#consent extends to children

[boqorka]

What is Consent?

Consent is the act of giving permission or agreement to something. In terms of interpersonal relationships, it refers to a voluntary agreement between two people to engage in a particular activity. Consent is critical to ensure that both parties involved are comfortable with what is happening and that everyone is on the same page.

Types of Consent

There are various types of consent, each of which applies to different situations. Here are some of the most common types of consent:

Explicit Consent

Explicit consent is when someone gives their consent verbally or in writing. This type of consent is clear and specific, leaving no room for misinterpretation. Explicit consent is often required in situations involving sexual activity, medical treatment, and legal contracts.

Implicit Consent

Implicit consent is when someone gives their consent through their actions. For example, if you go to a restaurant and order food, you are implicitly giving your consent for the restaurant to serve you. Similarly, if you attend a concert, you are implicitly giving your consent for the performers to play music.

Informed Consent

Informed consent is when someone gives their consent after being fully informed of the risks and benefits of a particular action or activity. This type of consent is often required in medical situations, such as before undergoing surgery or participating in a clinical trial.

Implied Consent

Implied consent is similar to implicit consent, but it refers to situations where consent is assumed based on the circumstances. For example, if someone is bleeding profusely, and a passerby stops to help, the injured person is assumed to have given their consent to receive aid.

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[bunny-jpeg]

kink-o-ween - day ten

oscar piastri - breeding kink

cw: smut/pwp, breeding kink, established relationship, marriage, gentle sex, praise kink, mating press position, dirty talk, aftercare, tenderness & romance

kink-o-ween: formula one edition - call of duty edition

mrs. piastri was a title that made you blush. even after being married for over a year, you still felt the heat in your cheeks. you were happy to be married to your best friend.

even though you met by chance, when you spilled your ice coffee all over his lap and you begged to pay for the cleaning. almost on your knees because you felt so guilty! but oscar played it very cool and simply suggested that you could pay for dinner.

your career and his racing kept the two of you busy for extended periods of time. but in recent months you had felt the tickle in your gut when you thought about you two expanding your little family.

you knew that you two were not getting any younger, and the idea of having a child with oscar made you feel almost excited. to share the experience with someone who cared about you so deeply. you brought it up over dinner and you watched oscar get pink in the ears.

"a baby?" he asked.

you looked down at your dinner, "yes. i want to start a family with you. but there's no pressure or anything!"

he leaned back in his seat a little and looked away for a moment. he went more red in the face as he admitted, "no. no. i'd love to, i'm just worried i might lose it if given the chance."

"lose it?" you asked.

he looked at you and replied, "my breeding kink... remember?"

your eyes went wide for a moment as you remembered exactly why you always had condoms on hand. oscar piastri, your loving husband who knew everything about you. from your favourite flower to how you liked your steak cooked. had a massive breeding kink.

you assumed that the kink and his desire to have children weren't one in the same. you didn't want to make assumptions, but him putting them together made your face grow hot. you should've guessed.

"i just held off from wanting to get you pregnant until i got your consent. and we agreed that we wanted to start a family. i wasn't going to baby trap you or anything!" he said, "it takes two to tango."

you both sat in an embarrassed silence for a moment before you said, "well, oscar jack piastri." you stood up in your chair. your face still burned as you continued, "let's make a baby then."

your forwardness had your husband standing up from the table as well. now that your desires were verbalized, oscar didn't want to waste any time. there were numerous times when he was alone with his thoughts in hotel rooms across the globe, that he thought about you pregnant.

he thought about you pregnant with his child. you'd be such a good mother to them. oscar wanted the three of you to be a proper family. he yearned for it, but kept his desired hidden for fear of 'forcing' you into a situation you didn't want to be in. a child was a big step and he didn't want it unless you were onboard too. marriage was a partnership.

you were thankful that the conversation only came up after you had finished dinner and were splitting some cheesecake that you bought from the store. it was left on the table in favour of the bedroom. for oscar to get a feel of his beloved wife.

you barely made it to the bed before oscar's hands were on the waist of your pants. he pulled them off of you, admiring your lower half. your strong thighs that still had a bit of softness to them. he loved your thighs, and while he'd love to kiss them while you smothered him with them. his brain was focused on one thing.

breeding his beloved wife.

the more he undressed you, the deeper his brain fell into the kink. and the hotter he got. his cock strained in his jeans, only finding relief when he got them off and onto the floor near the bed. he eyed you as you got your bra off hastily.

he swallowed back pleasure and you admired his features.

"what's on your mind, my handsome husband?" you asked as you rubbed your thighs together. you still wore the cute cotton panties with the printed roses on them. you left them on for your husband to take off.

"i don't want to scare you off." he said as he got closer to you, "i'm afraid i'll say something wrong." he admitted a little sheepishly.

you laid out on the bed under him and gazed up at him, "oh, don't worry about that." you smiled, "i don't think anything could scare me off at this point. i know too much about you, my dear." you watched him eye you up and down with such tenderness.

he grabbed you by the hips and lifted them to meet his cock. he rubbed himself up against you and exhaled deeply. he could feel the pleasure in his gut. you looked beautiful under him. he knew that he wanted to spend a lifetime with you.

"i wanted to get you pregnant for so long. to have you be the mother to my children." he licked his lips, "the sight of you with my child, being the perfect mother to them. making me so proud. coming home to you and our kids." he felt the pleasure mount in his gut and soon he had you in a proper mating press.

your knees were at your face with your pussy exposed to your lover. you felt something stir in your gut as he got you in a position that was perfect for meeting your goal. you blushed at his words and said, "oscar."

"i know. i know. i can't help myself. i want to make you a mother so badly." his voice was a low purr by the time his cock was dragging across your achy slit.

you could feel the heat splash across your face and you hooked your hands under your knees to give yourself more balance as your husband sank his cock into you. you moaned a little bit and oscar savoured the sounds and the feeling. you felt like a dream just like you had every other time you made love.

despite the position, oscar took his time with you. he wanted to feel every inch of you. this wouldn't be a quick affair, if you were going to make a baby together. your husband wanted it to be a night to remember.

and if it took more than one night to conceive, then it would be a good few memorable nights.

he moved against you more, his cock hit against some of the softest parts of you and it made him run hot all over. you in turn felt the same way to be pressed in such a way made you feel flustered as your husband took you.

he said in a low voice, "you're going to make sure a beautiful mother to our children. you were always so good with everyone else's kids." he said his voice tinged with affection, "we'll both be good parents, working hard together. for our family." he leaned forward and pressed into you further to kiss you on the lips.

"i love you."

"i love you too. more than you'll ever know. you complete me." he said, his voice was doused in love. you knew that he meant it. he wouldn't marry you and lie about loving you.

you could recall his tenderness throughout your relationship. and it made your heart flutter. oscar adored you, even going as far as to have a keychain on his bag with your favourite animal on it. so he'd have a little piece of you when you were apart.

he continued to move against you, his lips found yours once more and you both felt hot. in the quietness of your home during the season break. you could feel how much he loved you even without words. oscar piastri adored you, loved you so deeply that it made up his heart beat.

"you're the funniest, most amazing woman i've ever met." he chuckled softly, "i remember when you took us out on our first date and we split that cheesecake." he moved against you further, "in all fairness it was really good, but i wanted you to have more of it. your smile when you ate it, i couldn't get enough of it."

you squirmed a little more under his heavy thrusts and you moaned a little louder. thankfully you had some privacy in your large home, which allowed the two of you to really go at it.

oscar thrusted against you and you felt hot all over. the throb of pleasure in the back of your head as he moved against you. you said softly, "i love you."

"and i love you." he said. his heart raced. the two of you fit perfectly together, the pleasure pooled between you two. you felt hot all over.

you felt close to your climax. you held onto your legs tighter as you tensed up. you moaned a little louder as you felt yourself reach your peak of climax soon after. as you came, you reached for your husband and the two of you kissed passionately.

oscar was close behind you, his pace staggered and eventually he gave it his all to finish inside of you. he felt the pleasure shiver down his spine as he panted heavily. his body pressed into yours, keeping you pinned under him as he finished inside of you.

he got close enough to pepper your face with kisses. you melted into his touch a little more as you felt the after glow of pleasure. eventually oscar pulled out and you placed your lower half down onto the bed once more.

he laid out next to you and pulled you into his grasp. he loved the feeling of you against him as he peppered your face with kisses. you leaned into him like a flower did the sun and you felt comfortable next to him.

"did i hurt you?" he asked softly.

"no, no." you said as you captured his lips once more before he pulled the covers over the both of you. you both snuggled against one another naked.

he asked, "do you need anything? anything at all?" he always made sure you received after care, even if the sex was tender.

you pecked his lips once more and assured him you needed nothing. until the light bulb went off in your head. you smiled at him and suggested, "maybe we can finish that cheesecake?"

"in bed?"

you giggled, "better than sitting at the table naked."

he chuckled and wrapped an arm around you, "well, it'll be the first and last time. we have to set a good example for our daughter."

"oh, already certain of the gender?" you laughed a little.

"of course. and she'll be as funny and smart as you." oscar pulled you as close as you could get with you leg over his hip. he looked at you with such affection. he couldn't wait to have a family with you <3

[so-i-did-this-thing]

How it's going as a trans person in Florida: Planned Parenthood, 26Health, and Spektrum Health have announced they have paused all gender affirming care.

To recap, DeSantis signed several anti-trans bills into law this week. Care is banned for minors, care is all but banned for adults, Don't Say Gay has been extended, children can be kidnapped from affirming parents by non-affirming family, and there is a bathroom bill that subjects trans folks to arrest for using government owned facilities, such as those in courthouses, airports, many stadiums and parks.

The adult effective ban was felt immediately. The main elements are:

signing at every visit an in-person informed consent form created by the state

all care come from physicians instead of nurse practitioners

no telemed for gender-affirming care

Currently, it is unknown if existing HRT prescriptions written by NPs will be honored by pharmacies. I personally know one person who was able to pick up testosterone yesterday, but I have also read many reports of folks being denied. I myself don't have a refill ready for another 10 days and will report back after I try my own pickup.

What's additionally dangerous is those of us, myself included, who get non-HRT prescriptions from our gender clinics now face the uncertainty of continuing of *all* of our medical care. Our health clinics are at risk of shuttering permanently as they lose major income, and many of us will lose STD meds, depression meds, heart meds, etc, etc.

When we say "this will kill us," it goes beyond suicide risk from forced detransition.

"But you can still get HRT from a physician."

So many suck or are outright hostile and the demand outstrips the supply. Before I found my NP-run clinic, one physician just decided to not call in my Rx, another was so shit at reading lab results, he thought I had hepatitis, and the third I had to threaten to kick in the teeth for trying to force too large a speculum in me.

Also, the state-required consent form has not been finalized and distributed yet, so at this point, everything has pretty much ground to a halt.

It was estimated that 80% of trans adults would lose their healthcare because of how many use providers like Planned Parenthood, but the impact seems even greater now.

"You can get your non-gender care elsewhere still."

DeSantis recently signed a bill that allows healthcare professionals to discriminate against trans people.

Sure, we can try to find care elsewhere, but it will be a slow and expensive process, with no guarantees. It took me over 20 years to get my heart condition treated because of transphobic doctors.

What can I do as a trans Floridian?

Stay in communication with your clinic - many are working on getting physicians added to the roster to prescribe HRT. Lawsuits are being filed and it's possible the changes to adult care can be rolled back.

Continue to try to pick up your meds, but begin looking for care elsewhere, though. Inside and outside the state.

Remember that while telemed for gender affirming care has been banned, you can still cross state lines for care. See Erin's map of informed consent clinics.

Many people will turn to DIY, but be sure you are aware of the risks here, especially if on testosterone, which is a controlled substance.

What should I be worried about next as a trans Floridian?

I worry about the following next steps towards genocide:

Banning getting care out of state. This is from the anti-abortion playbook. They will likely start with kids again, but we've seen how quickly adult care gets axed.

Being declared mentally incompetent or a risk in some way. This could be anything from being barred from gun ownership to not being allowed to work for the government.

Being declared a de facto predator. This has already happened with the latest bathroom law (cis people can eject trans people from government owned single-gender facilities, with arrest as a penalty), so watch out for it being applied to privately-owned facilities. Watch for discussions of official lists of trans people.

Gender presentation enforcement laws, essentially banning "cross dressing". Laws that block or rollback documentation changes.

These all have historic precedence and are huge "I'm in danger" red flags.

What can I do as a cis person?

Amplify all this news. Talk frankly about how this is genocide. And donate what you can to trans mutual aid campaigns so people can travel to get healthcare or even leave the state.

Here's some articles to get started on building awareness:

Take care, everyone, of yourself and each other.

[northopalshore]

♡.⁠｡⁠*⁠ Groom & Briede .⁠｡⁠*⁠♡

Persona Chart Observations

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All observations made in this post only applies to the Groom (5129) & Briede (19029) persona chart. It's a random assortment of observations I've made for the past few weeks. Please note that results may vary depending on the sign & placements in each individual chart but it's still a reliable foundation or guide. All observations were based on actual people & their marriage life.

Please do not reupload without consent esp. on other cites

:¨ ·.· ¨:⠀

Masterlist | Groom persona chart Masterlist | Briede in the natal chart

Your wedding dress astrology | Union persona chart Masterlist

`· . ୨୧⠀

୨ৎ Juno in the 12th house your relationship ( behind the scenes) could be private, sacred or is viewed as ideal ( or all three!). However, the biggest takeaway of this placement is the trials and hardship that you & your spouse go through after marriage. It's like a "contract to change your life" placement.

My father has a Juno, & a Stellium in his GPC 12th House. Marriage has changed him deeply on all levels.

୨ৎ Briede & Groom in the 12th house makes for a very dedicated spouse, they will walk their partner through the fire, and literally anything (unless it's in retrograde), but it also means not a lot of people will know much about you or your spouse or you could keep them hidden (depends on what the focus on the chart you're looking at is ; you or your spouse)

୨ৎ Boda in the 12th house a private marriage not secret (literally no one will know much about the inner workings of your marriage outside of family & close friends), but also one with karmic lessons (especially in retrograde)

ex: Ariana Grande has this in retrograde in her Groom persona chart. Nobody really knew what was going on in their marriage until it was over and we got an album with a vague recollection/ idea of the aftermath

୨ৎ Chiron in the 1st house your marriage may hurt your image in a some way, whether it would be your current reputation, or by association i.e people will not understand why you married your spouse etc.

୨ৎ Neptune in the 1st house you will be more private or elusive after marriage, people will find you hard to read or hard to spot, your absence may be noticable ( you might seldomly attend family gatherings or go out with friends for example)

୨ৎ Union in the 5th house you will go on a lot of fun dates and activities with your spouse, you will feel like things are more fun with them around

୨ৎ Stellium in the 12th house will make you a more private person after marriage, of you may not attend events (where parents are needed for ex) often, for some it can mean leaning into addictions (mostly alcohol) as well but that's not always the case

୨ৎ Sun in the 12th house will face many trials and turbulence after marriage, but it also shows transformation

୨ৎ Mars in the 2nd house you will work harder after marriage, you may feel like your life is consumed by the need for money & strive to attain more of it. If arguments do arise in your marriage, it's likely due to money.

୨ৎ Jupiter in the 10th house marriage may lead you to bigger job opportunities, and may improve your overall living or social status i.e be in a better situation than you have been in before. It could also give you more "credibility"

୨ৎ Chiron in the 5th house you could have a difficult time with children and fertility, but it also means you will have to sacrife a lot of fun (i.e your previous ways of life) for your family; being more adult and serious

୨ৎ Chiron in the 2nd house you will be extending yourself more when it comes to finances after marriage, being the one responsible or sacrificing more monetarily (especially if your spouse is unemployed, free lancing or unable just to support you the same way) you might also loose a stream of income or decide to work for yourself

୨ৎ Boda in the 7th house you are likely going to work with your spouse, and to some degree trat your relationship as a overall partnership better two people that goes well beyond romance, but also responsibility and your connection with the outside world i.e people outside your marriage, & you are likely always seen with each other as well

୨ৎ North node in the 6th house a lot of your time will be spent on your worklife & career, and at times feel like this is what life is about. However, it also means that you'll achieve a sort of legacy & impact in your work place or through your work (no matter how small)

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୨ৎ Lilith in the 6th house you could be overworked after marriage, be more critical of yourself and your abilities (specifically when concerning work), you could face a lot of annoying coworkers or deal with manipulative employers throughout your work life, your health & sense of liberty could take a bit of a toll in this case, you could be underpaid in some cases, people at your workplace may envy or dislike you for some reason & treated unfairly

ex: Barack Obama & my dad have this placement. Obama needs no explanation, there is literally a South Park episode about it too. My father always has coworkers finding ways to look down on my dad when he's the one actually doing all the work (and getting commended for it) still, his company CEO is a cheapskate ; underpaying employees

୨ৎ Pluto in the 11th house your social circle will likely change drastically following your marriage, you could see your old friends less or even move to a different part of town, or state etc, being around whether less people from your past or new people going foreward

୨ৎ Uranus in the 10th being with your spouse will kick start a pull or interest towards a different career path; one that is Risker than your current job but more fulfilling or in alignment to your personal wants and wishes

୨ৎ Sun in the 6th or 10th you will be very focused on your career, and thrive for a good work-life balance after marriage. You may devote a lot of your time into work and your duties; whether at home or at your job

୨ৎ North Node in the 10th gaining more recognition and reputability after marriage (more outwardly compared to the 6th house), people seem to trust you more or see you as someone dependable, your public image & career are boosted but it also means you will spend a lot of time on your career

(ex: Barack Obama has NN in Leo °15 Gemini, in the 10th house in his GPC)

୨ৎ Juno in the 7th house your marriage is more than an exchange of vows, it is a contract. Both you and your spouse see each other as equals and act as each others right hand man (woman). The advisor aka the last call before each other's final decision. You both take marriage i.e commitment very seriously.

୨ৎ Neptune in the 5th you are very creative, and may express that creative side of you or be more intune with it after marriage

୨ৎ Uranus in the 5th marriage will likely allow you to have more creative freedom and have a sense of spontaneity, you will feel more comfortable expressing the weirder parts of your personality or experience more interesting ventures

୨ৎ Uranus in the 7th you could have an unconventional relationship in some way shape or form, people may find it strange or unlikely but also unique in a way ; against all odds type of thing

୨ৎ Mars in the 8th house you are more likely to grow more protective and jealous around your spouse, arguments usually surround inheritance, property, and infidelity ( of suspicion of one) with this placement, you or your spouse could be the type to constantly bring up trouble from the past i.e keep a vendetta once hurt

୨ৎ Cancer or Moon in the 1st house you will not hide your feelings and may be more expressive as a spouse, you may come off as a little dramatic & whiny depending on the sign or degree it's in

୨ৎ Venus in the 1st house you will be a very generous affectionate spouse, you may be a good socialist or k ow exactly how to "save face" when you need to, you'll try hard to keep a good image of your marriage life whether the reality reflects that or not, people will say you are someone very pleasant to be around

୨ৎ Moon in the 4th house your emotional stability will be dependent on how your family and home life is, if there is any turbulence at home you will feel like your mind working properly or that you are somewhat responsible for it even if you aren't ; you'll try to be the peacemaker

୨ৎ Uranus in the 4th house your children will be very unique, and give you a very interesting life after marriage, you could move around a lot especially when you have kids or when they are young, some individuals with this placement prefer to not have kids at all

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Thank you for reading ♡ support?

@northopalshore

@northopalshore observations 2025 all rights reserved.

[doberbutts]

Me: it's important to teach boy children consent and autonomy, here is a direct example of this in my autistic nephew and how his social behavior improved because I directly showed him how much the consent and autonomy of his probably-also-autistic little sister matters when she was afraid to hug me because I was a big scary man she didn't know

Person who heard the word "boy" and turned off their brain:

Once again I will say this is basic, basic, basic feminism that people act like is the absolute worst thing in the world because God forbid we try to fix the problem of male violence statistics by starting with teaching children how to be better than we were raised. This is an established feminist talking point because you will not improve anything unless you teach both the girls AND the boys that consent matters.

Yes, absolutely, by showing two scared little children that a strange man wasn't going to touch them without their permission, I was directly teaching my nephew that he can grow up to be a rapist and serial killer. You caught me red-handed in my dastardly plan to ensure that every little boy grows up this way.

Anyway I deliberately used the phrasing "don't teach [my niece] that she has to let strange men touch her" because both of my sisters, myself, both of our parents, and several members of our extended family have had incidents where we felt forced to let strange men touch us and have lasting trauma from that. And I probably got it the easiest because at least I was listened to when I realized what was happening and went to a different adult for help. The man in question having just been arrested for assaulting someone else a few weeks prior to this conversation with my sister where she was forcing her daughter to hug me, which my sister knew about because she's the one who told me he was arrested. That's why she understood my point and stopped dragging her daughter over to me.

[extremely-judgemental]

How convenient Feyre doesn't have a single memory or glimpse of how Rhysand abused her for two months though she was drugged but her memories weren't taken away. Her body doesn't recognise his touch as danger and isn't repulsed by him. Her trauma hasn't left a mark on her mind and body.

How convenient Feyre's PTSD is about being locked up in a cell and not the man who tortured and broke her hand forcing her into a bargain. Her nightmares are filled with the creatures that abused her once and threatened to spit roast her but not of the man who touched her and kissed her without consent and paraded her naked.

How convenient Feyre goes back to using sex as a crutch with Tamlin and later with Rhysand when it was the very thing that was used against her UtM. Her body readily wants a man's touch right after her rebirth.

How convenient Lucien is the only source of information who told Feyre what was done to her. He is also the most considerate and sweetest friend she ever had. He could have withheld some of that trauma to spare her the humiliation and heartbreak.

How convenient Feyre and Tamlin agreed never to speak of what happened UtM. Feyre doesn't understand how Tamlin's rage extends beyond his possessiveness. For her to turn a blind eye and blame him when they won't even talk about it.

How convenient every HL wants to hold Rhysand accountable for the very things he explicitly claimed to be remorseful of (Winter children massacre) and not the other atrocities he participated or committed in the fifty (or 500) years.

How convenient the HLs are polite enough to not ask Feyre how she forgave Rhysand after he SA'd her every night and willingly plays his whore whenever he wants.

How convenient the HLs don't ask if Feyre is also being mind controlled by Rhysand when he proved his strength by taking over Tamlin's mind in front of everyone.

How convenient every HL forgive Rhysand and Feyre for every mistake they ever made and make compromises throughout but never expect anything in return. How convenient mere 'sorry' always seems to be enough when their courts are suffering because of IC.

How convenient Tamlin insults Feyre but doesn't ask how she accepted her abuser as her mate when she accuses him of the same (sometimes worse) too.

How convenient Lucien is so charmed by the beauty of Velaris that he understands why Feyre left Spring for it but doesn't hold a grudge for what she did to his home.

How convenient Nesta, who's been SA'd twice, never finds out her baby sister also went through the same and is in love with the perpetrator. She never finds out the baby she saved is the child of Feyre's abuser.

How convenient Rhysand and Feyre agreed to deal with their trauma in secrecy. No one in Velaris ever finds out what truly happened UtM.

How convenient 'We save abused priestesses together' Morrigan or 'Careful how you speak about my High Lady' Azriel or 'No male better than Rhys' Cassian never find out how Rhysand hurt Feyre.

How convenient Rhysand himself was SA'd over and over again and so it's all fine to do the same to Feyre.

How convenient what happened UtM stays UtM.

How fucking convenient.

[txttletale]

can you explain family abolition in a few words?

sure. there is no one unitary 'family abolitionist' perspective so be aware that i'm explaining this as a marxist and not as an anarchist or a radical feminist.

basically, "the family" is a social construct rather than a fixed self-evident truth. the family has been created and can be shaped, altered, or--indeed--abolished. this is evinced by the broad anthropological and historical record of radical transformations in what constitutes 'the family' (cf. clans, the extended family, the nuclear family). viewing the family as such opens it up to critique and also to the concept that it could be replaced with something better (in much the same way that, for communist and anarchist, refusing to accept the timelessness / naturalization of the bourgeois state opens up new horizons of political thought outside of engagement with electoral politics.)

among these critiques of the family are:

that it is a tool of patriarchal control over women and children by creating an economic dependence upon spouses / parents

ergo, that it enables and causes 'abuse' -- that child abuse, spousal abuse, and intimate partner violence are not abberations of 'the family' but in fact a natural consequence of its base premises re: power and control

that it serves as a site of invisiblised economic labour (e.g. housework)

that it is a tool of the capitalist (formerly the feudal) economy's reproduction of inequality via e.g. inheritance laws

that it serves as a site of normalization and reproduction of hegemonic ideology--i.e. that it is the site where heteronormativity, cisnormativity, gender roles, class positionality, & more are ingrained in children

among solutions family abolitionists propose to remedy it are:

the total dissolution of any legal privilege conferred by romantic or blood relationship in favour of total freedom for any group of people to form a household and cohabitate

the recognition of housework, the work of childrearing, & the general tasks of social reproduction as 'real' labour to be distributed fairly and not according to formal or informal (feminized) hierarchies

the economic and legal freedom of children--(i.e., allowing children unconditional access to food and shelter outside 'the family', allowing children the legal right to informed consent and self-determination)

similarly, the emancipation of women from economic dependence on their partners--both of these can only really be achieved via socialism (as marx put it, 'women in the workplace' only trade patriarchal dependence upon a husband for patriarchal dependence upon an employer)

communal caretaking of children, the sick, & the elderly

yeah. i know. this is a lot of words. its not few words. sorry. it's a complex topic innit. this is a few words For Me consideri ng that i've got a long-ass google doc open where i'm writing up a whole damn essay on this exact topic.

tldr: the family is not inevitable, it is constructed & can be replaced with something better. full economic freedom from dependence on interpersonal familial relationships for everybody now. check out cuba's 2022 family code for an idea of what this could look like as practical legislation.

[lovelyyandereaddictionpoint]

Yandere Witch /// Part 1

Rhiana is your dear friend who lives just out of town in a cozy cottage in the forest. You met while shopping. You two talk about the different spices she suggests to flavor meat and veggies. It leads you to a fast but close friendship with Rhiana, close enough that it becomes a usual event to visit her monthly while you’re in the area. Whether it’s shopping, karaoke, or just coffee date hangouts there is one thing that comes up a lot.

“Rhiana you’re so pretty.”

“Aw (Y/n) thank you!”

“Seriously though you’re like a painting. I still can’t believe you don’t model.”

“Honestly (Y/n) you’re such a charmer!”

Your dear friend Rhiana doesn’t do anything for a nightly routine or facials or specific remedies to look how she does. Seeing her when you do it seems like the scale of her looks ranges from glowing to immaculate. It certainly makes getting free stuff with her much easier. She just will credit one thing to her looks and even then she doesn’t talk about it much.

“Maybe it’s what I eat…I have been eating more meat, lately.”

But your dear friend Rhiana doesn’t explain anymore, usually going on a tangent about how she can season her meat. She’ll refuse to tell you just how stringent her beauty is on her carnivorous diet. Because on top of being a good friend to you, she is a Witch. Specifically, the kind that maintains her health and youth by devouring the souls and bodies of human beings. She usually prefers eating children but since she’s met you she’s decided to reign it in.

“What if me and (Y/n) had a baby? Hehe, I can’t believe it’s making me blush so much.”

“Aaaaahh please let me go home!!! I promise not to tell!”

“Hmmmm maybe we’ll have 3…or 5 or 10. They won’t be allowed to leave if we have that many right?”

Rhiana the Witch has been doing this for hundreds of years and she’s had her fair share of lovers and harems. But she’s never found out about someone so early in advance. When she was much younger much dumber of 113  she’d seen a vision featuring you, of course at the time she didn’t know. Nor was she aware just how much seeing the future you had awakened something in her. Now she’s well in her 600s and she realizes how all of her flings in the past have features of yours or they speak like you. Or how her familiars mirror different aspects of your personality and as she delves into her past she realizes how all her life she’s been building up to be with you.

“(Y/n) is my….special person….their mine. All Mine!”

Now on top of feeding her voracious appetite, she’s trying to gain your affections so that she has your consent to make you immortal like she. If you might think it’s because she respects boundaries, then you’d be wrong. The potion she’s perfected over centuries only works if you give your express consent, with as little pressure as possible. So she’s refrained from drugging you on her many outings with you…for now. 

If I wanted to I could sprinkle a light aphrodisiac dust into the food they just keep shoveling into their mouth.

“But then I–HACK—*cough cough*”

“Hon, maybe don’t talk while you’re eating.”

“Right! So as I was saying–”

But Elements do I adore just watching them eat so happily.

She feels like a hapless teen all over again as her stomach flips and turns the more time she spends with you. No longer can she get a wink of her enchanted eyes and some choice sugar-coated words to get you exactly where she wants you. She has to try with you and she’s never wanted to do so more than with you. She’s even begun to tailor her meals with the ones that seem to bother you most. It’s risky but the satisfaction of a full tummy while she reads your letter about the creepy vendor finally stopping their emails makes her happy. 

“That is convenient.”

“I know. It’s not right to celebrate anyone going missing—”

“But it doesn’t take away from the harm they’ve done. Don’t feel bad hon it’s probably just an extended trip somewhere to the underworld.”

She thinks about how she’ll hide her rejuvenating diet when she finally gets you closer to her. You might not notice when she uses magic but you're not an idiot; you’d figure it out eventually. Not to mention the added trouble of her familiar’s growing interest and past suitors budding their noses in her business with you. She’s got a lot of work on her hands—and not a lot of time.

“Hey (Y/n) why don’t I come visit you every once in a while? Two days a month just isn’t enough time to make you fall in hopeless love with me+. What do say to me spending a night or two at yours?”

She's giving the former mc going for the side character reader Debating about a part 2 🖤🖤🖤🖤

I did it! Part 2: Here 🖤🖤🖤

[discodeerdiary]

There's a good reason why I try not to argue publicly with anyone under 18, and it's not that I think they're inherently stupid, it's not that I think their brains are "underdeveloped", it's not that I think they can "do no wrong", it's that I never know how much freedom they actually have to think freely, or how many of their opinions are actually their own. Of course, under-18s *can be* capable of thinking for themselves and developing their own opinions, but (here in the US at least) law and culture put a lot of roadblocks on their ability to do so.

Of course parents and teachers cannot actually control the inner thoughts of the children they wield power over, but they can restrict the information that they have access to, can punish them for saying the wrong things, can cut them off from healthy diverse social groups, and can convince the child their thoughts are being monitored through religion, psychology, and other appeals to higher authority.

Thus if a random teenager says some headass shit in my mentions I have no way of knowing if these are opinions they arrived at on their own, or if they are dogmas forced on them by the people holding food and shelter over their head. If it's the latter, there's nothing to be gained from a public confrontation: people are generally unwilling to change their opinions in a direction that threatens their social support system, and they are especially unwilling to do so at the behest of an internet stranger who cannot offer alternative forms of support. If a teen is genuinely curious about my opinion (that is *if they consent* to a discussion of disagreements) and if I have the mental bandwidth for a potentially emotionally loaded conversation, yeah I'll have it, but I'm not gonna maintain any illusions about my ability to change their mind until they can find a way to live independently.

This is also why my leniency toward the not-yet-adult tends to also extend to the recently-adult. Coming up with a system of beliefs that you're actually willing to stand behind? Shit takes time, and I'm not necessarily gonna expect it of a 20-year-old who may, for all I know, have been living under conditions of near-absolute control up until their 18th birthday. Sure they may be opening their mind in college, or college may be their parents way of keeping them too occupied with busywork to develop new opinions, as they continue to hold financial support over their head. It's around their mid-twenties that I'm willing to go full gloves-off antagonistic with strangers, knowing that they've had a few years of legal and social adulthood under their belt, and that even if they're still financially dependent on their parents it's a different sort of dependence, one where they're given default legal permission to run away from home.

A lot of people are deeply uncomfortable with this line of thinking because if you look too far into the factors that influence young people's thoughts, you eventually have to start asking yourself which forces of dependency are influencing your own beliefs and opinions. Yeah, as an independent adult you may have the option to quit your job, divorce your spouse, ditch your friends, move to another country, but realistically how many of these can you accomplish at the same time? How many do you even want to? And how are all of these forces *in aggregate* setting the acceptable limits of what you're allowed to think and feel? It can be upsetting to think of yourself this way, it can be easier to think of yourself as a true free thinker and children as mindless automatons, but I urge you to think of mentally coercive environments as a continuum rather than a binary. The point is not to free yourself from all influence, but to gain the ability to see yourself as an influenced mind, and to have compassion for those dealing with all the bullshit you don't have to anymore.

[mariacallous]

The problem with judging people for their sins is that the internet makes it exceedingly easy to invent sins. In February, Buzzfeed News reported on a man filmed by a passing TikTokker, who then uploaded the footage with text suggesting he’d lied to her to get out of a date. That was false—he’d never met her—but it didn’t stop people from ridiculing him as the video racked up over a million views.

Similarly, last year, an Australian woman objected to being made the star of a stunt in which a TikTokker asked her to hold a bouquet, strolled off, and then congratulated himself on performing a random act of kindness. Sixty million hits later, his viewers were praising him for brightening the day of a woman they judged to be old, lonely, and sad. But she objected to that characterization and declared the whole affair “dehumanizing.” She hadn’t asked to have her day interrupted, let alone be thrust into a global spotlight.

And then there are those incapable of even grasping the situation. In 2022, a TikTok channel was called out for surreptitiously filming the homeless with drones. Loved ones with dementia are put on TikTok to be infantilized or have their worst moments gawked at. Parents transform their children into viral stars. Sometimes, those children grow up and call them out for warping their youth.

When people tell us it was harrowing and wrong to be unwillingly cast into the spotlight, we nod and agree. But those responsible typically offer only half-hearted apologies or remain unrepentant, while their millions of views discourage reflection. Often, moral scolding is implicit in the video and explicit in the comments: It is wrong to be homeless. It is gross to be ill. It is pathetic to be unhappy.

To be sure, crass and hateful public figures are worthy of ridicule. And we’ve been using the internet to judge strangers for as long as we’ve had the internet. But the common trait shared by much of the most obnoxious content today is that someone chose to elevate a stranger for no reason beyond their own gratification, attracting attention at a scale unimaginable in the days of relics like Hot or Not and People of Wal-Mart.

At best, these are misguided attempts to juice the poster’s social media presence. At worst, they are pointless cruelty. That cruelty can be addictive, but we can and must resist the urge to gawk at strangers against their will. It should, in fact, be considered rude, insulting, and wrong to have uploaded a stranger against their will. We would not go out into the streets and stir up a mob against a random person. Why are we so comfortable with doing it online?

Much of what we post online is innocent and will remain so. The average Facebook user has 338 friends, while the average number of Instagram followers, according to one estimate, is just 150. You likely use these platforms to follow celebrities and brands, and to interact with friends and family. These are, for most users, insular communities. Vacation photos with friends or a family portrait at Christmas are unlikely to attract trolls and creeps, and even if they do, they are clearly posted in good faith.

But some platforms, like TikTok and Twitter, are more exposed to the vagaries and cruelties of the wider world. Anything you post on them can wind up in the feed of people who don't follow you. Therefore, anyone can become the day’s punching bag. Does your relative really understand what could happen if you put your interaction with them on TikTok?

Maybe you know better than to post Grandpa on Twitter without thinking it through. We know whether our friends and family like attention and whether they understand social media ecosystems, and with this knowledge we are capable of making informed decisions as to whether and on what platforms we should post them. We do not have the same knowledge of strangers. That can be a reason to not post them, but it can also be an excuse to post them without thinking.

If it came out that an influencer uploaded an interaction with a stranger to a private Facebook page or Discord server solely so their closest friends and family could pick them apart, it would rightly be considered misanthropic. And yet uploading a stranger so millions can mock and over-analyze them is just the business of content. That business needs to change.

It’s exceedingly unlikely we’ll ever eliminate jackassery from the internet, but a social media mishap involving a friend or family member can be resolved with communication.

It is harder for a complete stranger to succeed in that endeavor, especially when “Look at this weirdo I found, please gape at them” is the text or subtext of so many videos and posts by accounts that thrive on content starring the unwilling. Such content must become anathema. Particular thought must be taken before posting an interaction with a stranger, and the consent of a stranger to be posted at all is necessary to retain an internet that is even remotely civil. If someone does post a stranger without their consent, they should be shunned, not rewarded with the attention they crave.

The vast majority of disputes with unruly neighbors are solved by talking to them. Ideally, the law only gets involved when lines of communication break down. The same can be true of digital disputes.

We have privacy laws. If I were to post your name, address, and phone number, you would have legal recourse. And yet the same is not true for your image. Today, at least, you surrender your right to privacy by stepping into public. But outdated privacy laws are catching up to the abuses of government and tech, and the issues raised by social media virality could be next.

Still, a blanket law against posting strangers without their consent would be draconian and unworkable. There are too many variables, too many circumstances, and simply too many cases. However, whole generations who have been online since birth—sometimes unwillingly—could grow up to be more sensitive to the downsides of posting without permission, prompting a normative shift.

More specific laws are already evolving to handle some scenarios raised by nonconsensual virality, specifically as it applies to children. Irina Raicu of Santa Clara University’s Internet Ethics Program points out that a recent French law entitles child influencers to demand that platforms scrub all trace of them once they turn 16. The YouTube career their parents create for them—or force on them—need not be what defines them as adults. The United States is considering a similar law; a woman who testified to a House committee said the details of her first period were turned into content.

Another law being considered in France would make parents responsible for their children’s privacy rights. Le Monde cites, as an example of fame-seeking behavior that France is hoping to discourage, TikTokkers scaring their children by pretending to call the police on them, and an Instagrammer who smeared chocolate on her 4-year-old and convinced them they were covered in feces. We will eventually wonder how parents were able to get away with this at all.

So those who cannot consent are starting to be protected. But what about those who could consent, but don’t? And what if, as some unwillingly viral subjects have found, reaching out and asking for posts to be removed is met with silence or rejection?

In reality we already practice social media consent; it is not unusual to ask a friend if they’re alright with having a picture posted to Instagram, even though the face they make as they try to cram an unusually large sandwich into their mouth is not a flattering one. And yet we continually fail to extend this courtesy to strangers, either because we think nothing of it or because it is our job to go viral at all costs.

Some of this, as Raicu points out, can be blamed on the platforms we use, which encourage hair triggers. “There are ways in which the design choices behind many websites make it harder for all of us to think about consent,” Raicu wrote in an email. She points to the sheer ease of posting and the fact that norms around social media consent have not solidified. But she notes that platforms could “introduce some friction” in the form of, essentially, reminders that other people are human before you hit Post.

Future platforms could work to curtail shaming, either out of moral compulsion or legal necessity. Much as you can report harassment to social media platforms, posts that have elevated you to infamy against your will should be fair targets.

Lines have been drawn before. YouTube banned dangerous pranks and challenges after people were hurt and complaints mounted. TikTok is trying to tweak its algorithm in response to growing concerns that young users are awash in content encouraging suicide and incel ideology. Content made from those unable or unwilling to consent is a broad category that cannot be wiped out with algorithmic tweaks, but the damage is still happening, and we have the power to collectively declare that some forms of content are unacceptable and must no longer be tolerated.

Perhaps, given the increasing universality of social media usage—83 percent of Gen Z uses TikTok—platform-embedded tools could establish consent. Before posting a video of someone, an influencer could ask their username and send them a simple, stock contract granting them permission to post. Again, this need not apply to every random photo of friends. It could be optional, or it might apply only when an account reaches a certain threshold of followers. But a lack of permission could give a user cause when they cite unwanted virality and negative attention when asking for a post to be removed.

But most of the work will fall to people. It's difficult enough to remember that the man being a bit rude in the grocery store line is a fallible human being with hopes and dreams; it can be almost impossible to remind yourself of that when viewing a contextless clip of someone halfway across the hemisphere. The internet is capable of connecting us to tremendous numbers of people, even as it makes us forget that they are human like us.

An influencer comfortable with filming themselves for thousands of viewers should be comfortable with approaching a stranger and saying, “Would you mind appearing in a video I’m making? I’m going to post it on this platform, and I have this many followers. Take a minute to check me out.” Some already do, and surely there are people who would be happy to receive a free bouquet in exchange for appearing in a TikTokker’s silly stunt. But a no should be taken as a no, just as it should in any other scenario involving consent.

It’s all too easy to skip this step today. People who speak out when they feel harmed by what an influencer did with their image receive only a tiny fraction of the attention that the original posts featuring them got. But when an influencer is repeatedly called out for exploiting strangers—or when their exploitation is obvious, such as when they prey on the homeless—they should be frozen out of the social media ecosystem, not rewarded with attention and profit.

In the future, how will we be able to see such casual cruelty as anything but unethical? Maybe stories of regret are a sign of what’s to come. Brianna Wu, one of the victims of GamerGate, says she has fielded over 100 apologies, often from people who were at their lowest and saw her as an easy outlet for their emotions. But we generally don’t take our frustrations out on people on the street; understanding that people deserve to be protected from unsolicited online fame and malice is the next logical step.

We no longer parade people through villages on a cart or lock them in pillories in the town square to shame them, as was done in centuries past. We did not stop enforcing laws and norms, but we recognized that humiliation and ostracization are harsh, counterproductive tools. Eventually, we will make that realization about the strangers we parade across the internet.

[houseofhyde]

iv. another man's pain

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

The heat in Dorne is sticky.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Zaldrīzes ! Zaldrīzes ! Zaldrīzes !”

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

Aged, large, green.

Claws, tail, wings.

A dragon.

The dragon.

Vhagar.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence settles in between you like fog.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, as though he cares!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aemond disappears.

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

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

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

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

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

You have yet to respond.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My King husband.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Give them what they want.”

“My sister’s head?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For a moment, there is only panic.

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

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

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

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

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

Days pass with little of note.

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

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

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

The babe in your arms lets out a gentle coo.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The prince turns out to be a liar.

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

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

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

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

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

A door slams.

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

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

Another bang rings out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do not come any closer.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I insist, Lady Stark.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The wood that burns in the hearth cracks.

The birds outside the window flap their wings.

The dragon by the gates screeches.

But no sound follows from the prince.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You do no such thing.

You do not even speak.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It is just him, and you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You, you wish to say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You wake at dawn’s first light.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The sight of her is most unnerving.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The Stranger.”

+ extra hyde !

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

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

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

thank you for reading, see you next month!

[northopalshore]

what does each planet represent in an union persona chart?

Here's a simplified list:

Planets meanings in the

Union persons chart

₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋‧₊ ˚ ⊹. ࣭ஓ๑♡๑ஓ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑

The Union asteroid (1585) shows you how you meet your future spouse. The union persona chart naturally adds extended detail & depth to the circumstances of meeting them. Still curious?

Checkout the union persona chart masterlist here! Mini guide series.

୨୧ Please do not repost without consent ʕ⁠´⁠•⁠ᴥ⁠•⁠`⁠ʔฅ🔉

₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ ⊹ .₊๋‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑

ྀི Sun

How you first met/heard about them

ྀི Moon read here

How you felt when you met, what you were curious about, what was comfortable

ྀི Mercury read here

What you'll think about them, or talk about the most

ྀི Venus read here

How they'll fall for you, how you'll fall for them, where you love to shower them w affection, how you flirt

ྀི Mars

Movements, flights, how you'll/they'll approach you

ྀི Jupiter

Where they bring the most joy, or what you'll be doing the most around them

ྀི Saturn read here

Restrictions, what might be difficult for you to do at first

ྀི Uranus

What they bring into your life (excitement, joy, fear, the unexpected)

ྀི Neptune

Misunderstandings, illusions, your fantasies (whether good or bad) around them

ྀི Pluto

What causes the most arguments, issues you have to face, problems early on

ྀི Chiron read here

Your biggest insecurities, fears around them when you first meet

ྀི Union read here

How you actually meet face to face, official introduction, first date even

ྀི Groom (5129) & Briede (19029) read here

What you & your spouse will be doing right when you first meet

The rising sign in your union persona chart

is the setting your union will take place in, whether physically or online. What you'll be doing even. It's not really an indicator of how you'll meet but rather the vibe of the setting you're in at the time.

₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ ⊹ .₊๋‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑

₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ₊ ஓ๑♡๑ஓ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑

Aries- it's likely that you'll meet physically, or not online. You might be in your single era, or even doing something for yourself/in a fast paced setting.

Taurus - Could be very calm, or comfortable. You might be doing something familiar to you or with your siblings as well. Food, shops, spas could be related. You could be purchasing something as well or just feeling romantic.

Gemini - You were likely in the mood to learn or at a time where things were moving fast, quick thinking, communication could be involved

Cancer - Perhaps you were close to your mother at the time, or at home or just your hometown. Being with family, doing something normal.

Leo- you could be in a mood to have fun, or there may be entertainment & children involved with the scenario. Could be an open setting with a lot of people involved

Virgo - It's likely an average day to you. You could be working or minding your own business, or fixating on your routine.

Libra - could be related to justice, rights, women, love or even just to indulge in yourself. You could be in the mood to pamper yourself or deal with something related to law. Could also be doing business, or offering a service. You might be signing a contract at this time.

Scorpio - You'll likely meet at a point of renewal. Something could have happened or ended in the past, which has left you alone or just being alone in general. A closed, intimate setting. You could be focused on something, or curious about something. There might also be a goal you're trying to reach. Whatever it is, you're likely "in your zone."

Sagittarius - you could be in the mood to learn about something, or even teach something. Could be related to knowledge, whether spiritual, factual or occult. Enlightening people, gaining exposure/experience. You could also just be in the mood to travel. You could also be expanding something in your life at the time.

Capricorn - working. You'll be focused on your ambitions, your goals and your personal priorities. Your professional life is the main agenda here.

Aquarius - you could be feeling more rebellious or experimental, wanting to try something new. Could be related to the internet or your community, or just new experiences.

Pisces- you could be feeling less controlling, just going with whatever happens in your life. It could also be at a point of clarity, where you are at peace with yourself. Could be related to travel , healing & religion as well.

ஓ๑♡๑ஓ

₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ ⊹ .₊๋‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭

Hope this helps!

@northopalshore

@northopalshore union persona chart 2024.

[streamafterlaughter]

Soundtrack to Disaster

Chapter VII: Choose Love or Sympathy

masterlist | playlist | pinboard | prev. | diaries coming soon

songs for this chapter: xo by fall out boy, lying is the most fun a girl can have without taking her clothes off, king for a day by pierce the veil

a/n: hear me when i say these two are absolutely in for it it. I'm also a huge fan of italics apparently

chapter tags: angst, hurt/comfort but then... hurt/no comfort (SORRY!), reader is a sensitive baby we love her, mean!Eddie, but also very sweet Eddie. swearing, smoking, drinking, reader struggles with self image / mental health (vague for now) | fic tags: angst, hurt/(eventual) comfort, (eventual) smut, slow burn, enemies to friends to lovers, Eddie Munson x Fem!OC!Reader, Modern AU

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taglist: @children-of-the-grave @five-bi-five @kellsck @faggotine @xplrnowornever @taccobelle @micheledawn1975 @mewchiili @dreamerjj @losingmygrasponreality |

--

The weekend comes barreling towards you sooner than you’d have liked. You wake up Friday morning with a sense of dread, Robin’s words on a broken loop in your head: what you ‘know’ isn’t the whole goddamn story. Everyone keeps fucking saying that, but no one has actually told you what you “don’t know.”. Chris hasn’t given you a goddamn leg to stand on, speaking in riddles and never once confirming or denying a thing. You’re an adult, and you wish these fuckers would start treating you like one.

On your nightstand, your phone buzzes repeatedly, a string of incoming text messages:

bobbins: so,, ive smoked some weed bobbins: im cool now  bobbins: i still think there’s a lot we don’t know,, bobbins: but I’m sorry for insinuating you should forgive him. bobbins: i cant imagine how you felt that day. bobbins: i love u bb

You scramble to respond before she can get another five messages in,

it’s ok bob, i love u 2

The subject changes swiftly as she tosses questions about tonight at you one after the other. You send her pictures of your outfit choices, hairstyle ideas, personal protection list before finally asking her the question gnawing on your brain. 

What if he doesn’t like me?

Robin responds by calling you.

“Hi?”

“Don’t be stupid.” She starts, not letting you explain. “He asked you out, why wouldn’t he like you?!”

“I dunno! Maybe he’s just looking for a hookup. Maybe he thought I’d be easy?” The suggestion sounds silly coming out of your mouth, and you hear Robin scoff at you. 

“Look, if things start to stink, call me. Steve’s closing tonight, so he’ll be right down the street.”

You sigh into the receiver. “Okay, okay. You’re right, I’m probably worried for nothing.”

“Atta girl! Now go on, go headbang or whatever it is you people do.”

You snort as you say your goodbyes, and hang up the phone. Without Robin to distract you, you turn to the outfits you’ve spread out on your bed. Emo Nite is casual, sure, but you still want to look good. You decide on a pair of Tripp pants, adorned with metal hooks and chains, pairing it with an old Paramore shirt you cropped with kitchen scissors in high school. With your outfit out of the way, you sit at your vanity to do your makeup, extending your winged eyeliner a little further than you would on a normal day. When you’re done, your alarm clock reads 8:30, and you make your way to your car. 

–

9:15.

The lights of the city seem to dance across the sky. Everything is louder here, bustling with nightlife you could only dream of seeing in Hawkins. You’re standing outside the club alone, nursing the end of your last cigarette. Maybe he’s running late? You don’t have a single unread text from Scotty. You type several different messages of your own, deleting each one before settling on “You on your way?” But its delivery is never confirmed. It’s grown cold outside, and you wrap your flannel tighter around you to keep the wind out. You should have brought a jacket, but you weren’t expecting to be outside for this long. You can hear the first notes of an old favorite song, followed by a bunch of 20 somethings cheering. Patrons are dressed in black, clad in leather and fishnets, their combat booted feet stomping into the venue. Emo Nite is a nostalgia cash grab, you know that, but you’re envious of everyone setting foot inside, surrounded by their friends and peers, leaving you abandoned at the door. 

–

9:30.

The time taunts you from your phone screen. You’re waiting outside the club, the air brisk on your face. Every so often, the door swings open as someone enters or exits, and you turn to see if it’s someone for you. So far, none of them have been, and you’re debating whether or not to walk to the record store and ask Steve to hitch a ride back to his place to mope. 

“Hey, Bee!” The voice calling you isn’t the one you’re hoping to hear, but it’s just as familiar. You find its source across the street, Macy waving at you eagerly as her bandmates and fucking Eddie follow behind. Oh, right. Like being stood up isn’t humiliating enough, now Eddie gets to tease you about it. 

“What’re you doing out here, girl? It’s freezing!” Macy is sweet, holding your icy cheeks between her warm hands. You can tell she’s already had a few drinks.

“I’m, hm,” You clear your throat, “I’m waiting for someone.”

“A date? Eek! Hear that, Eds? Our girl has a date!” Her words send static through your veins. Since when are you anyone’s girl, let alone Munson and Macy’s?

“Mhm, okay, honey. Let’s go get you situated, yeah?” Eddie ushers her inside, handing her off to Fiona before returning to where you’re standing. Without a word, he lights a cigarette and offers it to you, and you take it without acknowledgement while he lights his own. After what seems like hours, the two of you choose to speak at the same time,

“How late is–” “Why did you–” “What?” “What?”

“You first,” Eddie gestures to you before pulling from his cigarette.

“Why did you tell Scotty to ask me out?” 

“What in the world makes you think I told him to ask you out?”

“Look, she’s gonna kill me for telling you this, but Robin overheard you in the bathroom talking to Scotty at the bar. She walked in by accident, and you two had come in before she could leave. Anyway, you know she can’t keep secrets for shit, so she told me what you said to him. Why?” You cross your arms, attempting to hold in as much body heat as possible,but to no avail. Eddie notices, and immediately sheds his jacket, not giving you a chance to refuse it as he drapes the leather over your shoulders. 

“I thought he was a cool dude. Thought you guys would hit it off.” His answer does nothing to satiate the hunger for every detail of every single thought that went through his brain up until this very moment. He is driving you fucking insane. “Hey, I bet I could get Macy to put you on the guestlist, so at least tonight won’t be a total waste?” Yet another peace offering from Eddie Munson. Hell must have frozen over.

He doesn’t wait for your approval before reaching into his inner jacket pocket of the coat that you have since put fully on to shield yourself from the wind, to grab his phone. After eagerly punching a few buttons, he holds the device up to his ear, plugging the other with his finger. “Hey, babe. I’m outside with Bee, Scott stood her up.” You can’t hear what Macy’s response is, but Eddie replies with, “You read my mind, honey. We’ll be in in a sec.” He ends the call and turns his attention back to you, his big brown eyes attempting, it seems, to read your mind. “You pissed?”

You shake your head, inhaling another drag of your cigarette. “Not really. Disappointed, I guess.” You pick at your cuticles, refusing to hold eye contact with Eddie, but that doesn’t stop him from boring his own into the top of your head; you can feel them penetrating your skull. “Could’a used the distraction.”

“Fancy me a distractor? Macy’s gonna be busy, I’m practically all by myself tonight.” You look up, and Eddie’s jutting his bottom lip out to pout at you. 

“You don’t mind being seen with me?” You tease, flicking ash onto the concrete. You can’t imagine Eddie actually wants you to agree to this offer.

“Why would I? When have I ever cared what people think of me? Especially these posers.” He gestures to you, and you fake offense.

“Posers?! I’ll have you know I have met some of the most authentic punks at places like this, you dweeb!” You toss your cigarette butt on the ground, stomping out the embers with your boot. 

“Sorry, sorry! I’m used to going to shows where people leave bloody. Not used to this side of the alternative Venn Diagram, I guess.” He flicks his own cigarette, mirroring your movements. “Shall we go inside?” You nod begrudgingly, and he opens the door to the club for you, stopping to give the bouncer your names.

–

The club is dark, expectedly. The lights flash shades of pink, purple, and blue as people dance and attempt to chat over the noise; and the whole scene is set to the music of your childhood and teen years. As Eddie leads you across the floor, you can feel your chest tighten, watching couples surrounding you, dancing or sloppily making out against the back wall. You let it sink in that you've been stood up. The first time in three years you’d even attempted to go on a date, and the guy didn’t even show up. You hum along to the song playing, a desperate plea for distraction from the situation in front of you. Meanwhile, Eddie leads you to a table away from the speakers, and shouts that he’ll be right back. You can only guess he’s off to wish his girlfriend luck.

While you wait, you observe the crowd around you, and it’s full of kids you knew in high school that used to bully you for liking this kind of music, dressed as caricatures with arm warmers and cheap chains dangling off their black skinny jeans. Conventionally attractive girls wear their eyeliner in heavy wings, their lips painted shades of dark red, dancing with boys in all black with long hair. You try not to think about what Scotty would have worn. You wonder if he even likes this kind of thing. Maybe it was a test, and you'd failed.

Just as you’re about to spiral into misery again, Eddie returns with two drinks in his hands. “You like shirleys, right? I wasn’t totally sure. I can go grab you something else if you want?” If you didn’t know any better, you would think Eddie was nervous.

“No, this is good. Thank you.”

“Yeah, no problem!” He has to yell over the music.

“And, uh, thanks for hanging out with me. I know it’s like, the last thing you wanna be doing right now.”

Eddie takes a swig of his beer before responding, “Nah, definitely not the last thing. This is way better than listening to Steve talk about his latest conquest.” You picture the scenario, Eddie slamming his head against a wall while Steve goes on and on about Tracy, or Nicole, or whoever it is this week. The mental image makes you giggle, and Eddie’s smile seems to widen. It makes you uncomfortable, being so close to him. Luckily, though, you don’t get to think about it too long.

“Alright, alright! Thank you guys for comin’ out to hang with us! We have a guest for you tonight, please welcome Macy Miller, frontwoman of Statuesque Dolls!” The crowd cheers politely, these things never have people worth freaking out over. Macy takes the stage, clad in a silky black dress that hugs her form perfectly. Next to you, Eddie is whooping and hollering, “That’s my girl!” It makes your stomach churn. You’re reminded again that you’re supposed to be here on a date. You’re supposed to be someone’s girl. 

“Alright, I got a couple of songs for you guys, but I need all of you up and shaking some emo ass with me, got it?!” You can’t deny Macy knows how to work a crowd. She gets people to migrate to the dance floor, and Eddie offers his hand out. “Can I have this dance?”

“Um,” You hesitate to take his outstretched palm. “What about Macy?” You point lamely to where Macy is killing her cover of Fall Out Boy’s XO.

“What about her? It’s a dance, Bee. I’m not, like, asking you to sleep with me or some shit.” Eddie frowns at you, like you’ve offended him.

He does have a point, though. One dance won’t kill you. You accept his gesture, taking his own massive hand in yours, and hope to god he can’t tell that yours is sweating. He leads you to the dance floor, waving to Macy from the crowd as he does. There’s a burn in your stomach when she blows him a kiss, and he pretends to catch it in his mouth. You’re close to bailing when Eddie turns his attention back to you, clearing his throat.

You stare back at him, eyes wide with fear that he’s going to bail, and you prepare to tuck your tail between your legs and call Robin. Instead, Eddie takes your hand again, and yanks you into his embrace. You bump into his chest, but he recovers the fumble by holding you there, free arm resting hesitantly on your waist. You’re frozen, having no clue where to put your hands, so Eddie takes the lead. He drops the hand he’s holding on his shoulder, and moves your other to meet it on the other side. He then rests both his hands on your hips, giving you enough space between his body and yours to breathe, but barely.

The song continues, melodramatic and overtly horny. That, combined with the warmth of the drink in your veins, plus the closeness of Eddie, makes you feel almost good. It’s difficult not to overthink, though, having him in your personal space, your bodies pressed together on a very hot, crowded dance floor, moving in ways you definitely wouldn't have done three hours ago.

“So,” Eddie muses, looking anywhere but at you as he speaks, but still able to move in sync with you. “How’s your day goin’?”

You snicker at his poor attempt at conversation. “Well, I got stood up, and now I’m dancing with who I would have bet this morning wanted absolutely nothing to do with me. All things considered, I think it’s going pretty horribly!” 

The ice seems to crack as you speak, Eddie visibly relaxing as you sway to the music. “Okay, that’s fair. Are you pleasantly surprised?”

You look up at him, but his eyes are locked over your head, staring where Macy stands onstage, swaying with a few friends in front of the DJ booth. You shrug. “Jury’s still out.”

He snorts, rolling his eyes at you. After what feels like an eternity, the song ends and Macy queues another rock anthem to get the crowd moving again. You’re unmoving as Eddie unwraps himself from you. “We should do this again sometime.” He states, unreadable.

“What, dance?”

“Sure, or just, y'know, hang out. Be civil for once. It’s been awhile.”

You roll your eyes. “You know this can’t be, like, a normal thing. It bruises our reputation as sworn enemies.” A feeble attempt to make it a joke, though you know in your heart you can’t be friends with Eddie. The earth would cave in on itself. 

Eddie chuckles. “Whatever you say, Bee. See ya ‘round.” And he leaves you alone, disappearing into the crowd.

–

It’s 11:30 when your phone buzzes. You’re four drinks deep, stirring another dirty shirley at the bar, observing the people around you having fun.

Scotty A: Hey! Totally meant to text you. Got stuck at work.

An avalanche of thoughts rumbles through you, most of them not safe for work. You don’t even know how to respond. There’s no apology, no groveling for your forgiveness, not a hint of actual, real regret. Like you don’t matter. It exhausts you to even think of what that date would’ve been like had he shown up. You type your response between gulps of liquid courage.

“Are you fucking serious?”

The "..." bubble appears, but quickly vanishes. You gape at your phone, wishing you were home so you could let out the blood curdling scream building in your chest. The anger vibrating through you needs an escape, so you lurch from your seat at the bar, rushing quickly out of the club. Eddie whips his head around as you pass him. You think you hear him call your name, but your eyes have started stinging and he’s the last person you want to see you cry.

The night air hits you hard, bringing separate tears to your eyes. Following your therapist’s advice, you start a box breathing exercise. Breathe in, two, three, four. Hold, two, three, four. Breathe out, two, three, four. Hold, two, three, four. 

“Hey,” The voice startles you into a hiccup. “You okay?” Eddie has made his way outside after you, leaning against the wall. “Saw you dash outta there like something caught fire. Got worried.” He says it nonchalantly, and it takes you aback. Instead of responding, you flip your phone screen towards him. His eyes scan the page before they focus back on you, shaking his head. “That is so fucked up.”

Your voice breaks with your next question. “Did you know this was gonna happen? Scotty’s your friend.”

Eddie’s face drops into a grimace. “How would I have known? Why would I have told him to hit you up if I knew this was gonna happen?” 

It frustrates you how reasonable he’s being. You want someone to yell at, someone to blame, and Eddie just so happens to be the closest target. “I don’t know! Maybe you did it as revenge, or something equally as immature. Maybe you wanted me to feel the same way you did when–”

He interrupts, shaking his head feverishly. “I wouldn’t wish that feeling on anyone. Even you.” The words are a knife to your chest. You don’t like remembering what you did to Eddie that night, but it’s your fault for bringing it up. “I told Scotty to ask you out because he said he liked you. Crazy concept, I know, but i suggest you stop thinking everyone’s out to get you. I thought it would be fun, hanging out with you and him. I’m sorry it didn’t go how you planned, but blaming me isn’t fucking fair, Bee.”

He’s right, but you can’t bring yourself to back down. “It’s not fair to take someone’s brother away for six years, but you had no problem doing that.”

“Fuck you, Bee. Seriously.” He spits the words before turning on his heel, and heading inside. You are once again left alone, outside, in the cold.

–

[jiangwanyinscatmom]

Mo Dao Zu Shi and Self-Yearning For Reconciliation

There is an overarching lesson within the writing of MXTX that forgiveness and moving on doesn't entail non-verbal consent for a relationship to be salvaged once more or reclaimed as it used to be.

Within SVSSS, we are given the character of Yue Qingyuan desperately seeking the friendship and brotherhood he had with Shen Jiu. Only for that relationship to be provided by another way of Shen Yuan who finalizes he is not the man Yue Qingyuan needed closure from, but is the only one able to give it for the man to find peace with his own choices.

To a lesser extent this is also shown with the relationship between Xie Lian, Mu Qing and Feng Xin at the end of TGCF. This time though, despite Xie Lian associating with them with no ill will, he does not let either man make choices for him and resoundingly makes his own boundaries aware within the reclamation of their friendship.

MDZS does not offer this reclamation of a friendship or the start of one previously lost with another. Unlike the previous two who did yearn for friendship what was between Jiang Cheng and Wei Wuxian had been a stipulation of burden and assumption that started with Jiang Fengmian. Jiang Cheng was to see Wei Wuxian as a servant made friend when brought in, and Wei Wuxian was protector over friend. There was already a set imbalance due to neither naturally being able to choose the roles within their lives for the other and extending parties stating who and what they were to each other.

Jiang Cheng in his already tenuous esteem with himself and resentment of being told he was already viewed as less from his mother, took Wei Wuxian's existence in his life as a displacement of his own claims within life. His sacrifice of his dogs was the precursor for the beginning of their relationship on the allusion of debts between them.

Jiang Cheng gives up the loyalty of a literal pet, for the loyalty of an eventual man. In other words, I will shelter and protect you in exchange. Jiang Cheng does keep to this as children, with the expense of mocking Wei Wuxian's fears as he is want. His stipulations for this begun to escalate over the years and as such the giving of shelter and safety cannot be made up for Jiang Cheng, forever loyalty is now not enough, but why must Wei Wuxian also be adept at cultivation, why is he to be praised for his deeds more so, why must Wei Wuxian be a bright mind of the war.

If he is to be that, it at least would be overshadowed that he is still only under Jiang Cheng's rule. Otherwise every other action against this, is to demean Jiang Cheng, to oppose him, to cause trouble with ingratitude. It is also why, despite Wen Qing and Wen Ning having sheltered him and Wei Wuxian as well as collected his parents and provided their ashes, Jiang Cheng is able to disregard his obligation to help them. If not for Wei Wuxian's supposed insubordination, Jiang Cheng would not have suffered his own losses. Even when he did protect Wei Wuxian, the loss of it was too much, as with the dogs he had given up as a child, he did not get an active said promise of more dedication made up tenfold for the minimum kindness exhibited by Jiang Cheng. As said by Fang Mengcheng, "Atonement? You cannot actually be feeling grateful to him!”

To want to be good and to protect others, must come with selfish want for exemption of guilt for the harm you have caused. Wen Ning and Wen Qing owed it to Jiang Cheng for the deaths of his parents for carrying the surname of Wen, as such he did not need to repay them. Wei Wuxian sat at the table of the Jiangs and was given a living others would envy, as such he owed his life to Jiang Cheng. Wei Wuxian taking on the burden of protecter of another, was a betrayal of all that Jiang Cheng's lineage had gave him. To do the impossible because it is right, is not worth the self emulation and ridicule of the many. And while he may resent that kindness in Wei Wuxian, for it to be given to others as well, is a lack of loyalty of the ideals of Jiang Cheng. Jiang Cheng's growing resentment of Wei Wuxian's choice of kindness over safety, is a a mirrored resentment that Jiang Cheng holds within himself and his lack of respect for his own Clan ideals. A servant under the lord of the house embodies what Jiang Cheng was born to be.

As he throws abuse upon Wei Wuxian at their penultimate clash, while he does say sorry, he is still unable to view it without the veil of debt owed between each other. As Wei Wuxian could not tell him he gave him his core out of pity for his ego to keep him from shattering, Jiang Cheng could not say he protected Wei Wuxian out of a moment of kindness without care for the consequences until it expounded as his reality.

There is a self soothing mechanism, that opening up to truths will eventually mean a mending of what had been, or the beginning of something better. Yet this is only true when both are open to stand together as equals. Wei Wuxian and Jiang Cheng began with obligation and ended with obligation. The obligation to give for doing, the obligation of sorry for redemption.The obligation of servitude for sacrifice.

To rebuild and start again is meant to be the closure of ill will and the understanding of boundaries that cannot be crossed now. Jiang Cheng can only do one but not the other. He chooses hate for his continued nature, even while he is adamantly protecting Jin Ling by the end. While Wei Wuxian knows that resentment is not something that will create true happiness and nurturing growth that people strive for.

Reconciliation is to come to terms with that which you lacked, and to be more, to be better. Jiang Cheng accepts his core nature of resentment which would not last next to the altruism that Wei Wuxian chooses more than once. Kindness and Resentment cannot coexist at the same time. To resent is to be cruel, to be happy is to be kind. Both men are too tired to understand the other, and why they choose to part as a peace offering, an understanding that they will never thrive with the other.

[dbnightingale24]

React

A Stepcest Love Story About Jim

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Chapter 1, Chapter 2

Trying to decide if I should do one update or two this weekend. Either way, I hope you all enjoy it!

Word Count: 4,963

Warning(s): SMUT (MINORS DNI), Swearing, Family Drama, Infidelity, Step-Daughter/Step-Father relations, Emotional Cheating, Drinking, Arguing, Forbidden Love, Lying, Self Loathing, Sneaking Around...I think that's it.

Summary: This is the final straw that breaks the camel's back.

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I do not give permission/consent for my stories/works to get posted elsewhere. I do not condone this type of relationship/behavior, this is for entertainment purposes only.

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Chapter 3

2 Weeks Later...

Ever since you and Jim fell asleep holding each other close on your bed, you’ve done your best to stay away. Coming up with any excuse to reject any invite your Mother extends. It was silly of you to think that she wouldn’t ask Jim to text you on her behalf. 

Unknown Number: Y/N?

Y/N: Who is this?

Unknown Number: Uh, it’s Jim.

Y/N: How did you get my number?

Unknown Number: Your Mother.

Y/N: Of course. Of course.

Unknown Number: She thinks you’re mad at her because you won’t come over, and thinks you’ll talk to me.

Y/N: I’m not mad at anyone, it’s just better for me to stay away.

Unknown Number: We don’t think so.

Y/N: Jim...don’t.

Unknown Number: Nothing happened.

Y/N: Did you tell her?

Unknown Number: No, because there’s nothing to tell her.

On the one hand, you know that the both of you know that’s total bullshit. On the other hand, technically, nothing did happen. Plus, you know the more you stay away, the more she’s going to bother you and Jim which wouldn’t be good either. So, you explain everything to Ciara, and while she gives you a stern talking to, she agrees to accompany you to whatever your Mother invites you to.

“So, are you two a thing now?” she scoffed once she poured the both of you a cup of coffee.

“That’s not funny.”

“You’re the one who cuddled him-”

“We were both just drunk and overwhelmed. You know how I get when I’m drunk, and you know I only drink like that when I’m around her, Rose, or the both of them at once.”

“Fair point. Well, how do you feel about him?”

“I don’t know? Nothing. He’s my stepfather-”“Yeah, cause that matters.”

“Ci, I’m sitting here asking you to be my decoy. I’m very much aware of what can’t happen.”

“It’s not like you need someone to play devil’s advocate in this situation, but she did go out of her way to keep him a secret and make you the bad guy.”

“He’s good for her and I don’t need her thinking I took someone else from her-”“You’ve never taken anything from her.”“You and I both know that’s not how she views any of it. She had no problems until she got knocked up with me.”

“I hate your Mother.”“Yeah, I know,” you laughed. “Just gotta get through the Summer,” you smiled weakly.

The plan worked well enough, because whenever Ciara didn’t feel like being there or could sense that you were feeling uncomfortable, she could easily say- 

“Darragh needs help with Nora, she’s become really fussy lately. I’m sorry, but we have to go. Y/N is always our last hope if we can’t calm her ourselves.”

Well, apparently that excuse was working too well, because two nights ago you got a call you’d been praying to avoid.

“Jim’s children are coming over this weekend! You’ll be able to make it, right?” your Mother beamed as soon as you picked up the phone.

Jim had to be standing right next to her. 

“Oh...why would I be coming?”

“To meet them! They’re your step-siblings!”

“Uh...Ciara and I made plans with Darragh, cause he’ll be dropping Nora. We figured we all go out.”

“That’s even better! We can all hangout together!”

“Mum, why not-”

“Y/N, it’ll be good for everyone. They need to meet you. We’re all a family now.”

How the fuck is this your fault?

“Yeah, you’re right. Fine.”

“Why are you upset?”“I’m not upset about anything. I’ll see you then-”

“You don’t know the time-”“Just text it to me,” you bit before hanging up.

All of this leads to why you’re currently pacing around in your childhood bedroom. You don’t even know why you’re flustered. You already knew he has children, so why does it matter so much? Why do you care if they like you? It shouldn’t make a difference whether they like you or not. It’s not like you’re going to be hanging around much, especially when you go back to school, so why it driving you mad now?

“Hey, you okay?” Jim asks softly as he makes his way into your room, closing the door behind him.

You just glare at him as you continue to pace.

“What? This wasn’t my idea. We got to talkin’ about doin’ somethin’ small for the weekend, and she realized that my children haven’t met you, and decided to put this together.”

“You don’t want me to meet them?”

“It’s not that.”

“Well, what is it, then?”

“I don’t want them to meet you like this. All flustered and mad-”

“I’m not mad.”

“Don’t be a liar.” “I shouldn’t even be here. What the fuck?!”

“Calm down,” he begs softly, placing his hands on either side of you.

God, you hate how much you’ve missed his touch.

“They’re going to love you, today is going to be fine, and it’ll be done with before you know.”

“How do you know they’ll love me?”

“I know my kids.” “Jim-”

“Don’t stay away anymore.” “God, I can’t have that talk right now.” “What talk?”

“Don’t make me feel stupid on top of everything else!”

“We didn’t do anything-” “Jim, you flirted with me that night. We were standin’ outside my room, you flirted with me, and I liked it. I liked it a lot. Then, we stayed up talking and fell asleep holding each other...I shouldn’t be here.”

“Angel-” “You’re married to my Mother, Jim! My Mother! I can’t...we can’t-”

Taking a deep breath, he releases you and looks down at you. His eyes search the features, while you get lost in his ocean blue eyes.

“I don’t want...we just get along,” he smiles softly at you. “Aren’t we supposed to? I’m not trying to be some sort of father figure in your life, because you clearly don’t need one. If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll only speak to you when you’re here-”

“It won’t, Jim. That’s the problem. It will just-”

“Here you two are!” Ciara whisper yells as she makes her way into your room. “Lover boy, I’m gonna need you to get down there and rein in your wife.” “What do you mean?”

“Her nerves are winning the battle and shes started drinking.” He scowls as he storms out, “fucks sake!”

You finally feel like you can breathe again. 

“What the fuck was that?!”

Shaking your head, you make your way over to your bed and sit, “I shouldn’t be here.”

“You tried to get out of it-”

“Ci, I shouldn’t be here. I should be as far away from him as possible, and-”

“Why...you don’t...Y/N-”

“It’s just a crush,” you quickly defend, but the scoff that leaves her mouth lets you know that she doesn’t believe you at all. “It is!”

“Your stepfather?”

���I haven’t even known him that long! Okay, this is exactly what I mean. I shouldn’t be here.”

“Alright, his kids aren’t here yet. Darragh is already fed up with your Mother, so it shouldn’t be hard for us to get out of here.” Grabbing your hand, she quickly leads you out of the room, “lets go.”

Ciara and Darragh exchange a look as he bounces Nora in his arms, and as  soon as her foot hits the bottom step, and he’s instantly getting up, Nora giggling at his fast movement. They decided to bring her last minute, and it honestly brought you more comfort than you thought it would. 

“Y/M/N I just remembered, I told my parents we’d come by today with Y/N, and it’s too late to cancel-”

“Nonsense!” your Mother slurs as she appears with a smile painted on her face, as an exasperated Jim follows behind her. “The kids are excited and almost here-”

“I figure we can leave now and just come back tomorrow for lunch or something. They’re here for the-”

He’s cut off by the doorbell ringing, and you close your eyes in defeat. Fuck.

You muster the best smile you can as you make your way to the front door, “Hi, I’m Y/N.”

His ex-wife has mixture of irritation and anger on her face, but she does her best to hide it with a smile. 

“You must be the stepdaughter,” she smiles bitterly, and you force yourself to swallow down your irritation.

You still don’t even know how you ended up in this situation.

“I’m Y/N,” you greet as the two children run towards Jim, who’s more than happy to greet them and give them bear hugs.

You hate how much it pulls on your heartstrings.

“Hey Danielle!” your Mother slurs and Danielle looks completely taken aback.

It’s not as if you can blame her.

“It’s been a while!”

“I’ve been so busy,” your Mother laughs, engulfing her in a hug.

You just want the ground to swallow you whole. 

You shake your head and offer a kind smile towards Danielle before telling her, “my best friend, her boyfriend and child, and I will be here all night.”

“Glad to hear it,” she laughs awkwardly, once your Mother finally lets go of her.

“Thanks for bringing ‘em, Danielle,” Jim offers softly as he comes up behind you, mindlessly resting his hand on your shoulder.

The look on her face lets you know that she thinks this is Peyton’s Place, or something close to it. Once again: you can’t blame her.

“You’ll give me a ring if something happens, yeah?” she asks Jim.

“Of course,” he promises with a small chuckle.

Danielle gives your Mother one last look before looking at you and nodding, turning, and leaving.

“Who’s up for a movie?!” you ask excitedly, turning around and making your way back into the house, being met with cheers.

God save you from the hell that’s about to reign down on you.

**

“It’s like your Mother constantly goes out of her way to be a bitch,” Ciara scowls and you laugh.

You’ve done your best to keep your Mother at bay, but it’s been useless. You gave the children (your “siblings”) a choice between ‘Shrek’ and ‘Robots’, and you were so happy they chose ‘Robots’. Your Mother always hated Shrek (for reasons forever unknown to you), and you were afraid it would’ve pushed her further into whatever anxiety depressed state she was in. Turns out, no matter what, she was determined to push herself further into her stupor.

“They really seem to fuckin’ love you,” she slurred as she plopped herself down on one of the kitchen chairs, drink in hand. 

“Mother, stop,” you snapped, “these are your stepchildren! Get it together!”

“Why did ya even have to come home?”

“You invited me for the Summer!”

“Ya just had to-”

“Go to bed,” 

“Is everythin’ okay in here?” Jim asked softly as he made his way into the kitchen. 

“As if you give a fuck,” she mumbled before she took another sip of her drink.

“Stop it!” you snapped again in a hushed tone. “Go upstairs and sleep it off.”

“I’m your Mother!”

“It’s a shame you’ve never acted like it. Now go!”

She mumbled something incoherent as she grabbed her glass and got up. She glared at you before got on her tiptoes and kissed Jim on the cheek, then finally made her way upstairs. You wanted to throw the bottle against the wall, but you knew it would only make things worse for everyone involved.

“Angel-”

“You sure picked a real fuckin’ winner,” you scoffed humorlessly as you started to pace.

“Just calm down-”

“Are ya okay?”

“I’m fine, just take a moment,” he begged as he stood in front of you.

“This was her idea and...I’m leaving tomorrow.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Why not? Me being here only makes things worse. Only makes her worse.”

“I want you here.”

“Once I’m gone, she’ll be back to the way she was before. You’ll be living in wedded bloody bliss again in no time.”

“Angel, you don’t get it,” he chuckled humorlessly as he cupped your face and looked down at you.

“Fuck.”

“Yeah.”

“Jim...no. If anything, that means that I really need to leave.”

“I won’t...I can’t. We can’t...right?”

“Of course!”

“Then why are you lookin at me like that?” he asked softly.

You should’ve moved away from him. You should’ve said ‘no’, but you just stood there like deer stuck in the headlights.

“Tell me you’ll stay.”

“Jim I...”

“Say it, Angel.”

“It’s not right.”

“I know, but I can’t stop it. I don’t want to.”

“I’m your stepdaughter, Jim. This can’t happen.”

“Do you really feel that way? Do you look to me as a Father figure?”

“You know I don’t, but...you’re married. To my Mother.”

“Angel, I have tried so hard, but this...this feels right. Doesn’t it feel right to you? Like it should’ve always been like this?”

“Jim-”

“Doesn’t it feel right?”

You inhaled deeply before you closed your eyes, “yes.”

“I want to be yours, Angel.”

“Jim...stop it. We can’t do this. You’re just mad at her right now, and you have every right to be. You’ll feel differently in-”

“It’s never felt like this with her. Even before you, I’ve never felt the same towards her as I do for you, or for anyone for that matter. I didn’t know I could.”

“Please don’t tell me this. I can’t hear it, Jim.”

“Then let me show you.”

He didn’t give you a chance to even think before he crashed his lips into yours. You hated how natural it felt, because it was wrong. It was wrong on so many levels. The kiss was gentle, but desperate, like he knew it wouldn’t last long. Like he knew it couldn’t last long. Instinctively, you wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him closer, loving the way your bodies meshed together as you tried to sear this moment and feeling into your brain. 

You knew this could never happen again.

He backed you against the kitchen wall and gripped your ass tight, before he hoisted you up and you wrapped your legs around his slim frame. The man didn’t look it, but he was stronger than you imagined.

And you’d imagined a lot.

You moaned as he started to kiss down from your jawline to your neck, “Jim...please.”

“I’ll do anything you want, Angel. Just tell me what you want.”

“You,” you whimpered as you ground yourself against him.

“Fuck!”

“I just want you!” you assured him as quietly as you could. “I just need you!”

“Can’t wait to-”

“Dad! Do you need help with anythin’?!” his son called from the living area, and it pulled you both out of your trances.

“No, I’ll be back with the popcorn soon!” Jim called as he looked up into your eyes. 

When the hell did he even start making popcorn?

He slowly put you down as he let out a heavy sigh, “I’m sorry, I just couldn’t...we shouldn’t keep dancing around this.”

“I’ll leave in the morning-”

“I don’t want that at all. Stay tonight and we’ll figure this all-”

“Jim, this can’t happen again. Ever again.”

“We both want it to-”

“This will fan out before it even has a chance to turn into anything-”

“I love you.”

“Stop it, Jim.”

“I love you. I’m in love with you.”

“I’m just a nice vacation from my Mother, and you’ll-”

“You think that’s all I want? Close your legs to me forever, I’ll still want you, Angel.”

“Jim-”

“We can figure this out.”

“We have! We can’t do this ever again.”

He chuckled humorlessly as he pressed himself against you, “is that what you truly believe? That this is the end of it?”

“Jim-”

“Dad!” his son yelled, which only made him chuckle softly.

“I’m comin’” he called back. “This isn’t done,” he promised before he walked away.

Since that little incident in the kitchen, you’ve avoided all eye contact with Jim, as well as any close encounters. You feel like everyone will know if you two lock eyes, and you truly can’t deal with that right now. You can’t deal with any of it. How the hell did it even get this point? Just this morning, he told you that there’s nothing to be worried about, and now...?

You can’t do this. You can’t fall for this trap. He’s just hurting, and it’ll all go to shit. How can he be in love with you? He barely even knows you, but he claims to be in love with you? How would it even work? It can’t. Your Mother will hate the both of you, and she’d have every right. This is so-

“Babe, did you hear me?” Ciara laughs softly, pulling you out of your thoughts.

“I’m sorry, no, I’m so drained,” you chuckle softly, shaking your head.

You’ve got to stop.

“Are you sure you don’t wanna stay over tonight?”

“I should stay. Who knows what she’ll be like in the morning, and I don’t want the kids dealing with her with just Jim. If the day needs to be saved, I’ll be here.”

“Well, aren’t you noble? Well, that and I’m sure you want to continue what you and Jim started.”

You can feel your blood freezing.

“What...how...?”

“Besides the way you avoided him like the plague, I was going in there to check on you, and saw you up against the wall, and him being the reason for it.”

“Oh my God!”

“I’m not going to say anything and I’m not going to judge you. However, you two do need to figure this out, and figure it out soon.”

 “I don’t even know how it got to this point. He claims he’s in love with me, but how can that be? Besides, there’s no way we can actually be together,” you groan, dropping your face into your hands. “The smart thing to do is to leave, isn’t it?”

“It is.”

“Then why is so damn hard for me to agree to leave?”

“Because you like him...a lot.”

“I’ve barely even spent time with him.”

“But the time ya have spent with him has been intimate. You both got to know each other in a personal way.”

“He’s my stepdad!”

“It’s not like you’re a child. You’re a grown woman.”

“He’s married to my Mother.”

“Because that’s goin’ so well.”

“She was fine until I came home.”

“She invited you home for the Summer! She has no reason to act like this, besides, if you didn’t set her off something else would have. She can only hide her real self for so long.”

“What if he’s actually good for her?”

“You think she can come back from this? Babe, even if he doesn’t end up with you, he’s never going to stay with her. Especially after that spectacle tonight,” she scoffs while placing her hands on her hips. “In case you forgot, she didn’t tell you that she got married.”

“C, this isn’t right.”

“I never said that it was. It’s backwards as shit, but I’ve seen the way you two look at one another. The way you both try not to look at one another. There’s something between the both of you.”

“There shouldn’t be. There shouldn’t be for so many reasons,” you sob as tears fill your eyes.. “God, maybe I’ll just head back early-”

“And go where? Do what?”

“C-”

“Just talk to him. He clearly has some things he needs to say so, at least, clear the air.”

“I can’t think when I’m around him.”

“I don’t think he’s much better, love,” she giggles softly as she gives your hand a gentle squeeze.

“I shouldn’t be this torn up about this.”

“The heart wants what it wants. Like I said, just talk. See what happens,” she smiles reassuringly before wrapping you in a tight hug. “It’s gonna be okay.”

“I don’t see how it can be.”

“Just give it time. Everything in life requires time,” she assures you, letting go as both Darragh and Jim walk in. “Tell me how it goes.”

She gives you a quick kiss on the cheek along with a reassuring nod, before making her way over to Darragh, taking his hand, and walking out. You hear Nora coo softly when Ciara lifts her up, and a small smile comes to your face.

You’d choose her life over yours any day, honestly.

The door closes and you know you’re alone with Jim which, in some ways, is the last thing you want.

“Where are the kids?” you ask softly, avoiding Jim’s heated and heavy gaze.

“Everyone’s asleep, Angel,” he promises as he corners you.

That nickname is gonna drive you insane.

“Then we should be too.”

“We’re not done-”

“Jim, I’m just a welcomed distraction. You’ll get over this. Over me.”

“I don’t want to-”

“Jim, we can’t-”

“I know your heart rate speeds up when we’re alone, Angel. Mine does too. You want me the same way I want you.”

“Sex and intimacy are not the same thing.”

“And I never said that’s what this is.”

“Jim, this can’t happen anymore-”

“You don’t think about me the same way I think about you? You don’t want me in the same way I want you?”

“She’s my Mother, Jim.”

“Do you think of me as your Stepfather? As your Father?”

“You know I don’t.”

“Then what’s wrong?” he asks as he cups your face.

“This can be the only time we do this,” you breathe as he closes the space between the both of you. “Fuck.”

“There’s my good girl,”

“Jim...we can still stop.”

“We don’t want to.”

“We shouldn’t in here,” you breathe, mind foggy as you feel his breath on your neck.

“Anything and anywhere you want,” he husks before planting feverish kisses along your neck.

Fuck, is this really going to happen?

“Maybe...maybe we should wait-”

“I can’t wait anymore, Angel.”

“What if she wakes up?”

He’s quicker than you ever imagined as he stands up straight and leads you through the house. Almost in an instant, he’s leading you downstairs and into the spare room your grandparents had made for you to hide in when their arguments with your Mother got to be too much for you.

“Problem solved,” he husks before crashing his lips into yours.

It’s wrong, on so many levels, but it feels so good. He feels so good.

“Tell me this isn’t just sex,” you moan while he kisses down your body.

“Angel, this is so much more to me,” he promises, unbuttoning your shorts and pulling down. “I love you so much,” he groans, taking in your scent.

“Jim!”

“Been dreamin’ of this cunny, Angel. Let Daddy have a taste.”

You bite down hard on your bottom and swallow down your moan as he starts to suck on your clit. Lulling your head back, you close your eyes and grip his hair tight, quickly forgetting about all the guilt you felt only moments ago.

You gasp when you feel two slender fingers push their way inside, “fuck! You’re so....ahh fuck!” you whimper as quietly as you can.

Feeling the vibration from his moaning, has you ready to cum on the spot, but you’re not ready for it to end so fast.

Jim isn’t having that.

“Don’t make me beg, Angel,” he growls, looking up at you, fucking you faster with his fingers. “Give it to me.”

“I fucking...don’t wanna...fuck!”

“C’mon, Angel. Give me what I need,” he begs, using his thumb to massage your clit. 

“Fuck!”

“You sound so beautiful,” he groans doubling down on his efforts .

Your legs almost buckle as your orgasm washes over you, your desire soaks his wrist, and he fucks you through your high.

“You’re really somethin’ else,” he smirks as he slowly stands up, looking down at you with love and adoration in his eyes, while he slowly removes his fingers. “So lovely and all mine,” he whispers before delivers another soul stealing kiss.

You can taste yourself on his lips, and it only turns you on even more. Wrapping your arms around him, you let yourself get lost in him, almost completely oblivious to the fact that Jim is moving you both back towards the bed.

“Stop,” you breathe, forcing yourself to let go of him once you feel the back of your legs against the bed. “Take your shirt off.”

Lust floods his eyes as he takes a step back and slowly takes off his shirt. 

If you’re going to Hell, you may as well enjoy the ride.

Your hand lightly traces over his chest as you marvel, “you’re beautiful.”

“You’re one to talk,” he chuckles softly, caressing the side of your face. “If you want to stop-”

“We’ve already started,” you giggle softly.

“I love you, Y/N. I don’t want this to be over after tonight.”

“Lets just be here tonight, my love,” you smile weakly.

It’s not like you can blame alcohol, because you haven’t had a drink all day. This is a choice you’re making all on your own. You can’t even find it in you to feel bad right now because, with how he’s looking at you, the only thing you feel is love.

“Show me how much ya love me tonight,” you whisper as you undo his jeans. “Show me how much you need me.”

In no time at all, you’re both naked and under the covers of your long forgotten “emergency” bed. A very small part of you is still in shock over what’s about to take place, but as worships your body with his tongue, you instantly realize that it’s not enough to call it off and pretend it isn’t happening.

When you feel his tongue massage your right nipple while he sucks on it like it’s the world’s best lollipop, all regrets and guilt go out the window. 

“Angel?” Jim breathes, propping himself and looking down at you.

“Yeah?”

“Say it,” he pleads, slowly spearing into you.

“Oh fuck!”

“Please...fuck!” he grunts, gripping the sheets a bit tighter. “Please...please fuckin’ say it!” he begs desperately as he starts to pick up his pace.

“Fuck, I love you! I love you so...oh God!” you groan as he starts to pick up the pace. 

“You’re perfect.”

“Jim!”

“I know, Angel...just...Jesus, ya grippin’ me so tight!”

“Fuck...so close!! Right there...ahht!!”

“C’mon, Angel!”

“Jim...oh...OH!!”

You both go right over the edge at the same time, with Jim dipping down to kiss you in a weak attempt to silence your moans.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Give me a second,” Jim laughs softly, resting his head in the crook of your neck, while softly resting his body on top of yours.

“We’re fucked. We’re so fucked,” you laugh humorlessly.

“Angel, we’re going to be together-”

“Jim, it’s not like this is some regular affair. You’re married to my Mother. You’re my Stepfather. No matter what happens, this can only end poorly.”

“Then why did you do it?” he questions, pushing himself up a little.

You cup his face and caress the right side softly, “because I love ya, Jim. I’m in love with ya.”

Jim says nothing, he just dips down and kisses you passionately, and you feel him come back to life fore you.

His thrusts start off slow as a smirk comes to his lips, “I think we should have one more go, yeah?”

You dig your nails into his shoulder blades as you arch your back, “please!”

You and Jim spend the next hour or so getting tangled in your sheets, with you two mainly telling each other how much you both love and need one another. Yes, you don’t know much about the man, but you know that you’re drawn to him in every way that a person can be drawn to someone. Your heart, soul, and mind, has never reacted to someone in this way.

He is the missing piece you’ve always been looking for.

“Jim?” you question softly, laying your head on his chest and softly playing with his chest hairs.

“Yeah?”

“We can’t do this ever again. Ya know that, right?”

“We’re gonna figure this out-”

“Jim, ya married her. My Mother. Ya can’t-”

“I’ll figure it out-”

“There’s nothing to figure out, and you know that. You’re married to my Mother and this...this is for tonight only. She may not be a good Mother, but she is my Mother. At one point, you loved her and when I’m gone, you will again. You’ll see-”

“I loved a version of her. This isn’t just some fling with you-’

“She’s my Mother, Jim! I know that I love ya, and I believe that you love me, but this can’t happen. She’d never forgive me and I wouldn’t blame her. God, if she had any idea...Jim, it can’t happen again.”

“I don’t want that.”

“I don’t either, but it’s for the best.”

“If it’s what’s best, I’ll do it,” he sighs heavily, pulling you closer to him.

“I love you, Jim.”

“I love you too, Angel.”

“You can’t be here in the morning.”

“Just let me hold you a bit longer,” he begs softly.

You nod your head softly as you blink back tears. You know that this is the right thing to do. Yeah, your heart is breaking, and you know this isn’t something you’re gonna get over over night, but it’s what needs to be done. Tonight is all you two have, but what a night it was. As you slowly start to drift off to sleep, a small smile comes to your face. For just a moment, you two had each other. You had it all.

Tomorrow, you’ll wake up and all of this will be a distant memory, and you’ll be strong enough to move on.

...right?

~~

[audreyscribes]

PJO ROMAN DEMIGOD HEADCANONS: ⚡ JUPITER/JOVE: KING OF THE GODS, GOD OF (DIURNAL) THUNDER AND THE SKY⚡

Author’s Note: Alright, when I was writing the Greek demigods h/cs, I did keep in mind some of them and their Roman counterparts (i.e. Hera demigod), so when that one anon asked about doing Roman demigods, I got curious and this is my attempt. I do understand why there isn’t a lot but I gave it a shot. It’s not going to be the same for the Greek version and it’s not going to be very detailed since Camp Jupiter and New Rome is more limited than the Greeks, and there are some overlaps between the two, so that’s why. Hope you like it and enjoy! ROMAN DEMIGODS H/CS MASTERLIST LINKS: [TUMBLR] // [AO3]

You’re going to be held in high regard since your godly father is Jupiter Jove himself. The King of the gods, chief deity of the Roman state, Central member of the Archaic Triad, Capitoline Triad; guardian of the state with Juno and Minerva, and the Dii Consentes. You’re respected based on the premise that Jupiter is basically head honcho of the Roman state. However, this brings a lot of pressure as people expect you to be a leader and be just like Jupiter, and be the embodiment of Roman values. 

You’re probably either more composed or learn how to be more composed with your emotions and actions; not only reflecting how the Roman gods are more strict, disciplined, responsible, and calm; but because of your environment. You’re the child of Jupiter so they automatically look to you as a figure of leadership which means they’re always watching you.

In terms of power, between Greek and Roman demigods, I have this idea that Greek demigods have more broad and abstract range while Roman demigods have a more limited yet technical use with more accuracy. So compared to a child of Zeus whose powers have lightning and thunder which means general electrokinesis; as a child of Jupiter your powers are more refined, so you can pull off more tricks and technical control. Hey, that means you can fly more in a barrel roll, breaking the sound barrier while the children of Zeus can just generally fly. 

Another power as a child of Jupiter may have is light based powers; based on one of Jupiter’s epithet as Jupiter Lucetius (Of the Light) where he was esteemed as purveyor of the universe. It makes sense if you consider lightning having the word ‘light’ and lightning does produce ‘light’, so unlike a child of Apollo, your light is more lightning in nature then the rays of the sun.

On a more not so serious note, you find yourself saying “By Jove!” more often than not; not only as a sign of exclamation of surprise or emphasis, but also because Jupiter is also called Jove, so you’re basically required to say something like “my god! or “good god”.  Then again, everyone else says that, aside from “by gods” or some variation of it, so you’re constantly on edge or wincing because they’re basically yelling “Your Dad!”

I have a feeling that the people of Rome see the Gods more as figures while the Greek see the gods as representation of their domains. So you’re going to be seen as either Jupiter himself or the representation of Roman values and rites; which makes you being pushed into the head of politics, management, and the such.

Following above, it feels like a very high school drama; where you’re the Prom Monarchy, the popular kid. I mention about the pressure but it also extends to your social life; there’s going to be unspoken and spoken words of who you should be hanging out with, who not to associate with and whatnot. In terms of your love life, like Jason and Reyna being expected to be together romantically, you also have the same treatment. Either it’s someone of your station or above it, in terms of respect to your parentage, and so forth.

In terms of demigods or legacies, you’re often pushed together with a child of Venus, due to Venus being the ancestor of the Roman people through her son Aeneas who survived the fall of Troy and fled to what is now Italy, and Julius Caesar as well. And when there’s news of a child of Hera/Juno? Oh Jove.

If it’s a child of Hera, all of the senate immediately begins to plan a political debate on how you and the child of Hera get together, or should they send a word of decree or plan a war to seize them. If it’s a child of Juno, I’m so sorry but you’re definitely forced to be with them because the two of you are the living representation and figures for the people of Rome, and the two of you existence together is a sign from the gods.

Despite this all, what Cohort you get into will depend on the reference letters and your honours. Just because you’re a child of Jupiter, doesn’t mean you’re exempt from placement. Much like Jason Grace, if you’re not put into the 1st cohort, expect a ton of criticism. Unlike being a child of Zeus, you have less freedom of existing with every aspect of Jupiter and his associations being placed upon you.

If you’re a legacy of Jupiter, which is more likely then not, you’re not that entirely unexempt from the same problems nor benefits then a direct blood of Jupiter. Maybe less so or not, but the pressure is still there. Of course, with being a legacy, your powers and aspects you have with Jupiter become more individualistic and specific, but nonetheless, the powers that you do have are very strong.