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lunarxcity · 1 month ago

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Why here? (Part VI to Why me?)

azriel x rhys' sister! reader

angst/eventual comfort ( Now this one is a bit different from the rest and is a bit angsty and more Eris and Azriel focused so we'll see how that goes )

Summary: When you walk in on Azriel and Elain the mating bond snaps leading you to flee to Autumn with Eris so you can be free of Azriel. Your absence causes Azriel to come to some drastic realisations, but is it already too late and has your time in Autumn led to you moving on?

Parts I, II, III, IV, and V if you missed them!

There is an enchanted chessboard older than the cauldron itself. Before the fae inhabited this world and when the creatures in the prison roamed free Fate had gifted the Mother a chessboard. They play more often than not and through the centuries the stakes have gotten higher and higher.

Around the times of the first high lords, when the lines of the courts were being drawn and the Cauldron was being built an intruder had run interference on their game. A small black tendril, nameless in nature and free in spirit, the first shadow of this world. The emergence of the first shadowsinger had awoken it, apparently teaching it to shift through the different worlds and it had accidentally stumbled upon the Mother's. The shadow had swirled around the pieces, animating them and moving them around which gave the Mother the wonderful idea of turning her pieces into the lives of actual fae as the chess games had become rather boring lately.

So for centuries, the Mother and Fate have been writing the destinies of unsuspecting fae. Move after move, piece after piece. Now this particular game has hit quite a standstill. Move after move and yet no clear winner or end in sight. The story of you and Azriel has been a rather difficult one to craft and the game has been played for hundreds of years, it's vicious and cut-throat. The Mother who has been playing for you has been going for direct and sharp moves, while Fate who has been playing for Azriel has been going for the unsuspecting moves, the ones that you don't realise are happening until it's too late.

"How long are we going to make them dance around each other for?" The Mother looked at Fate with her all-knowing gaze before she began to eye her pieces, a pensive look that only belonged to someone who is actively working out their strategy because if the Mother hated one thing it was losing.

Fate looked back at her, "We could continue this game for all eternity darling. What's the rush when we have forever? You do know how I love a slow dance." Fate had always loved the journey, he loved to craft these elaborate stories for the Mother's characters, he always told her that he believed it would make the payoff better, but she was rather fond of these characters and they had been playing for so very long.

The Mother made her move. She sighed, "Haven't we made them go through enough? I do like these ones they might be my favourites." She looks at him in his ethereal eyes, glowing with a light that was anything but mortal, "You do know the sister plotline was a bit much. She has gone through enough any more struggles and she might not even want the mating bond anymore."

He looks at her and then the pieces, competition lacing his very being, he moves his piece. "I believe that suffering is the only way to bring out the truth of someone's character. It is in these moments of darkness that we must look actually look at ourselves and truly see us for what we are."

He picks reaches out across the table and holds her hand. "This is the only time we can truly change for the better. They would have never been happy together otherwise my love. You know that you made them both too stubborn for their own good." Fate gives the Mother a blinding smile, one with all the kindness and reprise that he refuses to give the ones who's destiny he is in charge of.

She gives him an annoyed look. Not one of true annoyance but rather an I'm annoyed your right and know me well enough to know I agree with you kind of annoyance. She gives a small smile back and goes, "Yes the shadowsinger reminds me of a certain someone too. Someone who is also too stubborn for his own good and refuses to accept a loss.

At this the Mother smirks and moves her piece, she looks at Fate with a mischievous grin and forces his hand. Very few had the power to tamper with Fate, but right now the Mother had him in the palm of her hand. She smiles and for the first time in almost 500 years she it looks like the game is going in her favour, the endgame is near and she refuses to lose.

"Check."

In the Gardens of Velaris, there was a shadowsinger hiding in the shadows. This was not an unusual sight, as his job description entails spying and the shadows are curious creatures, what was unusual was the feeling of the mating bond that had just snapped for Azriel.

He has been yearning for this very thing for Centuries, so now that he has it, why does the world feel like it's collapsing beneath his feet. You were only a few feet away in the distance. He could literally see you. See you laughing with Eris. Eris.

Rage envelops him and a way of thinking so primal and ancient is fighting with his rational mind. Well as rational as it could be mind. A bombshell has been dropped on him and he is trying his best under the current circumstances to stay calm and not tear Eris' throat out for being that close to you and even worse, making you laugh.

Shadows emanate from every fibre of his being. The shadows take over, and Night hears them, and together, they envelop the court in an all-consuming blackness that snuffs out every light source for miles. It had only lasted for a millisecond, barely anyone had noticed it and those who did had just assumed they had blinked or it was a trick of a light, but he could tell you did.

You started looking around frantically. Cauldron save him he couldn't face you right now. He had no right to even look at you. After the initial shock of learning that you were his mate, the reality of everything that he has done came crashing down on him. Azriel can't deal with himself. The reality of what he has put you through. He pined over Mor for over a century. He almost invoked a Blood Duel over Elain. You were his mate and he had forsaken your bond. Forsaken your bond for another fae's mate. Your friend's mate.

Mother free him from this torment. Everything came crashing into him at once. Reminders of every time that he had ignored you for another female. Reminders of the flash of sadness that would flicker in your gentle gaze every time that Azriel would rain-check your plans for Elain or talk about another female.

The look of disdain that Rhys had on his face the night he found him and Elain. The uncharacteristic cruelty that had been directed towards Azriel. The distance of the inner circle and his own shadows. Everyone had known. Everyone except for him. Did you know? Is that why you left? Why you had been ignoring him for months?

He tries to tug on the bond and he winces. The bond snaps back at him painfully like a rubber band that was held taught and released. Seems like even the bond itself is punishing Azriel. So you didn't know then?

You were still looking around with your senses on high alert and it seems like you weren't the only one that had noticed the blackout. Eris in all his horrendous glory had also been surveying the area and while you looked like started pray that was scanning for predator to jump out of the bushes and attack, Eris was every bit the predator scanning the area ready to pounce.

Azriel locked eyes with Eris. Eris' eyebrows raise, his eyes holding mischief and curiosity, a truly despicable combination. The conniving fox never stops his scheming and with a smirk he puts his hand on your lower back and leans to whisper something in your ear. All while maintaining eye contact with Azriel.

His rational side is long forgotten and he luges for Eris. Pupils dilated, teeth bared, and siphons glowing. Instead of landing on Eris, he landed on a barrier of shadows which drag him through the shadow realm like a parent dragging their misbehaving toddler by the arm into timeout.

The shadows drag him through the shadow realm, struggling to constrain him, and throw him onto the floor of the training ring in the house of wind. Rhysand and Cassian arrive on the scene moments later, amusement coating their features once they see the position that Azriel is in. Cassian bursts into a fit of laughter seeing Azriel shadows trying to hold him in place and watching him fight back against them, while swearing profusely.

Rhys saunters towards Azriel, "Well took you long enough brother. Release him." The shadows immediately release their hold of Azriel. The look he's giving Rhys is filled with so much malice that anyone other than Rhys would have shivered at his gaze.

Rhys is gives Azriel a predatory smile that is anything but friendly. Rhys says, "Now that you officially know I can finally do this", and he punches Azriel in the face. Rhys looks at Azriel while he's on the floor from the hit, "You want to be my brother again. Earn it. "

Azriel's nostrils flare and he comes swinging at Rhys with full force. Cassian is enjoying this a lot more than he should have and the house agrees spawning him popcorn on the table on the outskirts of the training ring. Between Azriel's vicious as a result of a new mating bond and Rhys' pent up anger for hundreds of years of pain you endured this was going to be a very entertaining fight.

There were very few things that brought Eris Vanserra true unadultered joy - his schemes, the suffering of his enemies, and apparently spending time with you. For these few months with you had been the first time he genuinely enjoyed someone's company. He was sad you were leaving, of course, but that was the whole point of your stay, you would process your mating bond and return when you had distanced yourself from it enough that being around Azriel wouldn't break you.

Eris had never wished for a mating bond. He has never been surrounded by happiness, let alone love, only pain, and would never wish that life upon another. To be tethered to Eris is to be tethered to a lifetime of cruelty and a lifetime of pain. He watched his mother suffer every day at the hands of his father, the only true happiness she experienced was in the presence of Eris or Lucien, whom she seldom sees anymore. He watched the love of Lucien's life be sentenced to death by his father.

Eris knows that when he becomes the high lord of Autumn that he will have a target on his back and is one day destined to meet a bloody end. How could he sentence someone to a fate like that? Every Vanserra's is a flame - burns brightly, hurts to the touch, and is destined to go out.

Now Eris does believe in love but he also believes in choice and he has chosen to keep his circle small and tight for as long as he could remember. His walls were impenetrable and he was very guarded, he wore cruelty as a mask and indifference as a cloak with wit being his sword. He had never needed anyone, he only needed himself. That's what he told himself when Lucien had told him he was leaving Autumn for Spring. That's what he told himself when he isolated himself for hundreds of years and that's what he told you when you guys had first met in the Autumn Court library.

You had been about 75 and were in the Autumn Court on a diplomatic visit with Rhys and your father. You had grown bored and decided to sneak off into the Autumn Court library in the middle of the night, unaware that anyone would be there. You had just waltzed in and started grabbing text after text that Eris was actually impressed and had remained silent for two hours until he decided enough was enough and it was time to bother you. You guys argued for hours, matching each other's wit in a way that Eris had never experienced, and he didn't admit it to anyone but he was looking forward to your next visit.

You guys had always corresponded after that. Remaining good friends and regularly sending each other updates, book recommendations, and even jokes. Eris realised that he missed you, a very uncommon feeling for the cold hearted fire wielder and was elated to receive an invite to the Night Court ball. He arrived elated to see you only to find you on the arm of the shadowsinger. He couldn't be upset though, because you ran to him excitedly and embraced him in a hug.

Eris refused to be second to anybody so he gave it up and accepted his role in your life. You value the people in your life greatly and he appreciates your friendship either way but it would be a lie to say it didn't pain him to hear about Azriel for so long.

Azriel had this amazing person pining after him and he couldn't even appreciate you enough to properly give you his attention. How he didn't know you had feelings for him, Eris couldn't figure out. He was the Spymaster of the Night Court and he couldn't even notice how your eyes lit up in his presence.

When you had written Eris in a panic calling in the favor you held over him for securing certain information about Beron, Eris knew it had something to do with that Cauldrons-damned shadowsinger and had left immediately. The minute he was in that room with you and him and the rest of the inner circle, he knew the mating bond had snapped for you and that Azriel was contemplating invoking a blood duel over Elain. A blood duel with his brother. Eris was furious.

Eris is still furious. The shadowsingers stupidity almost got his brother killed and maybe you, he believes you to be formidable, but a broken mating bond has catastrophic effects on fae. It was something he would never wish upon you. Eris would lie to everyone but himself and he knows that he has sent a prayer to the Mother at least once or twice or more times asking for you to be his mate because he knows that while he could never deserve you he would do everything in his power to try to be.

Eris is not a traditionalist by any means, how could he be when his father runs Autumn with an iron fist claiming that the old way is the best way especially when it comes to fae rights, but Eris does believe in the sanctity of a mating bond. If you and Azriel had tried it out and it didn't work then he would be free to make his move, but anytime before then he deems it unacceptable. He also feels the same for Elain and Lucien, which is another reason he didn't respect Azriel.

Eris would never openly sabotage your life like that. The number one thing he wishes for is your happiness and he sends a prayer to the Mother for that a lot more than he would care to admit. That doesn't mean that Eris can't at least mess with Azriel and make his life a living hell for the period before you get together. He did cause you to suffer for so long, it's only fair.

Eris does not consider himself to be a good person. He's selfish and downright evil at times, but he believes the Mother knows him at his soul and that one day when he is freed from the confines of his father the Mother will allow him to find happiness in either this life or the next. While he doesn't need a mating bond, he is tired and exhausted from being so lonely all the time. When everyone sees you as a villian, it's so hard to not become one and Eris is ready for some change.

But today was not the day for changing for the better. Which is what Eris tells himself as he meets Azriel's gaze in the Gardens of Velaris. Based on the dilated pupils and the overall feral look of the shadowsinger, Eris assumes that the mating bond has just snapped for him. Oh goody. This would be a real treat for Eris. A bit of payback if you will.

Eris raises a brow and maintains eye contact with the shadowsinger as he gets close to you and puts a hand on your lower back. He gives some sort of witty retort and you laugh. He continues to look at Azriel while all of this is happening, just to add to the torment. He sees Azriel lunge and then disappear in a cloud of shadow. Well looks like his shadows took care of that. He'll be back eventually and then Eris can do the same thing again.

Eris has already made peace with the fact that you were not his, but he had to make sure you had the best in his absence and if you were destined to be with this male Eris had to at least test him first. Consider it a hazing ritual or reparations for the way he treated you. Either way Azriel was going to make sure this male suffered until he shapes up and became the perfect mate because you deserve nothing less and if Azriel fails to do that then Eris would have no problem sweeping the rug from under him in his own Court.

Eris loves a challenge and he has grown very bored lately. He let Lucien in on this plan and Lucien had actually spoken about wanting to give Elain the opportunity to get to know him, now that Azriel's out of the picture, so the timing was working anyways. Worst case scenario the Night Court is in shambles which would sit back and enjoy anyways. Best case scenario you leave back with him to Autumn and never step foot in this court ever again and leave the shadowsinger forever. Either way he gets to spend time with you and torment Azriel.

He thinks Rhys agreed to this arrangement just because he also wants Azriel to suffer a little bit, after everything he's done.

Eris looks at you again, snapping you out of your search for Azriel. he goes, "I have a surprise for you." You look up at him, focusing on what he's saying, but still being half distracted by the idea of Azriel being near.

"You were saying how much you were going to miss me due to you leaving of Autumn and I have business in the Night Court, so guess who is going to be staying here for the foreseeable future?" Eris says all of this with the smug grin you have been accustomed to seeing him don.

Your face lights up and he continues. "Lulu is also going to be tagging along because he adores his charming older brother so much-" You roll your eyes at him. "Lucien did not say that."

Eris cuts you off by throwing his arm over your shoulder and leads you through the arches of the garden into the ball. "But he will once he sees the havoc we are going to wreak in Night." Eris gives you a mischievous grin and for once you actually give one back as you take your official steps back into your life in the Night Court.

part vii

note: This chapter was actually meant to be twice as long and this was the first part but I am about to get busy so I wont be writing for the next week or so and I wanted to get something out before I fall of the grid. I will be answering to asks though I do love receiving them and hearing what you guys think I just won't have that much time to write. The style of this chapter is a lot different from the rest so I do want to know what you guys think. I didn't think it was a good idea for the reader and Azriel to interact immediately after the bond snapped for him, he was just in such a high alert state that I don't think it would be a good idea until he's at least calm again(I know Rhys has been holding in that punch for hundreds of years). Until next time my lovelies!

note note: again pls ignore the lack of editing and the sleep deperivated state I wrote this in :)

taglist: @alimarie1105@chaosabroad@bbontenswhhore@tele86@ashblooddragons@circe143@i-am-infinite@princesssunderworld@thestartitaness@tiffany-xx@cpfantasybooks @lucia-valentinaa@jennigsonl@ivy-34@firefly-forest@k-homosapien@coeurdeveea@cherryjain17@bckynatt@becstersworld@rcarbo1@gojospearlycim@atluky@juliebluehufflepuff@willowpains@abadfantasybook@neverendingstay@hellohauntedturnstudent@highladyofhogwarts@littowl@iluvyewman-blog@lunaticpotatoe @justlivinginadaydream @julesiebean @shylahstarzz @olive-main @lreadsstuff

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pasta-in-the-pudding · 2 months ago

Note

Dude I got u for bg3 requests-

So like imagine a tav that can draw and they’re just sketching whatever and astarion comes up behind them like “lol who’s that twink do u have a crush or something?” And everyone loses it cuz it’s him.

I’ve seen some like these where they’re all angsty and some fluff but I think everyone would lose their shit. Specifically picturing Gale choking in the background because astarion is making fun of tavs dreamy portraits of himself.

Ive never done an ask before idk how these work I give u full creative liberty 😚

Summary: Reader likes drawing Astarion, who is oblivious to the fact that it's him! Campmates lose it and try to play matchmaker a little bit.

Genre: Pure tooth rotting fluff

Warnings: Astarion things

Credits: All characters are from Bg3, Vampire fang divider- animatedglittergraphics-n-more on tumblr, Blood divider- strangergraphics on tumblr

A/n: Ahhh! I'm so excited to be your first ever request! I hope this is to your liking and I apologize for it taking me so long to get around to it

Thank you so much for requesting!!

During the long trip to Baldur's Gate, finding ways to keep your mind occupied when you stopped became a necessity. Thankfully, pretty early into your travels you managed to get your hands on a (mostly) empty drawing journal after finding it abandoned along with some helpful supplies. It didn't take long for you to find that you had some sort of muscle memory for drawing, even if you couldn't consciously remember ever being an artist, your brain seemed to. You started out just drawing what you saw. Flowers, buildings, landscapes, etc. But pretty soon you drifted to drawing your campmates as well. At first it was a little mix of everyone, but as your trip carried on you couldn't help but be drawn (hehe) to a certain fluffy haired rogue. As your mind lingered on him more and more, so did your pencil. You had filled numerous pages with sketches and doodles of him. Sometimes he'd catch you staring at him while trying to get a good reference, and he'd of course smirk and say something like "Enjoying the scenery, darling?" To which you would flush red and bury your face back into your sketches.

Every now and then, someone would glance over your shoulder to see what you were scribbling (usually Karlach) and tease you for how full your sketchbook had gotten with just him. You didn't mind them watching you draw, sometimes it felt nice to have someone admiring your skills.

This however, was not one of those times.

"My, who is that handsome devil?" Astarion's voice rings out from behind you. You squeeze your eyes shut as you realize you've been caught and curse yourself for not hearing him sneak up behind you. Astarion is now leaning against your shoulder, studying the pictures in front of him. "Now darling, I know I say this about every gorgeous stranger but would." He lazily flips the page and lets out a little giggle "And you would too by the looks of it," He returns back to your current page and sits beside you. "So, will you tell me the story or will you make me beg? You know I'm an expert on romance." It's only then do you realize he genuinely doesn't realize that you are drawing him. You thought before he was just being smug, but it does make sense. When was the last time he saw himself? 300 years ago? Surely the memory is a bit fuzzy. You try to act as nonchalant as possible as you mutter "Mm...Maybe some other time..." Astarion scoffs and you pray to any god willing to listen to help you out. Your prayer is answered when Gale makes the call for dinner being done. You quickly shove the book into your pocket and (perhaps a bit too swiftly) walked over to the fire.

The topic is seemingly dropped by Astarion until Shadowheart remarks that "Your face is redder than Karlach's," Astarion is quick to interject. "I caught them drawing some shirtless man and they're being a big baby about it." He rolls his eyes dramatically before adding "Trust me darling, I've seen worse." Gale chokes on his stew, Halsin's brows raise and Shadowheart lets out a small gasp. The camp is deadly quiet, save for Astarion making snarky comments about how the man looks like something a 13 year old would find incredibly romantic. Karlach is the one to break the silence, "Fangs, do you really not know who that is?" He raises a brow "Of course not. What, is he famous or something?" Lae'zel lets out a scoff. "Chk. It is a wonder how you survive being so clueless. That is you, you k'chakhi."

The silence, once again, is incredibly loud. This time though, Astarion has seemingly lost his witty remarks. You have long since had your head down, afraid to see his face. He, however, is more confused than anything. After a moment he speaks again, "Is it really?" They all give some form of approval, a nod, a grunt, etc. He is quiet again, but only because he is taking a moment to grin. "Well no wonder there are so many! Obviously it's me. No face other than mine fit to take up so much space in our dear Tav's book. Let me see another, I haven't beheld my beauty in so long!"

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sorcerersseestars · 4 months ago

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LIMERENCE IV

Gojo Satoru x gn!reader

series masterlist

chapter summary: You have a much needed heart to heart with the strongest.

warnings: mentions of death and injury, mention of major character death, slightly suggestive content (16+)

content: hurt/comfort, reverse hurt/comfort, fluff, slight cringe?

word count: 9k

I recommend rereading the previous chapter(s) because even I forgot some details...1000000% my bad for not finishing this up sooner. (More on this in notes at the end).

Okay I'd say the romantic scenes are like...16+? just to give it a rating. But lowkey some YA novels I read in middle/early high school were a lot more 'racey' than this hahah.

It’s dark, darker than the back of your eyelids. It’s silent. You can’t even hear the buzz of your thoughts—as if your mind is reflecting the emptiness in front of it. The blackness before you—the void, you suppose—is all you can see, hear, touch. Or maybe it’s that there is the absence of these senses—there is only darkness, only nothingness.

You can’t think, only observe, so when a bright light inundates your senses, sears itself into the back of your brain, you don’t gasp or feel fear. There is nothing to do but to take in the light, to be drawn to it like a moth to a flame, and accept whatever it brings you.

Memories pour over you as you are blinded by the light, dripping into crevices of your mind that you forgot existed. It’s almost painful, this influx of distant memories and feelings, rhythmic waves which crash into you over and over again.

All you can pick out of these memories as they spill into your brain all at once is a pair of luminescent eyes—they burn brighter than you ever realized. They follow your form more than you remember. Even behind shades, you can feel the intensity of them on your body. You sneak glances at them at every turn and get lost in them even when he isn’t facing you. You never knew how obvious you both were.

You never realized how much emotion he held in his gaze. He knew all the time, and yet you were clueless about your own feelings until just months ago. How ironic, how cruel...

Your eyes fly open. Reality slowly fills your senses. There's a gentle brush of wind from the open window; you scrunch your nose as strands of your hair tickle your face. When you look down, your gaze is drawn to the wash of orange and peach on the comforter cast from the dying sun. You're warm—cozy, even. You feel comfortable and safe—safer than you’ve felt in a long time, a feeling that blankets you with warmth and coaxes a smile out of you.

You blink blearily, sleep sticking to your eyes despite your attempt to rub the crud away. The ceiling finally comes into focus, and you vaguely recognize that it doesn't look like your own.

"Finally awake, sweets?"

For a second, you're startled by the inrush of sound and words, but then your brain catches up. The voice carries that familiar teasing lilt, that smirk that even comes through in his voice, the words rounded with softness just for you, it must be—

Your eyes go wide as you scramble up. "Satoru!"

"So I really didn't have to kiss you for you to wake up? Boooo! All those fairy tales are a real drag, lying to me like that."

Your gaze goes straight to him, taking in his appearance with a quiet desperation. Many dormant thoughts from right before you lost consciousness surge back into your mind: he had been harmed while trying to escape with you? Was he distressed by what happened? Was it all too much for him?

But, to your observation, he looks as he always does. There's no sign of injury or emotional distress. You should've known, really; with everything he's gone through in his life, he isn't easily affected. Or at least, not outwardly. His little smirk, his tousled hair, his lax demeanor—from a quick glance, he's the same as always. He doesn't appear worried or stressed with his easy expression—you don't know if you should be relieved or unnerved by that. Is what you see the truth or just a façade?

He has a chair pulled up to your bedside—taken from the desk on the other side of the room, you note—and he sits relaxed in it. He sinks into the chair lazily and he has one leg crossed over the other.

“Good morning, sleeping beauty,” He sing-songs. “Or should I say good evening?”

He shifts slightly, now resting his jaw in one open hand, which outlines his sharp jawline. His head is tilted to the side, making him appear almost coy. It must be a ruse, of course—when did Gojo Satoru ever feel shy?

Seeing as it's only him and you're in no danger, you huff out in relief, "You startled me!"

"Did I? Sorry." He chuckles, even though he doesn't sound particularly sorry. It's then that you notice he's wearing his bandages again. The white strips conceal his expressive eyes and all the emotions they could possibly contain. A hazy flash of his eyes spilling with tears crosses your mind, leaving you to wonder if that was reality or just your imagination. Your memories are fuzzy, lacking clarity that would reveal the truth.

Observing him now, it almost seems impossible that he could have cried like that for you. He appears so normal that it's almost frightening. With his practiced and controlled body language, you're only able to wonder at what he's feeling.

You want to ask him so many questions, but they all feel trapped inside your chest. There's so much that you don't know—there are so many things that could have happened after you lost consciousness. With how deceptively easy his smile is, you hesitate. Or maybe it's because, deep down, you don't want to know the answers.

But you should. You should know. No, you need to know, if the monstrous, looming question needling your brain and heart means anything. If you don't get this question out, the hurt and uncertainty will only fester.

"What happened with Suguru?"

His smile evens out slowly, expression morphing into something solemn and unreadable.

"Always asking the difficult questions first..." He says, tone ambiguous and revealing close to nothing. "You just woke up. Why don't we... talk about something else? I promise we'll get to everything later. Just give it some time—Shoko said you should try to take it easy when you first wake up."

There's a painful lump in your throat. You want to argue that can't possibly be what she meant, but when the room starts to spin, blurring in your peripherals, you find he might have a point. Besides, there's the reality that it's easier not to know, that you don't want to know.

"How do you feel?" He asks, as if sensing your inner turmoil, but you don't know if he's referring to your physical or mental state.

Without the answer to your question, you're okay. It's strange, but you don't feel scared despite what happened. If anything, you feel lighter and happier than you have in a long time. He's here, after all. And so you relent easily, with little resistance. You'll play in the world of pretend for a bit if it means he'll smile, if it means you'll feel okay.

"I'm fine," You say honestly, with a small smile. "Just a bit sore, if anything."

When you're met with silence, you glance over at him, noticing that his serious look has not faded. Maybe you weren't so convincing. You quickly redirect your attention to your surroundings, not wanting to be caught in your thoughts.

“Isn’t this…” You take in the room, ignoring how sore and tired your eyes are. “Your place?”

Now that you're sat up, you recognize it immediately, even with its less than distinct features. His room is plain, plainer than most would anticipate. For someone so loaded, his bedroom screams basic minimalist—white with black accents, just a few pieces of furniture, and muted decor. It’s nice, because of course it is with his budget, but not over the top like his personality would suggest.

“Hah, you noticed, huh? Perceptive as always, angel,” He says with a hint of playful sarcasm, and you’re surprised when the teasing quality disappears and his tone turns meek. “You haven’t been here in a while, wasn’t sure if…”

He trails off, laughing oddly, some real emotion leaking out. He almost seems nervous.

“If I’d remember? What, do you think I’m a goldfish or something?” You roll your eyes playfully. “Satoru, I’ve been here many times. Even though I haven’t been here in a while, that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t remember.”

“Don't get your panties in a twist! Of course I knew you'd remember! I was just kidding," He claims, but he seems relieved.

"Hmm, sure," You say with narrowed eyes. "By the way, why am I here? Not that I mind or anything, but..."

"Ah. You mean instead of your apartment?"

"Or the infirmary," You add.

"Well, you were in the infirmary. Then you got better and Shoko needed an extra bed, so she kicked us out. And as for your apartment...it isn't in any condition to be lived in for now."

You frown and whine, "Hey! I'm not that messy!"

He hangs his head and sighs, "Angel, that's really not what I meant. There are other things that need to be cleaned up there."

"Oh," You say, finally remembering the gruesome scene you must have left.

"Yeah. 'Oh'," He mimics back.

He almost seems annoyed—at what, you can't be sure. The fact that you forgot or the fact that it happened? Or was it that you kept it all a secret for so long?

You shake your head slightly as if to rid yourself of these unpleasant thoughts. Then you process some of his words from earlier, displacing the negative thoughts.

"Wait, wait. What do you mean Shoko kicked 'us' out?"

He scratches his head sheepishly. "Did I say that? I meant you. Haha..."

You chuckle and slap your leg, thoroughly amused by the scenario you're picturing. "I see what happened here! Shoko got annoyed that you were hanging around all day today and needed some way to get rid of you. She literally sent you home, didn't she?

There's a pause. He looks down at his hands and lets out a small, breathy laugh. There's something sharp about it, bitter perhaps. His fingers are twitching. His reaction jars you slightly, veering from the upbeat, nonchalant character he's kept up so far.

"Today, huh?" He murmurs under his breath, too soft for you to pick up. Then he speaks loud enough for you to hear, "Something like that."

His words aren't too far off what they usually are, but his smile and light tone have been washed away.

"Did I say something wrong?" You ask carefully. "Is everything okay?"

He barks out a laugh right away. It's a harsher sound than it usually would be, full of disbelief as if he couldn't believe you just asked him that.

"After everything you just went through, you're asking me if everything's okay?"

You hesitate but persist. "...Yes? Can I not ask?"

He exhales loudly, his frustration and concern boiling over. His expression is neutral, but you don't miss the hard set in his jaw or the way he twitches from the tension of steeling his expression. His face hardens as if he's trying to hold back, but it doesn't last much long. As you closely watch his expression, you see the hairline fractures in his mask begin to spiderweb into something irreparable, to reveal a part of himself he can't take back. His heart is on his sleeve, and you greedily take it all in.

"You can, but— you seem fine and it's confusing me. I'm supposed to be strong for you and just get over it, but I can't see past the fact that I still don't understand what the fuck is going on. Everyone except Shoko was acting like everything was fine and normal before but now it— it's like they're not even surprised. How is it that I'm the most shocked? Even you, who this happened to..."

As he speaks, his words get more agitated and emotion seeps into his voice. He trails off at the end, leaving you to wonder what exactly he thinks of your reaction.

"You...feel that way?" You ask honestly, surprised by his admission. Based on his appearance and how he carries himself, most would be shocked. And even though you suspected something was brewing underneath his carefully crafted mask, even you didn't anticipate this.

"Yes! I just...this is strange, everything is. And even though it all happened to you, you're acting so okay and have been since I first saw you again. Do you know how much I—"

He takes a sharp breath as his emotions boil his insides. His throat tightens and the next words don't come out, won't come out, even though he wants to articulate how he's been driven mad with worry for you, that he's been falling apart while your life hung in the balance of fate. And yet he can't; the words won't come.

You dip your head in shame. It's not difficult to fill in the words he might have said, but you don't attempt to.

"Well, I guess it's like...I've been living like this for a while. But you only just learned of my Hanahaki disease and had to deal with it right away," You explain quietly. "I've had a while to process it, y'know? But for you, of course it would be hard to believe..."

While you speak, his face twitches as he reacts to your words, hardening and then grimacing. He sets his mouth in a firm line before he speaks.

"It's not just that. You've been sitting on so many secrets and I had absolutely no idea about any of them. And hell, based on my actions it seems like I didn't care to know, and I hate that. I can't be upset with you, and I'm not, but- just the entire situation...I can't stop feeling so...frustrated."

"...I understand," You say softly. "It wasn't right of me to hide it for so long...and if it had ended any differently, you'd be burdened with guilt even though it wouldn't have been your fault. Obviously, I was not in the right state of mind, but that doesn't make it right."

"That's not what I mean. You had every right to do what you did. I don't blame you," He says, then sighs. "Honestly, I've...been thinking. A lot."

Your heart drops. His tone is different than you've ever heard before. There's some mysterious emotion you detect but can't identify, and your mind starts to run wild to diagnose it. Is it irritation? Doubt? Regret?

"Thinking?" You echo back nervously. "That's dangerous for you."

Your joke falls flat; it doesn't so much as coax a smile or even an acknowledgement from him. That only makes you more nervous.

"I've been thinking about how this all happened, how fucked up it is that it was able to happen. I never imagined this situation, not in a million years. I've spent so long running from my feelings that I never imagined we’d reach this point. But how it happened..."

His meaning sinks in, even though he only alludes to your shared confession, as if it would burn him to speak those words again. You understand what he means: right now, you should both be happy. You both confessed after years of misunderstanding and yearning. But when you look to him, scouring his face for answers, all you can notice are the down-turned corners of his mouth. He doesn't look happy.

You think back to previous disagreements you’ve had. No matter what was said, it always ended up the same: his back facing you, his form receding into the distance. You were always able to eventually pull him back to you, but the image of his back has never left your mind. Is this the time where you lose your grip on your tie to him, the time where he finally disappears into the horizon?

Your thoughts bleed into your mouth without permission.

“Are you walking away?” You ask quietly before you can stop yourself.

“What?”

The word is pushed out of his lungs with so much speed and air that he has to take a breath immediately after. It has a sharp edge of something akin to anger, which you did not expect.

Suddenly, you feel very silly. You realize you just jumped to massive conclusions, because of course you have. You know this, you know you're not being rational, and yet your doubt persists.

You stutter, scrambling for words that seem to vanish just as you think them.

“You seem– I mean, what you just said...I’m sorry, I don’t know, it's just…you seem so hesitant and conflicted. It should have been a moment happy, right? But it was all fucked up and was forced on you...if you didn't do what you did, I would have–agh, fuck. I know I’m probably being stupid, but…if you’ve changed your mind, I-I can live with that—actually, no, that’s a lie, this whole situation proved I can’t—”

A choked laugh escapes between the fingers you’ve thrown to your mouth. It’s ridiculous how you’re laughing about your mortality—your life that was hanging on by a thread, a thread that was somehow woven back into existence.

“I mean I can’t change how you feel, obviously, and if you want to walk away then I can’t stop you, I’ll leave you with a nice bouquet at least—”

You hesitantly move your gaze over to him. He’s pale and his hands grip the sides of the chair tightly.

“Sorry.” You whisper out once you see his expression.

You thought he might find some humor in it—after all, he is practically the king of levity. Almost any situation that should be taken seriously and treated carefully and with respect is disregarded by him. And yet there is not a hint of a smile on his face now; you were sorely wrong in your assumption.

“No more of those," He shakes his head as he speaks, as if that will wipe away the images of your near lifeless body from his mind. "Please no more. To be honest…it really destroyed me, to see you like that.”

His words shake you to your core, alarm vibrating through your body. It destroyed him?

Your brain begins to connect dots you don't want to connect: the purpose of inducing your illness...the purpose of using you as bait. If seeing you like that almost broke him, was that the purpose?

You brush away these horrifying thoughts as best as you can, trying to delay the inevitable for as long as possible. You don't want to know, you don't want to know. You're suddenly grateful that Gojo didn't answer your question earlier.

So you sit silently as your features scrunch with guilt. To hear him practically beg you tugs at your heart painfully.

"You really think I want to walk away?" He asks quietly, vulnerably.

Your mouth opens and closes as you consider what to say, which words to pick out. None of them sit right on your tongue.

"No, I mean...I don't know. I forced this on you, so–"

"You didn't," He raises his head towards you, and you can imagine his gaze falling on you. "I don't want you thinking that. You didn't, okay? You should have never gotten sick in the first place. If only I came to terms with my feelings sooner...It didn't have to happen like this, and I'm so sorry that it did."

The tension in your body begins to dissolve as it dawns on you that he doesn't regret his actions, only the situation that induced them. And yet, it still rubs you the wrong way that he blames himself.

"It still feels wrong..." You frown. "Like it was some shitty last resort. Either you reciprocate my feelings or I die. Like, how manipulative is that?"

"Manipulative? You're seriously worried about that? Some people might call that romantic," Gojo scoffs playfully.

"I'm being serious!" You pout.

Irritatingly, he smiles sweetly. "So am I!"

"Nuh-uh, I don't believe you. What do you really think?"

He falls quiet, but his smiles stays. That persistent smile, or really smirk, that stretches across his face no matter the situation. It's just part of his show, of his ever-present façade. And yet...

"Hah... You're the only one who ever cares to know."

You roll your eyes at his dramatics. "That can't be true."

He raises his eyebrows slightly, and you feel his piercing gaze without even needing to see his eyes. His tone is light again, but his insinuation isn't.

"Do you think Yaga and the higher-ups really care about what I think? They only listen to me because they're scared of me. And when it comes to my...feelings...do you really think anyone thinks of that? It's like I don't have any."

You shake your head stubbornly. "Not to me."

He laughs softly, "Yeah, I know sweets. I've never had anyone challenge me about them the way you do."

"Well, how else am I to know?" You ask meekly, slightly embarrassed. "I know you have them, you just...don't speak on them unless I wrangle them out of you!"

He chuckles, "Sure."

"It's true! You still haven't really told me what you honestly think about... everything. There's got to be more."

He sighs, but you can tell he's amused at your insistence. "You really want to know?"

You nod earnestly.

"It's probably pretty pathetic."

"Then be pathetic," You say, perfectly serious. "You think I'll judge? After I pitied myself terribly for weeks for—I guess now—no reason?"

Your gaze is sharp and features hardened with determination, and yet all Gojo can think is how soft you are. Your eyes are bright, full of affection and hope and something else he doesn't dare put a name to, even though you already confessed it to him. He feels so fucking pathetic for the way he doesn't allow himself to feel your love even when it's sitting right in front of him. He feels so pathetic for the way he's been avoiding saying those three words again, for how the words get stuck in his throat and don't let his true emotions pass through.

He steels himself, trying not to ignore how the words echo through his mind like have they have been this entire conversation.

"I've always thought that l-...lo..." He swallows, his face burning red with shame that he can't even utter that word. "Love is a curse. Because isn't it? It almost... it almost killed you. You were closer to ...death then, than I'd ever seen you. And yet, in some fucking twisted way, maybe I needed that push. If that didn't happen...would I have ever told you?"

Each time he references your near-death state, his face crumples as if he's trying to hold back tears. It's then you realize that he doesn't allow himself to cry in front of you, or maybe in front of anyone.

"It's like the universe forced me to finally confess, after all these years. And still...still it's so hard to-" He sighs, brow furrowing in frustration. "To say what I mean. To say what I really want to say. It's kind of pathetic, isn't it?"

You smile softly and turn the hand closest to him so that your palm faces the ceiling. It skates over the sheets until it reaches over in his direction, enough so that he notices but not so far that he would feel obligated—it's for him to take or leave.

In another moment, you would burst out laughing at how absurdly fast he rushes forward to take it. But in this moment in time, you let your heart sing and your body feel warm everywhere.

For Satoru, this physical connection to you has significantly lowered his barriers. His mask slips even more, his persona waning in a way that makes him feel so exposed. Feeling you again makes him keenly aware of everything he almost lost.

"Actions speak louder than words. Didn't you come for me?"

"I was almost too late," He insists, voice cracking. "You were almost too far gone."

"But you came, and I'm here with you now. Everyone has their struggles, Satoru. Everyone. And it's not like I was brave enough to tell you, either."

He sighs, a shuddering sound you're not familiar with coming from him. "I don't feel like I'm supposed to have weaknesses like this."

"You're human," You say softly. "At the end of the day, we're all just human. You, me, and everyone else."

His face softens and his thumb absently traces the back of your hand.

"But I want to. I want to tell you everything, everything that...everything that I feel about you. I've always felt so much for you. There's so much I want to tell you, but..." He swallows. "It all gets stuck."

Your stomach flutters at his words. Now you feel so silly for asking him if he was going to walk away, because you feel all of his words so deeply. He's so sincere that it makes your heart skip a beat, knowing he thinks and has thought of you like this for a long time. You even feel giddy at his words, despite the situation.

"And that's okay. Do you think I can't feel that from you by now?" You reassure. "You don't even need to say anything. You never have."

Satoru shakes his head with some amusement, a small smile forming on his lips. He sighs and regards you with a disbelieving expression, as if he can’t believe your words. "God, the bar is in hell."

You can't help but erupt into laughter. "Satoru! Hey! You're ruining the momeeent!"

"Sorry," He smiles, and then his tone dips into something that has your insides stirring. "Am I really? Should I make it up to you, then?”

He leans over the edge of the bed more, and you're suddenly aware of how close he is to you. His elbows rest on the top of the mattress, near your thigh, and his head rests in his hands. He's looking up at you—you can just tell—and you feel jittery under his invisible yet ever-present gaze.

There's electricity in the air: the underlying tension has heightened, and even the brush of his hand against yours has your breath hitching. Your eyes fall to his lips—they look so soft, and such a pretty pale pink, and look so inviting—

Your eyes snap back to the rest of his face once you realize what you were doing. Your face is burning and you hope you weren't caught, but unfortunately it seems that may have been the case.

He rises from his seat slowly, with control, and sits on the edge of the bed. Wanting to be closer, you instinctively start to sit up fully, but you surprise at a gentle push at your shoulders, reducing you to resting on your elbows.

"Eager, are we?" He grins. "Did you forget that you're supposed to be resting?"

"Ugh! You– ! Shut up! I wasn't trying to do anything!" You say indignantly.

"Mmm, doesn't mean I can't though, right?" He says. "Like you said, actions speak louder than words..."

He pauses a few inches from your face. One of his hands gently brushes against your jaw and cheek while the other slides down your neck, causing you to tremble under his touch. He's clearly enjoying every second of this.

"Your face is warm, sweets."

"Shut up! No it's not!" You groan and cover your face with your hands, not able to bear the embarrassment. In the process, you brush his roaming hands away.

"Aww, don't do that," He coos, but isn't able to keep the laughter out of his voice. "Who said it was a bad thing?"

"Don't tease me," You whine, but slowly release your hands from your face.

"But I've missed it so muchhh," He sighs dramatically. "I've been deprived."

You deadpan. "That's your own doing."

"Harsh, sweetheart!" He winces. "But it's the truth, isn't it? I intend to make it up to you...make up for lost time."

The distance between you shrinks further. Your proximity is dizzying, unfamiliar and heart-racing and daunting and yet also so safe. A safe space carved out of nothing, comfort from the cold and unforgiving world you live in.

His fingers are on your face again, gently framing your jaw and chin, as if steadying you, as if he's going to...

"This is what I most regret not doing that day," He admits quietly.

"What do you mean?" You ask dumbly, thoughts muddled by this heat between you, as if you don't know exactly what he's doing.

"Before you fell unconscious," He says. "While you were...'in limbo', as Shoko put it, I wondered if I would ever be able to..."

Your heart beats quickly in your chest, making your breathing shallow. He leans in, fingers ghosting over your features and causing your eyes to flutter shut. You feel butterflies flitting around in your stomach; you're full of nerves, but also brimming with desire and yearning.

You gasp softly when his lips meet yours. Your hands immediately get lost his hair, fingers tugging gently on his soft strands. He kisses you deeply, so passionately that you fall back completely in surprise. It brings him down with you, but one of his arms frames your head and is the only thing that kept his body from collapsing onto yours.

"...to kiss you like this." He finishes breathlessly.

You thought he might make a joke about you falling for him, or about you wanting to be under him, but he allows the moment to be what it is. Intimate, close, vulnerable.

You circle your arms around his neck, pulling him down while you rise you, you closing the gap this time. Feelings that laid undisturbed for years now pour out all at once and you can't seem to catch your breath—or maybe that's because you don't want to let go of this moment.

You pull away slowly, hesitantly, your eyes never leaving his face. But something is missing.

You wordlessly reach for his bandages with tentative fingers. You tug at them gently, allowing time for him to protest, but he doesn't. He lets you take away the last protection he has, to peel away the last barrier to his emotions.

Your eyes begin to sting once the bandages fall away. A surge of emotions run through you, and you can't suppress your smile at the sight of his eyes at last. You have often compared them to the gems aquamarine and sapphire, but they shine brighter and more brilliantly than any jewel. You want to cry just looking at them—his glittering eyes that are consumed by emotion, full of affection and warmth and love, so much love.

"I love you." You whisper, reflecting what you see, overcome with emotion.

You're not expecting anything back, and truthfully you don't need any words to know his feelings. The emotion shimmering in his kaleidoscopic eyes is enough. You've never observed them this closely before, or for so long, and with each passing second their beauty intensifies.

He lowers himself a few inches lower yet, so close you can practically feel the warmth radiating from him.

It's soft and watery, but you hear it clear as day. "And I love you."

You can't contain yourself. You shoot up, tackling him into a hug, so enthusiastic and so unlike yourself that you can't help but giggle. This is something he might do, is what crosses your mind. Only he can make you act on your feelings like this. You embrace him tightly and unintentionally bear your whole weight onto him. You even end up audibly squishing the breath out of him.

"Mmph! For someone who just woke up from a coma, you're pretty...energetic," He says, voice slightly strained from your actions, but he's laughing. "Always full of surprises. You're adorable, y'know that?"

"Nope, so I guess you'll have to tell me again, then!" You stick out your tongue. You untangle yourself and sit up, and he follows ensuite. You begin to splutter out a protest when you lifts you and drags you to the headboard, propping you up against it so that you're not straining yourself. He murmurs something about 'how you shouldn't even be sitting up'. You feel warm at how easily he handles your weight.

"I have a lot of things to tell you," He says sincerely, arms still around you as he settles you against the back of the bed. "But I guess I can start with that. You're adorable, sweets."

You sigh, ruminating on his words even though you know he didn't mean them to be serious.

"Hah...I'm having too much fun, aren't I? For all of the things I still don't know."

"You can have as much fun as you like," He counters. "After everything...it feels important, doesn't it?"

You chuckle. "Okay, Mr. Sap. Next you're going to tell me to 'make memories, not excuses' and 'live, laugh, love' or some shit."

He playfully glares at you. "I was being serious! And I don't sound like that! All I meant was...you deserve to be happy. That's all."

He turns his head to look away, cheeks reddening as if expecting you to poke fun at him again.

Feeling bad for laughing now, you gently grasp his chin and turn him back towards you. "Thank you, Satoru. I didn't mean to laugh, and I meant what I said...I am happy, but I'm also ignorant. Is that really true happiness?"

Your words hang in the air, lingering on your conscience longer than you'd like to admit. You need to know.

"That's pretty philosophical," He says after a few moments, clearly caught off guard by your sudden seriousness.

"Maybe. But it's also true. I want to know everything..." You sigh. "Well, I do and I don't. I've been dreading it all since I woke up."

"We have time," He protests, eyes searching your expression. It almost sounds like a plead, and you realize the truth will be just as difficult for him to address, if not moreso. "We have so much time, sweets. All the time in the world."

"Not when I feel like this," You frown.

You see a flash of panic in his eyes. "Like what? Are you in pain anywhere?"

You wince at the misunderstanding. "No, no! I'm fine. Sorry, bad wording, that's not what I meant. I just meant that I'm going to feel unsettled until I know. It's like... I feel the truth in my bones, but I don't actually know it yet. I don't know if I even want to know, but I don't think it'll go away until you tell me...until you confirm it....does that make sense?"

He comes closer, as if sensing your need for touch. You lean into him, your head nestling into his chest.

"I know. It does."

"I don't really want to know...but I should. I should know."

He sighs, and it's tinged with exhaustion. "I know, sweets."

"You know what I want to know, don't you?" You ask, but it feels unnecessary. "What I asked you earlier..."

He doesn't answer, not needing to. He knows you'll ask, knows that you'll put the words out into the world.

"Satoru...he's gone, isn't he?"

You're met with a suffocating silence. You can barely breathe; it feels like time has stopped, it feels like those few words used up all the air in the room. The pressure hangs in the air like a spell waiting to be broken, crushing your lungs. In this moment, you feel like you'll never breathe the same way again.

The truth is uttered quietly in a weak voice. "Yes, he is."

Time resumes. Air enters your lungs, proving you wrong.

At the confirmation, the truth you felt in your gut now feels like a rock, sinking down and down and down, the truth making your dread coming to a height but also grounding you. And then suddenly everything clicks, synapses that long laid dormant now sparking and flooding your brain with information. Your eyes widen, focus going in and out.

You came to him. You made a deal unlike any other before it. You sealed your own death in stone, trading it with both of theirs.

This surge of understanding has disturbed your reality. You are stricken with shock: you remember. You remember everything. How you sought Geto out knowing that only one could remain in this world, believing Gojo could never go through with it. Geto's painfully innocent smile as he threatened and manipulated you, the sympathy he expressed that made you believe in Satoru's apparent indifference, planting a seed for your disease; everything.

There's only one reason you would be able to remember. Your head feels like it could explode, even though you knew it all along. Everything you tried to prevent still happened anyway; the curse fulfilled itself despite all your efforts. Everything was for naught.

Gojo watches your reaction closely, bracing you against him as if you're going to fall apart if he doesn't. You think there might be some truth to that.

"You remember now, don't you?" Gojo asks quietly, as if he can read your mind. "The Binding Vow..."

"Why?" You cry out, even though you know why, your voice sounding all too loud compared to Satoru's. "After everything...Fuck, that's all I ever wanted to avoid! That's why I did everything I did. That's why..."

You hike your knees into your chest, trying not to let out the tears that begin to form. You feel his touch immediately, you feel the guilt that radiates through his hands that try to soothe you.

"Fuck. It wasn't supposed to be like this. It wasn't meant to...I tried to stop it...Nobody was supposed to die..."

"You know that's not true," He pulls back to look at you directly, blue eyes burning into yours. "I don't know exactly what deal you made, but I know that's not true. You can't just say that, not when it almost cost you your life. Do you really hold no value to your life?"

His words hit you like a punch to the gut, and you're vaguely aware that he's angry. Angry that you risked your life for him, even though you know he'd do the same for you. But more than his anger, you sense the root of it: his unadulterated fear that you feel in his trembling grasp on you, see in his wide eyes.

"Do you really think that would have solved everything? That he would have kept his word?"

Guilt curdles in your stomach, but you also feel a rush of defensiveness. It's not like the choice you made was for fun; all you thought of was protecting him.

"It was a Binding Vow, Satoru. You kind of have to keep your word." You argue snarkily, but it sounds stupid even to your ears.

"Only about what is actually discussed. Unless you laid down conditions about every little thing...there are ways around everything."

Well, you can't argue with that. The vow was hastily taken when you were younger and more naive. You were desperate and blind to all of the holes in your plan.

You slowly raise your head, cogs still turning. "Satoru...how do you even know about the vow? Even I forgot. I couldn't have told anyone."

He chuckles darkly, "Geto wasn't exactly trying to keep it a secret. Yaga heard about it, and I'm pretty sure the higher-ups knew too. Ever wondered why you kept going on so many misinformed missions? They were trying to get rid of you, thinking you made some heinous deal with Geto. And of course Geto knew that would happen. I never- I never thought Suguru would go so far...I should have finished him off a long time ago."

"Satoru!" You're truly shocked by his words. Is this really the same man who bawled into your shoulder after Yaga and the higher-ups ordered him to carry out Suguru's execution? There's a reason you made the dire choice you did; he was incapable of carrying it out, and you feared for the worst.

Your eyes search his for the truth, and you find it. The dark glint in his eyes overshadows any past affection he had for his former friend. But there's more to it: the protective grip he has on you, the way his hands run up and down your sides as if reassuring himself that you're really there...

"He was fucking evil at the end. What he did to you..." His voice is weak. "I couldn't look past that. After all our years together, I can't believe he would go so far for his own agenda."

"But-" I didn't want him to die. I didn't want you to kill him.

He sees the doubt in your eyes. "Angel, there's no way. No way I couldn't have done what I did. You have no idea what you looked like...What he put you through..."

You glance down at yourself, frowning. Your brows crease in confusion. Sure, you had felt pretty bad, but you still survived. It's not like he actually did anything to you, just let the disease run its course. Okay, so you were maybe the closest to death you've ever been before, but you'd seen other sorcerers in worse condition who had made a full recovery after. And you woke up after all, didn't you?

"I mean, I know Shoko presumably fixed me up, but I don't feel too bad now."

Gojo sighs. "Do you know what day it is?"

You hesitate, thinking. It was Wednesday night when you were kidnapped. "Uh, it should be Thursday, right?"

"It's Monday."

He watches the realization sink in as you grow unusually quiet and withdrawn. Your mortality feels so fragile suddenly. His reaction makes sense.

"I've been holding my breath this whole weekend just hoping you'd pull through. Shoko didn't even know if you'd wake up at all. You almost died, and Suguru was banking on it. You almost fucking died, angel. You were on the brink, and...I couldn't handle it."

You look down at yourself again. Now that you look closer, you look sickly—horrible, really. Your skin has lost the luster it used to have and your nails are brittle and cracked. Your hair is thinner than it used to be, too, and its usual shine has been diminished into something dull and lifeless. You were almost lifeless.

"Bet I still look like shit, huh?" You chuckle weakly.

Gojo goes still, expression turning stony. Although he doesn’t say anything, it’s all over his face that he’s holding back strong words at your half-assed, dismissive response.

You sigh, “Sorry. I shouldn’t just…brush it off. I know I was in deep shit. But at the same time, I had already accepted it. It sounds bad, but…I was expecting it from the first flower. Deep down I truly thought I was going to die.”

"You almost did."

You wince, guilt flooding you.

You slowly grab his hands and look up into his eyes, trying not to shy away from his probing gaze. "I know, but I didn't. I got myself into such a mess, and somehow you were able to get me out of it. Somehow, you saved me from it all, Satoru."

There's a pause, and then...

"Well, I am the strongest for a reason."

And there he goes, turning your serious conversation into something rather unserious.

"Would you stop with that?!" You pout, holding up a pillow and miming hitting him with it.

He laughs and wraps his arm around you, easily giving him the leverage he needs to pull the pillow from your grasp.

"I'm so sorry, angel, please forgive me!" He shouts desperately, making you giggle. "But you shouldn't be trying to hit your knight in shining armor, should you?"

He shakes you a bit to emphasize his 'desperation' and frowns like a kicked puppy. You huff, trying to seem annoyed, but his behavior pulls a smile from you. You can't possibly stay mad at him while he's pouting like this.

A long moment of peaceful silence stretches out, a piece of bliss that is soon stolen away.

“Do you hate him?”

You look up into his crystal eyes, searching them. You didn't expect him to ask you that, and so suddenly at that. “Suguru?”

He nods.

“…I don’t know. He tried to use me as a pawn, to sacrifice my life to try to get you to break. To force you to be on his side. Considering that, he didn’t have any regard for our well-being anymore…I never wished any bad on him, and yet it seems that’s all he had planned for us. Bad things, cruel things. I was his pawn, you were his queen he wanted to capture.”

“...Queen?”

You laugh, spluttering in embarrassment, “W-well, the queen really has all the power in chess! I was just thinking the queen is the one who can actually do things and stuff, I don’t know, just leave me alone! I’m bedridden and you’re interrogating me on my terminology! Maybe you’re the cruel one, Satoru.”

"No, no," He half-smiles, and it's bittersweet. "He definitely was. To take you away from me—no, to take away your life—that's really the only way I can imagine myself breaking. I didn't know it for a while, but Suguru was truly cunning and calculating.”

He pauses for a moment, and as you look into his eyes you can see his conflicting emotions swirling in them. Deep down, he still cared for Suguru. That’s why it hurt.

He chuckles, shaking his head, “It's funny—that's who I thought I was. Everyone always thought Suguru was an angel with a perfect moral compass who could do no wrong...or at least I did. But it turns out that you're the only angel here. My angel."

“Har har,” You roll your eyes. “And next you’re going to tell me I made a deal with the devil.”

“You practically did,” He grimaces. “That’s really not too far off.”

“Maybe, but…” You sigh. “Somehow, it’s still hard to hate him. He used to be so kind, and his smile was so gentle. Maybe in another life, he stays that way.”

There’s a lot of things he could say, a lot of ways he could respond. Your hope for Geto to change, your faith that he could change in another life, may fall on deaf ears. Is that what you would want to hear after finally executing your best friend after a decade of refusal to, a decade of asking yourself the same questions?

You turn to him, eyes searching his face. But it turns out you don’t need to worry.

“Maybe,” Gojo smiles, and that’s good enough for you. “And maybe in another life, I would have confessed to you a long, long time ago.”

“Really? When?” You laugh.

“Hm…how about the first time I saw you?”

He tucks a stray strand of your hair behind your ear. Your breath halts at the absolutely love-struck expression on his face.

You want to ask him what he means, how that’s even possible, for every detail and moment he realized, but…

“You’re full of shit!” is what you say instead.

He continues on with a sweet smile, as if he hadn’t heard you, “You walked in holding a huge stack of books to your chest and got so nervous to introduce yourself in front of the class that you forgot to put them down and dropped them when you bowed.”

“Ahh! No I didn’t!”

“Mmhmm. And you were so shy that you refused to talk to me for three weeks, even though you talked to Suguru and Shoko.”

“Y-you were hard to look at!” You defend yourself, cheeks warming. “And how could I talk to you when I could barely look at you? You’re so…perfect, y’know? It was hard to talk to you when you’re so talented and pretty and charming…”

“Ooo? You really think so?” He wears a shit-eating grin.

“Okay, that’s enough!" You pout, crossing you arms.

"Awww, don't be mad at me sweets!" He chuckles and wraps himself around you. "I'm only telling the truth. You made me nervous too, y'know?"

"As if," You frown. "It didn't seem like it."

"Maybe I was just better at hiding it," He says, his smile now seeming misplaced. Each stirring feeling conjured a mask so convincing that it remained unquestioned for years, not until each of your blinding smiles formed cracks in his fake persona, breaking him down to his barest bones. Then he was a blushing mess around you, as Geto and Shoko often reminded him.

"Actually, I think you just weren't observant enough," He sighs and puts a hand over his heart as if offended. "Did you not pay any attention to me, sweets?!"

"I did! I just thought you hated me at first," You admit. "You wouldn't even look at me for so long, I just thought you looked down on me. I mean, you've always been so famous in our world, y'know? It made sense why you wouldn't pay me any attention. Well, I thought as much until we became friends, at least."

He moves in closer, his large fingers framing your cheek and rubbing gently your cheekbone. He's flushed, pink spreading across his cheeks and nose. "Hate you? I really messed up there, huh? Look at my face, sweets. I was just worried this would happen. You've always had this effect on me...I was scared that it was obvious even without speaking to you. Or looking at you."

You roll your eyes playfully. "How could that be obvious, Satoru? Only you could think that."

"Hmm, but everyone else still seemed to know."

"What exactly do you mean by 'everyone'?"

He chuckles. "It's a long list, sweets."

It's then you have the realization that you're still in the dark about a lot, not just this 'long list' of everyone who supposedly was aware of Gojo's affections. What exactly has transpired in the past weeks, or even months?

"There's still a lot you haven't told me yet. What exactly has been going on?"

He smiles. "That should be my line. There's a lot you haven't told me yet."

He's right. Annoyingly right. There was more to the vow, more to Geto and his family, than you've relayed. And everything about your illness...

It dawns on you that there are things you aren't ready to share yet. That you and Gojo have your work cut out for you when it comes to the past, when it comes to your relationship. You have love for each other, but there's more than that to a relationship.

"I know..." You frown, dreading the prospect already.

"Hey," He thumbs at your down-turned lips. "We'll get to it—we'll get to everything. We have all the time in the world now. We can talk about all the millions of things you're thinking about whenever you're ready...but for now, let's just have today. Today is for us. There's always a tomorrow, yeah?"

Hope blooms in your chest. That's right. One step at a time.

"'Today is for us'...I like that."

You smile easily, an invisible weight lifting from your chest. You feel lighter than you have in months—and it seems like Gojo is faring similarly, with his relaxed expression and gentle smile. But a flicker of uncertainty, given away by his eyes that he's not used to having on display, interrupts his otherwise peaceful expression.

Your smile drops. "What? Is something wrong?"

His narrows his eyes. "Can you read my thoughts or something? I was thinking for legitimately three seconds and you start hounding me..."

"Like I said before, thinking is dangerous from you!" You giggle.

"I really can't hide anything from you, can I?" He chuckles, shaking his head. "It's just that...I have a feeling that things are only going to get more complicated from here on out."

His words are cryptic, but you understand what he means. He's always been sensitive to changes in cursed energy, born with this innate instinct. He almost always senses major events in the sorcerer world before they happen.

"You've sensed something?" You ask, now alert.

You see something like regret flash across his features, as if he wants to eat his words. You're the type who is constantly overthinking and fearing worst case scenarios, as he well knows. You should be worried, with a million thoughts running through your head. But right now?

"Whatever," You shrug, truthfully unbothered. "As long as you're here, it doesn't matter. Even if the world is supposed to go up in flames, we have today. And you protect our tomorrow."

"Just me? Aren't you a sorcerer too? Don't discredit yourself, sweets," He smiles, but the look he gives you is firm. "We protect our tomorrow."

Embarrassment fills your features; you have always doubted your abilities, which has never been hard with Satoru around, much to his distaste.

"If you insist," You say, barely acknowledging yourself, but it's better than nothing. You look away from him, squirming uncomfortably in embarrassment.

"Mhm, I do," He hums. "It's always a we now, sweets."

But just as soon as you've seen his soft and sincere side, it's gone.

"But enough of all this boooring talk! Now that I have you, I think we have lots of lost time to make up for."

You raise your eyebrows. "What's wrong with talking, hm?"

He's so close again, and your eyes can't help but flick down to his pale pink lips.

"I don't need words to say what I want to," He says, lips brushing the skin on your neck where your pulse thrums.

"Is that right?" You try to ask, but soon your lips are occupied, your words muffled as he kisses you deeply.

"Mmhmm, and I have so much to tell you," He murmurs. "I've been needing this for so many years, angel. Been needing you."

You feel like you can't think, like you can't breathe.

"I want to do— I mean, talk about more things with you."

You don't miss the mischievous twinkle in his eyes, and the way he pulls you closer and presses your body against his, your skin brushing against his. You feel heat, you feel electricity; you feel him.

He's all you want.

"Freudian slip, Satoru? Well, talk all you want. I'm all yours."

TAGLIST: @certainduckanchor @kawaiivillainess98 @arehzhera @starrylibras @mandysfanfics @rain-and-a-nice-nap @csillana @sup-hoes-its-me @llliissuu @hawkdaddy1111 @dcvilxswish @angel-kyo @eliz-lovesgojo @5268r @wooasecret @timetobegone @ceronnica @torusblindfold @mo0nforme @crookedlyaddictedtodark-blog @soapysofi @sadmonke @shartnart1 @dummyf @adoraspace @allie-jay @notgoodforlife @spin-garden @astrokatsuki @reiluvr @kinny-away @turtl3-warr1or @slyhersophia

notes: not me foreshadowing Sukuna and his long long list of consequences...especially that one :( also sorry for offscreening Suguru 💀

Guys I'm finally done!!! I think I need to ban myself from doing multiple chapter works because I really just make you guys wait for waaaay too long... Either that or I have to finish writing the series first before posting any of it LOL. Like do you want to know something embarrassing? I had to reread my own writing because I forgot what I wrote...which is crazy!!!

Also I rewrote this like 3 times AGHHH and I had the hardest time with the ending...I hope it's not too awkward or sudden? I tried my best with it ;-;

Thank you so so so much for reading and commenting!!! <3 And again, sorry to keep you waiting for so long!!

#gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #gojo x you #gojo satoru x you #gojo hurt/comfort #hurt/comfort #jjk fanfic #gojo is an idiot sometimes but not this time

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wintergrofyuri · 3 months ago

Text

@itsonlypolite

@wrathful-banette

TEEHEE OK

so. i forgot to say. skeptic IS a detective. a pi. a gumshoe. a dick, if you will. but i guess thats sort of implied already. i just wanted to state it clearly.

but anyways.

this whole thing was made bc im so fucking insane about the cage chapter. the themes about being a slave to fate and how our actions are not our own and losing control of yourself and your life. just. ugh. it speaks to me a lot. and ofc skeptic being an old timey detective is so universal. i joke about hating him but i Do like him and find him interesting. i want to put him in situations.

and thats what this whole au is. putting skeptic in situations. hearing new perspectives, having his theories proven wrong, dealing with uncooperative suspects, red herrings. i love when hes wrong or ignored or otherwise slighted. he seems very. sure of himself? not an arrogant fool, but more. a guy who hasnt been wrong before. ykno. and i think ur typical film noir (with slay the princess elements like cycles and fate) is just a really natural fit to explore all that.

but its Also about playing with the whole "perception based creature" thing that the princess has going on. i Love "character nobody really knows" and the princess, with her multiple forms and fluid personality, works Rlly rlly well with this concept. i love the princess and i think she deserves to be a mysterious "haunting the narrative" type character. shes like a spy with multiple disguises. or someone in witness protection.

and also bartender hero lives in my mind like a parasite. oh my god that reminds me i need to talk about the others ok.

hero is the bartender (as stated before) of "the long quiet" bc i think its funny theyre still in tlq even in this silly film noir au.

stubborn is the bouncer/bodyguard/whatever the fuck you call it. he kicks ppl out when they get too rowdy.

cheated is The regular there. he either sits at a table and mopes or gets roped into a card game with opportunist that results in both of them being kicked out (theres always blood drawn).

opportunist is a conman/snake oil salesman whos only still allowed bc hero is too nice and opp is too good at buttering ppl up.

smitten is a tortured artist, lamenting to anyone who will listen about his lost love and muse. he is never paying his damn tab, but again, hero is too nice.

cold is a mysterious figure who only visits the bar like. once a month. he barely talks to anyone and only drinks water. (hes an assassin LOL)

broken is the local priest (the god is shifty btw) who only visits bc hero told him to get out more. he doesnt drink either. he just looks vaguely haunted.

contrarian is a guy whos hard to pin down. you cant find him, you just have to pray he appears ykno. the only people who Know him are hero and cold, but hero refuses to divulge anything abt him and cold is just. Cold. ykno.

paranoid is skeptic's partner (lol) and secretary. he does half the work around the office (maybe more) and lives with skeptic. he complains and protests and threatens to quit, but its all bark. hes very loyal. to his own frustration.

now im going to be honest. hunted is Super difficult to put in this au. given his role as a fight or flight, base animal instinct type, he cant be fit into an au like this very easily. ive considered a hunter, but that doesnt fit him at all. so. im a hack and i should delete my tumblr.

but no seriously hunted is very difficult. ALSO. THE NARRATOR. ive been thinking if i should add him and how prevelant he should be and what he would be like. if he should be in the bar or if skeptic would need to meet him somewhere else. maybe hes the villain ykno. but im. not sure and i dont wanna make the whole thing Too big ykno. i swear its not just bc i dont like him (joke (hes fun to hate (but also i hate him), i genuinely am stuck on what to do with him.

anyways. thats pretty much it. i dont wanna derail this post with. yaoi ramblings. so ill keep it close to my chest. also b4 u ask, im. not going to make this a fic or anything. i dont have the energy for something like this and im not very. good at writing longform anyway. i much prefer tiny drabbles. and anyways, its kinda. rlly unfinished cuz ive been too busy thinking too hard about minor details.

listen to 3 time tony winner, broadway classic, city of angels with music by cy coleman, lyrics by david zippel, and book by larry gelbart. thanks.

I ALMOST FORGOT. theyre still birds 💜. yayyyy 💞

#slay the princess #hero is mentioned a lot in this post bc. hes like jesus christ #a saint #an angel #everyone wants him. everyone wants to be him.#jesus WISHES he had as loyal a following as hero slay the princess #hes an all you can eat buffet #Sorry im done. im normal.#im hungry all of a sudden

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angie-likes-to-art · 5 months ago

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Fic Recs (Marvel Edition iv)

These are in order of how recently I read them, not in favorite order. All fics are fem!reader

Marvel One Two Three Harry Potter One Two Three Stranger Things One Two Three Four Five Six Specific Characters Tangerine Masterlist

First Date by @luveline

Pairing: Peter Parker x Reader Summary: “you take care of a sick Peter on your would be first date. later, he returns the favour and makes some promises.”

Healing by @crispychrissy

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Nurse!Reader Summary: “Tasked with examining the injured soldiers that were liberated from the Hydra factory, one sergeant in particular gives you a run for your money.”

A Guide To Rebuilding Your Life by Peter Parker by @liberty-barnes

Pairing: Peter Parker x Reader Summary: “After the events of NWH, Peter returns to his own universe determined to get his life back on track.”

Spider Lilies by @swimmingthroughthemilkyway

Pairing: Peter Parker x Reader Summary: “you give peter flowers”

Crush by @ptersparkers

Pairing: Peter Parker x Reader Summary: “peter has been visiting you as spider-man long enough to develop a crush on you. the problem? you have a crush on somebody else.”

Paparazzi by @lanadelreyscokewhor3 (18+ Only)

Pairing: Dark!Perv!Peter Parker x Innocent!Reader Summary: “as the outgoing, spontaneous cheerleader of the school, you arent too familiar with quieter people, such as peter parker. he sure is familiar with you though. soon, the photos and obsessions give him the courage to talk to you, which leads into his darker desires coming true.”

Best Friend’s Girl by @fqjth (18+ Only)

Pairing: TASM!Peter Parker x TASM!Harry Osborn x Reader Summary: “harry grows aware that his best friend has feelings for his girlfriend, confronting him one night at a party”

Our Girl by @spider-stark

Pairing: TASM!Peter Parker x TASM!Harry Osborn x Reader Summary: “ You're forced into attending a gala with Peter and Harry, where your best friends unintentionally plant a tempting idea in your head.”

5 Times There Was Only One Bed (and the one time there were two beds) by @mrs-elsie-barnes

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader Summary: “Whether it's on a mission, a work event or a holiday, your sleeping arrangements never seem to work out as planned. It doesn't really bother you until...it does. Confronted with a night sleeping apart, you and Bucky finally talk.”

Past Life by @thinkinnonsensee (18+ Only)

Pairing: dofp!Logan Howlett x mutant!Reader Summary: Logan meets his wife in the past, long before they would meet in his timeline.

Nasty Dog by @not-neverland06 (18+ Only)

Pairing: Logan Howlett x mutant!Reader Summary: “You'd thought you'd had a good thing going with Logan. You weren't officially anything to each other, but you were getting close. You truly saw a future with him, but he made it incredibly clear he did not feel the same”

Knuckle Velvet by @ohcaptains (18+ Only)

Pairing: Logan Howlett x Reader Summary: “he walks you home, then lets himself in.”

Patience Wears Thin by @reidsworld (18+ Only)

Pairing: Logan Howlett x Mutant!Reader Summary: “Logan’s flirty behaviour has you thinking he’s just being sarcastic. But when his attitude changes and his grumpiness intensifies, leading to him avoiding you, you confront him, only for him to finally snap.”

Like a Moth to a Flame by @wannabespacesmuggler

Pairing: Lumberjack!Logan Howlett x Bartender!Reader Summary: “Logan Howlett is a dangerous man; at least, that's what he wants you to think when he first meets you during your shift at Lucky's. However, he only seems to prove the opposite as he becomes a more constant presence in your life. After learning his true identity in a dark back alley, he's certain you want nothing to do with him. But against your better judgment, you're drawn to him like a moth to a flame.”

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mcybree · 10 months ago

Note

I prepared this ask in the Notes app only for Tumblr to not let me copy and paste the text so here’s a screenshot bc I’m not typing all that again lol

there’s this funny trend i see in trafficblr art, in that, when there’s a lineup of every past winner, most players will be surrounded by symbols that were relevant to their POV, and perhaps drawn with the last emotion they’d felt just before death (or maybe just whatever emotion the artist most associates with the character). The winners might be doing something, or in a pose that reflects how they won—there are a million ways to make a life series winners’ piece. What’s funny about it is that no one ever seems to know what to do with Scott. He’s most often just standing there looking mildly disgruntled. And for the symbols he’s most depicted with, it’s typically poppies, which are only relevant to the first season; last life scott does not place any importance on poppies, poppies dont ever come up beyond a brief interaction in episode 1, and jimmy as a whole is less relevant to scott’s pov in last life than he is in every other season.

not that this is an issue with the art; the pieces are beautifully done, it’s just representative of how little fandom discussion there is about scott’s win thematically. Most discussion I see are about the watchers and how they hate scott for defying him or whatever, but watcher lore is not discussion of the series itself as much as it is a fan creation that is retroactively applied to create meaning.

Scott’s Last Life win, to me, was achieved through accomplishing what Third Life Scott could not.

Scott spent 3L waiting for his day one ally to die. He kept Jimmy at a distance, often fully gearing himself up first before backtracking to help Jimmy along. There’s a funny disparity in episode 5, where Jimmy spends the entire episode trying to get good enchants on his iron armor, while Scott sets up a villager and gets good enchants for the full diamond set that he’d already had in storage, in about half the time Jimmy took trying to accomplish his own goal, iirc. This disparity is also something scott acknowledges with the “I’ll always be more powerful than you” line, but it’s been a while since ive written a post like this so i unfortunately do not have the episode number memorized on that one anymore. But Scott goes on to explain that he’ll always have better armor and weapons, which is why Jimmy could never kill him. This is all to say that Jimmy and Scott do not stand on equal grounds in their alliance, and, more importantly, Scott does not depend on Jimmy. The progress Scott makes in Third Life is entirely his own, with Jimmy as more of an afterthought than a teammate.

This is what landed Scott his all time lowest placement. After Jimmy dies first, Scott loses sight of his priorities and dedicates his remaining time alive to avenging Jimmy, rather than focusing on his own longevity (like he’d go on to do in future seasons). And, in that way, Scott’s attitude towards Jimmy (disposable, going to die, unreliable) was an indirect contributor to Scott’s low placement.

In contrast: Scott could not have won Last Life without Pearl. Scott has to rely on Pearl from day 1, having only two lives to start with himself. Pearl gives Scott two lives total. Pearl and Scott are almost always together. They made it to the final four by each other’s side. And that forced day 1 reliance on pearl breaks down the role scott typically assumes (*he’s* supposed to be the person people rely on, he’s supposed to be the one bringing everything to the table) which curbs his tendency to see himself as above others, which then allows for the most genuine happiness i have ever seen him have in an alliance.

The comparison between the way Scott talks to Pearl and the way Scott talks to Jimmy is like night and day. Scott doesn’t compliment or otherwise say anything supportive towards Jimmy (save for the “I believe in you! MCC has trained you for this moment!” during Jimmy’s dare to flare attempt) until after Jimmy has already died. With Pearl, however, Scott is much more open about his care towards her, saying that she’s his best friend and that he loves her as early as episode 2. There’s more examples but between last life and third life, Scott’s attitude towards his primary ally is completely different, and i think it’s symptomatic of Scott allowing himself to love and be vulnerable rather than keeping himself at a distance. And i think that it’s so special that scott won the season where he was so close with his day one alliance, directly because of his day one alliance.

because, to me, one of scott’s defining characteristics is his self reliance. He will have allies, yes, but he often assumes a supportive role and acts as a supplier. He doesnt like taking things from other people. Last Life is different because Scott relies on Pearl, too. It’s also not a coincidence that last life is the only season where scott is normal about jimmy but that’s a different post

tldr yes scott won last life with the power of love but not in the way people say he did (ignoring the boogeyman curse was strategy ☝️)

I SHOULD NOTE, though, that the boogeyman curse was still a fail. Although purposeful, Scott receives the penalty and apologizes to his team. He says he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. I do think that his words here aren’t fully honest— he’d admitted earlier that this choice was fully for strategy. But I also think his apologetic attitude here is genuine. Scott is a perfectionist, he needs to succeed; failing, though purposeful, still hurts. He feels the need to apologize. It means so much to me that his win in last life directly follows the choice to fail on purpose. I’m insane though idk

third life scott embodies scotts flaws while last life scott is him overcoming them 👍 is what im trying to say 👍 last life scott is everything that third life scott could not bring himself to be, in allowing himself to love and depend on other people and overall just be a person.

#I couldve explained this way better but i came up with the thesis in the very last paragraph #And went ohhh. Well. The post is already written #So yes i could reformat this all and make it much more compelling by breaking down exactly what i think scotts flaws are through—#Series by series analysis #and then go on and use examples from ll to paint it as the antithesis of all that #all to put in a provable factual way just HOW different scott is in last life compared to other series #And how this aided him and eventually got him the win #But i think thats like. A whole essay?#im imagining an essay format. and i do not. want to write a whole essay right now #so im hoping this kind of shitty condensed version gets my point across #there is an annoying lack of citations but as stated i have not done a scott post in a while and dont have this shit as memorized #also its my birthday in 6 minutes can you believe it #asks #that.blue.mf

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ghostchems · 1 year ago

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masterlist

ONGOING

infernal | nsfw | parts: one/two/three/four/five/six/seven/eight | ao3 link

papa emeritus iii x fem reader Terzo is serving a death sentence. It isn’t like he had much of a choice. He remembers the game night clearly. The typical arguments and accusations of cheating had subsided and it was a rare moment of fun and relaxation with his brothers. The next thing he remembers is waking up on a gurney and gasping for air. They told him his brothers were dead. They told him they had removed his head for a photoshoot and then reattached it again. They gave him a choice: die now or take their money and never speak to them again.

lovers led astray | nsfw | parts: one / two | ao3 link

cardinal copia x fem reader - upior sequel much has changed within the ministry since the dust settled. you're stuck in a position you never wanted - the chosen lover of the cardinal, the heir apparent, as well as the secretary for the ministry's budding satanic education program. despite your life having more meaning that it ever has, you're still flooded with memories of the before times.

phantom of the paradise | eventual nsfw | parts: one | ao3 link

papa emeritus iv x fem reader you go to a special screening of “phantom of the paradise” and end up being taken with the strange man who introduces the film

sacred blasphemy | eventual nsfw | parts: one | ao3 link

catholic priest!copia x fem original character in another world, copia has become a catholic priest after being drawn to it during his childhood in an orphanage. he is content with his life, finally feeling grounded and like he belongs -- until a new face in his flock captures his attention.

COMPLETED

*the titles link to the tumblr post. ao3 links included for all! for fics with multiple parts, i linked the last part bc i am lazy :) there are no tumblr links for burn with me because its an ~ao3 exclusive~ (i stopped consistently posting the chapters on tumblr the longer it went dhdjsjsj)

papa emeritus iii

cirice | nsfw | ao3 link

you are searching for inspiration at the site of a local urban legend but something beckons to you

kazoo comfort | sfw | ao3 link

you take a break from your daily duties to clear your head when you run into a cozy-looking retired papa

the rose | sfw | ao3 link

terzo reminisces about simpler times

upiór | nsfw | ao3 link

upiór (n.) - a person cursed before death, a person who died suddenly, or someone whose corpse was desecrated

the wedding guest | nsfw | ao3 link

you have just gotten over a break-up and attend a wedding of a friend alone. a man with face paint distracts you from the festivities

the cardinal’s cure | nsfw | ao3 link

cardinal terzo notices you seem a bit stressed and he has perfect solution

gloves | nsfw | ao3 link

you are the resident glove maker at the abbey and cardinal terzo comes to you with a curious request.

you drive me (crazy) | nsfw | ao3 link

the prompt: Now that Terzo has retired he has to take driving lessons because Imperator won't let any of the ghouls drive him around anymore. Reader is hired to teach him but what happens when love (or just sex) gets in the way of his lessons?

a man after midnight | nsfw | ao3 link

the prompt: looking at the mirror but the reflection isn't. looking. at. you.

the phantom touch | nsfw | ao3 link

when copia is gone, the phantom comes out to play.

the dressing room | nsfw | ao3 link

the last show of the popestar tour has concluded with Papa being dragged off stage. your task is to keep him occupied in his dressing room

smoke break | sfw | ao3 link

you find solace and a private place to smoke when you are caught by the new papa.

cardinal copia

burn with me | nsfw | ao3 link

It’s been a long time since Copia has been able to play with his food.

restroom detour | nsfw | ao3 link

you're out with your friends at the new local hot spot: the pinnacle lounge. a trip to find the bathroom has you stumbling into something not for your eyes.

road rage | nsfw | ao3 link

as copia's assistant, you've found a nonconventional way to keep your boss calm.

oops | nsfw | ao3 link

copia makes a mistake while summoning a new ghoul.

upiór | nsfw | ao3 link

upiór (n.) - a person cursed before death, a person who died suddenly, or someone whose corpse was desecrated.

devotion | nsfw | ao3 link

the cardinal™️ doesn’t feel that you’ve been a good little sinner lately.

boys suck | nsfw | ao3 link

dracopia with the prompts: that gut feeling something is following you & having blood smeared all over you

the cream in cardinal copia's coffee | nsfw | ao3 link

you are blessed with the task of making the new cardinal his coffee each morning and on your first day, you forget the evaporated milk.

papa emeritus iv

the sads | sfw | ao3 link

you've fallen behind on your classes at the ministry because of an episode of the sads.

somethin’ spooky | nsfw | ao3 link

you've secured an invite to an exclusive party at a satanic church only to end up being underwhelmed by the lack of "spooky".

have some sympathy and some taste | nsfw | ao3 link

you become charmed by a spooky live performance at a bar you wandered into.

wrong place, right time | nsfw | ao3 link

you work at a local concert venue, specializing in requests from the music acts. one request and one warning slips your mind.

on leather wings | nsfw | ao3 link

copia surprises you with a spooky weekend getaway, culminating in some winged bedroom time

longing | nsfw | ao3 link

at a certain moment during a performance, copia thinks of you.

papa emeritus ii

la bella luna | nsfw | ao3 link

after a disappointing evening, you run into a mysterious man on the street.

the devil’s damsel | nsfw: non-con | parts: one/two/three/four | ao3 link

papa emeritus ii x fem reader after one mistake, you end up in the belly of the beast

cemetery stroll | nsfw | parts: one/two | ao3 link

papa emeritus ii x fem reader a creature interrupts your evening walk through the abbey cemetery.

mary goore

baptized in blood | nsfw | ao3 link

you will never forget the day Mary Goore rolled into town.

silco

thief | nsfw| ao3 link

desperate for shimmer, you steal some from the last drop and make your escape

raphael

bad idea right? | nsfw | parts: one/two/three | ao3 link

raphael x fem tav your companions have made their stance on making a deal with a devil clear but as the stakes of your quest grow you aren't so certain

#chems corner #sorry for taking the small break fellas #i got strangely overwhelmed and upset about the state of tumblr lolol #but i'm back now!#papa emeritus x reader #papa emeritus ii x reader #papa emeritus iii x reader #papa emeritus iv x reader #cardinal copia x reader #copie x reader #popia x reader #terzo x reader #secondo x reader #bg3 raphael x reader #raphael bg3 x reader #mary goore x reader #silco x reader #arcane silco x reader #silco arcane x reader

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a-whispering-echo · 4 months ago

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some fellas

said id do some art for some characters ive never drawn before, and so-

gonna do some more of these, so if anyone has a fave au that youve never seen in my style that youd like to request, go ahead and jot them in the comments or reblogs or such like <3

like ive said, ive been hating with how my art has been coming out recently, but i quite like these two, and i suppose drawing some new characters helped, and should help me get a bit more confident with things, so yeah <3

@largefound <- Core Frisk lover <3 heheh

#undertale au #undertale #outer sans #sans au #outertale #outertale sans #outer!sans #core frisk #core!frisk #utmv #Rues Works

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maryaandmorevna · 25 days ago

Text

A Song of Swan and Dragons VI.

Read on ao3, ch.6

Summary: Following Princess Rhaenyra as one of her ladies-in-waiting, Arianne Swann was woefully unprepared upon arriving at the Red Keep. No scroll or tome could have captured the astounding amount of gossip that thrived within the Targaryen court. For a mere lady like her, it felt as though she had made a catastrophic blunder before even having the chance to place her pieces on the board. Yet, if she allowed her heart to guide her—especially toward the man it had chosen—Arianne believed she could endure anything and emerge triumphant. Prince Jacaerys Velaryon would one day be king, and though her father often said that hope was a fool’s errand, she dared to dream she might one day be his queen. If only his boor of an uncle would stop tormenting her.

Chapters: 6/? (75,833k)

Warnings: safe for now, canon-typical sexism, the story will get progressively darker and will include explicit content, canon character death(s), dubcon, noncon, it's war folks

Tagging my beta: @kyonkyon69, and my lovely @lacebvnny who imagined this story with me

VI. Bȳre

I., II., III., IV., V.

What reason weaves, by passion is undone. — Alexander Pope

(Arianne )

Arianne had a challenging time remaining still.

Seated between ladies Mathilda Strong and Prunella Celtigar, she pretended to be exceedingly interested in Ser Hobb Bywater's jousting mishap.

The unfortunate man shattered both his legs during his fall. Mathilda lamented the loss, for he was so handsome and recently knighted.

"That is terrible." Arianne murmured, her gaze irresistibly drawn to the far end of the table.

Prince Jacaerys cradled a ruby-encrusted goblet, his fervid eyes meeting hers across the expanse.

They were as dark as spilled ink.

She quite liked good, sepia ink.

Arianne fought the urge to smile. Yet, treasonously, haplessly, the corner of her mouth twitched.

His full lips quirked, just slightly— just for her, before he turned back to his conversation with Luke, as if nothing had passed between them.

But everything had.

"You were beautiful, Arianne."

Merciful Seven, his voice had been as soft as Quartheeni silk.

The beating muscle in her chest seized. She had always thought herself a perfectly presentable maiden, even comely, but when he said it... When Jace called her beautiful, the words took root beneath her skin, blooming like roses.

Though she wanted nothing more than to join him, Arianne merely watched her prince teach Joffrey and Aegon cyvasse while she sat dutifully in Rhaenyra's drawing room with the other ladies. Rhaena was engrossed in Septon Barth’s treatise on dragons, laughing at passages too ridiculous to be taken entirely seriously.

Arianne could scarcely believe her fortune.

Jace confessed his true heart to her — her gallant Prince, and then he kissed her hands tenderly and oh, it was like a song. Like the most wonderful of ballads.

Surely, he would ask for her hand. He would tell his mother of his affection and Princess Rhaenyra would bestow her blessing upon their union.

The Maiden would not be so cruel to part them when they were so perfectly matched.

Arianne twirled the silver goblet absentmindedly, observing as the hippocras sloshed inside of it. It was strong on the cinnamon, imported from Highgarden.

She had left the Godswood first, not wanting to inspire any spiteful gossip about her lack of a chaperone. Besides, Rhaenyra was her princess, and accepting Jace's confession was, in its own way, an act of encouragement. Prohibited to her.

She had never behaved so unruly.

Never before.

Arianne pressed the cool rim of the chalice to her lips, the rich taste flooding her tongue, warm and sweet as the nearness of Jace had been. She couldn't help giggling at the memory of his lips grazing her knuckles.

Rhaena glanced at her, frowning.

"You think sea dragons are a jest?"

Arianne shook her head, dispelling her urge to shout her happiness to the world. Father is going to be so proud of her accomplishments. Yes, Jace was wonderful, handsome, and intelligent, but that he was an illustrious match too was important nonetheless.

"They don't exist, Rhaena." Luke popped a slice of baked apple into his mouth.

No, not just merely illustrious. Jace was the best firstborn son in the Seven Kingdoms.

"They could...in the Sunset Sea. The Ironborn think their king slew one of them, Nagga —"

"And wore its teeth as his crown?" Luke cut in with a teasing lilt to his voice. Rhaena shot him a glare, snapping The Unnatural history shut.

"Grey King also supposedly married a mermaid," Arianne quipped. "So, it is safely assumed that the whole story is just a myth."

She offered Rhaena an apologetic look, who in turn rolled her large, pretty eyes and beckoned a servant to serve them more sweets. Thick waves of her silver hair framed her dusk-lit face, a contrast so rare it seemed almost otherworldly to Arianne.

And Lady Baela was just as beautiful. She thought morosely.

"Ugh, I forgot about these." The second Velaryon prince grimaced as a plate of perfectly round strawberry tarts was set before them, golden crusts cradling pale pink cream, each crowned with a single ripe, glistening berry.

Arianne frowned.

"You resemble a strawberry tart in that ridiculous dress."

"What is wrong with them?" She asked carefully. It was clear Aemond insulted her, but was she truly so simple not to realize what the nature of the insult was?

"Nothing," Jace cut in, abandoning his demonstration of proper crossbowmen positioning for his younger brothers. He plucked a tart from the tray, the ease of his movements drawing Arianne’s gaze upward, her verdant eyes searching his face.

"We got sick of them while we lived here, is all."

Luke noticed her confusion.

"They used to make them all the time. Queen’s orders."

"Queen Alicent enjoys strawberry tarts!?" Rhaena scoffed, reclining against the cushioned chaise.

"I thought she only enjoyed turning this entire Keep into a Sept."

Arianne stifled another giggle. She should abstain from more wine for the night. And make her prayers tomorrow, for the Maiden had blessed her after all —

"No. Well, maybe…" Jace glanced at Luke.

"It was because of Aemond."

The laughter in her throat stilled. Her thoughts sobered at the name. Stygai demon. Slanderer. Evil twat!

"What about him?"

She was...honestly confused. The insult did mean something to him, it seemed, nonsensical as it was.

Unwittingly, Arianne flexed her wrist, remembering the ghost of his fingertips pressing against her pulse.

A shudder crawled down her spine at the way Aemond's hand had all but swallowed her own, how easily his long fingers had encircled it.

His grip was not bruising, though she had felt the promise of it, the unspoken warning that he could break her bones if he so wished.

She would order him exiled to Grey Waste once she became a Queen!

"He was the only one without a dragon, so he kept sulking and complaining..." Jace explained, glancing at Aegon knocking down Joffrey's king.

"She tried to make him feel better with them."

Arianne blinked.

"I don’t understand. He finds them unpalatable or—?"

Luke threw his hands up, exasperated.

"Did you drink too much, Arianne? What is not to understand?! Strawberry tarts were Aemond’s favorite."

Huh?

She turned to Jace, her gaze imploring, searching the dark jewels under his furrowed brow as if he might translate the Yitish nonsense Luke had just uttered.

It was rather absurd.

What kind of an insult was that, then?

My dearest swan,

your letter reached me just as the moon descended the sky over Lys.

The heat is unbearable these days, and though I sit beneath silk canopies with a goblet of Arbor gold (do you think it strange that I've lived in Lys for two decades now, and still their wine disagrees with me?), it does little to soothe me.

I trust your travel to King's Landing was pleasant. They tell me it stinks of piss and rot. (Does it? I've never been — nor could I stomach boarding a ship again, though my Sharako keeps inviting me to sail with him.)

He is a strange thing, our Admiral. He has several wives who dote on him, yet prefers spending time with me. We are dear to each other again after our last quarrel. (I declared that if he were to demand I marry him once more or kill another one of my patrons, I would not see him again.)

I digress, forgive me, Arianne —

You wrote to me about your hopes for marriage (Are those yours, Arianne? Or your father's? Donnel has been incapable of entertaining opinions that are not his own, even when we were children.) It is very sweet, the way you write about Jacaerys Velaryon.

How fortunate that he is a Prince and his mother's heir (Yet, I do hear rather salacious rumors about his parentage. Is his hair truly so dark? It is known Velaryons, like many Valyrian descendants here— oh, lovely Lys is full of them, are recognized by their silver tresses.)

Is your mind set on him? (Quite the predicament, the most sought-after unwed man in the Seven Kingdoms.)

You are clever, my dear, but not about matters of men.

Not your fault, it is the way we are raised, to be obedient, pious, chaste slaves.

The Maiden would reward you with a man worthy of reverence for it. It is stupidity, Arianne. It is a lie.

Forget that nonsense. (You are a reward. That is how you ought to behave.)

Some of these words you will find cruel, but trust me, it is better to learn them through a letter than how I did. You've been writing to me about him for almost a year now, and he has not yet ignored his mother's designs and proposed marriage to you?

Then you've made a grave mistake. (Do not tell me he knows of your affections! Have you made him mad with longing for you, or have you simply made yourself pleasant to him? There is nothing more dreadful than being pleasant.)

I understand your confusion, as you are sheltered in your innocence, and I do not mean to corrupt you, Arianne. But the truth is, men don’t fall in love with what is available.

A prize that is difficult to acquire... holds far more value than all the others. When you speak to him, do not give him all your attention (that must be deserved!).

Let your eyes drift, your lips quirk as if you are recalling some private jest. You must make him believe the hunt is endless, that you are just within reach, yet forever slipping through his fingers. (Men are foolish creatures, niece. Truly, what were the gods thinking when they made them?

Have you ever tried tracing idly along your own skin as you talk with him? Your wrists, collarbones, twirling the lock of your hair. His thoughts will unwittingly go to places your fingers have not touched.)

Make him wait. A day, two days— however long you can bear it without seeming too distant. When you finally do agree to meet him, pretend it is a rare occasion. Isn't he the luckiest man alive to be granted the privilege of your company? (...and you must convince yourself that it is just so.)

And I beg of you, do not be timid! The world has enough meek little doves; they coo prettily, and then they are silenced in their cages.

Jacaerys Velaryon is a prince, which means he expects to be adored, to be pursued. But what he does not expect, my love, is to be challenged. When you speak, let it be with wit, with conviction, with something just a little too bold. A woman who amuses a man controls him better than any leash.

(Your writing amuses me, and I believe myself far more difficult to entertain than any princeling. I prepared a gift for your Name day, though I imagine this letter will reach you before it does.)

Have you torn this letter and gone to the Sept already?

I suppose you think coupling is some unpleasant duty to be performed with your husband? I thought so too...before...Let me not waste parchment with my past grievances. Your body is a vessel of bliss, and to give yourself to a man should be pleasurable to you, not just to him. You...do know what pleasure is, don't you?

(You wrote me once about how you prayed for me when you were a little girl. What cruel gods would consider survival a sin? I had to learn these things, and many more, to survive here. You can ignore them, Arianne, but perhaps they will help you thrive. They rhyme in the common tongue, surviving and thriving.)

Where was I?

If your Jacaerys wavers, if he hesitates...

Then, my darling swan, you must let him enjoy the sharp pleasure of jealousy. It drives them mad. Kingdoms have toppled, lands have bled, and armies have massacred — all because a man could not stomach the thought of another claiming what he desired.

Allow another to draw forth a smile from your lips, and watch as your prince reacts. Is his jaw set, his fingers clenching? Is he scowling? GOOD! Let him be furious, let him burn, let him fight to win back your affection. If you want him to love you, you must make him suffer for it!!!

Let him dream of you at night, waking taut with longing, cursing your name even as he worships the mirage of you.

And when at last he is at your feet and when his hands hover near yours, hesitant, aching...then you may be kind. Then you may let your fingers reach for his. Then you may grant him a single look that soothes him and confirms he was right to endure.

A prince is only a man. You are not waiting to be his, my dear Arianne. You are making him wish he were yours.

Write to me again, even if you ignore all this wisdom. Sharako tells me the Seven Kingdoms are plagued by uncertainty. Who is to rule once the ill King departs? A son or a daughter? Magisters here seem certain there will be war (I hope not, for your sake. I care little for that wretched land, as you know.)

With love,

Johanna

(I enjoyed your musings on dragons. Do tell me more about them! The ones with wings and scales, not your prince.)

Arianne exhaled.

She shifted in the bath, almost dipping the edge of the long parchment into the now-tepid water.

Her fingers trembled as if she had just sinned.

Pleasure...

She did know what it was. Sinful decadence meant to lead astray. The pleasure was enjoying too many lemon cakes, while sipping on summerwine.

Punished immediately by a bellyache.

T-touching her skin to invite Jace to look? But that was positively wicked! Coupling...gods...it was a duty! To bear a child! Not something to be enjoyed...was it? H-how could it be...enjoyable?

Arianne bit her lower lip.

She hadn't ever considered those things beyond imagining what his lips would feel like as he embraced her. Whom would a child he'd put in her belly resemble?

Him or her?

The bedding ceremony was something a man would enjoy...her, not so much. At least that was what she had heard. Once she had flowered, noblewomen whom her mother entertained in Stonehelm's large solar felt themselves invited to share how unpleasant the bedding ceremony would be. It was worse when they sat on cushioned dark velvet chairs, their fingers busy with needlework — the stories flew freely during these times.

Never any details, of course.

Never anything useful.

But Lady Swygert told her it was quite the ordeal for the bride. The guests were often rowdy, keen to rip the bride's finery and carry her to her lord-husband's chambers. And new husbands...were sometimes callous, too. "I'd recommend riding a horse astride often. 'Tis much less painful to lose one's maidenhead that way."

Yet, with Jace...she was not fearful of it.

Jace was not cruel.

Aunt Johanna's letters were always a delight to indulge in — she offered her a glimpse into a world completely alien to her own — but this time she could scarcely digest what she had just read.

Was love not meant to be pure and honest? A fair maiden and her gallant knight? Why would she make Jace suffer?

She read through the letter once more, skin heating at certain parts. Shall her parents ever see a letter like this...

Arianne scrunched the parchment. She would toss it into the fireplace.

Yet, the uneasiness prickled at her resolve. Johanna was celebrated for her charm. Her beauty, her panache, her...

Arianne swallowed. Her reputed coupling...prowess.

Her admirers numbered in the hundreds. Magisters, merchant princes, eldest son of Archon of Tyrosh, gonfaloniere himself supposedly...

She certainly knew the matter at hand.

But it went against everything Arianne was taught. Which, admittedly, was not a lot. Stonehelm Library had dozens of tomes she perused, but none on the love between a man and a woman.

Septa Meria would have her whipped for daring to think about those things. "The thought, Arianne, begets the desire, which is itself a sin. Worse yet, should a Lady allow a man to fulfill those desires, she’d fall from the Seven’s favor."

Her spine stiffened, despite the sweet scent of soothing lavender and wild roses coming from the linen sachet dipped into water.

Not to mention, how would she make him hers? She had nothing of her own to give him. He would make her his and give her his name and protection.

Arianne stood up abruptly and reached for her robe, water sloshing everywhere.

So, everything she was doing was...wrong? Was she...not supposed to reveal her affections to Jace?

The moment she opened his note, she rushed to meet him. Gods, she almost tripped a few times on her way to the Godswood.

Could that truly have been a mistake?

When he confessed his admiration and affection, she replied in kind. Was that not how love ought to be? Why would she make him suffer?

Arianne settled against the pillows, still clad in her robe, her wet hair a tangled nest. Miriam was going to chastise her loudly in the morning for it, she was sure.

"If you want him to love you, you must make him suffer for it."

Her lips pursed. Ten Thousand Ships does tell how Princess Nymeria suffered years of wandering before finding her love, Lord Mors Martell, and settling.

Arianne huffed and went to find her copy of the book.

She doubted Aunt Johanna was referring to that kind of suffering, but she had to start somewhere. Despite the bitter animosity between the Marchers and the Dornish, Arianne could not deny Nymeria's greatness.

She did not want Jace to suffer. She did not even know how to be the cause of it.

Besides...If it were true, then — gods, what a preposterous notion — if it were really true, that one would love a person who made them suffer...she would fall in love with Prince Aemond. That rotten miscreant had made her suffer plenty in mere days.

A peal of terror cascaded down her back.

Arianne hurried towards the fireplace and chucked the letter into it. Aunt Johanna...truly, I should be thanking the Seven that Miriam cannot read. Otherwise, my parents would've forced me into a motherhouse to serve as a Septa for this.

She should've known an awful day awaited her when Miriam screeched about the state of her hair that morning. The hour of the nightingale had passed when Arianne awoke, Ten thousand ships still nestled against her chest.

In the end, after many painful tries to smooth it, Miriam gave up and braided her mess into a simple plait. Arianne nibbled on an oatcake, drinking fresh milk from a flagon.

"Jace told me he is fond of me." Her eyes darted to her handmaid.

"Did he?" Miriam raised her golden eyebrow. "Are you going to be a princess, now?"

Arianne huffed.

"It is not a proposal! But it is a start..."

"If you say so, my lady."

If that was not a clear indication that her favor with the gods was short-lived, Princess Rhaenyra called upon her to inform her of her plan of welcoming The Queen who Never Was and her granddaughter.

"You want me to arrange everything?" Arianne paled, blinking rapidly. Her? She was the youngest, not to speak of —

Rhaenyra tilted her head slightly, her blue eyes swirling with secrecy.

"The Hightowers will attempt to hound her to their side. Alicent rules the Keep...for now. It does not mean I cannot arrange a proper reception of my own. I trust you will manage, Arianne."

"O-of course, Your Grace."

She bowed.

Seven! Mother! Crone!

Not only would she have to prepare properly to greet the woman who rode Meleys and was once almost chosen to rule, but she would also have to outdo the Queen's reception. Such an overwhelming trepidation gripped Arianne at once, her palms were drenched in sweat.

At least she had one advantage over whichever lady Queen Alicent tasked with a similar ordeal—she could ask Rhaena to help her. She knew how Princess Rhaenys and Lady Baela preferred their meals, their favorite wine, and the colors and flowers they enjoyed.

Gods! So many things to consider!

Arianne spent the rest of the morning running one errand after another and teaming up with Lady Massey to stop unruly Prince Viserys from escaping his tutors again. She had no luck in the kitchens regarding her inquiry about the food for the reception.

You ought to speak to the Hand's seneschal, my lady. One of the servants shrugged. Arianne decided she could get to it later and snagged a few honeycakes to lure Prince Viserys to his lessons, pressing a silver stag into the kitchen maid's hand.

"I receive pay from the stewards, my Lady —"

"Keep it. I would like your help in a few days. May I know your name?" Arianne asked, resolved to get the exact type of meals Rhaena would tell her about.

"Rosey, if it pleases you, my lady. This is too much, truly..."

"I will pay you more, then."

Her parents did send her with sufficient funds to Dragonstone, which she now intended to put to good use. Stonehelm was a natural harbor, though smaller than the Weeping Town, and her family did not lack for coins.

As she rushed through the Holdfast, craning her neck around corners to catch a wisp of silver-gold, Arianne stumbled upon another royal child eager to dodge authority.

"Are you alright?" She halted, crouching and brushing her skirts.

The girl, her hair as pale as the moon, was sitting underneath a pear tree — one of the few adorning the inner garden near the royal suites. Princess Jaehaera simply stared at her, not quite content that her hiding spot was compromised.

Arianne sighed.

"Are you lost, princess? I'm Arianne. Perhaps I could escort you to your ladies?"

When her attempt bore no fruit, as Jaehaera did not answer, and her almond-shaped, striking blue eyes squinted suspiciously, Arianne decided to approach it differently.

"Do you like honeycakes?" She offered a wrapped confection from a soft cloth bag at her waist. Jaehaera inspected the package with mild interest before reaching for it with a small, chubby hand.

She smiled as she unwrapped the sweet and took a bite. Arianne balanced on the balls of her feet, watching as the princess ate — sticky, sugary honey glistening on her chin and fingers.

"Perhaps...we could find your ladies now? Or...your tutor?"

Jaehaera shook her head and smiled.

"No? But —"

"Princess!"

A lady rushed through the garden, plucking the girl off the floor.

"Please stop hiding from me! Your grandmother will have me punished!"

Arianne recognized her as one of the Mullendores, due to the peculiar orange butterflies embroidered on her skirts. House sworn to Hightowers.

"Thank you," The lady, golden-haired and svelte, panted.

"I have been rather overwhelmed, why the handmaid who was helping with the children was dismissed. Dyanna, she left so abruptly, I haven't yet found a replacement —"

Arianne blinked several times, nodding along.

"It is no trouble. I am looking for a little prince, myself." She laughed sheepishly. Jaehaera waved at her as they left. Arianne wished Viserys and Aegon were so easily apprehended.

She had no luck in finding the youngest prince, but Elinda Massey and her cohort of handmaids located him while he was trying to sneak into the training courtyard to observe the knights.

Arianne should have realized what a rotten day it was once she heard raised voices from Rhaenyra and Daemon's solar while she waited with Lady Massey and Viserys to be granted entrance.

Jacaerys Velaryon rushed out, almost colliding with one of the handmaids.

"Jace!" Arianne squeaked, forgetting the propriety.

His earthy brown eyes fell on her.

Before she could react, Elinda Massey dragged Viserys inside, four handmaids trailing after them. Arianne hesitated just long enough for Jace's warm, sinewy hand to close around her wrist.

He pulled her down the corridor, her breath catching as she stumbled after him.

“Jace?!" She gulped, a tad unsurely.

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he led her into a shadowed alcove, half-hidden behind a stone pillar. The walls curved inward, enclosing them in a space just big enough for two.

He turned to her, his dark irises glimmering like embers.

"Arianne."

Her hands felt like a pudding once Jace's lips brushed over her knuckles. She swallowed, ignoring the jumble of emotions in the pit of her stomach. They were alone, again — and he kissed both of her hands and held them still. His hold was tender like charmeuse silk.

Several tingles cascaded down her arms.

"You are difficult to find, my lady." Jace accused, though there was something off about his voice. Arianne grinned nervously and pulled her hands from his warm grasp to wipe them off her plain skirts.

"I was chasing your little brother around." She retorted. "He escaped his lessons."

The eldest Velaryon prince sighed before his deep brown eyes bored into hers. For the barest of moments, he seemed to hesitate, molten amber swirling in his gaze.

"There is something..." Jace began, then shook his head.

"I wish to tell you something."

Arianne shifted her weight between her feet.

Was he going to —

"About Maiden's Day Ball..." His fingers raked through his thick curls. Jace bit his lower lip, eyes darting towards the uncannily large gonfalon depicting the seven-pointed star.

She knew he could not take her after what happened with the Royal Library, he did not have to explain. She had duties toward his mother as well.

Arianne reached for his hand.

She would just have to find another escort and suffer through the evening without Jace. While men, married women, and Septas were not required to make an appearance, it was expected of her. Perhaps he had someone in mind — one of the squires from Dragonstone...

At last, Jacaerys exhaled and met her viridian-tinted irises.

"My Mother wants me to escort Baela. She thinks it essential to sway Grandmother away from Vaemond."

Arianne's brows lifted, for a fraction of a moment, then furrowed.

Her hand dropped uselessly to her side.

Lady Baela? To the Maiden's Day Ball? Then — Another. Beautiful, bold, dragonrider. — Of course. It just made sense...

She should be the future Queen, his wife. The alliance Princess Rhaenyra truly wants. Even if Luke and Rhaena were already...Why does it have to be Jace? Of course...

But then I...

Something inside her withered, like a rare flower underneath the Dornish sun.

Arianne leaned back an inch, her shoulder blades touching the cool stone, as if physically recoiling from his declaration. She should've known, expected, Baela was Targaryen. The same blood. She was just...

"That is...entirely appropriate, my prince." Somehow, the words tumbled forth between her teeth, brittle and with practiced cordiality.

She was just a swan, but a Swann is graceful in loss, even when their heart bleeds.

Jace grimaced. "I told her I wished to take you—"

"It is alright."

Arianne interjected, surprising herself with how level her tone was. It was a lie.

A sudden, and very disconcerting thought flitted about her mind. Aunt Johanna had said she committed a grave mistake, and now —

The chill from the stone seeped through her silks.

Her prince moved. Arianne stilled when she felt the lightest graze of his fingers on her cheekbone as he brushed the errant curl away. The silence stretched, thick and oppressive.

Jace was poring over her face, and she sensed the telltale pricking above her lower lashes. She could not bear the way he looked at her, the weight of pity behind his eyes.

"No, it is not." He murmured. "Because you are in my heart. I should—"

Arianne exhaled, her nostrils flaring lightly.

"I will just...ask someone else. One of our squires, mayhap, so it..." So it would not be a humiliation. All maidens had escorts...well, most. Either an honorable man or their fathers. But her father was somewhere near Felwood.

Jace’s expression darkened.

"A squire?" he repeated.

"If I must go, I would need...a partner for the dance, would I not?" She was already dreading having to dance with anyone else, her perfect love ballad turning into a bawdy mockery aside.

A muscle twitched in his jaw.

"You wish to go on another man's arm?"

Arianne's lids fluttered.

"I do not wish it. But, Jace, what else am I supposed to do?" Her tone climbed an entire octave.

Only the unwanted girls stood alone at the Maiden’s Day Ball— the unwed daughters of dishonored houses, the old maids, and those whose virtue was compromised.

She balked.

Arianne could already imagine the mutterings. Saera's granddaughter, the whore. The black swan of King's Landing. She is no maiden at all. What a disgrace to her family!

Jace huffed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"I...Forgive me," he implored after a beat. His shoulders, clad in a richly embroidered navy-blue tunic, dropped.

"It is only that I would be dismayed to see you with someone else."

Oh.

A burgeoning indignation almost spilled through her lips like vomit — What of her dismay from seeing another on his arm?

Yet, Arianne swallowed it down. Forced it into the bottom of her belly.

It would be presumptuous. He had spoken words of affection, but promised her nothing. Jace was kind, gallant, and wonderful, but he was still a man. And men's hearts were harsher things.

She bit the inside of her cheek.

What if Aunt Johanna WAS right, and she had presented herself as "dreadfully pleasant"? She reciprocated his...his confession, and that...made her available?

And now —

Her teeth released the tender flesh inside her mouth.

Now he would not love her and take her to wife, and she would be the one suffering.

The abhorrent thought opened a crater in her heart.

"I will not go at all then." Arianne declared morosely.

"I could fall ill, or some such thing."

Jace flinched at her tone, his hand instinctively reaching for hers, but she stepped back, a motion so subtle and delicate it might have been mistaken for a shift of her plain skirts.

"Arianne," he fretted, low and pained. "That is not what I—"

"I understand."

The words were smooth, practiced, spoken the way they were ingrained into her skull by her mother, her Septa — never unruly, never demanding. Because she truly did understand. The Hightower court was attempting to proclaim him and his brother baseborn. The matter was more pressing than her foolish, girlish affections.

Arianne turned, almost grazing the wall with the tip of her nose, and used the first excuse that came to mind.

"I am late for my errands, my prince."

She had taken only a few steps when his voice called her back.

"Will you come to the training yard tomorrow? At least?"

Arianne hesitated.

She had loved the yard on Dragonstone— high above the beach, where the salty wind tousled her hair. She would sit in the shade of the crepuscular cave, book in hand, waiting as Jace completed his drills.

Afterward, they would walk along the shore, the tide lapping at their feet.

But here? Where anyone could just report to Princess Rhaenyra how she spent hours in her son's company?

Her mind warred with itself.

The rational part commanded her to refuse— to test Johanna’s advice, to see if absence would make him want her — but when she turned to face him, she realized she did not know how to be that woman. She wanted to spend time with him.

Arianne folded her hands before her skirts, and answered as she always had— as the lovesick maiden, the affable lady, the ever-graceful Swann, the dutiful daughter. She must not disappoint her father.

"Of course, my prince."

She cried herself to sleep that night.

"What are you doing so early?" Miriam folded her linens as one of the Keep's servants brought them breakfast.

"Just writing something down," Arianne replied absentmindedly and dipped her quill once more.

She was inspired.

By an enemy no less.

If Nymeria could endure a long and terrible voyage, plagues of Zamettar and corsair kings, she could suffer through this blunder and turn the board in her favor. One does not lose the match just because they lost their elephant.

So, Arianne was writing everything that she could remember from Johanna's letter.

Which was most of it, due to her knack for memorization. It was honed throughout her childhood by her relentless pursuit of becoming her father's favorite. She'd cite her histories just a sliver more accurately than her brother, she'd catalogue their bannermen more efficiently, and she'd pore over a cyvasse board until every piece and every move was etched behind her eyes.

It was in those moments that Lord Donnel would momentarily forget the one failing she could never outmaneuver— her girlhood.

For a few breaths, she stood equal to her brother.

Arianne clicked her tongue in vexation.

Writing it down was easier than understanding it. And understanding it was easier than practicing it.

Her quill hesitated over the parchment. Practice.

She swallowed, rereading the curling script.

"Miriam...how would you go about making a man jealous?" Arianne asked, admiring the sheen of honey over her bread.

She lingered at the top of the stone steps that led down into the yard, her fingers lightly grazing the carved balustrade.

Great.

Arianne pouted, resisting the urge to tap her foot against the stone.

In all her careful planning— turning down Rhaena’s invitation to promenade through the Keep’s gardens, now strung with ribbons and garlands for the upcoming Maiden’s Day festivities— she had arrived before Jace.

And she had not expected this.

The sheer number of people was unsettling.

In Stonehelm, the yard was filled with her cousins and sons of her father's bannermen. She grew up among them and their sisters.

Dragonstone’s training ground had been larger, yet more solemn. Oftentimes, it was just her, Rhaena, and the children watching young guards test their mettle against the princes.

This was different.

The Red Keep’s yard was alive with movement and sound, the air thick with sweat and the sharp tang of oiled leather. It was not just the number of knights and their squires, but also all the courtiers and ladies spectating.

"Are you lost, my Lady?"

Arianne turned, finding a young man in a gray gambeson watching her bashfully.

"Not at all, Ser. I wish to observe the practice matches."

It was only then that she noticed his eyes were locked on her red dress.

Arianne’s gown was far too fine for the training yard, made of scarlet silk that clung to her form before cascading in rich folds to the ground. It left the soft curve of her collarbones exposed, the fabric dipping just below it.

She knew she was overdressed, but alas — red was Jace’s favorite color. And she needed him to look at her.

The man hesitated, shifting his weight. His hands fidgeted at his sides as if he were unsure where to place them.

"I'm no Ser, only a squire." He admitted, almost sheepishly.

"May I escort you? There's shade over there, with the other spectators."

She followed him through the crowd, a cacophony of noise and movement around them.

When they reached the shaded area, she recognized several lords and ladies from the feasts and morning court adjourns in the Great Hall. Yet, she was not closely acquainted with any of them.

"Lady Arianne."

A familiar voice rescued her from a possible social blunder.

Arianne turned left to see Elisa Stokeworth, the dark-haired lady she had met at the Sept, tapping the space beside her on a long wooden bench. Relief flooded her, and she offered a small smile before gathering her skirts, climbing up, and taking the seat.

They were rather mismatched, one in crimson, the other in cobalt blue. Elisa's gown was finely made, yet so appropriately plain that it gave birth to a gnawing itch inside Arianne's mind that she had way overdone it.

Her flouncy, long bell sleeves felt almost too decadent in the midst of the dusty yard.

She glanced around, scanning the crowd for Jace, Luke, or any of their guards. Arianne suddenly realized the squire who had escorted her was still standing nearby, lingering awkwardly as he watched the matches unfold.

"You truly are set on marrying, I see? How bold!" Elisa leaned toward her ear, a teasing lilt to her voice.

She blinked.

"What?"

The girl flushed.

"What we mentioned in the Sept...you were praying too. I just...you look like you're trying to catch someone's eye."

Heat prickled the back of Arianne's neck.

Was she truly so obvious?

Elisa's dark eyes widened at her stunned expression.

"Forgive me, I only —"

"No!" Arianne shook her head, truly stupefied. "No, I just..."

She intertwined her fingers as in prayer and sighed.

"I am just early, I think."

Elisa chuckled, attention soon drawn back to the clearing, her back straightening in anticipation.

"Not at all. You're right on time."

"For what?"

The corner of Elisa's thin, rosy mouth curved.

"The best part."

Arianne arched a brow.

"The best part?"

"Mhm...The Prince."

Her nose crinkled. Was that why Jace was...late? He wouldn't! The Princess strictly forbade him from anything but simple practice whilst here! He was an heir, much too valuable to risk possible injury —

Arianne turned her gaze toward the center of the circle with renewed interest, only to be met with the sight of an unfamiliar knight stepping forward instead. The man was young, golden-haired and broad-shouldered, but his tunic was plain, and there was no sigil upon his surcoat — A bastard, then. A Waters, perhaps?

She tapped her shoe idly against the wooden planks beneath her seat.

Arianne did not care much for a spectacle, she'd seen enough of her cousins and traveling knights sparring in Stonehelm. Tourneys were a welcome entertainment, but not when she had more pressing matters at hand.

Then, the knight's opponent emerged from the other side.

She blanched.

Aemond Targaryen stepped into the clearing with a lazy sort of ease, rolling his wrists as he tested the weight of his longsword. The crowd stirred at the sight of him.

Her stomach twisted into a knot.

Of course. Just what she wished to do while her future was slipping through her clumsy fingers.

Watch that condescending twat preen in the yard, basking in the attention of onlookers like some great peacock with a blade.

His beautiful, pale hair gained an almost otherworldly sheen in the daylight. Like something out of a myth from Old Valyria.

Arianne tore her gaze away from him, assessing his opponent.

Knock him into the dirt, Ser!

She hoped the other man trashes him well and good as she observed them circling each other, the steel glinting under the sun.

The golden hair moved first, lunging forward with a sharp thrust.

Aemond didn’t even flinch, much to her displeasure. He sidestepped with an ease that made the attack look clumsy, his blade flicking up to parry effortlessly.

Her golden champion was no poor fighter; his strikes were quick, his stance solid. Much as she understood about duels from spectating her brother's lessons, Arianne could see that being lithe and long-legged, Prince Aemond the boor was very light on his feet.

The blond knight pressed the attack again, trying to force the One-eyed Targaryen back.

With a spark of delight, Arianne thought she saw an opening — Aemond’s weight shifting slightly, a momentary pause. He'll be knocked off balance.

But then he moved.

It was so fast that she almost missed it.

One moment, his opponent was swinging at him, and the next, Aemond had twisted under his guard, blade pressed lightly to the man’s throat.

Arianne exhaled sharply.

Elisa clapped excitedly next to her.

That quickly?

"Well, that was not so entertaining." Arianne huffed, eyes drifting to the Targaryen prince. Aemond did not seem to enjoy the applause or care for it much, standing ramrod straight with an unreadable expression gracing his austere face.

Elisa nudged her with her shoulder.

"It is not over yet. He will fight another."

Just as Arianne was about to question it, the squire who had escorted her spoke, taking a seat at a proper distance from the ladies.

"It is a part of his training." He clarified, face tilted towards them.

"One day it is the endless drills and the other sparring. Ser Criston does not go easy on him."

"It is true." Elisa nodded along to every word.

"The Queen's son had trained since childhood."

Arianne's face scrunched in annoyance.

So he was disciplined.

A quality she had always admired, particularly in men. Her father, even once he inherited the lordship, abstained from morning drills only if a bona fide storm locked everyone inside the stone walls.

She read that King Jaehaerys the Conciliator kept to a strict training routine during his time on Dragonstone. Discipline marked the man who did not stumble through life on luck and birthright alone.

Her lips pursed.

Even a disagreeable miser like Aemond had to have some qualities.

She scrutinized him as he waited for his second opponent, his sword resting in his hand as if it weighed nothing.

His fair skin bore no flush, nor any signs of exertion, and he'd not acknowledged the crowd. Of course he would not, Arianne concluded tartly. It would be beneath that arrogant twat. He was as cold as the steel in his grip.

The second match lasted longer, but only slightly, ending with Ser Martyn Reyne heaving, having received a strike to the ribs from the blunt edge of Aemond's sword.

It was just two fortunate matches; she'd seen better. She'd seen the Rogue Prince himself teach Rhaenyra's sons on Dragonstone a few times.

She crossed her arms, watching intently now.

Truthfully, she'd avoided looking at Aemond ever since that damned feast when he glared at her, before they'd even met.

Arianne decided to avoid him altogether after their cyvasse game.

Gods, she failed spectacularly by being in the wrong place at the wrong time, when he left the feast and ventured into the same garden as her. Some darker, vaguely sinister voice at the back of her mind noted that he might've gone there after her.

Then, she ended up almost derelict in her duty as a lady-in-waiting by wasting the entire banquet in his company.

And for what?

For him to slander her and seize the book she wished to read for ages!

So, she was rather content to never look upon Aemond Targaryen again whilst she was in the Keep. Yet now, her eyes could not stray from his sculpted, imposing silhouette as he knocked the sword out of the man's hand.

She barely registered the fighting part of the third match. Only the way his long, pearlescent hair whipped with each step — she did not wonder if it was as silken as it seemed. The way his fitted, dark tunic clung to him.

Prince Aemond might be an unbelievably handsome man, she concluded irritably, but beneath that valyrian, polished facade...he was hideously mean.

Arianne rubbed the inside of her wrist absentmindedly, where his fingertips burned her.

Maybe he was just lucky... three times.

Yet, difficult as it was, she had to admit the loathsome One-eyed Prince was good. There was something about the way he moved, fluid and effortless, without pomp or reckless swings. Just ruthless efficiency.

It was… elegant.

Her fingers played with the hem of her sleeve restlessly.

It was the contrast that unsettled her. Aemond fought like he danced, no missteps.

But how could something that was done to batter, to hurt, to subdue look so graceful?

The answer was numbing the edges of her mind. It was a thing of skill, of commitment — things she admired, things she respected. He must've performed drills until his entire being ached, for years, because that sword appeared an extension of his arm.

By the fourth match, Arianne found herself incredibly annoyed.

The man might have been smaller than Aemond, but he'd realized keeping to the Prince's left side was tactically advantageous. Smart.

Arianne bit her lower lip, eyes flickering to the leather eyepatch. It's his blind side. He has a glaring weakness, so he cannot be that good. Robb is better at the very least, our father taught him to always use weak spots.

Aemond dodged and parried, but the man was relentless.

Then, his sword crashed against the One-eyed Prince’s wooden shield with a resounding crack, sending him staggering.

There! She smirked. Everyone is just going easy on him because he's royal. It is just —

Aemond snarled.

The sound sent a visceral jolt down Arianne’s spine.

Then he attacked.

He flung his shield away and lunged. His opponent barely had time to react before Aemond rabidly crashed into him. The sheer brutality of the strike sent the man sprawling, his sword clattering uselessly against the dirt.

Arianne sucked in a breath. A cascade of goosebumps rolled down her ribs.

The crowd erupted into cheers.

"See? I told you it would be good." Elisa laughed, her dainty hands clapping. Good...more like aggravating.

Aemond stood rigid, shoulders squared, his chest rising and falling in steady breaths. A fine sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead, his perfect hair slightly loosened from where it had been neatly tied.

It wasn’t until the faint shuffle of someone adjusting beside her that Arianne realized she was at the edge of her seat, her limbs taut as a bowstring.

She huffed, leaning back against the frame, pressing her spine flat against the wood. There was a coil in it, as if all the blood in her veins had rushed to her stomach.

It was just a stupid fight. A dull, brutish display.

Arianne crossed her arms.

What did these men of King's Landing even train for? The Realm was at peace for decades. Our men of the Marches are trained to fight Dorne, unlike these glory-seeking coxcombs.

She glowered.

Aunt Johanna had written of war, but that was absurd...Kin would not destroy each other, no...a self-important twat like Aemond probably trained to fight in tourneys.

Her teeth gnawed on her full bottom lip as she considered the peculiar way he seemed to react to his victories. There was no thrill in his eyes, no boastful grin — just a quiet, almost detached certainty that victory was his right, not something to be celebrated.

As natural as drawing breath.

A duty.

It should have made him even more unbearable in her eyes, this cold, joyless approach to triumph. And yet… something about it spoke to her, strange as it sounded. Like he was beyond the adoration and concerns of the rabble. Like their natural better.

A dragon wrapped in the skin of a man.

She pressed her knees together without thinking, trying to quell the strange warmth pooling deep within her.

Sometimes the Gods were cruel indeed. His unpalatable demeanor aside, what a waste that he was only a second son! Winning four consecutive duels like that, and he was...obviously diligent in his studies, considering he recited the details from Beldecar's History verbatim while arguing with her. He rode the largest dragon in the world, as well. Aemond was so tall, and silver-haired —

Arianne quashed that thought aside vehemently, putting up a mental reminder to start plotting his exile as soon as Princess Rhaenyra ascends and her Jace becomes the Prince of Dragonstone. She would not have him lurk around the throne, evoking some Conqueror Visenya imagery with...all that pull.

"My Lady...Might I know your name?" The voice dragged her sharply from her thoughts. Arianne blinked several times, as if waking from a daze.

Turning, she took in the comely young man. Oh.

"I'm A-Arianne Swann. Ser?" She did not realize he was still there. He was rather handsome, with cropped light-brown hair and eyes. If only Jace were here, Arianne scanned the crowd again, so I could laugh at a jest or play with my hair like Johanna said. Instead, my morning is wasted watching...that twat impress everyone.

"N-no. I'm a squire. Myles Mooton, if it please fair lady." He declared, stammering over a few words. Elisa elbowed her.

Arianne recalled in mortification that he'd already told her he was a squire.

"Not the main branch, of course. My uncle is the Lord of Maidenpool. Our ancestors were kings during the days of the First Men — "

She did not know whether she should listen to Myles descant on his supposedly royal lineage or go search for Jace, even if that would've been a colossal mistake according to a point Johanna was trying to make in her letter. Lady Stokeworth was once again engrossed in the matches, even after Aemond strode into the armory, clearly done for the day.

The morning had stretched so tediously that by the time those lovely, dark curls came into view, Arianne had almost forgotten she ought to let her eyes drift and not bestow her attention completely on him.

"You're early!" Jace noted in his velvety baritone, his lips widening into a smile.

Then, he frowned.

"But I see no book...do not tell me you've found sparring entertaining, my lady?"

Arianne made a face, which only made that smile bloom into pleasant laughter.

He had four guards instead of the regular two, and she realized it was because Joffrey joined them, trailing after the very uncomfortable-looking Lucerys.

It wasn't until she saw Jace's rich brown eyes dip down to her dress that she remembered what she was supposed to be doing.

"Ah, have you met Ser Myles Mooton? He was about to explain the weaponry to me."

"I...I am not a knight yet." He sputtered, shrinking under the weight of several pairs of eyes upon him.

Jace blinked, his eyebrows drawing together.

"You could've just asked me, Arianne. We could —"

"Ah, no, no, no." She waved her hands nervously.

"I would loathe to delay your drills, Jace. Myles has been gallant to offer his assistance."

"Myles?!" He exclaimed, as though personally affronted by her easy familiarity with a squire she had only just met.

Arianne merely smiled, slipping her hand into the crook of Myles' offered arm. She peered up at Jace from beneath her lashes.

"Is something wrong, my prince?"

Jace opened his mouth but seemed to struggle with formulating an answer. His dark eyes darted between her and the man, and Arianne could swear he almost appeared as if pouting.

"You promised to show me sparring!" Joffrey pulled on his sleeve impatiently.

"Ah...well, I should explain all the weaponry first. You, Arianne, and I can —"

Arianne cut him off gently.

"Truly, there is no need, my prince." She turned to Myles.

"Shall we?"

Arianne had felt foolish, even though she could practically feel Jace's eyes on the back of her skull while her squire led her towards the displayed armament.

Why must I keep away from him, Johanna? It is unfair!

She swallowed down the childish urge to glance over her shoulder.

Not only did she miss the opportunity to spend time with Jace, but the Maiden was going to punish her for trying to trick love.

Myles started explaining the differences between the two similar-looking blades, which was something she didn't think would interest her much. She was not allowed to participate in such endeavors back home, and truthfully, swords were awfully heavy.

Arianne inclined her head slightly, expecting to see her prince absorbed in dueling one of the guards, or Luke, or stabbing the straw puppet, or...anything really, other than what he was doing.

Jace stared at her, fingers curled tightly into his palms.

He stared at her as she listened to another man with what appeared a rapt interest.

He seemed to dislike it, Arianne noted with a significant surge of excitement, eyes flickering back to the falchion Myles was holding. Jace turned away after several long seconds, shoulders taut and pace brisk.

What if...What if Johanna was right?

She bit the tip of her tongue and twirled a lock of her hair.

(Aemond)

The armory was mostly empty, save for a few boys loitering near the racks, chatting idly.

They kept a respectful distance, yet Aemond could feel their glances from time to time — furtive, uncertain, like rats wary of a cat.

He ignored them, focused on rewrapping the leather around the pommel of his sword. It was a squire’s task, but he preferred to do it himself. Some halfwit would tie it too loose and throw the balance off. And balance mattered.

Belgrave had aimed well today, so Aemond would remind Cole to strike at his left side more often.

Until nothing could ever catch him unaware.

A braying laugh cut through his thoughts.

"Have you seen Turnberry today? Her tits are the finest thing in —"

Aemond’s grip on the leather tightened. His eyelid twitched as he attempted to block out their drivel. He could order them out, of course — but then he’d have to waste time fetching a servant to polish his breastplate for tomorrow.

These three lackwits would suffice.

"The niece of Lord Frey. I've heard she —"

Aemond felt his nostrils flare. Could these morons ever demonstrate an ounce of rational thought, instead of this endless slobbering over women?

Pathetic.

" — Careful with a Frey girl, they are notoriously fertile. I cannot afford a bastard!"

The short, fat one guffawed, his bravado returning after he had committed a mistake of addressing the One-eyed Prince with some mindless tripe —"You will win your first tourney, Your Grace. Certainly. The way you've fought today...".

Aemond had merely glared at him until the boy's face drained of mirth, and then he strode past without further acknowledgment.

He disdained lickspittles and their worthless opinions.

"Stokeworth, though, that would be a wench worth losing inheritance over."

More snorting, the wet, grating sound of pigs at the trough. Aemond curled his fingers against his palm. 'Criston ought to discipline this lot. They will serve me one day. And they will serve well, or not at all.'

"Ah, ah have you seen the one in the red? I'd send myself to the Wall for a tumble under her sheets."

Enough.

"If you have time to spew filth," Aemond scowled, rising to his feet in one smooth motion.

"You have the time to polish armors!"

They straightened, scrambling into bows, murmuring hurried apologies.

"Y-your armor, my Prince?" One asked hesitantly, glancing toward the racks.

Aemond hummed nastily.

"All of them."

With that, he turned and stalked out.

The yard was quieter now, the crowds thinning as the day wore on. Cole was absent today, off with his mother and sister at the Grand Sept, shielding the Queen.

Aemond could not bring himself to endure those tedious prayers and endless sermons more than he had to. A few times a year, when his presence was required, he fulfilled his duties with no argument — if only to keep his mother happy.

Chastisement was Aegon’s lot, not his.

At least he had thus far evaded the dreaded Maiden's Ball. The Queen was preoccupied with other matters this year, though, unfortunately, his mother still had a few days to order him to play the gallant escort to some noble maid. If it were Lady Costayne again, he was going to cut off both his ears.

He did not care much for the Maiden, or her day.

Dragons were undisputably real; the gods...could not cow a dragon.

Aemond strode across the dirt, his mind already shifting to Maester Joseth's Battles and Sieges of the Century of Blood that he intended to finish today. Then perhaps, a bath, to undo the knots in his back muscles.

Aegon was currently confined to his chambers until he sobered up, so Aemond was less inclined to visit Helaena later. He could do that tomorrow, after his nephew returned from the library. Jaehaerys had begun to learn cyvasse, and, considering his father was atrocious at it, Aemond decided he would have to ensure the proper instruction.

Not that Aegon did not try to guide the boy towards capturing the opponent's, Aemond's, king — even the One-eyed Prince had to admit it, fatherhood was one of the rare things his brother at least attempted to do properly — but he lacked all sense of tactics.

"Teach him yourself, then, brother. Could’ve let the boy enjoy it, you dour cunt." Aegon had grumbled when Jaehaerys started sniffling over his shattered formations— three moves in, Aemond had taken his elephant and obliterated his crossbowmen.

"He'll never learn if coddled."

Like you were.

He had left the thought unspoken.

A flicker of red snagged at the edge of his vision.

Aemond cast a brief glance, expecting nothing more than some common exchange between a knight and some court lady who came to spectate.

He halted mid-step.

Her!

His eyebrow quirked.

Arianne Swann stood by the wooden display, lingering far too closely to some brown-haired dunce.

She was giggling at whatever nonsense poured from the boy’s mouth, lowering her face demurely.

Heavy crimson skirts fanned around her like the petals of crimson roses.

What in the seven hells is she even doing here?

Aemond willed his legs to move further, because he would not, absolutely fucking not waste his time on that infuriating woman.

What was she doing here wearing that —

that —

"Have you seen the one in the red?"

His head snapped toward the direction of the armory, irritation curling hot at the base of his throat. That rat-bastard had spoken about her, and Aemond had half a mind to return and break his teeth for it.

Vexing as she was, the granddaughter of a Targaryen princess was far above some common-born lout’s crude fantasies.

Arianne clapped her hands together, the sound light and pleased, before reaching out to touch the blade Mooton’s whelp was holding up for her. Aemond recognized him — Belgrave’s squire. Not an heir to Maidenpool. Some side branch.

What was she fucking doing, entertaining men beneath her station?

Why was she wearing such opulent silks? More suited for banquet halls or decadent high summer's garden feasts?

Aemond let his eye wander over her and sensed that persistent thrum of desire at the sight of her soft curves. That hair of hers tumbled down her back like a luxuriant mass of burnt caramel.

Too warm, too untamed, too fucking distracting.

He gritted his teeth.

Arianne was the one talking now, chin raised in the manner of a lecturing septon. Aemond could all but hear her diving into some historical anecdote about the goldenheart bow she gestured toward.

As if that barely-literate toad was listening to her.

The Motoon boy stood there as though entranced, letting her, a woman, lead a conversation about weaponry. It was so absurd, so ludicrous that Aemond nearly let out a derisive snort.

Was she doing it on purpose? Dressed as she was, and laughing and...

He squinted.

Of course, that Belgrave's simpleton could not follow her monologue when he was so busy leering at her.

The swell of her breasts under that scandalously tight bodice, the delicate arch of her lower back — no, Aemond did not, absolutely fucking not see that lovely dip beneath the lacing as a place where a man's hand might fit.

Where a thumb might stroke, slowly, deliberately, feeling the warm, living shape of her.

The insolent whelp mouthed something that made her laugh, and Arianne lifted a hand to coil a single curl around her finger.

Aemond blinked.

The strand tightened as she twisted, pulling taut before slipping free, bouncing back into place.

Something about it made his heart lurch violently.

Then she did it again, slower this time, as if savoring the movement. As if she indulged in deliberate provocation because she was born with some wicked instinct that could sense him watching.

His fingers flexed, aching to grab hold of something.

Aemond shook his head, quashing down the urge to seize that errant curl from her grasp, to wrap it around his own hand instead, to tug on it — to control it. To make her still.

To have her beleaguered until she yielded.

He did not fancy her, so why would he bother?! He'd rather go read Joseth's verbose combat descriptions.

Aemond was already by the stone archway, aware of the slow, seething thrum of his pulse.

His forebears had not escaped the Doom to court favor and pine, they had subdued Westeros. His blood sizzled with the weight of that legacy, with the unyielding belief that what a dragonlord wanted, he seized.

The will was his own, and if he wanted something, he would take it. Not simper, not grovel, not hope.

The true blood of the dragon would...simply...conquer.

The scowl decorating his face intensified to an unimaginable degree.

Fucking not!

He did not want that infuriating, prideful strumpet!

The One-eyed Prince climbed up the steps, resolved to ignore Arianne Swann's entire existence, when he mistakenly surveyed the yard again. He regarded her coy grin as she allowed a Motoon boy of no importance to take her hand in his to help her test the bowstring on a longbow he was holding.

"Release me, then — Thank the Seven, I am not your lady! — Nopāzma jās! Miser!"

It irked him immensely.

She had refused him, fled like he'd appeared a Stranger itself, claimed her father would not give him, him — Vhagar's rider, her hand, as if he were beneath her!

Did she imagine he was some common man to be disregarded so easily?

There lady Swann was now, lavishing her attention on a squire — squire— as though he were worthy of her touch.

How dare she?

It seared his cheeks, that injustice, that humiliation he refused to acknowledge.

Aemond gripped the stone balustrade, his knuckles white .

He should leave.

He wanted to leave.

(Arianne)

Arianne had her reasons for speaking to the comely young man in front of her — ulterior motives, certainly — but she also found she quite enjoyed expanding her understanding of the strengths and weaknesses of different weapons.

What if her father did marry her to Bryen Caron? Nightsong was a fortress of great strategic importance, its lands a first line of defense against the Dornish invasions. If she were to wed a fool, at least one of them ought to have the competence to defend it.

There was also the matter of that old argument with her brother, who had once declared, with all the bluster of a boy, that he intended to outfit every watchtower in Stonehelm with bows of goldenheart.

“Goldenheart bows are superior,” she admitted to Myles. “They have greater range and strength...they'd be awfully useful for striking down invaders before they even approach."

Myles nodded along, attempting to twirl a dagger between his fingers but fumbling it entirely.

Arianne barely noticed, frowning at the memory. Her brother had dismissed her when she raised the issue of cost, flicking her forehead and saying that stewards were there to care about the treasury.

“But what my brother failed to consider was the cost,” she insisted.

“Goldenheart grows on the Summer Isles, and they prohibit its export. It is rare, and thus, quite prized. How many bows could we afford before we drained our coffers!?”

"Costly, yes. I would sooner spend my fortune on my lady. If she were as pretty as you — "

“ — Should our father's castle fall because he wants twenty goldenheart bows, and leaves our soldiers unarmored?" She barreled on. "Our castle gleaming with expensive weaponry while the enemy tunnels beneath it and climbs up through the sewage drains?”

The injustice in her memory still burned.

Her mother had sided with Robb, because Stonehelm’s future was not a daughter’s concern. No, she had to leave and put her life in the hands of a husband who might be equally daft as her brother!

“What… What do you think?”

Myles blinked, eyes snapping up to her face.

Arianne, in turn, blinked several times, suddenly aware that she might be blabbering and boring him. He was training to be a warrior; what did he care about sewage drains?

"Well, my cousin will be Lord of Maidenpool, so I have not really...concerned myself with coins—"

She glanced to the left, seeking out Jace. He had wandered off toward the straw puppets, likely to practice. The back of his head was barely visible from across the yard.

But, earlier — oh earlier, he had been glaring at her, or rather, her charming squire, his lips pressed tightly together, his jaw locked.

Just as Johanna wrote he would...

Arianne had recovered from shock quickly, because much as she considered Johanna's words a shrewd kind of sin, she was inclined to believe things once they were proven enough.

Jace had been disarmed several times during his sparring bout, all because his head kept snapping in her direction.

Not that Arianne had gawked at him in return, no, she had that much sense to only glance demurely a few times.

Though now, she was wondering what she was supposed to do next?

If only there were some practical steps one could follow, like the scrolls detailing the opening positions in cyvasse. If one opts to lead with the light horse, one must seize control of the center. The center is the heart of the board. The rabble should defend against the elephants. Beware the opposing dragon.

A woman should be allowed to strategize about her future, that much she conceded to her aunt. Though Arianne would rather not voice that particular opinion lest it reach her father's ears.

Myles was still holding one of the bows, explaining the intricacies of loosening an arrow.

“—and if you favor a lighter draw weight still, then yew might be preferable."

Arianne turned towards the rack, barely listening anymore, letting her fingers trace over the cool steel of a blade. It gleamed under the midday sun.

Jace would seek her out.

He would dismiss Lord Motoon's nephew because was that not how jealousy worked?

He would not stand for it, for her favoring another man. He would send him away.

Jace would just need to snap, and command him, and the squire would be gone.

A part of her felt guilty for Myles. He had done nothing wrong by merely conversing with her, offering his assistance.��But Jace would not tolerate it, because....if Johanna had been right, he was jealous indeed.

Myles was still talking, gesturing toward a crossbow now.

“Of course, a quarrel has more piercing power, but it lacks the...”

Arianne was already too far gone into her reverie to think reasonably.

Jace would stop before her, his face flushed from exertion, his perfect, dark curls in disarray. And she...oh, she would turn ever so slightly, chin lowered, batting her lashes...appropriate ladylike modest surprise!

Perhaps he would take her hand, right here in the training yard, heedless of whoever might see. "Arianne, I cannot abide this any longer. You belong at my side."

Jace would be bold.

He would not waver. Because he was a Targaryen...that is what she had heard Princess Rhaenyra say several times. Her sons were Targaryens, even if Velaryon name denoted illustrious lineage itself.

Her fingers painted absent patterns along the hilt of a dagger now.

She would be his princess. His Queen. They could write songs about their love. She would ride Vermax across Westeros beside him, rule beside him, bear his sons. She'd refine existing laws and think of adding her own, like the Good Queen Alysanne.

Arianne suppressed an utterly foolish giggle threatening to erupt from her throat.

"M-my Prince!" Myles stammered, dragging her back into reality. But her reality was a love ballad indeed, because —

Already?

Her heart was catapulted into the bottom of her throat.

Jace had come already?

Arianne could not help it, even if she had read through the notes she made from the letter several times — Do not give Jace all the attention, make him wait, and suffer? Let him suffer, not make him suffer. But let him fight to have your affection again. — She could not help the honest, vehement staccatissimo of her pulse.

She spun, a bright, eager smile spilling across her lips.

Then —

The world seemed to shift, a great wave rolling over her, like those turbulent currents that tormented the cliffs near her home.

Not warm, like the deep, fiery brown she expected.

Blue, —

the clearest, glacial blue like the voracious rapids of Slayne, rushing toward the Sea of Dorne.

The coldest blue she'd ever seen.

The color of Aemond's single iris.

What?

Arianne’s breath snagged, trapped under something tight inside her ribcage.

Her smile faltered.

W-What? Gods!

She scrambled to navigate through the veritable maelstrom trashing inside her skull because this was all wrong. Her prince — Where was Jace?

Arianne broke the gaze, her eyes lowering, almost instinctively.

She searched for him. Jace was still by the practice puppets, his sword raised defensively against a relentless, unseen opponent. Small. Stubborn. Joffrey, no doubt.

B-but why is Aemond here?

"My Prince." Arianne curtsied awkwardly, her body catching up to the situation before her mind did. She glanced up quickly, almost too quickly, and suffered a bout of lightheadedness.

Green and blue locked again, and she noticed the faint narrowing of his eye.

Why in the Seven Hells is he here?

For a man who detested her, Aemond had quite the uncanny ability to stumble upon her almost daily.

Unless he sought her out.

Arianne tensed. Absurd.

She squinted suspiciously, preparing for a venomous, scathing comment he surely had in store. But Aemond simply stood there, his austere face undecipherable.

Much to her chagrin, his silver hair, save for a single wayward strand, remained flawlessly swept back, and his dark, tailored tunic appeared as if he'd just put it on. Not a trace of exertion on him, despite the four consecutive duels he participated in.

Irritatingly slow, his shapely mouth curled into something resembling a smile. But thinner, crueler.

“A book is one thing, but now you come for the weaponry as well, Lady Swann?” He drawled in that deceptively soft voice.

Arianne stiffened.

There he was.

Of course, he'd come to torture her, why else?! Could he not find some other entertainment that did not include souring her day?

She bit into the side of her tongue.

She was a lady, and she had a plan — one that did not involve One-eyed menace!

Myles shifted, stepping forward. Seven bless him.

"Lady Arianne merely wanted to know more about armament, Your Grace."

Aemond blinked before peeling his gaze away from her to fix it on young Motoon.

He said nothing at first. Just stared.

A bird chirped somewhere overhead, breaking through the thick, oppressive quiet of their triangle.

Myles shuffled on his feet.

"M-my Prince, d-did you need anything?" He asked, confused.

Aemond tilted his head, a movement full of quiet scorn.

“What I need,” he said in a level, almost bored tone that conveyed leagues of contempt.

“— is for you to stop wasting air and return to your duties.”

"I-I assure Your Grace that I have done all — " Myles started weakly.

"And I assure you that I dislike repeating myself."

A low, impatient sound rumbled in Aemond’s throat before he pressed his lips into a tight line of displeasure.

Arianne frowned.

Just what does he think he's doing? They did nothing to him, and now he is ruining everything!

Must he always stalk about like some vindictive spectre, disrupting her carefully laid plans?

"Of course, my Prince."

Myles mumbled hastily, before scurrying off, not even sparing her a parting glance.

Wait, what?

Arianne gasped, her head snapping after him.

Coward!

Her lips parted, disbelief followed by frustration. Her mind was in disarray, several conflicting reactions warring against each other.

How was she now supposed to—? Jace was supposed to...?

She stared at Myles’s retreating figure, the distant clink of swords and sunbaked stones reminding her, with growing horror, that none of the things she imagined would happen, and that she suffered in this cursed dust and heat for nothing.

No, no, no! I needed him!

She dug her nails into her palms and turned on Aemond. The daft arsehole had the gall to grin as if something was humorous.

Aemond sauntered closer to the wooden rack and picked up the dagger she had traced earlier. He twirled it lazily, testing its weight in the palm of his hand.

Of course, he can do it flawlessly. As if he were not obnoxious enough.

“Which weapon holds your interest?” He asked after placing it back in place, between two similar blades.

Arianne knit her eyebrows, blinking.

“Pardon?”

The innate grace with which he handled a dagger, that harbinger of brutality, distracted her.

He found her again, cerulean eye poring over her expression.

"I asked which weapon you wanted to learn about."

Aemond repeated slowly, and then, as an afterthought, added: “I can explain it better than a barely literate Motoon boy.”

There wasn't any overt cruelty in his tone, only the natural Targaryen arrogance.

It made her bristle.

“There’s no need,” Arianne straightened her spine. “The barely literate Motoon was doing just fine.”

Something ticked in Aemond's jaw.

He looked away for a moment, as though considering something.

Yet, before she could curse him out, or, a more pragmatic option, simply leave — his sole eye brashly snapping back to her, he drew himself to his full height.

“Walk the gardens with me, then.” His arm shot out expectantly.

Arianne balked.

Gods! He seeks to murder me!

“W-Why?” Her eyelashes fluttered several times to clear her vision. “So you might find an oak to hang me from? Y-you want to dole out a punishment for an imaginary crime!"

Aemond’s nostrils flared.

“I asked you to walk. With me.”

The words flew from between clenched teeth, his patience visibly fraying.

Arianne scrunched her nose and crossed her arms defensively.

“For some foul purpose, no doubt!" She snapped. "Walk the gardens, right, and tomorrow I'll be accused of trampling the Queen's favorite rosebush. The last time we conversed, you mentioned dungeons —”

"The Queen likes geraniums, not roses."

He corrected blandly, his arm still between them. It was more like a challenge than an offering.

"The gallery in the West Wing —"

"T-the gallery?! " Arianne stumbled back.

The marble-cut lines of his face twisted until he looked a veritable terror. His hand dropped to his side, stiff with irritation.

“Yes, the fucking gallery, since you find gardens a death trap,” he uttered, voice inflamed from her affront. “Are you a simpleton? Or has no man ever asked for your company before?”

Her company? He's ruined her debut into courtly life, her morning, her plan, possibly her future, and that was not enough for him?

She wiped her palms against her skirts and inclined her chin up.

"You despise me! I'm not going anywhere with you, Your Grace."

Arianne declared, and a taut, fragile silence stretched between them. Something brimmed in Aemond's pale eye, like a bubbling, imminent overflow from a volcano. It gnawed at her backbone, fearsome and dark.

"Do not flatter yourself, you nettlesome tart." The One-eyed prince sneered at last.

"I don't think of you nearly enough to despise you."

Arianne's mouth gaped open.

Nettlesome tart? Tart?!

As she pondered on the insult to fire back at him, Aemond scoffed and turned on his heel to head towards the stone steps leading into the Keep.

He could not just destroy the entire strategy she had concocted to grasp at any semblance of control over her own life and walk away! It was her future!

She took a step after him, furious.

"I suppose I am clumsy, poorly dressed, and arrogant." Arianne bit off the words, the anger coiling tightly in her stomach. He maligned her to the Custodian, and by extension, to Princess Rhaenyra. Now that she thought of it, everything was his fault! If he had not meddled with her book, she would be going to the Maiden Day's Ball with Jace!

Aemond paused, glancing over his shoulder.

"Mmm, Issa." (Yes.) He crooned smoothly, his voice low and thick with taunt.

“All those things, my lady Swann.”

He ruined everything, and he mocks!

She flicked a curl over her shoulder.

“And you,” Arianne snapped, “are a wretched, stodgy bore! You and your eternal scowl, as if the Gods have personally wronged you! Well, Gods couldn't care less, you are a mere second son, simply there to —"

The rest of the harangue died in her throat when she realized that Aemond stilled mid-step.

She'd counted ten pulses in her chest.

He turned.

Fully.

His body pivoted toward her with unsettling calm, and before she could process it, he was striding back across the gravel between them, his long legs crossing the distance quickly.

Mother!

She hadn’t meant to strike a nerve. Or perhaps she had. But now Aemond was marching back, upon her in moments, even though his movement was measured, unraveling the bravado her anger had clad her with.

“Well,” Arianne fumbled, her feet taking a treasonous step back. “You've ruined my day sufficiently enough, so if you’d kindly go on your—”

“How could a few words ruin your day so heinously?” Aemond interrupted, his voice velvety.

“When you dressed so... finely?”

She balked.

The One-eyed Targaryen paced as if he were pulling on some invisible string — slowly, languidly, uncannily like one of their dragons. She didn't notice at first, focused on his words, but the shift in his posture, his pace, was deliberate. He was forcing her to retreat until the small of her back touched the wooden edge of the rack.

His gaze dragged down the length of her, first her bodice, then her heavy crimson skirts. The odd, discomforting kind of heat blossomed across her cheeks.

“I wasn’t aware the training courtyard had been converted into a Lyseni pleasure house.” He tutted, singular eye finding her face at last.

Arianne gasped.

How dare he?!

"Now that I think on it,” Aemond continued, unabashedly, “you might be dressed just right for your nefarious little schemes.”

He tilted his head, his shapely lips curved into a cruel, tiny smile.

Arianne paled. How could he know she wanted to make Jace jealous?

"Nefarious schemes?" She rasped, suddenly cognizant she had nowhere to retreat. Aemond, on the other hand, seemed terribly unaware of what they might look like to onlookers, situating himself inappropriately close to her.

Or worse, he was aware but cared not.

“You’ve distracted every man you’ve come near!” He accused, the timbre of his voice jagged.

“Since you arrived, you’ve done nothing but seduce honorable men who can no longer think straight.”

"T-that is insane! Whom have I seduced?!" Arianne cried out, completely scandalized.

S-seduce?! As in...Gods! Her Septa would have her whipped from Stonehelm to Blackhaven if she even thought of it!

The muscles in Aemond's jaw locked.

"Whom?" He repeated tonelessly.

"Yes, whom?! Tell more wicked lies, go ahead!"

“Jarlon Wylde,” The Prince spat darkly. “Lord Caron's son. Some mongrel in the armory. The Motoon whelp.”

He was scorching her like dragonfire.

“Mayhaps it amuses you, but everyone knows what happened the last time a Swann, a Motoon, and Saera played their games in Court.”

“What?” she breathed, stunned.

“Ah. My nephew, of course,” Aemond added, in tones of the finest Myrish lace.

“Dearest Jacaerys Strong. Who knows whom else!"

“That is — that is absurd! Your baseless allegations are utterly vile! I have seduced no one, not that it is any concern of yours, Prince Aemond."

His face hardened.

“It becomes my concern when men I'm sparring with are too taken with you to focus properly!"

"How is it my fault your men are fools?" She retorted sharply, slightly winded from their argument.

Aemond did not answer immediately, tense as a dragon coiled beneath its scales, waiting.

Hopefully, not to tear out her throat.

One of his legs shifted, boot sliding out, the heel scraping softly against the dirt. His hip cocked just enough to tilt his weight, his posture brazenly casual.

Arianne had an overwhelming urge to dig herself into the wood, to put some proper distance between them. Aemond leaned slightly down, the sun catching on the sharp ridge of his nose.

"Mind your words, little swan." He clicked his tongue, his breath grazing her cheek.

She twitched at the moniker.

It was positively sickening how intimate it sounded from his lips. Not at all how it made her feel when her father, or her mother, or even her brother called her the same.

"If you knew what those fools thought of you, you'd flee back to your silk cushions and love ballads, and pray none of them ever catch you alone."

A cold tremor passed through her — a blood-curdling type of fear. One that curved and tightened around the spine until it immobilized.

But she was from the Marches, there were storms in her blood. He was mistaken if he thought she'd give him the satisfaction of seeing her cry again. Arianne lifted her chin, refusing to cower.

"Do not call me that!" She hissed, debating whether to press a finger against his chest and shove him back.

Aemond blinked.

"Why not?" He pondered, his eyebrow raising in challenge.

"It suits you, all prim and pretty, fluttering about while those fools wonder what it would be like to have you."

She recoiled, the rack digging painfully into the small of her back.

H-have her? Like...As in...a woman?

The shock of someone, a prince, saying something so depraved punched her breath out.

Aemond mistook her blank expression for ignorance.

"You do know what it means, don't you? They covet you for their bed." He uttered silkily, drinking in her apprehension.

The words twisted in her gut like a curved, sharpened knife.

It was as if her insult about his lot in life brought something to the surface of his pale, unblemished skin, and now that something demanded retribution.

A payment in blood.

“Did you think your dear, dumb squire was listening to you prattle on about…?”

He waved his hand vaguely.

Arianne's eyebrows drew together.

“Goldenheart bows,” She muttered, a bout of dread already climbing up her neck. “We were discussing the logistics. The Summer Isles have banned goldenheart export...It’s too costly now, and—”

Her voice faltered when he chuckled.

It was a wicked, dark thing — a low sound that made her pulse stutter in her throat.

“How naïve you are.” Aemond practically purred.

“You truly believe just because you know more than him, because you talked circles around him, that he was listening?”

Her lashes fluttered several times, confusion breaking through her composure. Why wouldn’t he have been listening? He’d nodded. He’d asked questions. He’d looked at her—

Aemond’s lips peeled back to reveal his white teeth.

“My lady Swann,” he drawled, cruel and quiet, “while you spoke of exports and tariffs, he undressed you many, many times in his mind."

Arianne froze, eyes wide as he leaned so close she felt him by the shell of her ear.

"Deflowered you a dozen more.”

The words slid down her neck like a cold blade, a violation in syllables.

For a moment, she couldn’t inhale.

D-deflowered?

The world tilted, her feet balancing on a vertiginous edge.

A sick heat bloomed at the base of her throat, erupting over her face like a rash, shame and fury braided into one unbearable thread. Of course she knew men would seek to...All septas warned noble girls of it. It was a sin to think on it before the marital bed. Why would he speak so cruelly to her?

It was as if he'd just ripped some veil she hadn't known was there.

A fleeting, nauseating thought made her belly twist, and not just from those vile words, but from the way he looked at her as he spoke them.

As if...

As if he, too, had thought of doing such things to her.

Her lungs were moving too fast now, drawing quick, shallow breaths.

Arianne blinked away the tears, batting her lashes. She wanted to scream. She wanted to vanish.

She wanted to hurt him.

“Elēnqitta?” (Speechless?) Aemond sussurrated, the word sliding off his tongue sweetly, like tears of Lys.

“That is a first. Not going to call me an arse? A twat?” he added with mock curiosity, tilting his head, his profile sharp as cut obsidian.

Arianne gritted her teeth.

A tear managed to dislodge itself from her eyelid and was now running down her cheek. She did not bother to wipe it.

Instead, she reached for the nearest wooden sword, forgetting that people could see her attack a prince, forgetting that as the King's son, he had guards of his own lingering at the edges of the yard.

She swung.

Aemond dodged easily, a flash of surprise overtaking his face.

Arianne swung after him again, without any plan or knowledge on it. The practice sword was rather heavy in her palm, and awfully unwieldy for her small hands. She'd never wielded a weapon before, no, of course not, she was a well-raised Lady, but this pale-haired Stygian demon brought the worst out of her. Well, he'll learn swans can be vicious when attacked.

She missed again because Aemond was just stupidly fast.

The third time, she hit him on the upper arm, but it hadn't worked as she thought it would.

Instead of cowering and apologizing, he merely laughed, a rumbling sound she had not heard from him until now, and then he caught the sword, yanking it from her hands.

"You will hurt yourself, my lady." His voice was light now, almost teasing.

Aemond twirled the practice weapon once, twice, in his hand before putting it back.

"I would rather hurt you!"

She shouted and the insufferable twat just dusted off the stain her sword had left on the sleeve of his dark tunic.

"You wish to hurt your prince? All because I told you the truth, how unbecoming —"

Arianne whirled to snatch another weapon, a more beneficial one when everything went terribly, terribly wrong.

Her heel clipped on the edge of one of the heavy iron shields stacked beside the rack. It came loose, tilting against another one and another one, and she had a moment to throw herself back before they crashed where she had been standing.

Her left leg tangled around the other, which had slipped on loose dirt, and she lost her footing entirely. She'd braced to hit the harsh ground, the filthy, dusty gravel, and in that half of a moment her mind thought that ruining the costly, beautiful dress she had put on FOR NOTHING was even worse than the pain, another bruise, or humiliation of it happening.

She squeaked, squeezing her eyes shut.

Instead of the ground, two strong arms caught her.

And Arianne froze, met with Aemond's unreadable face bent over hers — she was dipped, her back arched, his palm flat against the small of it, his other hand on the side of her waist.

As she further scrambled for balance, she caught Aemond's tunic.

He tensed underneath her fingers, and she became aware that her entire weight rested on his right arm, while the left, the heat on her ribs, steadied her.

A heartbeat passed.

It was...it was...scandalous.

Like one of those Rhoynish dances, those vulgar Dornish merryments that Septons clearly named as sinful.

They were too close.

She had never been held like this, like something weightless, something that could be bent and shaped entirely at another's will.

She'd never been so close to a man.

Arianne could feel the hard lines of his body, so different from hers, how effortlessly he held her, and she certainly weighed more than a sword. Effortlessly because he'd not huffed or gritted his teeth, he just...stared at her, his eye curious, and wrongly soft at the edges.

He was warm.

Solid.

Smelling faintly of leather, dragon, and something...gods, something both pleasantly and troublingly masculine, something that made her press her knees together and try to find even ground beneath her feet.

The corner of her mouth twitched nervously.

Arianne was certain twenty pulses or so had passed while she pored over his face. His distractingly close face.

A face so much harsher than the gentle, sloping curves of hers. The high cheekbones and the hollows beneath them — it was hard to deny that Aemond had the sharp, valyrian beauty they wrote poems about, even with the deep gash twisting his left cheek. For a fraction of a moment, Arianne wondered what he hid underneath the eyepatch. A gaping, frightening defect? An open wound? An empty socket?

His lashes were several shades darker than his hair. His cerulean eye appeared almost navy now, his pupil wide like a bottomless well.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, and Arianne blinked.

She ought to demand release immediately. But she could not talk, so she just curled her fingers into his tunic to let him know that a few seconds had passed and that she could, in fact, stand on her own.

Then, Aemond blinked, as if awakening from a dream, and his expression darkened.

His fingers flexed against her waist.

Arianne felt that he must have realized it too. That she was soft where he was lean, all taut muscle beneath the black leather, and that she was a woman while he...

Gods.

A tremor ran through her.

He was...male.

She wasn't...she wasn't an idiot, of course she knew he had been a man all along, but...he had been some distant, valyrian prince, an obstacle, an enemy — because he was Jace's enemy, he was hers too — a threat.

A slanderer, a twat.

But all of a sudden —

She was painfully, clearly aware of his strength, his lithe, long limbs, the firm, heated press of his fingers searing through her gown, the way his eye lingered on her mouth.

That strange warmth she'd felt while he trashed his dueling opponents returned...only worse.

He needn't...needn't grasp her so firmly, so securely as if some deep, base instinct of his found her too delicate to be left to find her balance on her own. Like no force in the known world could move her from his grasp unless he willed it.

Maybe it could not, since he fought like the war itself had been poured into his veins. Since he had the most terrible dragon in the world.

Her heart seized, and her ribcage grew too tight at the thought.

Her skin hummed.

Aemond's sveltering gaze flicked to her parted lips.

Arianne squirmed, and time snapped back into place.

(Aemond)

He made a mistake.

A mistake the size of precisely one Arianne Swann, who was now in his arms, watching him with wide, nonplussed eyes.

He should have let her fall.

It would have served her right.

Instead, faster than his rational, and utterly unaffected, mind could think, his arms sought to rescue her as she stumbled, catching her svelte waist before she could even scream.

She was soft.

Light. Fragile.

There were...some flowers, some flowery scent, like jasmine or lavender, some faint oakmoss which reminded him of her hostile homeland, and something warm, something that made his heart twist.

Arianne caught his tunic, the tittle of heat from her fingertips seared him, and Aemond felt himself suddenly very touched.

His muscles flexed.

Let her go.

The world had quieted down until he could hardly hear it at all — the clang of steel, the different voices, the steps from one of the guards who'd seen her swing a sword at a prince — it all melted away, and he could only hear the uncomfortably loud thudding of his own heart.

And there was something wrong with it after he'd spat those crude accusations at her.

Her large, beautiful eyes flashed with a fire that could have burned even him. Aemond realized it wasn't just anger — it was hurt, raw, unfiltered, and desperate.

A foreign, ugly wave of something lapped at his chest, and he wished he had not said what he said.

Ruining her day had not been his intention when he sent one of Cole's pages to keep his nephew otherwise occupied, but then she refused him and named him that...second.

Less than.

Inconsequential.

No matter what great heights he would ever achieve, they, his mother, his grandsire, the Realm, would always want Aegon over him.

Second —

Aemond had not been able to control the base urge that crashed through his veins at that moment. To force her to take it back, to frighten her into compliance. It did not help that Vhagar had woken just then, iracund and hungry, which, in turn, made his anger particularly intense.

Arianne inhaled, her side moving underneath his touch.

He should not have told her those things — she was a lady, soft-hearted, delicate, full of sensibilities a man must thread around. She was...like Helaena, like his mother, despite her strange penchant for arguing and outreading everyone in the room.

The corner of her mouth twitched, and the blue of his eye could not tear itself away from it.

Her lips seemed so...supple, very rosy, like she'd just eaten ripened strawberries. Heart-shaped and distractingly lovely.

Her cheeks were very flushed, too.

That...pleased him.

Something tugged at his bond now, and Aemond knew Vhagar must've sensed satisfaction sprouting from deep within his chest — he was the instigator of the delectable blush blooming across her skin.

Arianne had freckles. Tiny, tawny spots on her cheeks and the ridge of her nose. Her eyebrows were slightly darker than her hair. A few specks of yellow decorated the green of her eyes. Her lashes —

Suddenly, he saw all these details, yet not enough.

Let her go.

A thrill rushed down his spine at the position he was in. Or rather, he had her in.

Let.her.go.

He knew there would be eyes on him, gossipers and the like, pausing in their activities to take in the sight of Aemond Targaryen rescuing a lady like some gallant fool.

One-eyed Prince swallowed.

Arianne seemed to follow the movement of his throat before glancing at his lips.

She shivered, her dainty hands tugging on his tunic as if asking for release. No, not the kind of release he wished to give her.

Let her go!!!

It had been...only seconds, but a few more and the entire court is going to think you sullied her!

No, not him.

It couldn't be him indulging in such base depravities.

Aemond was above suspicion.

His mother would be heartbroken to learn he was just as wrong, just as weak as Aegon.

He moved his fingers against the small of her back, noticing that her lacing was just underneath them. His other hand...he quashed down the irritating urge to brush his thumb over the fine silk, just beneath her breast.

She had a slender waist, like his mother.

The crimson girdle he'd seen her wear suited her. Aemond couldn't comprehend why, but for some reason, he had a murky thought that he'd imagined her crying because her girdle could not fit.

Because her belly had swollen with his heir. Because she ceased to be so obstinately aggravating, and found her way to his bed. Somehow.

He wooed her.

Absurd, as he did not waste time on such matters!

It must've been one of those awful poppy dreams, because the only thing he remembered was that it somehow made perfect sense in his head.

She begged him to take her, moaned it against his throat — to put sons in her womb. All silver-haired dragons.

Lady Swann could taunt herself then, like the snide little cunt she was, for letting a second son claim her. Because, most generously, he'd answer her pleas. Again. And again.

And again.

Enough. He needed to let her go.

He felt her twisting and, in one quick motion, pulled her upright.

Arianne stared at him with those eyes. Long-lashed and green — as rarest of smaragds, as remote mountain lakes.

The tips of his fingers dug into the silk cosseting her waist.

She was frowning as if he had done something wrong by rescuing her from total humiliation. He saved her like some stupid hero from some ridiculous, notably fabricated tale, and she had the gall to frown.

To salvage what dignity he had left, Aemond did what he did best.

He struck.

"You...are the clumsiest woman I have ever met." The Targaryen Prince declared flatly.

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