spent to encourage other characters to follow your lead or your orders. In Blood Feud, you can look up to or down upon your fellow players, which will change the nature of how you interact with each-other. In Interstitial, you can spend Heart Links to improve your chances of success, adding modifiers to your roll.

I love these mechanics because they encourage the players to engage with each-other - and their interactions don’t have to always be positive either! Monster-Hearts expects your players to be at each-other’s necks just as often as they might be making out, for example.

Character Playbooks

Most, though not all, PbtA games have character playbooks - which may not feel like a novel thing, but it’s a big change for folks who are used to putting their character together from a list of options provided in a rulebook. Character playbooks usually provide all of the options for your specific character type on one page. You don’t choose from a big list: you choose a concept, and then select options from that concept.

Often concepts fill out tropes, such as the Git in Pigsmoke, or the Monstrous in Monster of the Week. These may come with pre-assigned stats, or ask you to assign certain stat values as you like. You’ll also choose playbook-specific moves, describe your character, and take note of special advances or forms of harm that may be incurred as you play. This harm might be physical, but it could just as easily be an emotional state, such as in Voidheart Symphony, where your character could become Angry, Callous or Scared.

What I like about this is that it can streamline character creation. If you’re a first-timer to PbtA you might need some guidance, but you can probably still knock out a character in under an hour. If you’re a veteran, you might be able to put a character together in a few minutes.

Collaborative World-building.

Any given PbtA game is usually inspired by a short list of media or some kind of genre. Brindlewood Bay is inspired by elderly lady detective fiction and eldritch horror. Sunset Kills is inspired by Buffy the Vampire Slayer and similar supernatural-teenager media. However, the specifics of what your group is doing still has to be determined by the group. This means that you’ll have to decide how you met, how you got here, and what the world around you is like.

For some games, like Legacy: Life Among the Ruins, the character choices you’ve made will determine facts about the end-of-the-world you live in. Did you pick titan-slayers? That means there’s titans walking around. Similarly in Comrades, if you pick the Propagandist, you have a newspaper or radio station as part of your rebellion.

I like about this because it affirms one of the core claims of PbtA: the game is a conversation. You begin your Session 0 sharing ideas as a group, with players having just as much say in the creation of the world as the GM. If you want to speed up the game, the GM may propose a setting to make things more specific. I’ve done this in the past with Wolf Hounds, which I wanted to make fit into my Monster Squad campaign last year.

However, even if the GM makes some decisions about the world, the choices the individual players will affect what parts of that world we’ll focus on. I feel like this experience gives a lot more agency to the players, so if you want to run a game but you don’t want to be responsible for everything that lands on the table, you might want to consider something Powered by the Apocalypse.

There are some elements of PbtA that can provide quite a bit of whiplash for new players. The game is very reactive, which means that it can be difficult for a traditional GM to figure out what to plan. Some games, like The Between, come with modules or adventures that can make it easier to ease into a GM-ing role. I’d also recommend checking out PbtA games that play in genres that both the GM and the group are very familiar with. If you like teenage superheroes, MASKS will probably be fairly easy to pick up. If you're familiar with found-footage horror, you might be more interested in Public Access.

I’ve talked about a number of PbtA games in the past. Let’s take a look at a few that I haven’t mentioned much.

City of Mist is a game by Son of Oak about ordinary people caught up in supernatural investigations as they grow to embody myths and legends.

Trespassers, by BoughandWave is a game about monsters in a wood - but you are not the scariest things in this forest.

Fight Item Run, by Whimsy Machine, is a game meant to replicate beloved video games about dungeons and magic.

A Monster's Tail, by Five Points Games, is an homage to monster catcher media, such as Pokemon, Digimon, and Jade Cocoon.

If you’re interested in PbtA games, you might also want to check out the collection of PbtA games that I’ve put together on Itch!

[faynthearted]

god I love rediscovering half-finished tianshan fics/drafts that I started years ago and completely forgot about. it's like I'm reading someone else's work and it's fantastic! there's so many.

in case anyone is interested, so far I've found:

a WIP named "leverage" that seems to be about guan shan having to stay at the He estate for his own protection against whatever mess the He family has gotten into. I feel like someone might have requested this a long time ago and I forgot?

another WIP named "p.s." that's about tianshan being bitter exes and yet somehow guan shan finds himself housesitting for he tian while he travels for work because he tian has a dog that they adopted together that needs to be looked after and guan shan still cares about it -- and, clearly, about he tian too. I honestly still like this idea and the writing isn't too awful... hmm.

a VERY primitive draft of desecration, probably written when I was just beginning to brainstorm. it's crazy to see how much the story has evolved based on this flimsy WIP draft. I'm half-tempted to post it just for shits and giggles even though it's poorly written

another very short, primitive draft of desecration, written from zheng xi's perspective

a WIP named "smoke and mirrors" for a switched family background AU for tianshan. I actually got pretty far in writing this (~7k words) and I don't remember a single thing about it. veryyyy interesting. I kinda want to post this one too, or at least one scene that stands out

a WIP (unnamed) that seems to be about guan shan conning he tian at the train station for some money. I'm almost positive this was a tumblr request, but based on the date/time stamp of the draft's document, I'm not surprised I never finished it. life was crazy and miserable at the time

and while I'm here, I might as well mention the WIPs I do kinda remember but decided not to pursue in favor of desecration:

a WIP named "patchwork" set in historical China, wherein guan shan (a potter/artisan) has the ability to see and manipulate (i.e. tie and cut) red strings of fate. he's commissioned by the he family to participate in a traditional wedding ceremony for he cheng. of course, he tian takes an interest in him while he's there. the only issue is that guan shan cut his own red string when he was younger, an irreversible action -- and, for some reason, he tian's is cut too. weird, right? yeah. but he tian doesn't know this, and guan shan isn't planning on telling him anytime soon 😌

a WIP named "arsonist's lullaby" written from he cheng's POV throughout he tian's childhood. I'm not going to say much about this one since it might actually be written/posted one day as part of the terra firma series...

and finally, a WIP (unnamed) for an AU in which guan shan is a retired police dog trainer/handler (??) who now works at an auto shop. he adopted some of the dogs that either flunked out of the academy training or developed medical issues that required their retirement, and the dogs hang around the shop while he works. one day he tian shows up and asks if guan shan would be willing to do some off-the-books commission(?) work. the he family business has a drug/weapons problem, and they need the dogs' trained noses -- and their handler's experience -- to fix it. (I'm still obsessed with the idea of the dogs being fiercely protective of guan shan. he tian not only has to earn guan shan's trust, but the dogs' too)

I love the variability in all these AUs/ideas. I wish I could work on them all at once but that's frankly impossible. but I'll consider posting a few snippets if anyone is interested! (no promises about the quality of writing, though!)

[lulublack90]

Prompt 30 - Rely

@rosekillermicrofic September 30, word count 739

NSFW

Final part, everyone. Just wanted to say thank you so much to everyone who has read this little series over the last few months, I enjoyed writing it so much. I will be putting it up on Ao3 all together if anyone wants to read it all through again. Thank you all again for reading. Love you. Lulu xxx

Previous part First Jegulus part

Evan didn’t even give him a chance to get his shoes off before he was slamming him against the closed door and devouring his mouth.

“You. Bed. Now!” Evan growled at him between kisses. Barty obeyed entirely. 

The leather cuffs were already attached to the bed. He wondered when Evan had done that because those were the special ones. Normally, they had the soft ones attached all the time. It must have been right before they left because they definitely hadn’t been there when he’d got changed. 

He quickly stripped out of his clothes, tossed them in the corner out of the way and got onto the bed. Evan straddled him, reaching above him and quickly securing the hard leather cuffs around Barty’s wrists. He tugged at the cuffs, a bolt of pleasure shot right to Barty’s cock, making him tug again. Evan moved down Barty’s body, biting marks into his skin as he went, all the way down to his ankles, where he looped the matching ankle cuffs up from under the bed. Barty gasped, Evan wasn’t messing around; he’d come to play, and Barty couldn’t be more ready. 

Finished restraining Barty, Evan went over to the bottom drawer of their dresser and pulled it open. He took out the toys he wanted and returned to the bed, laying them out neatly between Barty’s stretched legs. 

His cock was fully erect at this point, just seeing Evan’s blown pupils had him nearly cuming. Evan noticed and teasingly slowly pushed the cock ring down Barty’s engorged cock. Barty flung his head back and moaned as the ring bit into his skin, the near orgasm fading away. Evan must want him to last awhile if he’d put that on. Barty tried to calm his racing heart, but then Evan opened the bottle of lube, and he was yanking at his bonds, needing to be touched immediately. “Tut, tut, darling. You know the rules. Patience or nothing happens,” Evan chided. Barty huffed like a spoilt brat but spent a moment collecting himself. “Good boy,” Evan crooned and slipped a lube-covered finger inside him. 

Barty let his thoughts wander, trying to take his mind off the insanely good feeling of Evan’s fingers deep inside him. He thought of Regulus and how happy that spiky little git was with his sunshine boyfriend. He still found it insane that he and Sirius were now almost friends, and that boyfriend of his, damn, he was something else. Barty’s cock twitched, and he quickly turned his thoughts to James’s parents and how, after barely meeting them for five minutes, they’d dragged them into their patchwork family, and Barty absolutely loved it. Plus, he got that shiny van out of it, not that it was a dealbreaker or anything. He couldn’t wait to go out in it again. And to think none of this would have happened, including Regulus finally getting out of that damn house, if Regulus hadn't thrown his apple core at James before falling out of a tree—

“Barty!” Evan snapped. 

“Huh? Oh, sorry, I was miles away,” Barty admitted sheepishly. 

“Am I boring you?” Evan asked, a brow arching upwards.

“No, no, the opposite, actually, I was trying not to cum, sorry,” Evan snorted. 

“Alright, I’ll forgive you,” He said, leaning forward and kissing Barty, nipping his bottom lip hard. The second Barty gasped, Evan removed his fingers and pushed himself inside. Barty let out a truly dirty moan. He and Evan just fit together so well. He looked up at the man he loved with all his heart as he began to move in and out of him and felt his chest bursting with adoration. 

“Marry me,” He blurted out as Evan thrust back into him. Evan stilled. 

“What?!” He asked, shock covering his face. 

“Evan, will you marry me?” Barty repeated, lifting himself off the bed as much as his restraints would let him. Evan’s eyes widened as his breath hitched. 

“Yes. Yes, Barty Crouch, I will marry you,” Evan sobbed as tears fell from his eyes. He reached up and released the cuffs around Barty’s wrists, and Barty wrapped his arms around him. Holding him against his chest. The one person he could always rely on. His Evan. 

“I love you,” He murmured. 

“I love you too,” Evan said, wiping the tears from his eyes. 

The sex turned into something softer, unhurried as they made love long into the night.   

[idontknowmyownmind]

OG!Cale Fanfics Recommendation

COMPLETED

[og!Cale-centric] in accordance by pheenick 💝

[LCF] Love is gone by sleepycale 💝

[LCF] Are you saying Goodbye? by JadedMindscape

[og!AlCale] "Unexpected Meetings" - series by abralhugres

[og!AlCale] "dreams" - series by abralhugres

[og!AlCale] the root of the problem by abralhugres

His Majesty's Messenger by Aisha_mirai

A Man who had No Love by Justsamrandumbfujoshi

[og!Cale-centric] Forgive Dad by Verzy

[og!AlCale] Winter Affliction by abralhugres

[og!Cale-centric] the red means... [you belong to me] by Further_From_Humanity 💝

it's you by Milamimi

[og!AlCale] In another life by Verzy

[og!AlCale] don’t go where i can’t follow by shuangxuans 💝

[og!AlCale] a Lout and a Prince by abralhugres

[og!AlCale] the villainess gets revenge by abralhugres

[RokCale] feelings too strong to contain by abralhugres

[RokCale] Type of kisses by wifteria

[RokCale] Knock on the Coffin by esdegen 💝

[RokCale] Salvation & Sin by Luc_00 (Dawn_007)

[CJS x Heniroksoo] you drew stars around my scars (but now i’m bleeding) by todoloey

[og!AlCale] "Switched" - series by abralhugres

[og!Cale-centric] Nightmare in the Flesh by Verzy

Complicated by abralhugres

[Og!StarCale] Cry for me by wifteria 💝

[ROokCale] Why Cale Henituse can't leave the duchy by wifteria

[Og!AlCale] ( IF I AM THE SUN ) by AKingsAffection

[RokCale] the secrets we left under the distant sky by Luc_00 (Dawn_007)

[RokCale] You Are Mine by ThisIsVee 💝

ON-GOING

[LCF AlCale] Crown Prince's Rule Breaker by minamintsoo

[LCF x ORV] The Kimcom in Rowoon by Tsukki_yan 💝

[LCF x ORV] Crossing Paths by your_serialdreamer

One Bad End is Enough by AsterEfflores 💝

Can't an Old Man Die in Peace? by AsterEfflores

[og!Cale-centric] his brother's keeper by thursdays 💝

Cut Yourself On My Glass Plate by SkylerSkyhigh 💝

Open Your Eyes And Take A Look Around You. by VaraUser 💝

Reacting to Reading by Cortes01

Acquaint Fate by Unlucky_Cactus 💝

[LCF] Ancient Powers Hijack Cale's Body by mishamoonberry

[og!AlCale] Fuck our Problems by Verzy 💝

[og!AlCale] death is the only ending for the trash queen by abralhugres

[og!AlCale] crossed fates - series by abralhugres 💝

[og!AlCale] puppy love by abralhugres

[og!Cale-centric] Vermilion made of Cinnabar by PoisonousLana

[PolySoo x og!Cale] more is better ;D by abralhugres, small_mew 💝

[LCF x BNHA] BNHA react to TCF by KNX7

Hunter by Theta_Shi

[og!Cale-centric] OG!Cale receives a family by Verzy

The Silver Coin and The Pretty Rock by ThisIsVee 💝

This Time Around by ThisIsVee

everyone around him dies by abralhugres 💝

[og!ChoiCale] 그렇더라고요 (When You Love Someone) by mishamoonberry 💝

[og!AlCale] (what we lose in the fire) by AKingsAffection 💝

my world as i wish for by mishamoonberry 💝

Group Hug!!!! by squidballsinc

[RokCale] Damage control by Mir_Hope20 💝

Patchwork Soul by ThisIsVee 💝

Cale's Guide to Raising Your Yandere Brother by GingerVee (ThisIsVee), ThisIsVee 💝

End My Suffering Dear Duke! by Aceresa 💝

[RokCale] Everyone Deserves to be Loved by Loveable_Psychopath

[RokCale) Zenith of the Crimson Sun and the Obsidian Moon by Kimera20

I Reject The Maidens! by C0rr3ct 💝

[RokCale] Sleeping Partners (they really just sleep) by FollowerOfCaleism 💝

[RokCale] The Sun Proposed to the Moon by Nami_San18

Blood is Thicker than Wine by seasskies 💝

💝 The one I love the most ❤❤❤

This is my latest updated og!Cale fanfictions I've read

The one without [...] in front of its title means that the story /somehow/ involved both KRS and Cale

And, yes, I'm a hardcore og!AlCale and RokCale shipper

I do read some krs!Cale-centric fanfiction but when it come to LCF 'canon'-verse, I avoided E-rated and shippy ones and I don't usually bookmarked them

It's hard to find one to my liking because most M-rated and T-rated ones still with ships and s3xual content while there are few with those rates because of the theme or gore or language but most are not, so...

I like the light read ones, but most of the times I just want to read the heavy ones that without ships but those are so rare...

Idk whether you, @grumpywiltedlettuce, already read them or not but these are the one I like the most!!

Will updated if I found more!!

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

When The World Is Crashing Down [Chapter 5: Turn Off The Lights And Turn Off The Shyness]

Series summary: Your family is House Celtigar, one of Rhaenyra’s wealthiest allies. In the aftermath of Rook’s Rest, Aemond unknowingly conscripts you to save his brother’s life. Now you are in the liar of the enemy, but your loyalties are quickly shifting…

Chapter warnings: Language, warfare, Otto being the worst (per usual), violence, serious injury, cryptic Helaena prophecies, alcoholism/addiction, references to sexual content including noncon (18+), dragons, demented flirting, a late-night surprise, Larys Strong returns. 😞

Series title is a lyric from: “7 Minutes In Heaven” by Fall Out Boy.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “Of All The Gin Joints In All The World” by Fall Out Boy.

Word count: 6.3k.

Link to chapter list: HERE.

Taglist (more in comments): @tinykryptonitewerewolf @lauraneedstochill @not-a-glad-gladiator @daenysx @babyblue711 @arcielee @at-a-rax-ia @bhanclegane @jvpit3rs @padfooteyes @marvelescvpe @travelingmypassion @darkenchantress @yeahright0h @poohxlove @trifoliumviridi @bloodyflowerrr @fan-goddess @devynsficrecs @flowerpotmage @thelittleswanao3 @seabasscevans @hiraethrhapsody @libroparaiso @echos-muses @st-eve-barnes @chattylurker @lm-txles @vagharnaur @moonlightfoxx @storiumemporium @insabecs @heliosscribbles @beautifulsweetschaos @namelesslosers @partnerincrime0 @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @marbles-posts @imsolence @maidmerrymint @backyardfolklore @nimaharchive @anxiousdaemon @under-the-aspen-tree @amiraisgoingthruit @dd122004dd @randomdragonfires @jetblack4real @joliettes

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged! 🥰💜

The sun would burn him, but moonlight is kind. You’re on the balcony of Aegon’s bedchamber, two chairs, two cups of wine, another full pitcher on the table between you, a glass bottle of warm rose oil like amber, like gold, freckled with curled ruby petals. You’re dressed in your usual attire, simple designs and neutral colors, greys and creams and dusky pinks; tonight your gown is a flat, inky blue that matches the night sky. Aegon is wearing his unpretentious cotton trousers—stained with splotches of pomegranate juice, his recompense before you allowed him the wine—and a tiny braid in his shaggy, silver hair.

“I look like your house’s sigil,” Aegon says as he massages rose oil onto his forearms, his palms moving in large sloppy circles over a patchwork of scar tissue; you would do a better job, but he says he wants to learn how to care for his wounds on his own. His dragon ring—gold wings, jade eyes—gleams in the cool, ghostly moonshine. His words are teasing, but his tone is dark, troubled, weary. “Some red, some white. All ugly.”

You smile. You aren’t agreeing, just playing along. “Our motto is better than our flag.”

“I might have been inebriated during that lesson.”

“Perpetual Resurrection.”

Aegon looks at you, confounded. “Quite the mouthful.”

“Crabs molt throughout their lifetime. They crack their own skins open and climb out. If they get stuck, they die. If they get attacked before their new shell hardens, they die. But if they live…they’re a brand new version of themselves. Larger, wiser, more powerful.”

“Spiders,” Aegon says. “You’re trying to placate me with some rousing metaphor about what are essentially aquatic spiders.”

“They’re tasty too,” you say, grinning. “Especially when their shells are still soft. The cooks would serve them fried and us kids would sit around the table ripping the legs free and throwing them at each other.”

“What, you can eat the crab whole?!”

“Yes. Once the faces are cut off and the organs scooped out.”

He pretends to be repulsed by you. “Harrowing. Revolting. This is why Targaryens have always refused to breed with your kind.”

It’s funny, but it isn’t, because it’s a little too close to what you’re both thinking. Under the moonlight, you watch Aegon with the words caged behind your teeth: What do you want most? Who are you in your bones? Where would we be if the world wasn’t crashing down around us?

He slathers rose oil on his scarred right cheek—carelessly, distractedly—and accidentally pokes himself in the eye. “Ow.”

You ask: “Why do you want to do that yourself now?”

“To prove I can. To feel ever so slightly less like an invalid.” He takes a swig of his wine and gazes out over the nightscape ocean, stars in the sky, stars reflected on waves. “I am a study in irony. I spent my whole life waiting for it to be over. I poisoned myself, wasted years, resisted any semblance of usefulness. And now I finally have things I want to accomplish, I finally have reasons to live…and I’m trapped in the flesh of some pathetic, deformed, calamitously weak stranger.” He shakes his head, despondent, still not looking at you. “I can have a body that works. I can have a soul. But I can’t have both at the same time. It’s so fucking unfair.”

“I like you exactly as you are. Body and soul.”

“Everything I own, everything I’m given…” He stares down at his palms, open and empty. “It is destroyed, gets killed, goes mad. I ruin causes. I ruin people. I couldn’t do that to you.”

“I think I’m going to be ruined either way. I’d rather you be the one responsible.”

“Angel,” he says, low and serious. And now his gaze comes back to meet yours. “Who are you supposed to marry?”

You don’t want to tell him. You don’t want it to be true. Your voice is a whisper, almost lost in the night wind. “Cregan Stark.”

His eyes shoot wide, not just startled but terrified. “Stark?!”

You nod miserably. “My father took me and my sisters to Winterfell as part of a trade mission. Cregan decided he wanted me. I never encouraged it, I never desired it, I swear I didn’t—”

“No, I believe you,” Aegon says. He swallows a gulp of wine noisily, his hand shaking. “You were right. I can’t touch him. I can’t stop it. Not unless I win.”

“You don’t want the Iron Throne,” you tell Aegon, already knowing it’s true.

He snorts, a harsh derisive sound. “Who would?”

“Lots of people, I think. But not you or Rhaenyra.”

This intrigues him. “She doesn’t want it either?”

“Not from what I’ve seen and heard. Or, at least, she didn’t until Luke was killed. It changed her. I’m still not convinced she wants to be the queen, but she wants vengeance. And absolute power is a sure path to it.” And so the suffering continues, it goes around and around like a wheel, it is a debt that is never satisfied but only spread like plague.

“I don’t understand why Aemond did that,” Aegon says. His words are hushed, like he’s never spoken them to anyone but you and never will. “When he returned from Storm’s End, I held a feast for him. I had to, someone had to, someone had to pretend it was a victory instead of a murder. But it didn’t make any sense. Arrax was an inconvenience, not a threat. Luke was far more valuable as a hostage than a corpse. Aemond has always been the disciplined brother, the strategic one. I won’t claim to be clever. But I can’t find any strategy in what happened there.”

“Aemond has a temper. He is haunted, I believe. He is not above reckless fury.”

“No, evidently not.” Aegon sighs and rakes his fingers through his hair; again, his dragon ring glints under the moonlight, silver reflected off gold. “I’ll try to win,” he says. “For my family. For you.” Then he smirks, a grim attempt at humor. “Though I pity Cregan Stark for the paradise I will deprive him of.”

You do not return Aegon’s smile. “Don’t have too much pity for him. I have no expertise and I’m scared to death of it. I’d probably end up hiding under his bed, gripping the legs for dear life. He’d have to drag me out and tie me down.”

Aegon is alarmed; his storm-blue eyes are now focused, seeking. He is aware that he has wandered into a quagmire. He treads carefully. “When you say no expertise, you mean…none at all?”

“None.”

“But what about all of those anatomically-correct cock illustrations in your medical books?”

Another joke you can’t bring yourself to laugh at. You drink your wine to stop your lips from quivering, smooth the silk of your gown with a trembling hand. You see it no matter where you look: the pool of red on Theodora’s bedsheets, the dawning and inescapable realization on her face. This is her life now. This will always be her life.

Aegon says gently: “You have no expectation of pleasure.”

“It seems…inherently violent. For the woman. Even if it isn’t meant to be. Being overpowered, being invaded. The man decides when and how it happens. The woman endures.”

Aegon stares at you—biting his full lower lip, deeply somber—but doesn’t speak. He gives you the impression of someone with so many thoughts swimming around in his skull he is struggling to choose just one.

You smile dimly. “I’m sorry. I’ve made you sad.”

“I’m, um…” Aegon pauses to collect himself; he drains his wine cup and sets it back on the table. He is uncharacteristically cautious, like he thinks one unwise word will break the spell of whatever exists between you, this temptation, this need. “I’m saddened by the fact that you think of it that way. Because it doesn’t have to be…distasteful. Frightening. Coerced. It shouldn’t be, in fact.”

“I suppose I’ll find out if the Blacks win this war and Cregan Stark comes to claim me.”

Again, Aegon is exceptionally circumspect. “You’ve never wanted any man?”

“No. Never. Not in that way. Until…” You look at him, willing him to understand. I want you, but I’m so goddamn afraid to. I’m afraid of this world, I’m afraid there’s no hope left in it.

Slowly, Aegon smiles, soft and warm. And without any grasping, animalistic greed, he reaches over to rest a palm on your thigh, night-dark silk draped over skin that doesn’t flinch away from him, doesn’t even have to fight the instinct to. You place a hand on his. Your fingertips trace the gold wings of the green-eyed dragon ring he never takes off. And it is sealed like a covenant under the stars, this allegiance that neither of you could begin to explain to anyone else.

Footsteps are coming through Aegon’s bedchamber, heavy and purposeful. Otto Hightower appears in the balcony doorway. He fills the space like storm clouds flood a clear sky, like blood saturates linen. “You’re getting fat,” he tells Aegon gruffly.

“You’re getting ever more wrinkly and close to the afterlife.”

Otto glances to where Aegon’s hand still rests on your thigh and snaps: “If you’re well enough for that, perhaps you would deign to join us in the council chamber. You could shock everyone by actually acting like a king.”

Then he’s gone, taking those last echoes of the moment with him.

~~~~~~~~~~

“They know she’s here,” Larys Strong says. His audience is gathered around the table: Otto, Criston, Daeron, Grand Maester Orwyle, Tyland Lannister, Jasper Wylde, the knights of the Kingsguard, Aegon slumped way down in his seat and you beside him feeling his forehead worriedly for fever. Because Aegon and Daeron are in attendance, the council chamber is one chair short. Aemond has elected to be the person to stand; he lurks, severe and silent, in a corner of the room half-lit by torchlight. Daeron is dressed in a vibrant teal, Aegon in black; Aemond wears green, dark and brooding like envy.

Criston Cole asks: “How is that possible?”

Otto sighs irritably, rubbing his forehead. “We have spies. I’m sure Rhaenyra does as well.”

“Someone apparently glimpsed the prince regent…um…” Larys searches for the diplomatic word. “Escorting her through the streets of King’s Landing.”

“Dragging is what he did,” Aegon says, glaring at Aemond. “Abducting. Attacking. Imprisoning.” Aemond, arms crossed over his chest, studies his boots and pretends not to have heard him.

Larys continues: “The Blacks don’t believe that she is here of her own volition.”

Otto’s eyes narrow. “What, they think we’ve detained her as some sort of…healer? Hostage?”

“No, my lord,” Larys says, hesitantly, awkwardly. “They don’t imagine the king’s motivations to be that honorable.”

Otto is losing his patience. “Meaning?”

Larys toys with his restless, rodentlike hands. “They think she is being…violated.”

A stilted, scandalized hush falls over the table. “Good,” Aegon says, invoking gasps and gapes. “If Green supporters believe her to be my captive, they won’t harm her. And if the Blacks think she is being held here against her will, she would be safe with them as well. No matter who wins, she is not in danger.”

“That is hardly beneficial for your own reputation, Your Grace,” Tyland Lannister says.

Aegon grins beneath cold eyes; he shows his teeth like a wolf, like a dragon. “Was my reputation so pristine to begin with, Lord Lannister?”

“No, perhaps not,” Tyland mumbles. Still, he should not have said it aloud. Otto huffs another sigh and rolls his eyes.

“So you intend to keep a Celtigar daughter in your service?” Otto says to Aegon.

“I have no doubts concerning her loyalty.”

Larys adds: “My lord, I must say, I cannot see a tactical advantage in her saving the king’s life if she retains any loyalty to Rhaenyra’s cause.”

“Then why save him at all? Why bother? He was lying there half-dead, soon to be properly dead, and she brought him back practically singlehandedly. Why?”

“Mercy,” Aemond says quietly from the corner, and everyone turns to look at him. “Many people have none of it. She perhaps has too much. And now they have grown…” He gestures vaguely, perhaps bashfully. “Attached to each other.”

Jasper Wylde is dismayed. “But the king has a wife.”

Daeron snickers. “Yes, and that has always proved to be such a deterrent in the past.”

“Daeron,” Aegon cautions mildly.

The youngest Targaryen brother obediently sobers and shows the palms of his hands in contrition. “My apologies.” He hides his face with a slurp of his wine cup.

“And what about Cregan Stark?!” Otto exclaims. “You’d encourage his outrage, his Northerner savagery? Seven hells, he thinks you’re spending your days raping his betrothed, do you imagine that will not invoke fiercer wrath, put all of us at greater risk?!”

“Lord Stark was never a reachable ally to our cause, in my estimation,” Larys says calmly.

“That’s not the point, Larys! The point is—!”

“I can offer you something in return for the heightened danger you have assumed,” you interrupt, and these men stare at you as if suddenly remembering that you are here in the room with them, not a phantom or a myth or a cautionary tale but someone real. Aegon glances over, one eyebrow raised on his drawn, perspiring face. He doesn’t know what you’re going to say either.

Otto peers menacingly across the table. “What could you possibly have to barter with? The king is well enough now. He will live with or without you.”

“I have information. I know the workings of Rhaenyra’s council in the leadup to Rook’s Rest.”

“You attended her council meetings?”

“No, but I spent evenings with my father and brothers as they discussed them.”

Otto sits back in his chair, pondering you. After a moment, he nods. “Go on then.”

“I want one concession before I reveal what I know.”

“Besides being permitted indefinite room and board in the Red Keep, which you are in no way entitled to?”

“Not negotiable,” Aegon says.

Otto chuckles, humorless, incredulous, shaking his head. “Fucking insane. Alright. What is it you want, girl?”

“If any member of House Celtigar is taken captive, I want them to be given the opportunity to swear fealty to King Aegon and receive a full pardon for their sins. If they refuse, they are to go to the Night’s Watch, not the scaffold.”

“That’s your price? That’s it?”

“Yes.”

Otto is amused. “Nothing for you? No gold, no land?”

“No.” The prospect hadn’t even occurred to you.

“Not very self-serving. So unlike a Celtigar.” Otto grins, not kindly at all. “Your terms are accepted.”

You begin. “The Greens possess great wealth, now split for safekeeping between Oldtown, Casterly Rock, and the Iron Bank of Braavos. But Rhaenyra’s funds are far more finite. My father has enriched her coffers in part with taxes placed upon houses of the Crownlands. You are always seeking new allies, people you can turn from her side to yours, Corlys Velaryon, the Dragonseeds. Thus far, you have been unsuccessful.” Otto frowns, but he is listening. “I know there are families who have compelling grievances concerning my father’s taxes. Families who have become disenchanted with Rhaenyra’s leadership…or lack thereof, they might say. Rosby, Stokeworth, Cave, Langward, Bourney, Boggs, Hardy, Chyttering. Probably others as well now. They occupy a tactically significant position, being so near to Dragonstone and Driftmark. And I believe if you wrote to them, they would answer.”

“I’ll send ravens,” Otto says. He marvels at you, like a puzzlingly strange creature, a luminescent fang-toothed fish from the depths of the ocean, a direwolf from beyond the Wall. “You don’t want your side to win this war?”

“I want the killing to stop. For both sides.”

“Well, you won’t get that. The bitch will never surrender. That hope died with little Luke Strong.” Otto glowers bitterly at where Aemond stands in the shadowy corner, but he addresses you. “That is your impression as well? She was entertaining the possibility of a truce before he died at Storm’s End?”

You steal a glimpse of Aemond, and you are struck by an unexpected stab of sympathy for him, compassion that feels like a betrayal of your knowledge of the torture he had planned for you. But what is there to say but the truth? “Rhaenyra was considering it very seriously. She and Daemon quarreled over the subject.”

“Of course they did.” Otto looks at Criston, then back to Aemond. “When are you leaving?”

“Soon,” Criston answers for the prince regent. “Very soon.”

“Not soon enough,” Otto spits like venom, and everyone else averts their eyes.

“My lord,” Larys intercedes. “There is one more matter to discuss, and I believe it will be of great interest to His Grace the king.”

Aegon is struggling to concentrate. He blinks groggily at the Master of Whisperers, his brow creased with pain. You smooth his damp, white-blond hair back from his face, threading his braid through your fingertips; you refill his wine cup and give it to him. When Aegon lifts it to his lips, his hands shake so badly he spills scarlet beads like blood down his chin. He wipes them away with his sleeve. Grand Maester Orwyle offers him a small glass bottle of milk of the poppy, but Aegon refuses it.

“Is he alright?” Daeron mutters to you.

“He’s fine. He’s tired, that’s all.”

“Waste no time, Lord Larys,” Aegon says. “I fear Grandsire’s ire has exhausted me. He’s more ferocious than a dragon. We should find a saddle that fits, perhaps Criston could ride him to the Riverlands.”

“Keep guzzling wine, I’m sure that will improve your condition,” Otto bites back.

Larys continues: “It concerns Rook’s Rest.”

Now he has everyone’s attention. “What about Rook’s Rest?” Aegon says. Instinctively, he’s begun twisting the golden dragon ring on his left hand.

“I received word one hour ago that the Blacks have retaken it.”

“What?!” Otto shouts; the rest of the table is in uproar. Criston stands and goes to conspire with Aemond in the corner of the council chamber, urgent indecipherable whispers.

“Sunfyre,” Aegon says frantically. “I have to go to him, I have to get him out—”

“He is already gone, Your Grace,” Larys replies.

“Gone…?”

“Lord Walys Mooton went down to the beach to slay the dragon once his men had taken the castle. He was burned alive.”

“Perfect,” Daeron says, beaming radiantly.

“Lord Mooton’s men fled for their lives, and when they returned, Sunfyre had disappeared. He could not be found anywhere in the vicinity of Rook’s Rest. Moreover, his footprints in the sand stopped abruptly. Which means he must have departed—”

“Into the water…?” Tyland Lannister says, perplexed.

“No,” Larys corrects him. “Into the sky.”

“Sunfyre is flying again?” Aegon asks, his face childlike, astonished.

“That’s impossible,” Criston says. “His wing was broken, I saw it.”

Larys drums his fingers on the tabletop. “I cannot conceive of any other explanation.”

“Then he’ll find me.” Aegon smiles. Sweat snakes down his temples; his face is white, bloodless, barren like the moon. “When Sunfyre is ready, he’ll find me and we’ll be together again.”

“Oh, thank the gods,” Otto exhales. “The Old, the New, that ghastly Drowned one…” He waves a hand at you. “And do you have any to add, Lady Celtigar? Some crab deity your traitorous people worship?”

“I regret to disappoint you, my lord. To my knowledge we have none.”

“Three useable dragons,” Otto says, mostly to himself. “Three is good. With three, we have a chance. And if I can recruit Vermithor or Silverwing…”

“I should go with you when you and Criston march north,” Daeron tells Aemond.

“No,” Aemond returns immediately.

“If you’re going after Daemon, you could use me,” Daeron insists. “Tessarion and I can help.”

“You are needed in the Reach with Lord Ormund Hightower.”

“You just want him all to yourself,” Daeron realizes, exasperated. “You want to be able to say that you were the person to neutralize the Blacks’ greatest asset, that you won the war—!”

Criston says: “He’s not going on some suicide mission chasing Daemon and Caraxes all over the Riverlands. He’s staying with me and the army. He’s using Vhagar logically, responsibly. Right, Aemond?”

“Of course,” Aemond answers, entirely toneless.

Otto whirls to Aegon. “And when will you be able to fight again? Soon, I hope. Surely the culmination of your existence is not one single instance of utility before lapsing back into being some drunken, idiot degenerate.”

In reply, Aegon moans and crumples to the floor. Grand Maester Orwyle and the men of the Kingsguard rush to him, but Criston gets there first; when you cannot rouse the king, Criston throws him over one shoulder—increasingly difficult with each pound Aegon gains, softness and health that you consider a great victory—and ferries him back to bed. As you follow after them, you hesitate in the doorway of the council chamber. Now that Criston is gone, Otto has crossed the room and pinned Aemond to the wall. His large hands, heavy with rings, are pressed to Aemond’s chest; his face is snarling, wicked, callous.

“You have to fix this. You have to end it.”

“I know,” Aemond replies softly.

“Everything that’s happened is your fault.”

“I know,” Aemond says again, then rips free from Otto’s grasp and flees the room.

~~~~~~~~~~

Two days later, Criston leads his army out of the city. They will meet reinforcements on the road between the capital and the Riverlands. There is infantry on foot and cavalry on horses; above them in a blue sky cluttered with vast, cottony clouds are Aemond and Vhagar. As they head north, Daeron and Tessarion fly south towards the Reach to rejoin Ormund Hightower and his men. In Winterfell, Cregan Stark is receiving word of where (and with whom) his betrothed currently resides. At Harrenhal, Daemon and Nettles are kindling rumors like dry wood in a fire. On Dragonstone, Rhaenyra is nursing her rage and paranoia like a hungry child, like a wounded man who has milk of the poppy poured down his throat. And you remain static here in King’s Landing, anchored, steadfast, something immoveable like the ocean or the shore it meets.

You can see Aegon’s bedchamber windows from the beach. You keep glancing up at them, though you know he won’t be there; the sunlight is too harsh today, the potential damage to his skin too great. In a month, he may be able to venture outside as he used to. In two or three, he might be able to fight again. He might be able to kill more than just one errant Norcross boy who dared to touch you.

“Helaena wouldn’t come down to join us?” you ask Autumn. You’re walking with her in the surf, the hems of your held aloft so the froth of the waves can wash over your ankles. Perhaps ten yards away and out of earshot, Alicent is kneeling in the sand and playing with Jaehaera and Maelor. They are her great comfort now; they are not the only purpose she has left, but they are the kindest. Their tiny hands are preoccupied with building a sandcastle and adorning it with seashells, pebbles, shards of driftwood, strings of seaweed like green ribbons. You’ve started to notice how much Jaehaera resembles Aegon, his murky blue eyes and his high cheekbones and his gentleness that no one else seems to recognize. You’ve started to see him everywhere you look.

Autumn shrugs, her face apologetic. Her hair is more than just copper in the afternoon daylight; it is fire, it is blood. “I really tried. You know how she is.”

“I’ll visit her afterwards.”

“She unnerves me,” Autumn says, stroking her round belly and shuddering. She earns her keep here by helping to look after Helaena, Jaehaera, and Maelor. Aegon treats Autumn the same way he treats his wife and children, which is to say he generally ignores her; on the rare occasion he is subjected to her presence for more than a fleeting moment, he becomes uneasy, irritable. Autumn does not appear to be offended. She says this is the best job she’s ever had. “She’s always muttering the strangest things. Caterpillars and crabs and dragons and only the gods know what else. Yesterday she told me not to dance with the half-year queen. What the fuck does that mean?”

“Helaena’s a bit different,” you admit.

“She’s inbred, that’s what she is. I can’t imagine what those kids are going to grow up to be like. A brother and sister for parents? It’s a wonder they don’t have feathers or tails.” Autumn taps the swell of her belly. “At least this one—if it’s a Targaryen after all—has had its bloodline thoroughly diluted.”

You watch her standing there in the fiery late-afternoon light, this body that has comforted, consoled, satisfied, suffered, known so many men. “What does it feel like?” you ask quietly.

“What? Being with child?”

“No, the…um…the act that led to it.”

“Oh, yes.” Autumn stretches with her hands on the small of her back and smiles vaguely, nostalgically. “That’s the strange thing. It can feel like heaven or hell or nothing at all. If the man knows what he’s doing, and cares enough to try, he can make it better for you.”

“Better how?”

She furrows her brow, shoots you a skeptical sideways glance. She is aware that you are inexperienced, but the extent of your blind spots continuously shock her. It occurs to you that perhaps naivety is a privilege; some cannot recall a time before they were acquainted with truths of the world that others consider forbidden. “You know. He’ll use his hands or his mouth to get you ready. Or better yet, both at once.”

“Ready,” you repeat, not understanding.

“Well, you see…” Autumn takes a moment to decide how best to explain. “Men change when they are aroused, yes? Women do the same. It takes longer, and it is not always so obvious. But it is vital. The more ready you are, the more comfortably he will fit inside you.”

“And what if he doesn’t get you ready? If he doesn’t have the skill, or he doesn’t believe it’s necessary, or he doesn’t even know that’s something women require?” Or he just wants to hurt you. He just wants to watch you bleed like something he goes into the woods to kill and gut and devour.

Autumn smirks cynically. “That depends.”

“On what?”

“The sizes involved. Some men are bigger than others, and women have different dimensions as well. Couples can be well-matched or not. Sometimes it isn’t too bad. Sometimes it feels like you’re being ripped apart. And that doesn’t necessarily stop after the first time either.”

“And you can’t say no.”

“You can say no all you want. But he doesn’t have to listen.”

You peer out over Blackwater Bay, sunbeams flashing on wave crests and gulls swooping in the reddening sky. But you don’t really see it. What you see are fingerprints of dirt or ash on your thighs, snow in your hair, books laden with dust, fur coats and evergreen trees, rust-stains of blood on bedsheets.

“I’ve heard that Lord Stark is a very large man,” Autumn nudges. She knows, everyone knows.

“He’s massive,” you say forlornly. “He’s taller than Aemond and twice as broad.”

“The king isn’t so big,” she says, pretending that the thought has just popped into her mind, as if she hasn’t noticed the way you and Aegon look at each other, speak to each other, find excuses to touch each other.

“No,” you agree in a whisper.

“And he’s not a brute. I can’t fairly speak to his skill, I never had him anywhere close to sober. But he has no appetite for women’s pain. That’s a valuable gem in a man, it’s like stumbling across a ruby or a pearl.”

You nod; but you don’t want to think about Autumn lying with Aegon. You don’t want to think about the child they might share. In a world so dark, it seems cruel to begrudge people creating life where none existed before. But when you picture Aegon touching someone else, that darkness seeps in through your skin like rain soaks the earth and can’t find its way out. “We’re going to the library together tomorrow, aren’t we?”

Autumn groans. “Did I agree to that? I don’t believe I did.”

She did not, this is true; you badgered, she deflected. “You’ll enjoy it.”

“I am illiterate.”

“I told you. I’ll teach you how to read.”

“Why would I want to stare at ink marks in a book all day when I could be outside in the sunshine listening to the ocean and herding inbred little freaks like sheep?”

“Because books can take you anywhere,” you say.

“I like where I am. I’ve never seen anyplace better.”

“Okay, Autumn,” you concede, smiling. “I’ll ask again tomorrow. Hopefully you’ll change your mind.”

“Say hello to Helaena for me,” she says, meandering back towards Alicent and the children. Her footprints in the sand are erased when the gurgling waves roll over them. “Maybe one of those fancy books can help you translate lunacy into the Common Tongue.”

Upstairs in her bedchamber, Helaena is standing in front of an open window. It doesn’t offer a view of the ocean; it is positioned over a courtyard of sandstone and chatting courtiers. Helaena does not seem to hear them. She gazes out into the sunset, celestial rage on her impassive face.

“He’s leaving soon,” she says, not turning to look at you.

“Who, Helaena? Aemond? He left days ago. He’s already gone, he’s on his way to the Riverlands. But he’ll be back soon.” You don’t know if that’s true—it probably isn’t, in fact—but you’re certain that Helaena misses him. Her children do too; he is more of a father to them than Aegon has ever been, not in body but in soul.

She only repeats: “He’s leaving soon.”

“Helaena, what—?”

“He’ll leave you. Then you’ll leave him. He’ll make you.”

At last, and very slowly, she revolves like the stripe of shadow across a sundial. In her cupped palms is a butterfly, shimmering gold wings and spiderlike black legs. It takes flight, flutters aimlessly through the vermillion air, escapes out the open window.

~~~~~~~~~~

A peculiar twist of fate: his palm on your forehead, his whispers through your hair. Now he is the one who has stolen into your bed when the moon and stars hang high in the darkness outside. There is a noise somewhere beyond him, disembodied and hazy, that reminds you of torrential rain: omnipresent, thunderous.

“Angel,” Aegon is saying. “Wake up. Please wake up. I have to go.”

Go? Go where? You murmur, still half-asleep: “You can’t leave.” He isn’t strong enough yet. He can’t fight, he can’t run.

“I have to. They’re here.”

“Who…?”

The answer comes from the sounds that you are only now awake enough to understand: screaming, pounding boots, slamming doors, the ravenous crackling of fire, the shrieking of dragons. You have learned all of their unearthly voices. That’s not Vhagar or Tessarion or Sunfyre or Dreamfyre… It flashes by your windows, a comet of gold and flames.

You bolt out of bed. “Rhaenyra—?!”

“Rhaenyra, Syrax, Daemon, Caraxes.”

Daemon shouldn’t be here. He should be losing battles to Aemond and Criston. “But he’s at Harrenhal!”

“Not anymore.” Aegon takes your hand and pulls you out into the hallway, the hem of your nightgown billowing around your legs, his short silver hair flying behind him. There are servants and guards rushing by you, weeping, shouting, searching for places to hide. Grand Maester Orwyle ambles towards the rookery to send out ravens. Several rooms away, you can hear Helaena wailing and Autumn trying to soothe her. Larys Strong intercepts Aegon and gives him a hooded cloak; Aegon yanks it over his bare, mutilated chest, whimpering as the rapid movement strains the red-and-ivory disarray of scar tissue that used to be his skin. “You have everything?” he asks Larys hoarsely. You notice now that the Master of Whisperers has a satchel slung over one shoulder.

“Yes, Your Grace. Milk of the poppy, rose oil, the crown.”

“Wine?”

Larys produces a bottle. Aegon gulps down half of it, then passes the rest to you. You hesitate before finishing the wine, red like the sigil of House Celtigar, like fire, like blood. “They are closing all roads out of the city,” Larys tells Aegon, speaking swiftly. “King’s Landing will be taken. We will surrender. We cannot fight a dragon, let alone two.”

“Aemond and Criston—?”

“Daemon must have outflanked them.”

Aegon grabs your hand again and does not let go as he trails Larys through corridors and down claustrophobically tight spiral staircases. “The roads are blocked,” Aegon explains to you breathlessly. “But there are secret passageways beneath the castle. I know them. Larys knows them. Daemon probably knows them too, but he has other places to be.”

And through a window of a staircase, you see him: Caraxes spiraled around the apex of the Tower of the Hand, screaming fire into the sky before descending the length of the tower towards the hoards of hysterical courtiers fleeing below, his claws jostling loose bricks that rain down on them.

The bottom of the stairwell opens up into a large, dusty, dirt-floored chamber with stone tunnels leading in every direction like spokes of a wheel. Alicent is there, sobbing wildly, and so is Otto. Otto is telling Jaehaera that she must be a brave little girl and go with Sir Willis Fell. Alicent is giving Maelor over to Sir Rickard Thorne, your once-alleged-kinfolk. The child is panicked and crying, flushed face and white hair. Aegon glances at the scene and then keeps moving, towing you along with him.

“Princess Jaehaera will go to Storm’s End,” Larys says. “Prince Maelor will go to Oldtown. They face execution if they stay. We must risk smuggling them out of the city.”

“What about Aegon?” you ask as the three of you hasten into a corridor thick with cobwebs and illuminated by torchlight. The stone ceiling is arched and perhaps seven feet tall; faintly, you can still hear the muffled turmoil of King’s Landing falling to Rhaenyra and Daemon.

“I’m going Dragonstone.” And it does not elude you that he didn’t say we. “If Rhaenyra is here, that likely means Dragonstone is vacant. I will go to the Crownlands families that you believe to be willing to betray her and beg them for support. I will take Dragonstone and prepare a counterassault from there. Hopefully Sunfyre will find me. Hopefully I’m not killed on the way.”

“Okay,” you say. “I’m going too.”

“You’re staying in King’s Landing.”

“No.” You stop dead, wrenching your hand out of Aegon’s. “No, what if you get hurt, or sick, or what if you get really bad again—?!”

“Listen!” he shouts with dire intensity, his eyes wide and pleading in the torchlight. “I can’t protect you. I can’t even protect myself. There could be bandits on the road, there could be Black soldiers, there could be animals, there could be fucking anything. I can’t take you with me. I don’t know if I’ll be able to get to Dragonstone. But I know if I stay here Rhaenyra will murder me. I don’t have a choice. I have one option, and it’s not good. But you’ll be safe in King’s Landing.”

“Aegon, no—”

“The Blacks don’t think you’re here by choice. They think I’ve imprisoned you. Tell them that’s what happened and they will welcome you back. Your family will protect you.”

“Aegon, please don’t—”

His palm on your cheek, his braid coming unraveled in his hair. “You will wait out the war with them. And when it’s over I’ll find you.” Tears glistening in his eyes, his voice going soft and tender. “If I’m still alive, I’ll find you. I swear to all the gods I will.”

He’s leaving. He’s really leaving. “What can I do?” you ask, your words strangled; your throat is burning, your eyes wet. “What can I do to help you?”

And you expect him to say things you already know: Don’t tell anyone where I’ve gone. Don’t tell anyone what you’ve heard in the Greens’ council meetings. Instead, Aegon grins as he says: “Try to get one of your three superfluous sisters to seduce Cregan Stark.”

You laugh, the sound echoing off ancient, filthy stones.

“My mother and Otto are waiting for you. You will be with them when they are taken to Rhaenyra. They are high-ranking prisoners of war, they will be spared the brutality of the Black soldiers and so will you. They will corroborate that you were my captive.”

“I understand.”

“I have to go now,” Aegon says like an apology, swiping tears from your face with his thumbs. He breaks away from you and follows Larys Strong down the tunnel. They are shadows under the torchlight, cloaks and whispers.

“Aegon,” you call after him, and he stops. I never told you what I wanted. I never told you what I feel for you. “What if I never see you again?”

You don’t know what you want him to do or say. There’s nothing that could make this right. But he soars back to you, takes you roughly and desperately, buries his hands in your hair and kisses you deeply, tasting like wine and heat and the smoke filling the world outside. He means for it to be quick, but he can’t stop. His tongue darts between your lips, his hips press to yours, you arch into him wanting more, infinitely more.

What was I so afraid of? you think dizzily. How could I be afraid of anything with him?

“Your Grace,” Larys appeals regretfully. “Please. We don’t have much time.”

Aegon twists off his dragon ring—gold wings, jade eyes—and slips it onto your left hand. And you’re still staring down at it, mystified, as Aegon disentangles himself from you and vanishes into the darkness.

[midnight-shadow-cafe]

The Knight and the Princess

Pairing:Eddie Munson x Reader

AU: Knight Eddie x Princess reader

Warnings: There is fighting in here, Eddie and the Princess flirting (I can’t think of anything else)

Authors Note: I hope you enjoy, I need Eddie so bad rn- I’m on my knees for this man fr fr

Word Count: 3k

Masterlist

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

The kingdom of Avarath rarely saw tournaments of this magnitude. This year, the royal family had issued a unique challenge: the winner would earn not just glory but the title of the Princess’s champion. The kingdom’s best knights, nobles, and warriors flocked to the castle, ready to prove their worth.

Eddie Munson, however, was an outlier. A knight in name but not in rank, he was a scrappy underdog who had fought tooth and nail to get here. His armor, mismatched and dented, was salvaged over years of work. His sword had a chipped edge, though it was reliable enough to see him through battle. To him, this wasn’t about fame or riches.

It was about you.

The sun was high in the sky as the tournament field buzzed with activity. The air carried the metallic tang of swords clashing, the earthy scent of trampled grass, and the occasional waft of roasted meats from the vendor stalls. You sat on the royal dais, your seat elevated to provide a clear view of the matches below. Around you, noblemen and courtiers murmured their opinions on the day’s competitors, but your attention was fixed on the next challenger being announced.

“Sir Edward Munson of Avarath!”

Your eyes scanned the field as a lanky figure emerged from the competitors’ tent. Unlike the polished knights before him, Eddie’s appearance was unconventional. His armor was a patchwork of different styles and metals, dented in places and scuffed in others. His dark curls peeked out from beneath his helmet, and there was an almost mischievous energy to the way he carried himself.

Beside you, one of the courtiers scoffed. “A commoner. How quaint.”

You ignored the comment, leaning forward slightly as Eddie approached the center of the ring. His opponent, Sir Alaric, was everything Eddie was not—broad-shouldered, gleaming in freshly polished plate armor, and exuding the kind of arrogance that came from noble birth.

The horn sounded, signaling the start of the match.

At first, the fight seemed one-sided. Alaric charged forward, swinging his heavy sword in a series of powerful strikes. Eddie dodged, his movements quick and deliberate, as though he were playing a game of cat and mouse. Where Alaric relied on brute strength, Eddie fought with agility and precision, exploiting his opponent’s predictable rhythm.

You watched, transfixed, as Eddie darted out of the way of a particularly heavy swing, spinning behind Alaric and landing a sharp blow to the back of his armor. The crowd gasped, then erupted into cheers as Alaric stumbled.

“That’s unexpected,” you murmured, a smile tugging at your lips.

Eddie’s unorthodox style was unlike anything you’d seen before. He used his smaller frame to his advantage, weaving around Alaric’s cumbersome movements and striking at opportune moments. Despite the disparity in their armor and weaponry, Eddie was winning—not through force, but through sheer wit and strategy.

When he finally disarmed Alaric with a deft twist of his sword, the crowd exploded into applause. Alaric fell to his knees, panting and glaring at Eddie, who stood over him with an almost sheepish grin.

Eddie extended a hand to his fallen opponent, helping him to his feet. The gesture earned a few chuckles from the crowd and, to your surprise, a faint smile from Alaric himself.

As Eddie turned to leave the field, his gaze flickered upward, and for the briefest moment, your eyes met. You saw the spark of surprise in his expression, followed by something softer, more vulnerable. He quickly averted his gaze, bowing deeply toward the dais before walking back to his corner.

“Interesting,” you said aloud, drawing curious glances from those around you.

“What is?” asked one of the noblewomen seated nearby.

You shook your head, smiling faintly. “Nothing. Just… unexpected talent.”

As the next match was announced, you found your thoughts drifting back to Eddie Munson and the cleverness with which he’d fought. Later that evening, as the courtiers discussed their favorite knights over dinner, you instructed your attendant to deliver a note to him.

The tournament had ended for the day, leaving behind an eerie quiet over the once-bustling grounds. The sky was painted in hues of orange and pink as the sun dipped lower on the horizon. You had dismissed your attendants for the evening, longing for solitude and a reprieve from the endless chatter of the court. Your steps led you to the castle’s gardens, where blooming flowers filled the air with their fragrance.

As you rounded a corner near the training grounds, you spotted Eddie Munson. He was seated beneath a sprawling oak tree, the shadows of its branches dancing across his battered armor, which he had set aside beside him. In his lap rested a well-worn sketchbook, the corners frayed from use, and in his hand, a piece of charcoal hovered over the page.

You paused, observing him for a moment. His brow was furrowed in concentration, his fingers smudged with charcoal. The way he tilted his head as he studied his work made you smile. For someone who fought with such ferocity, there was an unexpected gentleness in the way he handled the page.

The crunch of gravel underfoot gave you away, and Eddie’s head shot up, his dark eyes wide with surprise. He scrambled to stand, nearly dropping his sketchbook in the process.

“Your Highness,” he stammered, bowing awkwardly. His wild curls bobbed as he dipped low, and a nervous grin tugged at the corners of his lips. “I—uh—wasn’t expecting company.”

You chuckled softly, motioning for him to sit. “Please, don’t let me disturb you.”

Eddie hesitated, glancing at the guards who stood a respectful distance away, before settling back onto the ground. You lowered yourself to the grass across from him, smoothing your gown as you sat.

“Do you always sketch after a fight?” you asked, curiosity evident in your tone.

Eddie shrugged, his fingers tightening around the charcoal. “It helps me unwind, I guess. Clears my head after all the chaos.”

Your gaze drifted to the sketchbook. “May I see?”

He hesitated, biting his lower lip as though debating whether to say yes. Finally, with a resigned sigh, he handed it over.

The pages were filled with sketches—knights locked in battle, the castle’s towering spires, and fleeting glimpses of the crowd. Each drawing was rough but brimming with life and emotion. One sketch, in particular, caught your eye. It was of the royal dais, with a faint outline of a figure seated at its center. Though unfinished, it was unmistakably you.

“This is remarkable,” you said, your voice soft as you traced the lines with your gaze.

Eddie’s cheeks flushed. “It’s nothing fancy. Just some scribbles.”

You looked up, meeting his eyes. “It’s more than that. You’ve captured the heart of the moment. It’s a gift, Eddie.”

The sound of his name on your lips seemed to startle him. He cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thanks. That means a lot, coming from you.”

You handed the sketchbook back to him, your fingers brushing briefly against his. “Have you ever painted?”

He tilted his head, intrigued by the question. “Once or twice. Why?”

“I’d like you to paint something for me,” you said, a playful smile gracing your lips. “If you win the tournament, of course.”

Eddie’s eyebrows shot up. “You want me to paint? What?”

“Something that shows me how you see the world,” you replied simply.

For a moment, he was silent, his expression unreadable. Then, a slow, crooked smile spread across his face. “Alright, Your Highness. If I win, I’ll paint you something. But only if you promise to tell me if it’s terrible.”

You laughed, the sound light and genuine. “Deal.”

As the last rays of sunlight disappeared, painting the sky in twilight blues, you realized how natural it felt to sit here with Eddie, sharing quiet moments amidst the chaos of the tournament. For the first time in days, you felt at ease.

And for Eddie, the Princess was no longer an unattainable figure on a pedestal. You were real, tangible, and more captivating than he had ever imagined.

The sun burned high above the tournament grounds, the sky a vibrant blue streaked with faint wisps of white clouds. The crowd’s energy was electric, a sea of nobles, commoners, and courtiers packed into the stands. This was the moment everyone had been waiting for: the final match.

The announcer’s voice boomed across the grounds, silencing the chatter. “For the honor of being named the Princess’s champion, Sir Edward Munson of Avarath will face Sir Gareth of Highmoor!”

The crowd erupted into cheers as Sir Gareth strode onto the field. A towering figure clad in gleaming steel, Gareth carried himself with the confidence of someone who had never known defeat. His crimson cloak flowed dramatically behind him, and his massive broadsword reflected the sunlight, blinding anyone who dared look too long.

Eddie Munson followed shortly after, his armor a stark contrast to Gareth’s pristine regalia. Mismatched and battered, it told the story of a knight who fought his way to this stage, piece by piece, against the odds. His expression was focused, determined, though the faintest hint of a smirk played on his lips as he surveyed the crowd. He turned briefly to glance at the royal dais. Your gaze met his, and you offered the smallest nod of encouragement.

The horn sounded, signaling the start of the match.

Gareth wasted no time, charging forward with the force of a battering ram. His broadsword came down in a wide arc, aiming to end the fight quickly. Eddie barely managed to sidestep, the ground shaking beneath Gareth’s strike.

The crowd gasped as Eddie spun out of reach, his lighter frame giving him the speed to evade Gareth’s relentless blows. He countered with swift strikes, his sword aiming for the gaps in Gareth’s armor. Each clash of metal against metal sent vibrations through the air, the sound echoing across the field.

“Fight like a real knight, boy!” Gareth taunted, his deep voice carrying over the din of the crowd.

Eddie grinned, dodging another swing. “Sorry, I left my shiny armor at home.”

The quip earned a few chuckles from the audience, but Gareth’s expression darkened. He lunged forward, attempting to overpower Eddie with sheer force. For a moment, it seemed as though Gareth’s strength might win out; Eddie staggered under the weight of Gareth’s blows, his footing faltering.

From the dais, you leaned forward in your seat, gripping the edge of your throne. Your heart raced with every near miss, every clash of swords.

Eddie recovered quickly, using Gareth’s momentum against him. With a quick sidestep and a twist of his blade, Eddie struck Gareth’s shoulder, the blow leaving a visible dent in the polished steel. Gareth stumbled, growling in frustration.

The match became a test of endurance. Sweat dripped down Eddie’s brow as he dodged another crushing strike, his movements becoming more deliberate as the fight wore on. Gareth’s heavy swings slowed, his breathing labored under the weight of his armor.

Eddie saw his opening.

As Gareth raised his sword for another powerful strike, Eddie lunged forward, using his smaller blade to hook the broadsword and twist it from Gareth’s grasp. The larger knight staggered back, stunned, as his weapon clattered to the ground.

The crowd erupted in cheers, the sound deafening.

Eddie didn’t stop there. He stepped forward, his sword leveled at Gareth’s chest. For a moment, time seemed to freeze. Gareth glared at him, his pride wounded, but he raised his hands in surrender.

The match was over. Eddie Munson was victorious.

Eddie fell to one knee, his chest heaving as he planted his sword into the ground for support. His dark curls clung to his damp face, and his mismatched armor was scuffed and battered. Despite his exhaustion, a triumphant grin spread across his lips.

The announcer’s voice rang out once more. “The Princess’s champion: Sir Edward Munson of Avarath!”

The crowd roared, chanting Eddie’s name as he pushed himself to his feet.

You descended the steps from the royal dais, your gown flowing like water behind you. The noise of the crowd dimmed as all eyes turned to you.

Eddie’s grin faltered as you approached, replaced by an almost nervous expression. He dropped his gaze, lowering himself onto one knee in a gesture of respect. “Your Highness.”

You stopped before him, your voice steady despite the warmth rising in your chest. “Sir Munson, you have proven yourself worthy of this honor. You fought bravely and with great skill.”

Eddie glanced up, his dark eyes meeting yours. “Does this mean I get to paint for you?” he asked, his lips twitching into a smirk despite his exhaustion.

The question caught you off guard, and a laugh escaped your lips, ringing clear above the murmurs of the crowd.

“Yes,” you said, smiling warmly. “You’ve earned it.”

The sun hung low in the sky, casting a golden glow over the castle gardens. The late afternoon light filtered through the trees, dappling the ground with patches of warm light and cool shadow. A gentle breeze stirred the leaves, carrying the soft scents of blooming flowers. It was the perfect day, you had decided, for Eddie to begin the painting he had promised after his victory.

You had chosen a secluded corner of the garden for the session—a place far from the prying eyes of the court. Eddie was already there when you arrived, setting up his makeshift easel and unpacking a small satchel filled with paints and brushes. His back was turned to you, his movements careful and precise as he mixed pigments on a wooden palette.

He looked different without his armor. Clad in a loose linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and simple breeches tucked into scuffed boots, Eddie seemed more at ease, though his fingers betrayed his nervousness as they fidgeted with the palette knife.

When he noticed your approach, he straightened and turned, a smile spreading across his face. “Your Highness,” he said with a dramatic bow, his curls falling into his eyes. “Ready to be immortalized in paint?”

You laughed softly, smoothing your gown as you sat on the low stone bench he had set up for you. “As ready as I’ll ever be. But are you sure you’re up to the task?”

His grin widened, his confidence bubbling to the surface. “Doubt me already? You wound me, Princess.”

With a flourish, he gestured for you to sit however you liked. After some playful back-and-forth about whether you should appear regal or casual, you decided on something in between—sitting on the bench with one leg crossed over the other, your hands resting lightly in your lap.

Eddie stepped back, squinting at you like a true artist sizing up his subject. “Perfect,” he said after a moment, his tone softer.

Then, he got to work.

At first, there was a comfortable silence as Eddie focused on his task. The only sounds were the occasional chirping of birds and the faint rustle of leaves in the breeze. You watched him work, captivated by the intensity in his expression. His dark brows furrowed in concentration, and his tongue peeked out slightly as he dragged the brush across the canvas.

The tension in his shoulders eased as he fell into the rhythm of painting, and he began to hum a tune under his breath—a melody you didn’t recognize but found yourself liking.

“What are you humming?” you asked, breaking the silence.

Eddie glanced up, his brush pausing mid-stroke. “Oh, just something I made up. Helps me focus.”

You smiled, tilting your head. “I didn’t know knights were also musicians.”

“Knights?” he scoffed, dipping his brush into a vivid blue pigment. “I’m barely a knight. I’m just a guy who happens to be good with a sword—and, apparently, a paintbrush.”

“You’re far more than that,” you said softly, your gaze steady. “You’ve shown courage, skill, and heart. That’s what makes you worthy.”

The compliment caught him off guard. His hand faltered slightly, leaving a streak of paint on the canvas that made him grimace. “Careful, Your Highness. Keep saying things like that, and I’ll start thinking I belong here.”

“You do,” you said firmly.

Eddie’s eyes flicked up to meet yours, and for a moment, the air between you seemed to still. There was something vulnerable in his expression, as though he wasn’t used to being seen—truly seen.

The hours slipped by as he painted, the canvas gradually coming to life. As the sun dipped lower, Eddie stood back, rubbing his chin with a smudge of green paint as he surveyed his work.

“Well?” you prompted, rising from your seat and stepping closer. “Do I get to see it?”

Eddie hesitated, shielding the canvas with his body. “It’s not finished yet,” he warned.

“I’ll take my chances,” you teased, peeking around him.

The painting took your breath away.

Eddie had captured not just your likeness but something deeper. The warmth of the light, the softness of your posture, and the spark in your eyes—all of it was there. The background was a swirl of vibrant colors, blending the golden glow of the sun with the lush greens of the garden. It wasn’t just a portrait; it was a celebration of the moment, alive with energy and emotion.

“It’s beautiful,” you whispered, your voice almost reverent.

Eddie’s cheeks turned pink, and he scratched the back of his neck. “It’s not perfect. I still need to work on the details.”

“It’s perfect,” you insisted, turning to him with a smile.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The fading sunlight bathed you both in a soft, golden light, and the world seemed to shrink until it was just the two of you, standing together before the canvas.

“Thank you, Eddie,” you said finally, your voice filled with genuine warmth.

He grinned, his usual bravado returning. “Don’t thank me yet, Princess. You haven’t seen the one I’m painting for myself.”

“Oh?” you asked, raising an eyebrow. “And what’s that one of?”

Eddie leaned in slightly, his voice low and teasing. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

You laughed, the sound echoing through the garden as the first stars began to appear in the darkening sky.

Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting. -Midnight💜

[maledictusfotum]

Heya I saw you like Severitus too 😁😁

(I noticed it after your amazing little Fanart of Obscured and it's so beautiful and sad at the same time 🥺😭😭 do you have others favorite chapters of this fanfic?)

But I'm curious 👀

Have you a favorite Severitus fanfics list 👀 ?

first off, thank you <3 I love Obscured all the way through, my all time favorite chapters would be chapters 18 and 19 respectively and chapter 5 though mainly for the hurt/comfort, drama, angst and just brilliant writing I am glad you asked about my severitus favorites because I have a comprehensive list of all my favorite Severitus fics and have had them lined up for my weekly rereads and now I get to share them...this is my moment this is not a "oh this fic is on this number because its better than the others" because to me, most of these fics are as good as the other and each deserve their own respect for good writing and storylines :) there's no real organization to this it just is so lets get down to it 1. Like None Other series-this series always makes it onto the Severitus fic recs but im adding it too because I adore it sm. mainly for the magic lore and Harry growth and generally just some good fucking Severitus and ofc im a stickler for Draco being thrown into that dynamic as well so. yes, lovely series 2. A Patchwork Family-there is no universe where this fic doesn't make it to this list, the Severitus, the childhood trauma, the ptsd healing, the emotional hurt/comfort...I enjoy the first one immensely and am so so so hyped for the sequel and just from the first chapter im even more ecstatic bc now we incorporate MORE trauma and yes I could yap forever about this 3. Obscured-do I have to even explain why this is on here. you have no idea how much this fic inspired my hyper fixation on Obscurials...no, I had not watched Fantastic Beasts before reading this fic, but I definitely did after and I woke everyone up screaming every time Credence made an appearance...the ADHD is strong in me. anyway this fic's writing is so damn good its like eating a hot meal or a full night of sleep its so satisfying for me personally, and the author is also a Six of Crows fan and I can glean the inspiration and when have I ever been denied the joys of Grishaverse writing. NEVER 4. Digging for Bones-okay so this fic??? its dark. its sometimes a bit TOO dark, but I enjoy it nonetheless, its always gotten quite a few tears from me...AND it includes magic lore, so I obviously was all over that. the Severitus is good, this whole fic radiates rainy day vibes and is just generally nice despite the morose energy 5. O Mine Enemy-this was one of my first glimpses into Severitus and...it's just lovely. a lovely fic, a lovely time all around, I enjoy it immensely every time I read it, the hurt/comfort is amazing and the Severitus is delicious here. the writing style is super satisfying to me and its just a good time all around (I had to split this in two bc my computer is being odd)

[anyca786]

"I WON'T LET ANYTHING HAPPEN TO YOU OR OUR CHILD"

Daemon Targaryen x sister/aunt!Targaryen x Rhaenyra Targaryen

WARNINGS: canon typical incest/targcest (brother & sister &niece) poly relationship, family drama, fluff, mention of pregnancy.

Series

The wind whipped through Daenys' hair as she soared through the sky, Nyx's powerful wings carrying her towards King's Landing. The world below was a patchwork quilt of greens and blues, the vast expanse of ocean contrasting with the lush forests.

Nyx's roars echoed through the sky, a unique sound that set her apart from other dragons. Daenys smiled, recalling all playful rivalry between Nyx and her husband's dragon, Caraxes, and her wife's young dragon, Syrax, their unique roars often echoing across the skies of Dragonstone.

As she neared the city, she could feel the anticipation growing within her. She wondered how her brother, Viserys, would react to her return. Would he be angry, or would he finally forgive her for marrying Daemon and Rhaenyra?

She landed Nyx in the dragon pit, the great beast settling with a contented sigh. Daenys dismounted, patting Nyx and bidding her goodbye.

As she walked in, the palace was abuzz with activity, the scent of food and wine filling the air. The court lined with people, preparing to celebrate the wedding of the King's firstborn male.

As she entered the throne room, the guards announced her arrival. "Princess Daenys Targaryen has arrived!"

A rush of emotions flooded through her as she stepped into the familiar halls, but soon disappointment takes over as she finds the throne empty. Where is Viserys?

"Princess", Otto Hightower called from behind, startling Daenys. She turned to face him, a forced smile playing or her lips.

"Otto," she acknowledged, "Where is my lovely brother?" she asked.

"His Grace was not feeling well this morning, Princess," Otto replied, his tone somber. Daenys' heart sank. She remembered the last time she saw Viserys, he had looked frail.

"Where is he? I want to see him," she insisted.

'Come, I'Il take you to his chamber," Otto offered

As they walked down the hallway, Otto attempted to make small talk. "You still look delightful, Princess. Its a shame you displayed such poor judgment in choosing partners," he remarked bitterly.

Daenys rolled her eyes, "Some people prefer passion, which you're not familiar with, over politics," she retorted.

When they reached Viserys chamber, he was sitting up in bed, his face pale and gaunt.

"Vis," Daenys called softly.

Viserys raised his head, a weak smile gracing his lips. "Sister," he greeted her. "You came," he said, his voice barely a whisper.

Daenys walked over to him, cupping his face gently. "Of course I did," she replied, her voice filled with concern.

"What happened?" she asked, her eyes scanning his face.

Viserys chuckled weakly. "Don't worry, sister, I'm just getting old."

"Don't be ridiculous, you're not old yet," she protested.

Viserys chuckled again, "Come, sit with me," his gaze filled with love.

'Your Grace," Otto interrupted, "The wedding starts soon,".

"I'Il be there with my sister," Viserys replied. "You are dismissed, Otto"

Once Otto left, Viserys turned back to Daenys. "You haven't aged a day. In fact, you look more youthful," he commented.

Daenys laughed.

"How is Daemon and Rhaenyra?" Viserys asked.

"They're doing well, brother," she replied, biting her lip nervously. "Are you upset with me?" she asked softly.

"Yes," Viserys admitted.

Daenys's face fell but he continued, "I was upset at first, but then I realised that they both need you," he said, "only you can keep Daemon and Rhaenyra grounded"

"They are indeed, both very stubborn," Daenys complained.

"Well, it is in the blood," Viserys smiled at her.

Suddenly, the doors swung open, revealing Alicent, dressed in a stunning gown, ready for her firstborn's wedding. Her expression shifted from surprise to a forced smile as she saw Daenys.

"Husband," Alicent greeted Viserys, then turned to Daenys. "Princess, It's a joy to see you."

Daenys remembered their last encounter. A flicker of resentment passed through her as she replied, "Alicent, Good to see you too." She unconsciously touched the scar on her neck, a reminder of the near-fatal attack.

Alicent noticed and as if guilty awkwardly said, "Everything is prepared," to Viserys.

A groan escaped his mouth due to pain, Viserys, with Daenys's assistance, rose from the bed and began to walk towards the throne room.

As they walked, Daenys couldn't help but notice the toll the recent events had taken on Viserys. She watched as his once vibrant spirit seemed dimmed, his body frail. She have always looked up to him, more like her father figure and it pains her seeing him like this.

🥀

The wedding was a grand, a spectacle of wealth and power.

Yet, amidst the festivities, a sense of unease hung in the air. Aegon seemed disinterested and least bothered, his gaze often drifting off into the distance, eyes disturbingly preying over other girls. Helaena, on the other hand, radiated an ethereal beauty, her innocence a contrast to the political intrigue that surrounded her.

Daenys, wandering through the hall for food, found herself drawn to the unusual food combinations again. This time, she selected a dish of salted fish and added fermented sweet plums on it.

"Looks gross," a voice sneered from behind her.

Daenys turned to see Aemond, Viserys's younger son.

"Smells delicious to me," she retorted, her gaze unwavering. She found a secluded table and sat down, her legs already feeling weary.

Aemond followed her, a smirk playing on his lips. "You know, I've always admired you," he said. "Father used to tell us stories of your childhood, how you were his favorite, the most rebellious, brave, and beautiful. And how my uncle was always so protective of you."

"I've also always envied you in a way," he confessed.

"I'm sure Viserys loves all his children equally, and holds love for them more than he does for me," Daenys replied, trying to comfort him.

"He's not the same anymore," Aemond said, his voice filled with bitterness. "Not after his precious Rhaenyra cut him off."

Daenys remained silent, knowing the truth behind his words. Viserys did have a soft corner for Rhaenyra, his only child with Aemma, the love of his life.

"Why did you blame it on Aegon that day?" she asked, putting down her plate and changing the matter of conversation.

Aemond hesitated.

"I didn't want to get humiliated in front of you."

Daenys's heart softened. "If you had owned up to your mistake, I would have respected you more," she said.

"But it was no mistake! ," Aemond argued. "Rhaenyra's sons are not trueborn."

"Rhaenyra is the heir, and her sons have just as much Targaryen blood as you," Daenys countered.

"But she's a woman," Aemond insisted.

"And?" Daenys replied, her voice sharp.

"No woman ever s-"

Daenys sighed, "Enough, boy. You're giving me a headache," she said, her patience wearing thin.

Aemond hung his head.

Daenys sighed, feeling a surge of pity, "Do you want to fly out?" she proposed, also wanting to see Vhagar, her Laena's beloved companion.

Aemond's face lit up. "If you insist, I'd race you with but know that I'd win," he boasted.

"We'll see about that," Daenys challenged, a playful glint in her eye.

🥀

Daenys doubled over, vomiting for the fourth time. Daemon's face hardened as he watched her suffer. "They have poisoned her," he muttered, his voice low and dangerous.

Rhaenyra rushed to her side, gently rubbing her back. "Are you alright, my love?" she asked, concern etched on her face.

"I think it's just the salted fish with fermented sweet plums," Daenys managed to say, wiping her mouth with a cloth Rhaenyra offered. Daemon cringed internally at the thought of such a bizarre combination.

"Daemon wouldn't admit it, but we've missed you," Rhaenyra confessed, her voice soft.

"I was only gone for a day," Daenys chuckled, trying to lighten the mood.

"Too long," Daemon muttered under his breath.

Suddenly, Daenys felt a wave of dizziness. "I need to sit," she gasped, her vision blurring.

Rhaenyra called for a maester, her voice filled with worry. Before the maester could arrive, Daemon scooped Daenys into his arms, her face pale and carried her to bed.

When the maester examined Daenys, gently running his hand over her stomach. His brow furrowed. "The Princess is with child," he announced.

Daenys's eyes widened in shock. She couldn't believe it. Fear and uncertainty washed over her. "I can't be a mother, Daemon," she whispered, her voice trembling. "What if... what if I..."

Daemon sat beside her, his hand gently stroking her hair. "Nothing will happen to you," he assured her. "I won't allow it."

"I'm afraid," Daenys confessed.

Rhaenyra took Daenys' hand. "I won't let anything happen to you or our child," she vowed, highlighting our.

"But I'm not ready," Daenys protested. "What if I cannot be a good mother."

"You'll be the best mother, my love," Rhaenyra insisted. "You already are so kind to my sons and Daemon's daughters."

Daenys sighed this was all too much for her, a part of her always wanted to be a mother, to carry Daemon's child in her womb. A child out of love, a Targaryen child. Maybe a daughter with Daemon's temper or a son with her subtle kindness.

Daemon leaned down and kissed her forehead. "Rest now," he said. "We'll talk about this later."

He stood up and placed a loving hand on Rhaenyra's swollen belly, "You too" he said.

Then, he left the room, his heart a mixture of joy as well as worry.

Rhaenyra turned to Daenys,

"Lay with me, Nyra," Daenys offered.

Rhaenyra nodded and climbed into bed beside her. She smiled and snuggled closer to her, and as for Daenys, a sense of peace washed over her.

A/N: Boring filler chapter. Not my best :(( Having a writer's block :(

Gimme suggestions in the request box😔

[that-one-ostrich-friend]

Delicate Part VII

sirius black x reader - delicate part vii

word count: 2k

link to part viii

summary: this is part vii of a sirius black x ravenclaw!reader series. a slow burn romance with platonic remus x reader and maybe some flirtatious remus x reader if you squint a lot lol

warnings: y/n is from ravenclaw (not sure if that’s even a needed warning) so sorry if that’s not your house

a/n: wow. preparing for finals is a bitch

     The Potters’ house was as warm and inviting as Y/n had imagined, filled with the scent of pine and the faint aroma of something delicious wafting from the kitchen. Y/n followed Lily through the hallways, taking in the cozy décor and the magical family photos that waved from their frames.

     “This is us,” Lily said, opening the door to a guest room. The space was snug, with two single beds dressed in soft, patchwork quilts. A window looked out onto the snow-covered garden, and a faint scent of lavender lingered in the air.

     Y/n placed her bag down by one of the beds. “It’s lovely.”

     “Better than James’s room, I’ll tell you that much,” Lily said with a laugh, sitting on the edge of her bed. “The boys are already turning it into a disaster zone. Four of them crammed into one room? Chaos.”

     Y/n smiled as she hung her cloak on a nearby hook. “Aren’t they using the extra mattresses?”

     “They brought them in, but I doubt they’ll bother. Honestly, they’ll probably end up all squished together on James’s bed. It’s happened before.”

     Y/n chuckled at the mental image. “That sounds about right.” She hesitated before picking up the scarf draped across her bed. “I should return this to Remus. He was kind to lend it to me.”

     Lily stood, brushing off her skirt. “I’ll show you where James’s room is. Come on, it’s right down the hall.”

     The hallway was quiet except for the faint murmur of voices coming from behind a partially closed door. Lily gestured toward the bathroom as they passed. “That’s the loo. Fair warning, if Sirius gets there first, we’ll be waiting forever. He has this whole hair routine he refuses to skip.”

     Y/n laughed softly. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

     Lily knocked lightly on the door to James’s room before pushing it open. Inside, the scene was just as chaotic as she’d described. James lounged on his bed, gesturing animatedly as he told a story. Peter sat cross-legged on one of the extra mattresses, snorting with laughter. Remus leaned against the wall, his arms crossed, chiming in with occasional quips that made Peter laugh even harder.

     And then there was Sirius. He was sprawled on the bed beside James, one arm propped behind his head. For the first time all day, he looked genuinely relaxed, a lazy grin spread across his face.

     “Look who finally decided to join us,” James announced, his hazel eyes lighting up as he spotted Lily and Y/n.

    “Did you two get lost?” Sirius teased, his gray eyes flicking to Y/n briefly before returning to Lily.

     “Very funny,” Lily said, rolling her eyes. “We’re perfectly capable of finding our way around.”

     “Not sure about that,” James said with a smirk. “Y/n’s a Ravenclaw, after all. They’re not known for their sense of direction.”

     “That’s Hufflepuffs, you git,” Remus said, giving James a playful shove.

     “Same difference!” James shot back, grinning.

     Y/n stepped closer, holding out the scarf to Remus. “Here. Thank you for lending it to me. It’s saved me more than once now.”

     Remus took it with a warm smile. “No problem. But you know you didn’t have to bring it back tonight.”

     “I couldn’t just keep it,” Y/n said, smiling back. “What kind of friend would I be if I stole your scarf?”

     “A warm one,” Remus replied dryly.

    James leaned forward with a sly grin. “Careful, Y/n. Remus lending you his scarf? That’s practically a marriage proposal in some cultures.”

     “Oh, shut it,” Remus said, throwing the scarf at James, who ducked it with exaggerated flair.

     Y/n blushed, but Lily cut in smoothly, perching on the edge of James’s bed. “Don’t mind him. He says the same thing every time I borrow his stuff.”

     “And every time, it’s true!” James declared, puffing out his chest dramatically.

     Lily groaned, sitting on the edge of James’s bed. “James, you are ridiculous.”

     “And yet,” Sirius drawled, “you still put up with him.”

     “I have no idea why,” Lily said with mock exasperation, shooting James a fond look that made him grin.

     Sirius smirked from his spot on the bed. “If you two start bickering, I’m locking the door and leaving the rest of us in peace.”

     “You wouldn’t dare,” Lily shot back.

     “Try me,” Sirius said, but his grin betrayed his teasing tone.

     The banter continued, with Y/n quickly swept into the easy camaraderie. She found herself laughing at James’s antics, rolling her eyes at Sirius’s sarcastic comments, and smiling at Remus’s dry humor. The familiar warmth of friendship settled over her, and for a moment, she felt entirely at ease.

     Eventually, Mrs. Potter’s voice rang out from downstairs. “Dinner’s ready, everyone!”

     “Finally!” Peter exclaimed, jumping to his feet. “I’m starving.”

     “You’re always starving,” Remus said, following him toward the door.

     As they all filed downstairs, the smell of roasted meat and freshly baked bread grew stronger. The dining table was set with platters of food, a roaring fire crackling in the nearby hearth.

     Y/n took a seat between Lily and Peter, with Sirius across from her. The chatter and laughter continued as everyone dug in, and Y/n couldn’t help but smile as she listened to James recount yet another story.

     Sirius seemed more at ease now, his laughter genuine and his sharp comments softened by the warm atmosphere. Every so often, Y/n caught him glancing at her, but he never held her gaze for long.

     By the time dinner was finished, Y/n felt lighter than she had in weeks. 

━━━━━━━•✧°•°𓅦°•°✧•━━━━━━━

     The house had quieted for the night, the fire in the hearth downstairs crackling softly as Y/n and Lily settled into their beds. The room was dark except for the faint glow of moonlight filtering through the window, casting silver beams across the patchwork quilts.

     Y/n turned onto her side, her eyelids heavy. The day’s events played through her mind—Lily’s cheerful welcome, the banter in James’s room, Sirius’s fleeting smiles. She was on the edge of sleep when the door suddenly burst open, light flooding the room.

     “Lily! Y/n!” James’s voice was far too loud for the late hour, his grin wide as he waved an arm toward the hallway. “You have to come outside! It’s snowing—no, it’s dumping snow! Perfect snowball fight conditions!”

     Lily groaned, sitting up and shielding her eyes from the light. “James, it’s the middle of the night! Are you mad?”

     “Yes,” James replied without hesitation, stepping further into the room. “Come on, it’ll be fun. Everyone’s coming!”

     Y/n propped herself up on one elbow, her voice muffled with sleep. “It’s freezing out there.”

     “Not if you know warming charms,” James countered. “Please, don’t make me beg.”

     Lily sighed, pushing her covers aside. “Fine, fine. But if I get sick, I’m blaming you.”

     James beamed. “Fair trade.”

     Y/n shook her head, a small smile tugging at her lips despite herself. “Give me a minute.”

━━━━━━━•✧°•°𓅦°•°✧•━━━━━━━

     Bundled up against the cold and with warming spells cast on their coats and scarves, the six of them tramped out into the Potters’ garden. The snow blanketed the ground in a pristine white sheet, glittering under the moonlight. James wasted no time diving headfirst into a pile of snow, laughing as he flung a handful at Sirius, who dodged it easily.

     “Is that all you’ve got, Prongs?” Sirius taunted, grabbing his own snowball.

      Chaos quickly ensued, with snow flying in every direction. Peter shrieked as Lily hit him square in the back, and Remus retaliated by pelting Lily and Y/n with quick, precise shots.

     Y/n crouched behind a bush for cover, laughing as she formed a snowball. Just as she was about to launch it, Sirius appeared beside her, crouching low with a grin.

     “You’re not bad at this,” he said, brushing snow off his gloves.

     Y/n glanced at him, the cold air turning her cheeks pink. “And you’re surprisingly good at dodging. I would’ve thought you’d be hit at least once by now.”

     Sirius chuckled, his breath clouding in the frosty air. “I’m not about to let James get the better of me. He’d never let me live it down.”

     Y/n rolled her eyes but smiled. “So it’s all about pride, then?”

     “Always,” Sirius said, his grin widening.

     Before he could say more, Y/n launched her snowball at him with a mischievous glint in her eye. It hit him square in the face, the snow exploding across his features in a puff of white.

     For a split second, Sirius froze, brushing the snow off his face while Y/n dissolved into laughter. “Oh, you’re in for it now,” he said with mock menace, dropping his snowball and lunging toward her.

     “Sirius, wait!” she managed to squeal, but it was too late. He tackled her to the ground gently, sending them both into the snow with a soft thud.

     Y/n was laughing uncontrollably, her cheeks flushed from the cold and their sudden tumble. Sirius loomed over her, his grin as wide as ever, bits of snow clinging to his dark hair. “That,” he said, shaking his head, “was a bold move, Ravenclaw.”

     “Bold enough to work,” Y/n replied between breaths, still laughing.

     Sirius smirked. “Not for long.” He grabbed a handful of snow and lightly dropped it on top of her head, laughing at her half-hearted protest.

     “You’re impossible,” Y/n said, pushing at his shoulder as she sat up, brushing snow out of her hair.

     “Better than predictable,” Sirius shot back, sitting beside her in the snow. For a moment, they sat in companionable silence, the sounds of the others shouting and laughing in the distance.

     Eventually, Sirius nudged her with his elbow. “Truce?”

     Y/n raised an eyebrow, smiling. “For now.”

     “Good,” Sirius said, pulling himself to his feet and offering her a hand. As he helped her up, Y/n swore his touch lingered just a second longer than necessary.

     Before she could think too much about it, Remus’s voice rang out. “Oi, Sirius, Y/n! Are you two forming an alliance back there or what?”

     “Never!” Sirius called back, quickly brushing himself off. “I work alone!”

     “Then stop hiding!” James added, a snowball sailing dangerously close to Sirius’s head.

     Y/n smiled to herself, brushing the snow from her coat, as Sirius rejoined the chaos.

     As the snowball fight wound down, everyone was breathless from laughter, their faces flushed from the cold. James clapped a hand on Y/n's shoulder, congratulating her for her impeccable aim, while the rest of the group filed back inside.

     Y/n lingered at the doorstep for a moment, the warm glow of the house beckoning her inside, but her eyes instinctively found Sirius. He was the last to enter, pausing in the doorway to look at her. A playful glint in his eyes was accompanied by a half-smile that she could never quite decipher.

     Her hand brushed against his as she stepped past him, an electric jolt shooting through her despite the lightness of the touch. She didn’t pull away immediately, as she might have done in the past. There was something about this moment, the easy camaraderie with the group, the lingering warmth from the snowball fight... it was all so different than the tension she had carried with her before, the unspoken distance that had once felt so immense between her and Sirius.

     Y/n stood by the door, brushing off the last traces of snow from her coat as the warmth of the house enveloped her. Sirius, just behind her, did the same, his boots tapping softly on the wooden floor.

     “Well,” he said, breaking the silence, “that was fun. Almost as good as my Quidditch moves.”

     Y/n couldn’t help but laugh. “You’ve got a very high opinion of yourself, don’t you?”

     Sirius smirked, his gaze lingering on her for a moment longer than usual. “It’s deserved,” he said with a playful shrug. “Anyway, goodnight, Y/n.”

     "Goodnight, Sirius." Her voice was soft, and she watched him as he turned toward the stairs. He paused at the bottom step, looking back over his shoulder.

     He grinned, then turned and disappeared upstairs, leaving Y/n standing by the door for just a moment longer. The soft click of his footsteps fading was oddly comforting, and she exhaled slowly, feeling the quiet settle in around her.

[aspionagee]

First lines of my fics!

Rules: share the first lines of ten of your most recent fanfics and tag ten people. If you have written less than ten, don't be shy and share anyway!

Thank you so much for the tag, @aeoneskova!

True Blue - APF sequel fic

Towering hedges cast eerie shadows over Severus and Minerva as they patrolled the outskirts of the maze.

A Patchwork Family - Severitus AU

Harry stared into the dregs of tea at the bottom of his cup, a strange buzzing in his ears drowning out the chatter of the Leaky Cauldron.

Somewhere beyond the Sea - APF oneshot

For the first time in his life, Harry Potter was actually enjoying the summer holidays.

The Rat Trap - Parent Trap sequel

Something was wrong.

The Parent Trap - WBWL parent trap AU

For the fifth time that week, Harry paid absolutely no attention to his breakfast and spent the duration of the meal steadfastly looking out of the window at the unrelenting cloudy sky.

Harry Potter and the Duke of Edinburgh Award - DofE oneshot

Harry staggered into the Entrance Hall with Ron and Hermione and dumped his backpack onto the floor.

The Two Brothers - Sybillance oneshot series

"Slytherin!"

Born as the Seventh Month Dies - WBWL AU

The happiest day of James' life was quickly turning into one of the worst.

Whispers in the Castle - Runaway Harry Severitus AU

Harry Potter was running for his life.

have yourself a merry little Christmas - marauders Christmas oneshot

James trotted through the house, humming ‘Jingle Bells’ with a shameless grin on his face.

No pressure tags @illisius @maledictusfotum @shostakobitchh and anyone else who wants to join :)

[liketwoswansinbalance]

On the Subject of "All-Kinds-of-Fur:"

Link to the original Brothers Grimm fairy tale for reference. It's basically a variant of "Cinderella."

Also, if I have the inspiration for it, this could become part of a series, set during the peaceful days before the prequel events. Thus, if anyone would like to send in a request for the School Master brothers' reactions to a classic fairy tale or an SGE one, however obscure it may be, I might write it!

⸻

[Rhian enters the tower chamber looking distressed while Rafal is grading fourth-year students' theses on treachery, taboos, and the natural lines of family, that, when wrongly crossed, drive people insane and disrupt the fragile human psyche.

For an example of this so-called phenomenon (stolen from the plot of Hamlet), imagine a scenario as follows: a wife marries her husband's brother after her husband dies. While they may not be blood relations, this scenario is still off and rather strange, even if modern times could make more allowances for such a thing to occur and be socially-acceptable.]

Rhian: My fourth-year Class Captain had to run away whilst on her questing assignment!

Rafal: [absently, without looking up from the papers, slashing through lines in bloodred ink] Mm, shame. [He sips his tea.]

Rhian: [tries to smile but it looks uneasy and he begins to pace with anxiety.] No! It's... good... I suppose. [He cringes.] If she hadn't run into the Woods last night, she would've had to marry her father!

Rafal: [spits out his tea.] Who's her father? Not one of my graduates, surely. Even my curriculum standards rise above that, that rot.

Rhian: No, it's not one of yours. Simply some brazen king. I just... I wish I could do something. She was one of my best students. [He sighs dejectedly.] But I doubt the Pen will tolerate an intervention. We just have to let her tale play out.

Rafal: Well, is it worth working yourself up over? She got away. Maybe it's you who's too invested in your students’ lives. They can fend for themselves, you know... well, probably. Actually, some Evergirls can be dimwitted. [He pauses.] How about this?: you always have the option of throwing her a lovely funeral.

Rhian: Oh, forget it. I don’t expect you to understand. [He throws up his arms, flustered, and exits the room.]

[Rafal observes that his brother still looks rather sad. In fact, Rhian grows more worried with each passing day as the Storian writes of the poor girl's travails as a forlorn scullery maid in hiding.]

⸻

[Several months later, three days and three nights after each night of the ball and banquet in the Evergirl's fairy tale:]

Rhian: [elatedly, swelling with hope] Rafal! Rafal! Have you heard? My Class Captain might live to see her Happily Ever After! The young king is going to save her! She’s danced with him three nights in a row and he would take no other partner. Though, each night, she slips away and conceals herself in that hideous, asymmetrical coat. You've seen the Pen's illustrations, haven't you? And last night, she wore a dress that glistened like the stars! I just knew the Beautification Practice While Impoverished classroom simulations would pay off! I knew it! It's the sheer magic of what a little soap and water can achieve!

Rafal: [not listening to Rhian's enthusiastic raving] Uh-huh.

Rhian: [finally looks at Rafal more closely after his lackluster response.] Say, Rafal? Where did that patchwork blanket come from? Is it new? I feel like I’ve seen it before. Somewhere... [he muses.]

Rafal: [shrugs without looking up from his book.] Nowhere. You’re not still… sad about that tale, are you? It’s old news. And the Storian's been still about that tale for a good few hours. Maybe it'll be scrapped, storybook and all.

Rhian: [grits his teeth in frustration] Yes. I know. You weren't listening.

Rafal: [expressionlessly] Wasn't I? Regardless, Happily Ever Afters don't concern me.

Rhian: [tongue-tied, attempting to come up with a fitting retort] An-and, you need a good douse of soap and water too. You've got... soot and—is that walnut oil all over your hands?

Rafal: [rolls his eyes.]

⸻

[The next day:]

[Rhian devours the completed tale in one sitting and notices a discrepancy he assumes is a continuity error by the Storian: the vagabond princess disguised in the role of a scullery maid returned to her little cubbyhole below stairs to find that her coat, which she’d left in the shadows, had disappeared, seemingly stolen.

Perhaps, a creature of the night had made off with it, desperate to reclaim its skin.

Or perhaps, there had been an intervention.

Thus, the princess was forced to show her true, shining self to the king’s men hunting her down. In her gown, that gleamed like the stars, much like a bride's.

And Rhian has a feeling he knows why this Ending came to be.]

⸻

[A week later:]

Rhian: [enters, humming about wedding bells to himself.]

Rafal: You look well. Did something go right?

Rhian: Yes! Something nice came in the post today, brother. My former student and the young, foreign king have invited us to their wedding. And look! Even you got an invitation, too. [He laughs to himself and makes a face of mock fright, lowering his voice and gnarling his hands into claws.] Whooo, they probably didn't want the Evil brother to curse them during a christening someday, so you'll probably get a golden plate and sweetmeats to spare at the wedding feast in order to "appease" you.

Rafal: [glares at him.]

Rhian: [drops the act.] Ahem. Anyway, we’ve got to pack for spring in Altazarra. Bring some non-black, festive clothes, if you have any. Oh, and bring a less ugly coat than that scruffy old blanket, will you?

Rafal: I’m not attending. I don’t like inane balls or sentimental Ever Afters, but have fun.

Rhian: Are you sure about that?

Rafal: Positively.

Rhian: [holds up an illustration of the princess' cubbyhole from the tale he’s been scrutinizing for the last few days.] Then what’s this shadow the Storian’s inked in darker than the rest? It looks quite a lot like a human form.

Rafal: Trick of the light. Just be glad Evil didn’t prevail this time, and call it a day. My side will win next time to be sure.

Rhian: [smirks knowingly] I guess I owe my peace of mind and sanity to a thief then.

Rafal: [deadpans] Run along, Ever. Pip-pip. You've got a wedding to attend, have you not?