#decorative stone hood

[shagtective]

Mediterranean Patio Dallas

Inspiration for a large mediterranean backyard tile patio kitchen remodel with a roof extension

[stlinzk]

Outdoor Kitchen Outdoor Kitchen in Dallas

[le-temps-plus-que-parfait]

Dining in Miami

A mid-sized beach-style u-shaped kitchen with a farmhouse sink, shaker cabinets, white cabinets, quartzite countertops, gray backsplash, stone tile backsplash, stainless steel appliances, an island, and white countertops is shown.

[theclassyhuman]

Austin Dining

[kiryoutann]

Before reading, please check series masterlist to read the warning(s), disclaimer, and to make sure you’re on the right chapter. Minors do NOT interact.

If you enjoy this, you can buy me a Ko-fi :) Likes, reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated!

TW: attempted baby trapping, detailed writing about burns and scars.

Mother says she was the first witness to your very first steps. 

Surrounded by four newly renovated nursery walls—painted her favorite pink and adorned with decorations Dad hung for a pop of color. Stuffed animals everywhere, even a 43-inch-tall dollhouse waiting to be discovered.

But, of all the toys, that chubby baby girl determinedly balanced herself on her awkward legs. Mother said you smiled widely, showing a toothless grin and extending your tiny hands forward. Eyes wide open when you almost fell, yet the stubborn baby refused to give up until you reached your mother's arms.

Maybe you simply saw something you wanted. Your mother.

How odd. The thought that you ever wanted your mother is an absurd notion. Because as Simon's car sped off, leaving the manor behind you, all you felt was a sense of relief that you had once again escaped her.

Maybe you wanted your mother only when she wanted you too. Lately—for the past few years after you were ten—she acted like she hated you, and children are truly just mirrors of their parents, incapable of hating before being hated first.

Or maybe—so many maybes when it comes to her—Mother didn’t want to hurt you, didn’t intend to instill this distorted image of yourself with every drop of poison she poured on you. Maybe she simply lacked the knowledge and skills to be a mother, lacking a positive role model from the start.

But intentions mean nothing compared to the outcome, the fed-up rational voice asserts. It doesn't matter if she didn't mean it, because in the end she hurt you. The difference between love and hate becomes this fine line that eventually fades and mixes the two together.

It doesn't matter if she didn't mean it this way at first, because the first time turned into the second time, then the third and suddenly now it's the thousandth time. She breeds her pattern and uses it to make you suffocate. And when you try to break free, she looks at you like a disobedient child full of rebellion.

The sickening optimists will tell you to look on the bright side—that it shaped you, made you the woman you are today. But back then, you were a child—you would have grown up inevitably, so going through all that was just an unjust burden.

(All adults do is cause pain, the little girl said.)

Some crackling radio tune played softly as Simon drove in silence through the dark, winding country roads. No questions came—which you were thankful for; you weren’t ready to unpack all that long history just yet. His brown eyes were locked in focus as he steered the car around the turns as if he’d been through this before.

The car slowed and rolled to a stop outside a sprawling two-story building. A pub—from the weathered sign carved on its old stone. Different from the ones in London, of course, this one's cozier and more inviting. Gazing out the rain-spattered window, you squint and see another sign above the door: “The Fox and Hounds Inn.” So they also offer rooms, it seemed.

Simon turned off the engine and twisted in his seat. Reaching behind, he snatched up the suit jacket he had thrown back there earlier. Turning to you, he held it out, signaling you to take it.

“Cover yer ‘ead.” He nods towards the pouring rain outside.

You took it, breathing in Simon’s scent—a hint of his cologne mixed with cigarette smoke—as you draped it over your head as a hood. The sound of the door being opened roughly is heard. Simon has rushed out into the downpour and retrieved your bags from the trunk. Slipping from the car, you hurry to take shelter under the pub’s roof, waiting for Simon before going through the door.

The inside of the pub was surrounded by warm hues. Old wooden shelves stood displaying a variety of bottles of spirits, with low lights casting a dim glow. Worn leather booths were occupied by a few locals who had settled in with their pints, while two others shot pool in the back corner. Behind the bar, the bartender paused from wiping glasses; a questioning look flashed across his face before smoothing it once more.

He set his glass down and asked, "What can I get ya?”

“Bourbon. Kentucky, if y’ve got it.” Simon said.

The bartender cocked his head, checking his stock. “Aye, we’ve a bottle or two left.” Turning back to him, he asked again, “Anyth’ else?”

Simon turned to you. “You want anything?”

“I'm alright, thanks.” You answered in a husky voice.

“Just the bourbon then, and a room for the night.”

At that, the bartender just nodded, reaching beneath the bar to produce an iron key, its number as a keychain. “Room six, up the stairs and to your left. Let me know if you’ll be wantin’ breakfast in the morn.” He explained with efficiency, all business, saving more time from nonsense.

The heavy wooden stairs creaked underfoot as you climbed to the room. Reaching the door carved with the number six, Simon twisted the key and pushed the door open. He set the bags on the old table by the window, leaving your suitcase beside it.

Glancing around, you took in the faded floral wallpaper, lumpy bed, and worn armchair—not fancy, but it would do for a night’s rest. You wandered around the room, stopping when you passed a mirror—your own reflection with mascara tracks smeared across your cheeks, lipstick smudging past your lip line.

“Did I just walk around like this all afternoon?” You wiped away the dark trails, hoping to lighten the heavy atmosphere for exactly the reason why. That or it was just you and your guilt for dragging Simon into this unplanned mess.

The effort fell flat, much like your numb heart. Simon was still wound tight as a spring, with the venomous words of that woman replaying in his mind. However, your own perspective perceived his distant attitude as anger. Mother would often give you two days of silent treatment whenever she was upset, so you presumed it was the same case with Simon.

You nearly jumped from his grunt. Out of the corner of your eye, Simon took out his cigarette and lit it, always paying no attention to where he was smoking. Taking a deep drag, he let the smoke curl slowly as he exhaled towards the ceiling.

The bathroom door creaked open at his touch; Simon gave it a sweep of his eyes to access the condition of it—nothing but the basics; thankfully, the shower worked. He turned then, coming over to where you were sitting on the lumpy mattress.

“Shower,” he rumbled, jerking his head towards the bath. “Get that rainwater off ya.”

(You’re angry, aren’t you?)

The conclusion was drawn after his tone sounded colder than normal—his words were curt, as if he didn't wish to waste breath on you. While a part of you argued this was just the way he spoke all the time, another louder voice suggested there was more going on. His brown eyes held a deeper stirring, a visible frown etched into his features. Simon would likely extend the silence if not for the concern that you would trouble him more if you fell ill.

It hurls you into this desperate need to win him over, despite being uncertain if there's an actual competition to be won. You struggle to contain the age-old, desperate question, but you are known to be a failure at everything.

"Are... are you angry with me?” The question leaves you, hanging awkwardly in the air.

At that, Simon's blonde eyebrows furrowed. "What?" he asked, sharp. Like he's offended.

Your heart thudded against your ribs as you struggled to lift your gaze, meeting his stare. “I just… are you angry with me?”

A scoff, then—

“No.” Simon replied curtly. “Why the bloody ‘ell would I be angry with you?” he added, then chastised himself when the words came out harsher than intended.

But the prejudice had seeped into your pores, causing your shoulders to tense and your head to hang low. You hated this—hated feeling like an over-sensitive child, upset over nothing, easily hurt by everything. Lifting your head, you tried to blink away the pricking tears pooling in your eyes.

Simon lets out a hushed sigh before squeezing out his cigarette and sitting down next to you, the bed creaking under the new weight. Outside, the leaves rustle in the cold night breeze. Within these four walls, you both sit side by side in silence.

“I ain't... that is... I’m not angry. Not with you, at least.” He tries to sort out his words. Something kinder but ends awkwardly—nonetheless, acceptable.

A few tears escaped and rolled hot down your cheeks before the blurry world came back into focus. You raised your eyes to his.

“I'm sorry,” you say, almost a whisper. “I'm such a crybaby, I know.”

“None o’ that now,” Simon soothed you, timbre as soft as talcum powder. “Ain't got nothin' to apologize for.”

As he said that, he used his thumb to catch your tears, wiping them away gently, almost as if he didn't want another to stain your cheeks. And under his touch, you became still, like obedient clay waiting to be molded by him. You existed solely for him, willingly presenting your skin as a canvas in case he wanted to brand his name on you. Make me yours, your cheap little heart begged; make me yours until I forget who I am.

(Grant me an identity that isn't me.)

I will shed the pieces of myself now like outgrown armor. The nights are prone to the past—never quiet—and I don't like that.

(Give birth to a new me. Someone who isn't what remains left of that little girl.)

The universe explodes another big bang, and your new world is created as you settle on his lap. So sudden you don't even remember crawling towards him. But as your lips crash into his, devouring his moist flesh with your own in an effort to mold it into one, it no longer matters how. Your teeth clamp down on his lower lip, drawing out a grunt as you bite down lightly and feel the taste of his iron against your tongue. Blood-eater woman.

Your hands cup his jaw, tracing the strong, defined bones beneath the blanket of skin. Then, you drag them down to his thundering neck, following the faint pillars, the curve of his Adam's apple, the rise and fall of scar tissue from over-healed wounds.

Simon gasps into your mouth as your hips grind against his, stoking his lust even higher and swelling his cock. He grips your sides, guiding your movements as you seek balance with your grip on his broad shoulders. You moan, pressing your upper body against his face, and he inhales all your scent like he's been deprived of oxygen for ages.

Your desire drips so easily onto your tongue.

Practiced in the efficiency you learned from him, your fingers unbutton his shirt one by one, watching more and more of his skin exposed to you as you unwrap the white fabric off his body.

Simon trailed his tongue down the satin of your dress, tasting it against his gustatory system like a mindless dog. He closes his lips around your erect nipple. Blindly, his digits reached for the laces on your back, tugging it with one unsuccessful pull and two successful ones. The dress undone, your chest completely exposed to his hungry eyes. Simon wasted no time in latching his mouth onto your breasts.

“Ah-! Simon, Simon… slow down.”

You attempted to accommodate his face in your small hands, urging him to meet your gaze. When did you grow accustomed to searching—to decipher the meaning behind his every look, searching for a reflection of your own feelings in his eyes? Hoping to find evidence that he wanted you just as deeply as you yearned for him.

From the moment we first met, Simon had been a confounding puzzle, a conundrum without any clues or leads. An enigma, the deep forest at dusk. He revealed so little, yet, that very scarcity only piqued your curiosity further—inviting the solver girl within you to unravel each layer, to explore every wrinkle in the intricate tapestry that was him.

“I… I want to lead. If that’s all right.” You whispered, looking for disagreement in his gaze.

None, just a gentle squeeze on your hip. He nodded, then, “Alright, love.”

At that, your eyes sparkled, you gave him a smile in return. Biting your lip, you pondered your next move. “Lay down for me.”

Without hesitation, he did as you asked, settling back against the pillows. The roughness of his form was a stark contrast to the linen, muscles rippling beneath inked skin. Eyes as dark as oak never left yours, silently urging you to continue.

Nerves danced inside you, but you chuckled, “I was gonna take this dress off all sexy-like; maybe spin around slow. But you ruined that plan.”

“Should’ve been more patient then, eh?” He said, wetting his lips then.

You sighed, half-shrugging. “Well, I don’t know what sexy moves I can do now.”

“Don’t matter none. You’re always a sight for sore eyes.”

The boldness of his words causes you to throw your head back in laughter. “Are you saying all this just to get laid quicker?"

Simon lets out a raspy chuckle. “Nah,” he watches his own hand travel up your thigh, giving it a squeeze and rubbing slow circles with his thumb. Looking back up at you, you feel your heart skip a beat. “I’m sayin’ it cause it’s the truth. You are the most fuckin’ gorgeous creature I ever did lay eyes on.”

The plum of your lips is pulled into a shy smile. You replay his words in your mind like a wrinkled tape, your soul made to sparkle and float on clouds. He called me gorgeous, you thought.

Simon called you gorgeous—despite everything your mother led you to believe. Despite her words that left you feeling like an hideous being, a flawed and misshapen creature crafted by the hands of an unforgiving God. But he said I was gorgeous, Mother. Most fucking gorgeous.

"Well, you're rather handsome yourself." In truth, this is all amusing—this sudden exchange of compliments between the two of you, with you still sitting right on top of his groin, in your loose dress and Simon shirtless.

But, like an opportunist, you place your finger on the sloping hill of his chest. You feel the rhythmic rise and fall of his breathing—the stuttering of air in his lungs as you make circular motions on his bare skin. “Too bad that you always hide it under a mask.”

The diaphragm beneath his thick skin contracted faintly as he chuckled. Taking your index finger, Simon then held it between his teeth. He sucked the tip slowly and watched you through hooded eyes.

“The mask’s for another reason, darlin’,” he rumbled once he released it.

There it is again. The invisible veil now made visible, taunting you with the reminder that there's always a part of him that remains unknown, no matter how deep you try to dig or how many layers you think you’ve shed. Lately, you'd pushed the limits further than necessary, testing unseen boundaries—just how far were you willing to go, or how far would he allow before growing weary of it?

“And why is that, your mask?”

He gave your thigh another squeeze, his fingers drumming a random rhythm as he considered his response. “That’s a story for another day.” He replied.

It sounded like a promise, felt like an oath. Apparently, your heart found solace in that—in the future and the exact day that story would arrive. You smiled down at him, nodding in agreement.

“Okay, then I suppose that’s a promise, Mr. Simon…”

“Riley,” he fills in the blank space behind. “Simon Riley.”

The heart in the confines of your rib cage throbs with thrill. You smile brightly, testing the full name on your tongue. “Simon Riley…”

After a pause, your hands returned to their task, drifting down his firm torso until they reached his jeans. You made quick work of the buttons, pulling them down and tossing them carelessly to the floor, leaving him in only his gray boxers. Trying to match, you let your gown pool on the floor, leaving you in your black lacy panties.

Here you are, both bare chested, one cloth away from being completely naked. Two imperfect mirror reflections, similar yet distinct in their differences.

You glance back at him, biting your lip to hold back a giggle. His grin greets you in return, revealing a row of perfectly white teeth as his eyes roam approvingly over your form. You stand still, waiting, observing his growing impatience until he finally lets out a raspy chuckle, beckoning you closer with a casual crook of his finger.

“Come ‘ere.”

At his call, you obey like a good obedient girl dedicating her whole life to him.

Crawling onto the bed, your breasts hanging freely with each step your knees take. You stop right above his face, gazing into his warm chocolate with your cheeks blooming red.

Leaning in, you flicked your tongue out to taste the seam of his lips, drawing a soft groan from deep in his chest. Your back stretched to its maximum, arching like a harp as you became greedier and greedier and claimed his mouth completely. Your fond tongue traced his teeth, stroking the velvety softness of his inner cheeks, the contours of his palate. The pricking sensation of his stubble against your chin intertwined with the sweet wetness of your mingled saliva.

Your breasts pressed against his broad chest, the fat melting like popsicles in the hot sun. Swinging one leg across, you sit on top of him with your thighs straddling his hips, feeling the thick mound beneath his boxers from his hardening cock against your soaked panties.

As you began to grind on top of him, Simon grunted into your mouth. He slid his big hands down to squeeze your ass, kneading the soft cheeks as he thrust up to meet your clothed cunt. You moaned at the sensation, breaking the kiss but not tearing your gaze away as you straightened your spine to rock your hips back and forth.

Look at that pair of dark eyes��so devoted in their witnessing of every sway of your tits, with the gaping mouth of a hungry man. He lies beneath you, broad shoulders and thick arms corded with muscle built from the hard days of the military. Blonde hair around his chest, trailing down to his stomach and hidden beneath the tempting waistband of his boxers.

And those scars, of course. Especially that goddamn mysterious scar near his ribs. Were they created by 'bad men' or did you deserve it for the bad deeds you had committed, Simon?

Taking one of his hands, you place it on one of your breasts. Simon closes his hand around it, his thumb and index finger curling into a twist at your nipple. You let out a moan, biting your lower lip in a poor effort to keep another one from escaping you.

"Simon,” you breathed, his length twitching against your cunt.

Rolling your hips, your clothed clit rubbed against his hardness. You closed your eyes, breathing out slowly through parted lips, feeling the friction. He placed his hands on your sides, guiding your movements into a steady rhythm.

“Fuck, look at ya, darlin’…”

Bathed in the dim lighting of this inn, you were a sight he wanted to capture. Sitting on top of him like a long-gone queen reclaiming her place—the very reason for his convulsing cock, the numbing of his brain, his ears tuning out the noise of his old brain. As you continued to roll your hips, he watched every detail and seared it all in the back of his head.

The way sweat slicks and rests on the dip of your collarbone. Kiss-swollen sweet lips, tempting for him to bite or wrap around his throbbing length. Heavy eyelids and dark traces of your mascara.

Fuck, look at those puffy eyes.

Simon had endured his fair share of cuts and gunshot wounds. But nothing prepared him for the invisible grip on his heart when he realized what your cries left behind—puffy and red-rimmed like bruised berries. Fuckin’ hell…

Wanting more, you slide your lace aside. You restart your pace, gasping in pleasure at the new direct contact, the wetness of your building peak coloring the fabric of his boxer darker. The throbbing inside you begins, growing stronger the more you grind. You almost lose your pace—Simon’s large hands grip your hips to guide your movements toward climax.

The tight coil within you twists tighter. You breathe in short, ragged gasps; eyes squeezed shut as white flashes explode behind your lids. The cresting wave rises to a peak, making your thighs tremble.

When it hits, you throw your head back with a cry, Simon supporting your arched back with a strong palm behind you. The heat in your lower belly flushes as your release drips down to his boxers.

You slumped limp against his chest. He wrapped his strong arms around you, waiting for you to catch your breath while he inhaled his own. Christ, your scent is intoxicating—that sweet soap you were devoted to, the perfume he often saw on your dresser, and something natural about you that made his cock throb, begging to be released from the boxers beneath you. It took every ounce of willpower for him not to flip you over and take his fill.

A gentle giggle bubbled up. Simon furrowed his brows, meeting your eyes as you lifted your chin with a lazy smile.

“That was… weird,” you said, confusion written all over your face.

“What’s weird?”

“Well, for starters…” you glanced down between you, tracing a finger along the damp patch staining his boxers and chuckling again when he hissed. “I ruined these.”

Simon chuckled, shifting his hips. “Don’t matter none though, does it? You’re gonna ‘ave them off me soon enough anyway.”

You laugh – the warm, carefree sound from deep within your chest. Cheeks flushed rosy, and you’re sure your eyes sparkled. “Okay, okay. That’s something I might do.”

Leaning down, you brushed your lips against his in almost a chaste kiss. Simon couldn't resist, prolonging it by deepening it gently. He hooked his fingers around the lace loops on your hips, giving a playful tug as your mouths moved slow and sweet.

Breaking away, he narrows his eyes at your black panties. “You can still do them sexy moves takin’ this off, y’know…”

At his words, your smile stretches from ear to ear. Muttering an “okay,” you slip off him and the bed, standing in front of him. He fixes his dark eyes on you, melting the sudden shyness and encouraging you to continue the show. Slowly, teasingly, you begin to peel down your lace, small laughs escaping your throat.

“Well?” you ask, cheeks now rosy as you pose for his eyes. “How’s this?”

“Fucking perfect, darlin’,”

You toss aside your last garment, showing off your fully naked form like some kind of high fashion model. “Your turn now,” you say, walking toward him.

Reaching for the waist of his boxers, you began easing them down as well, eager to harvest the fruits of your ministry for each other. But, as it slid off his ankle, your eyes landed on his skin, and your smile faded, realizing something you hadn't before.

Knotted, mottled skin stretched from his right hip and down the side of his shin. The scars were old, but the memory of the fire that had once caressed him was immortalized in their rugged, rough texture. You tried to avert your already teary eyes from it, but instead found more scars around his legs—some nearly identical to the ones scattered across his upper body, some others resembled surgical scars long healed.

A lump rises in your throat, but you try to smile and crawl back into his lap, trying to lose yourself in whatever follows. But the façade crumbles, and you find yourself frozen, staring at him while fighting back tears pricking the backs of your eyes.

“What’s wrong?” And yet, Simon opens the door for you to broach the subject. Must’ve been something about your expression.

You briefly considered playing dumb, but your chance evaporated when a treacherous tear slipped freely. Hastily wiping it away, you took a shaky breath, focusing your gaze on the ceiling to prevent another from falling. You stared into his eyes again, and Simon saw the composure you had so carefully maintained on the edge of crumbling again.

“Those scars…” Your voice wavered, and you had to pause to steady it. “Were they from your time in the military?”

Watching those pretty lips tremble, tears marring your beautiful face, he felt a sickening clench in his chest. Part of him hated seeing you so sad, while another swelled with something akin to misplaced pride – that this angel was weeping over scars so old they had long since stopped hurting him.

Scars from battles the old Simon had fought years ago. Scars he had seen as part of his creation, marks he bore without feeling.

“Some from service, yeah. Others… more personal-like.” He said it nonchalantly. In his perspective, as proof that it didn’t hurt anymore, didn't need to numb it with ice like he did in the past—so, sweet thing, stop crying over him.

As if that were possible. He could tell you that it happened years ago, but it doesn't matter; it wouldn't lessen the pain even if your human life spanned a hundred centuries. Your tongue seared, heart sliced—someone touched the one you love with the most brutal violence they could choose in this world.

The image must have been absurd—the two of you completely naked in front of each other, yet instead of continuing, you weep over him. But now that you’ve seen it—those scars etched so cruelly and eternally upon his flesh—how do you look away?

"Why... why would anyone want to hurt you?” Your voice trembled, tracing that scar near his ribs that had caught your attention since you first saw it. It stood out, raised and knotted in a way that spoke of a cruel blade—making you wince at the thought of the pain. “Is… is this from your time in the military too?”

“Yeah,”

“What happened?”

Without any real weight, he said, “Got meself ‘anged by the ribs once,” in a light intonation as if it were some kind of joke.

But it wasn’t. My God, you wished it was, but it wasn’t, judging by the scars.

Despite his effort, it couldn’t mask the horror he’d experienced. Your breath hitches in a sob, your hand trying to cover your mouth. Your airway constricts as you imagine how it must have felt for him then. Hanged by the ribs, feeling your skin tear from holding your weight, flesh on display like they do in a slaughterhouse.

And he still manages to shush you, drawing your head to his chest in a tight hug like you’re the one who’s been through it all.

“Twern’t nothin’ – doesn’t even ‘urt no more.”

Pressed against his skin, you seek the usual solace that his heartbeat brings. But your heart remains unsettled, a lingering question nagging at your mind and tongue, refusing to let you find peace until it's voiced.

Raising your head slightly, chin resting upon his chest, you meet his gaze with red-rimmed eyes. "And... and the burn scars?”

“House fire during a mission.”

You know that’s not the full truth, but you don’t dare to press it, choosing to spare your heart from more details of his agonies.

“I don’t like seeing you hurt.” You said.

Simon gave a small hum in response. Reaching up, he wiped away your tears with his thumb. “Then stop cryin', love. 'Urts more to see yer pretty face all red and puffy.”

The hands around your jaw bring you closer. This time, he's the first to initiate this new kiss, closing his lips around yours with almost hesitant caution. And you want to cry—you want to cry from how gentle his touch is, and yet someone has handled him in the cruelest way possible.

Here you are, bodies pressed together—chest to chest, skin to skin. You let out a gasp as he grips your ass cheeks, spreading them until the chilly air touches your soaked folds. Simon would rather have those pretty eyes rolled back in pleasure than cry; he would rather have those plump lips parted to moan erotic sounds than sob. He bucks his hips and brushes the fat tip of his cock against your entrance.

Breaking the kiss, Simon gives a slow thrust upwards, grunting as he feels your warm labia. You straighten your back to sit on his pelvis, doing your own set of hip rolls as his hands guide you.

“No more tears f’me, ye ‘ear?” He meets your eyes before lowering it to the tantalizing view of your glistening body, causing another twitch of his impatient cock. “I ain’t worth it.”

The tip of his cock brushes against your folds when he thrusts his hips once more. A small mewl escapes your moist lips, vertebrae drawn like a curve of a bow as his length slowly enters your hole.

“No—no, don’t say that. You’re—mmh!” You stumble over your words, voice shaking both from emotion and physical overwhelm. “You’re always worth it, Simon.”

Sweet thing, unaware of the effect her puffy eyes and tear-stained cheek have on a man as corrupt as him. Struggling to find words while he fills her up, trying to convince him that he's worth something.

“That so?”

Biting your lip, you nod. “Yes,”

“Yeah?”

Without waiting for a reply, he grips your hips and slams you against him in one swift thrust. Your eyes fluttered shut on a gasp as he sank home. He groans at the blissful feeling, the remnants of your last orgasm completely coating him. But he has never been a man of gratitude; the gaping hole near his ribs—right where the scar he has shown you and told you about—seems to consume every fulfillment he might have, leaving him perpetually feeling unsatisfied and not enough.

Right now, he felt utterly insufficient. His old soul was always left wanting for more. That stupid, almost pathetic desire for proof that he would never truly believe—

“Prove it then, love.”

And well, he is a selfish man after all.

Slowly, you begin to move, hips rocking sensually against him, stretching your cunt to take his cock. It’s sloppy at first, until you settle into a rhythm and set your pace. He takes in every beautiful detail of you – your kiss-swollen lips beneath the faint bite of your teeth, your skin shimmering with sweat, your bouncing tits as you ride him, and the way your walls tighten their embrace around his cock with each in and out.

“Tha’s it love, ride me.”

Your cunt fluttered at the encouragement. He traced your curves before stopping at your breasts, twisting and pulling your nipples, eliciting a whimper from your throat. Rolling your hips, you grind your clit against his pelvis. He gives a low grunt.

“A-ah, Simon-!”

Listen to that, his name rolling off your tongue like liquid sin, a constant he never gets tired of. The room temperature rises, an invisible fire burning in his groin as you bounce on his cock. Your fingers dig half-moons on his naked thighs.

The room seemed to burn, almost like reminiscent of the flames that once scorched his lower right side. But this time, the sensation that swept through him was one of pure euphoria. The suffering that had gripped him was erased, replaced by a fierce hunger to shed more than just your clothes. The overwhelming need to be swallowed whole, to reside between your viscera and become the first to be embraced there.

Like a fish out of a tank, your lips formed a perfect 'O'—an invitation he accepted as he slipped his rough fingers into your mouth and tucked them beneath the blanket of your tongue. The brush of warm flesh made his cock throb, drawing a muffled sound from you.

Simon put his free hand to continue steering your hips, maintaining their steady rhythm as they started to falter. The angry crown of his cock pulled out before slamming back in and disappearing between your plump labia. He let his ears feast on your cry, watching your eyes squeeze shut as he reached that sweet spot inside. Saliva dripped, running down the curve of your chin and down between your swaying breasts.

The ah-ah! sound becomes the only thing you can produce after he liquifies your brain into a tangled mess, trapping your tongue under the weight of his calloused fingers.

Your inner walls fluttered and clenched around his length, your climax peeking and cresting, forming high waves. Simon growled through clenched teeth. Your back arched, head falling back as you surrendered to your second peak.

His grip on your hips tightened as a warning. “Off, love—fuck, ye gotta get off, now.”

You did not heed him, continuing to bounce on his twitching cock. He groaned, trying to hold back the inevitable tide of his release.

“Love,” he tries again before calling your name, his own hips stuttering.

“No, please- I’m—I’m on the pill,” you gasped—

And the lie slipped through your lips without thinking.

Even as a part of you knew this was wrong—that you were trying to trap him and you were being reckless—you kept going. Simon stopped trying to get you off him, letting you slam your hips one last time before he emptied thick ropes of seed into your womb.

Sex and your indifference to potential consequences permeated the air, screaming for your attention. A voice curses you in the back of your mind, full of snarls that you have gone too far; that you have hated Mother too much to dismiss everything she says—even the true ones—as nonsense. That you will only live to regret this.

But you have to—it's a necessity, driven by the roots that tell you to cement this bond between you. Sure, it may be born out of a desperate fantasy of your own insecurities, but you need this.

“Nothing can make them stay, my dear. Not for love, not for sex, for all your years of devotion to them, not even for their own flesh and blood!” Your mother is screaming in your head.

(Nonsense. Nonsense, all of it.)

You watch his chest rise and fall; somewhere deep within the confines of his strong ribs is a heart that beats in almost the same rhythm as yours. The dim lighting of the room you only acknowledge when it reflects faintly on the slick of his scar-littered skin. Those brown eyes stare at you beneath a canopy of blond lashes, moist lips pulled into a slight smile under his strong nose—and you return it with a wider one.

Would a child make you stay, Simon?

“Fucking ‘ell, love…” he muttered, still trying to catch his breath.

Unable to resist, you grind against his still-sensitive cock, earning a hiss and a hand on your hip to still you, making you chuckle.

“Don’t do that.” He mutters low and rough.

You nod, another giggle. Leaning forward, you press a quick kiss to his lips. “Okay, okay,” you say. “I’ll be good.”

Settling your head on his chest, Simon then pulls the blanket up before draping it over your naked bodies. You sigh in relief as he wraps his arms tightly around your smaller frame. Pulling you close, he buries his nose in your hair, breathing in your scent.

You trace idle patterns on his skin, murmuring: “My big performance is in a month. I got a special pass for you, so you better not even think about missing it.”

“The swan play?”

“Yeah,” you answered, lifting your head to gaze up at him. "Promise you'll be there?"

Promises are risky business, especially for someone like him. He's well-versed in the knowledge that when someone makes a promise, it means they're up for something that always comes along to fuck it up.

Even so, the words came out before he could stop them. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world, love.”

Hearing that, your smile threatened to widen, and you plopped your head back flat against his chest before he saw it. Wanting something to focus on, you settled your gaze on the old window at the end of the room. It was still raining outside, but it had softened. The pitter-patter of raindrops sounded more like a gentle, faint tap, reminding you of the squeaking of the bed when you were still making love earlier.

The steady rhythm of his heartbeat lulls you into a sense of peace. Then, there was a sudden urge to open up to him, created from a feeling of indebtedness to him. After all, he had been the one to step in earlier. There's still a lot Simon doesn't know about you, about Mother.

But just as you were about to part your lips, his arms tightened around you. The warmth of his touch made the courage to speak seep away, replaced by a crippling fear of ruining the moment. In the end, you clamped your mouth shut, squeezing your eyes closed as you forced yourself to let things be how they should be—unsaid.

The ghost of your mother's voice echoes in the back of your mind again. As you adjust your position, feeling the unfamiliar wetness on your thighs, you reassure yourself that this time is different; he is different. He’s going to stay. You feel his fingers gently carding through your hair, magically burning away any lingering doubts in the corners of your soul.

After everything, he has to.

The morning sun streams through the thin leaves as you and Simon get out of the car to stop for breakfast at the quaint little restaurant you came across. The chilly air still lingers, urging you to pull your cardigan tighter around you as you wait for the food to be served.

Taking in your surroundings, you notice the worn wooden floors, the mismatched chairs and tables. An old-fashioned cash register and shelves that hang various kinds of souvenirs typical of this small town and character key chains.

When the waiter—who also seemed to be the owner—placed two plates down, Simon ate without hesitation. You reached for your fork, but your eyes were drawn to the clock on the wall. Time was ticking fast—the sand in the hourglass slipping through your fingers with each second. You could almost feel the ground beneath you shifting, the earth seeming to swallow you alive.

Breakfast is over. Simon paid the bill and slipped out first for a smoke while you waited for the change. The owner disappeared into the back, leaving you standing there alone. The ceiling fan whirred overhead, the only sound filling the silence.

Casting your gaze around, you search for a distraction, something to stare at. Your eyes eventually land on the souvenir rack. And there, among the keychains and trinkets, a skeleton charm catches your eye, black and white reminding you of the one Simon hangs in his car.

The sound of the door opening jolts you back to reality. The owner returns with a handful of bills in his outstretched hand. Instead of taking it, you point to the skeleton charm, waiting for the old man to follow your fingertip before asking, “How much for that one?”

As the other door opens with the soft chimes of a bell overhead, you walk towards Simon with a barely suppressed smile. He smells of tobacco like he always does after a smoke. But, you hardly mind; all you care about is the delicate skeleton charm you hold in front of him.

“Look what I got you!” you exclaim, your smile bursting from your lips.

Simon’s eyebrows furrowed, dark eyes studying the little bone-white friend. You wait and wait for him to say something; your legs feel jittery as the small figure swings dangling between your thumb and forefinger.

“It’s..interestin’,” he says, finally taking it from you, studying it closer. “Where'd you get it?”

“The owner had it on the shelf over there,” you say, nodding towards the display. “I.. well, I saw it and thought of you. I hope you like it.”

You watched as crow's feet formed at the corners of his eyes, his mouth twitching into a smile beneath his mask. Then, Simon let out a sound—a chuckle, a genuine one which then turned into a short laugh that spread sensations in your chest.

“Thanks,” Simon said to the owner, who was standing behind the cashier with his own grin.

Then, he turns to you, his arms reaching out to wrap around your shoulders. “An’ thanks to you, too,” he says, almost a whisper, meant for just the two of you. “It’s… perfect.”

Without another word, he pulls you close, tucking your head under his chin as you make your way out of the restaurant. The birds chirping, celebrating a sunny day in the countryside. But this warmth… it’s not from the sun, not from the kinder wind. He opens his car door as he always does, and you slide inside, still with the gentle rumble of his chuckle ringing in your head.

You hoped this would never end.

You hoped—

The short trip to the English countryside was almost over; you had to go back to practice and rehearsals on Monday, and Simon had his agenda of disappearing to God knows where else. You didn’t question it; you didn’t ask anymore. You were comfortable enough with the many question marks that always seemed to surround him. He always came back in the end—that's what matters.

As you neared London, Simon pulled into a petrol station to refuel. He unbuckled his seatbelt and got out of the car. The door closed, and you were left alone with your gray thoughts.

You watched Simon standing outside the car, focused on refueling the tank. Fumbling for your phone, you saw the time – well past midnight. After this, he would definitely drive you home, then disappear for weeks, leaving you to wait. He always came back in the end – that’s what matters, you kept telling yourself.

(But a man who always comes back is a man who always leaves.)

Your eyes drifted to your purse at your feet, where the other phone—the newer one, the one you bought on impulse—lay hidden. Biting your lip, you snatched it up, unlocking it and quickly checking the “Find My” app, making sure the two devices were connected.

Taking a deep breath, you brace yourself, internal debate building but you know which side you’re leaning. This is wrong, probably will do more harm than good to Simon, to yourself—but, you have to, you need this. The same old justification ringing like the old ringtone you’ve memorized by heart. You reach down and carefully drop the spare phone onto the car floor, kicking it to hide it under the seat. Out of sight, out of mind – for now, at least.

Simon slid back behind the wheel after he was done, groaning as his neck popped tensely. He turned to you, brows furrowed.

“Alright?”

Giving a faux smile, you said: “Just a little tired.”

He didn’t question further, just nodded before turning the ignition and buckled his seatbelt. “Not far now,” he turned the wheel out of the gas station. “Just a bit further an’ we’ll be ‘ome.”

The car sped back down the long road. In the darkness outside, you barely made out the shadowy landscape rushing by outside the window, just your faint reflection staring back at you. Everything seemed almost lifeless, except for the soft strains of the radio playing a late-night playlist.

Home, he said. Simon said it as if “home” were so close and existent.

@strawberrygato @aprosiacperson @chipsbuttercream @arrozyfrijoles23 @pastel-devil-06 @rroseskull

SUPPORT ME THROUGH KO-FI! CHECK MY WRITING COMMISSION. SHARE YOUR THOUGHTS HERE.

[animasola86]

🦇 FANGS TO REMEMBER

m!vampires x f!reader 🔥 very explicit 🔥 words: 3.6k

On your way back to the party, you come across a graveyard. Unbeknownst to you, you are trespassing onto someone's property, and they are not happy about it. Or are they?

WARNINGS: NSFW! Explicit sexual content! Vampires! Noncon/dubcon! Threesome! Spitroasting! Biting! (READ ON AO3!)

A/N: This is part 5 of my CHOOSE YOUR OWN ADVENTURE smut series! 1 🔸 2 🔸 3 🔸 4 🔸 5 🔸 6 🔸 7 This is the continuation of OPTION 3/PART 4 - but can be read individually, let me just set the scene:

CONTEXT: You were invited to a Halloween party in a mysterious house, dressed as Little Red Riding Hood, and after drinking a strange drink, you decide to get some fresh air, running into a werewolf who instantly decides to knot and breed you, and after that ordeal is done, you flee from him, and come across a graveyard...

ADDITIONAL WARNING: This one is very dark. It's more noncon than dubcon, so if you don't like the themes, you can skip it (imagine something dark happening) and read the next part here.

You look around, but there's only one way forward: through the graveyard. It's too dark to see anything else, no maze, no garden, no house, you can't even see the cabin anymore you just left. The night is eerily quiet, no critters, nothing. Even the wind seems to take a break for now.

Inhaling deeply, you hug your arms around your body and take a step through the large wrought-iron gates, looking left and right at the rows of crooked tomb stones. A strange mist wafts close to the ground, giving off an otherworldly glow. The moon is long gone it seems, the sky too cloudy to show any stars, but still you can see the various shapes around you.

You're not easily spooked, usually, but being alone in a cemetery at night makes your imagination run wild, wilder than it has been all evening. The slightest movement makes you flinch as you tread carefully along the path, goosebumps rippling over your exposed skin whenever something brushes against your bare legs. The shirt is soft and warm, but in the end not long enough after all, no matter how hard you tug at its hem.

A sudden shuffling sound makes your blood run cold and you freeze on the spot, your heart beating out of your chest, cold fear gripping your limbs. It came from behind one of the larger tomb stones, decorated with a small angel statue. You stare into the darkness, pressing your lips together to keep the noises from spilling past them. Probably just an animal. Your mind is surely playing tricks on you.

But when the same sound comes from right behind you, you whirl around with a shriek, stumbling back as you see a large black shadow blocking your view. You expect to fall onto your butt, but something keeps you from it, another shadow – and this one has hands. Hands that grip your arms, holding you tightly. Another scream rips from your throat as you thrash about, trying to get away, before another hand finds its way to your mouth, muffling all the noises you want to let out.

Your eyes are wide when the shadows around you form into the shapes of two big men, pale in the eerie light, tall and muscular, dressed surprisingly well for creatures that lurk in the dark.

“What do we have here?” the one with his hand on your mouth says, tilting his head, giving you a smile that makes his handsome face look almost diabolical. “A little rabbit? In our cemetery?”

“Did you get lost, little one?” the other man, the one behind you, whispers as he leans his head closer, rubbing his smooth cheek against yours. It's cold to the touch.

You stiffen, unable to do or say anything. Maybe you're still dreaming, or again. But the way these men grab you feels too real. They are strong. Intimidatingly so. You swallow hard, gasping when the one behind you gives you a deep sniff.

“Ugh, she reeks of dog,” he says with a drawl. “Had some fun with the beast, didn't you?”

Suddenly you feel a hand between your legs, a cold touch, coaxing a muffled yelp out of you as you feel probing fingers right against your warm crotch. “Huh, yeah, he got to her alright. Filled to the brim...” He pulls his fingers away and raises them to your face, and you can see the thick substance coating them. “Too bad, really, I was looking forward to ravaging that sweet cunt...”

You glare at him, both in shock and indignation. He pulls his hand from your mouth and shoves his soiled fingers between your lips. A muffled grunt of protest slips from your throat, but your attempts to get away are futile as the other man still holds your arms tightly. A bitter and slightly salty taste fills your mouth, but with how the man presses his digits onto your tongue you can't do anything but flick it around them, licking them clean.

“At least she seems quite obedient,” he muses with a menacing tone, watching you closely, moving his fingers in and out of your mouth.

“We can still have some fun with her,” the man behind you says quietly, his nose nuzzling your neck. “He hasn't marked her yet. She's fair game.”

“Splendid,” the other replies with a laugh and pulls his fingers away with a wet popping sound. You quickly swallow the spit gathered on your tongue and lick your quivering lips. “So, little bunny, do you wanna try to run? I would die for a little hunt... if I wasn't already dead,” he adds with a reverberating laugh that makes you shiver deeply.

You just stare at him, your chest rising and falling faster. “I don't think she'll come far,” the man rubbing his hands over your arms retorts. “She seems weakened. The beast clearly got her good. Let's just enjoy her until her heart gives out, hm?”

You gasp at the implication, immediately silenced by a hand reaching out to grab your chin. “Fine. It is already enough to hear this beautiful beat,” the man in front of you whispers as he leans closer. “Are you scared, rabbit?”

Your eyes dart over his pale face, and when he bares his teeth and licks them slowly, you stare at his pointy canines. After having just met a real werewolf (or so you think, it's all so fuzzy in your head right now), you shouldn't be surprised to meet actual vampires, in a graveyard no less, pale and cold and strong, with sharp fangs and insatiable appetites, but your body still reacts as if you were indeed just a bunny cornered by two predators. A tiny whimper escapes your throat. “Please...”

“Hmm? Please what? Use your words, darling!” the man behind you snarls, rubbing his nose against your neck before you feel his lips on your pulse, nibbling teasingly.

“Please let me go...” you press out.

“Not going to happen, sweetheart,” he replies, his low voice muffled. “You came to us. Walked right onto our property. It's our right to do with you whatever we like...”

You squirm in his hold when he laps his tongue up your neck. The other man watches you, rubbing his thumb over your bottom lip before he suddenly leans closer, pressing his forehead to yours. You gasp, staring at him. “You won't regret it, little one,” he breathes against you. His skin feels cold, but the close proximity makes your cheeks burn up badly. “We'll give you a good time, don't worry your pretty little head!”

And suddenly you are being lifted, nausea rolling over you as you find yourself somehow floating in the air. It's all a blur at this point. Footsteps crunch over gravel and dead leaves, thump against stone plates, old hinges screech as a door is being opened. The fresh air becomes stale and dusty, the light even darker. You move down a set of stairs, but you can't move, your head is swimming, your insides tensing up in a way that borders on painful. You can barely breathe, and you have no idea why.

Candle light flickers to life when the men take you through a large wooden door. Your eyes blink into focus slowly. You seem to be in some sort of mausoleum, old looking, corners full of cobwebs, aged statues lining the walls. In the middle of the round room, there are two stone coffins, both of them open, their heavy stone slabs pushed to the side. You swallow hard, trying to see this as a scene, a decorated room fit for an elaborate Halloween party.

But somehow you doubt this is part of it.

“Excuse the mess,” one of the men says as he walks to the coffins. “We didn't expect company tonight...”

He raises a hand – and as you're being set down on your feet again, you witness how the heavy slab moves seemingly on its own or by a strange unseen force, leaving you even more confused. Both coffins are closed now, and before you can question anything else, you are being draped over the short side of one of them, stomach pressed to the cold stone, arms and legs hanging off the edges. A groan escapes you.

“Let's clean her up first, I can't stand the stink of wolf,” one man says as he steps behind you, pushing your legs further apart. You feel a strange coldness rushing through your body, like water, but not really wet, a sensation that leaves you choking on your own spit. “There, better. Don't you feel better too, darling? No longer stuffed full of disgusting beast semen? Well, I don't want to kink shame or anything, maybe you are into being bred, but we do like our holes squeaky clean – for us to soil all over again.”

You squirm on the stone slab, your hands trying to find purchase on the smooth surface, your legs kicking helplessly, but before you can do anything, the other man steps in front of you, grabbing your chin and lifting your head up. You find yourself face-to-face with his throbbing cock. They don't seem to waste any time, huh? He presses his thumb and finger into your cheeks, forcing your mouth open. You issue a groan of protest that is quickly muffled by his surprisingly warm member. You have no choice but to close your lips around it. (Even if you wanted to bite down on him, you couldn't, his hand is still holding your jaw open.)

“Good bunny, you know what to do, hm?” he tells you, slowly rolling his hips against you, his tip scraping along your gums, teasing at the back of your throat. Saliva pools on your tongue, and you feel the need to swallow it before it drips past your lips. When you do, he groans quietly. “Oh, yes, like that. Do that again.” Somehow his words seem to encourage you, and you swallow around him once more, straining your throat enough for tears to fill your eyes.

Behind you, you feel two cold hands rubbing up and down your thighs, gripping them, pulling them apart, before they slip up your rear and push the large shirt out of the way. “So I assume after your little werewolf ordeal, your poor little cunt is a little tired, wouldn't you agree?” he rasps teasingly. “Good thing you have another hole, huh, my sweet?”

You let out a series of muffled cries around the cock in your mouth when you feel probing fingers between your ass cheeks. “Mhmmnngh!” you croak out, thrashing on the stone slab, trying to get away. A sudden slap on your soft rear makes you howl, but ultimately stops your fidgeting. Your skin burns and throbs horribly. “Shh, relax, rabbit. You can take it. See?”

Before you can react, you feel a strange pressure against your sphincter, a teasing touch but unrelenting, and suddenly you have a finger in your ass. Your tight muscles clench around the thick digit, and you wriggle in your compromised position, almost gagging yourself on the dick between your lips when you push yourself against the man's groin and his cock deeper into your mouth. A jerk goes through your body, your hands fruitlessly trying to hold onto anything.

You don't feel in control of your limbs anymore, it's strange. You can feel everything, but you can't move, only rock back and forth on the coffin. The man behind you pushes his finger deeper, then pulls it out and replaces it with two. The stretch hurts, and you let out a muffled wail. Your noises seem to encourage him when he moves them in and out faster, deeper, a hard press against your protesting muscles.

Meanwhile the man holding your jaw increases the pace of his hips slamming against your face. His cock pushes deep, and you gag violently when he breaches your throat, your body convulsing, spit filling your mouth. He pulls back slightly, allows you to breathe and cough and swallow, but then repeats the motion, and you gag again, and the cycle continues. Your head is spinning by the fifth time he forced his length down your throat, and you feel too weak to protest anymore.

Not even when you notice that the man playing with your ass has added another finger and is plunging his hand hard against your rear, a dizzying rhythm, forceful, stretching you for whatever comes next. You can guess and it scares you. But there's nothing you can do as he suddenly pulls his fingers out with a wet pop and you feel his cockhead pressing against your slightly gaping hole. A deep grunt escapes him when he rocks his pelvis forward, sinking into your depths without mercy, carving his way through your impossible tightness.

Your muffled scream is overpowered by loud gurgling noises as the cock in your mouth pistons in and out fast, always pushing deep, bulging your neck, his crotch slapping into your face with each thrust. You are pushed and pulled, rocked back and forth, impaled front and back, cold hands holding your head up or digging into your hips as the two men use you for their pleasure, their grunts filling the space around you.

Despite their rough handling, you feel a strange heat growing inside you, and you realize that with every slam into your ass or snap into your throat, you are rubbed over the rough stone, and your clit quickly feels raw and swollen from the added stimulation. Moaning into the rapidly moving cock in your mouth, you focus on the good feelings, not the burning friction in your rear, not the rawness of your throat, the lack of air or the helplessness, just the bliss that tries to fight through the pain and discomfort.

But before you can even imagine any edge to fall over, they suddenly slow down, languid strokes that push deep until they stop altogether, one cock buried deep in your ass, the other pushed all the way down your throat as pubic hair tickles your nostrils. Your eyes roll back, your lungs burn, your body spasms fruitlessly. Groans echo in your ear.

“Let's turn her around,” one says.

“You wanna switch places too?” the other replies, almost a little breathlessly.

“Sure, I bet she doesn't mind a little ass to mouth action, huh, sugar?”

A loud slap against your bruised rear makes you gag violently, and as spit fills your mouth and tears stream down your face, you are being rotated on the cold stone slab, arms still hanging limply to the ground while your legs twitch as they're being pushed up and against your heaving chest, opening you up further. Cold air brushes over your exposed skin, and for a short moment they let go of you, cocks pull back, leaving trails of stickiness all over your face and crotch.

You are lightheaded, barely able to function, and that moment of reprieve is short-lived. You didn't even get the chance to swallow or breathe properly before a cock is being shoved back into your mouth. Hands curl around the back of your head, holding it up as the stiff and slimy length is pushed straight into your bruised throat. You can only croak out a muffled grunt before a heavy pair of balls slam against your nose.

“Tongue out,” the man above you orders, and you comply, hoping it'll be easier with your mouth wide open and your tongue extended to guide the throbbing cock in and out. “Good. Just like that. Look at that neck bulging. Ugh,” he continues, groaning as he rams deep into your throat and rests there, cutting off any air flow you may have had earlier. You squirm on the coffin, limbs twitching helplessly.

Before you drift off into unconsciousness, he pulls back and slaps your cheek. The pain drags you back immediately. “No fainting, rabbit, we need you awake for this.” You cough hoarsely, spit and precum flying through the air. You're too weak to open your eyes, and it doesn't matter anyway. His hand is on your neck now, squeezing slightly. “Ahh, yes, listen to that frantic heartbeat,” he rasps, slowly slipping his cock back between your lips. “Are you afraid to choke, hm? Or does that turn you on?”

You gag when he presses into your throat slowly, your whole body jerking against the man on the other side, who's holding your legs open and pressed to your chest. You are allowed to cough and swallow before it happens all over again, again and again, and while one man fucks your throat with reckless abandon, the other rubs his cold hand down your mound, teasing at your swollen clit, parting your puffy labia, but then he dips his finger into your ass, completely ignoring your hungrily clenching cunt.

There's no further preparation, and a moment later he shoves his cock into your tight hole, making you wail against the dick in your throat. He lets go of your legs, causing them to flop about wildly with each thrust as he starts pounding into you hard and fast, then you feel his long fingers on your burrowed shirt. You barely register how it's ripped open, but you do feel those cold palms pressing onto your soft mounds, pebbling your skin, your nipples hardening instantly. The touch is almost soothing among all the other things happening to you.

It's a whirlwind of sensations, the lack of air and strain to your throat and jaw on one side, the rough friction and burning heat and hard pummeling on the other. You are moved back and forth on the stone surface, a limp body to be used. You don't know how long this is going on, but these guys seem to have incredible stamina. They just won't stop.

Whenever you feel as if you're slipping into the welcoming darkness, you are slapped and brought back, your cheeks burning and throbbing, but it's only one of many aches by now. You can't decide which is worse, the suffocating stretch when a cock buries deep into your throat, or the rough pummeling of sore muscles when the other cock rams into your tight ass. It's all a blur in the end.

The men are groaning and grunting, snapping their hips against you, uncaring of your discomforts. They're chasing their own orgasms while you remain teetering far away from any sort of release. The room is filled with loud squelching noises, gurgles and slurps, slapping of skin against skin, a soundscape that seems to be your only form of stimulation. Not even the cold hands on your breasts push you further to the edge, they are just there, holding you, groping hard, anchoring you as you are pushed back and forth.

At least they have a rhythm now, in and out in an alternating way, almost like a seesaw, in goes the one in your throat, out moves the one in your ass, and then it's the other way around. And somehow you find comfort in it as you lie there, held in place, unable to move, your eyelids fluttering, tears and snot drying on your sweat-slick skin.

It's then that you feel cold fingers brushing down your quivering belly, down, down, until they rub against your clit, and you arch your back, inhale that cock in your throat, jerk your hips against the one pounding into your ass, and you come, clenching down hard, stiffening, eyes rolling back, bliss exploding through the veils of darkness.

You feel like floating, leaning into the wave of pleasure that washes over you as you let it all happen. And as you do, the men's motions grow jerkier, rougher, faster, and they come too, almost at the same time. Cum shoots down your throat, and you'd expect to feel the same sensation in your ass, but the man there pulls out and empties himself all over your mound and stomach, all the way to your neck. The pressure in your throat loosens then, and similar spurts of wet warmth hit your face.

Raspy breaths make it past your soiled, swollen lips as you lie there with your eyes closed. Strong hands move you until you're lying fully on your back, legs outstretched, arms put at the sides of your body, head supported by the hard stone slab beneath you. Cold fingers trail your skin.

“I wish we could keep her,” you hear a quiet voice that barely makes it past the cotton in your head.

“I'm not risking another war with those savages just because of one puny human...” says a different voice. “We'll find another one.”

“Let's feed and get her back onto the path.”

You blink your eyes open, noticing the two men, the two vampires, standing over you, staring down at you from both sides of the coffin. Their teeth are bared, fangs glistening in the swaying candle light, and before you can do anything, they lean down, one goes straight for your neck, his pointy canines sinking deeply into your skin, and you feel it, despite your fucked-out state, you feel the cold crashing through your veins.

The same sensation happens between your legs, on one of your inner thighs as the other bites down into your soft flesh. You whimper soundlessly, throat hoarse and sore, body too weak to move against the assault. They suck your blood noisily, like the thirsty monsters they are, and you just let it happen, again, what other choice do you have? Your head is spinning as you feel the cold spread through your trembling limbs.

And the world fades...

1 🔸 2 🔸 3 🔸 4 🔸 5 🔸 6 🔸 7

End notes: The last part is here!

By the way, this is a nod towards my standalone Vampire oneshot Down the Rabbit Hole which also has dubcon elements and more than one vampire, but isn't as dark.

MASTERLIST // AO3 // ORIGINAL WORKS

KINKTOBER 2024 MASTERLIST

[pforestsims]

I did water replacement for BV Hot Spring once BUT I wanted to have a few more options (mud bath!) so here's CEP extra - it turns water surface into second recolourable subset.

Plus stone recolors matching desert hoods, and two snowy ones.

Ancient Soakalicious Spring [Bon Voyage]

CEP-Extra* and recolors

& Higher Hot Spring Water Level - mesh/cres default

Download (SFS)

*CEP-Extra is only required for water recolors.

*Top pic features decorative effects

Enjoy!

[hometoursandotherstuff]

According to the description, this 1958 mid century modern time capsule in Beverly Hills, CA was only updated where it needed to be, and the rest is original. 3bds, 4ba, 4,000 sq ft, $9.8m. Way overpriced, b/c it's in Beverly Hills.

Definitely original decorative wall panels and fireplace. Nice built-in shelving.

Window with a view next to the dining area.

This is so pretty in the evening.

The lovely green kitchen has granite counters, a wall of glass- enclosed shelving, a newer Aga stove, and a traditional Aga stove. The Aga stoves, alone, are worth about $50k and they're the exact green to match the cabinetry.

Small, cozy TV room.

Nicely redone 1/2 bath has red alligator "skin" wallpaper with an interesting black sink.

Closet doors in the hallway are covered with tropical palm leaf wallpaper.

Large primary bedroom has sliders that open directly to the pool.

The dressing room has a lovely center island.

The floating sink in the bath matches the island.

The other 2 bedrooms are very large and also open directly to the pool.

Outdoor table in front of pretty green gardens.

Covered area of the patio has a stone grill with exhaust hood.

Huge built-in bench by the pool and a firepit.

The pool looks beautiful all lit up at night.

Very nice home, but so pricey.

There isn't a lot of land, either - 0.63 acre lot.

https://www.zillow.com/homes/1070-N-Hillcrest-Rd-Beverly-Hills,-CA-90210_rb/20534654_zpid/?

[folfar]

A scientific consideration of cultural preservation in Gideon the Ninth

HYPOTHESIS: the Venus de Milo is in Canaan House

REASONING: John is keen on decoration (the rest of Canaan House, the Mithraeum, his fancy baby-bone crown). John has strong opinions on preserving things he considers ‘worthy’ (the earth, his friends, Shakespeare). Why not famous art? Canaan House is filled with old and rotting portraits - they can’t ALL be of Cyrus and Valancy.

EVIDENCE:

There was a single statue at the end of the corridor where it turned left. It must have once been a person, but the head and arms had been lopped off, leaving only a torso with beseeching stumps. - GtN p130-1 (when Gideon is looking for Harrow)

beseeching stumps?? It’s simply got to be the Venus de Milo. No stumps plead more tenderly:

But she has a head! I hear you protest.

Aha! Now we come to Palamedes and Camilla doing psychometry to figure out the age of Canaan House:

"Fiat lux! If you want to talk improbable, let's talk about this"-a scrape of stone on stone-"being three thousand and some years older than this." A heavy clunk.

About 3000 years older than another part of Canaan House? Hmm! And what’s that Camilla is holding?

“Standing next to him holding a big wedge of broken sculpture and the flashlight was a tall, equally grey-wrapped figure with a scabbard outlined at her hip.”

“The cavalier narrowed her hooded eyes, fidgets gone and absolutely still; then she exploded into action. She dropped the wedge of sculpture with a clonk, drew her sword from its shabby scabbard before the wedge had bounced once, and advanced.”

SCULPTURE!

CONCLUSION: the Venus de Milo IS in Canaan House! However, it was decapitated by known practical thinker and simp Camilla Hect so that Palamedes Sextus could do his carbon dating easier without tiring out his necromancer noodle arms

SECONDARY CONCLUSION: Camilla was going to use the head of the Venus de Milo to bash open the laboratory hatch

[strangelittlestories]

The sign atop the arch was painted in bright primary blue and yellow; it featured a crudely daubed image of smiling dead bodies, atop which in bold capital letters was written: ‘Corpse Market!’

A stooped cloaked figure stepped under the arch. From beneath her hood, big wide eyes looked up at the market’s many stalls. Each was decorated in that same style: vibrant colours, cheery signs, enlivened with cheerful drapes of dyed cotton. And behind the swathed smiles of drapery hung row after row of the dead.

Frost clung to the bodies; though amidst the jolly decor, you would be forgiven for thinking someone had decorated them with shining pale glitter.

The cloaked figure stopped to read a placard hung on one of the stalls. It was illustrated with a woman stepping out of a coffin and giving the viewer a big thumbs up. The text read: “Give a hard-working adventurer a raise!”

As if from nowhere, the market’s proprietor appeared.

“Greetings!” They wore a sleek black frock coat and pressed white breeches, with a blood-red neckerchief providing a pop of colour at the throat. “Are you looking for anyone in particular?

“I was told that, uh, I might be able to find my … my sister here?” stumbled the cloaked wanderer. “What- uh- what is this place?”

“Why, ‘tis as the sign says!” chirped the proprietor. “We are a market of corpses. The physical shells of bold souls who explored the dangerous highs and lows of the world. ‘To help you avoid your final rest and instead achieve new personal bests.’ That’s our motto!”

“You, um, you sell dead people?”

“In a way. It’s more that we provide resurrection services. But plenty of these mighty heroes don’t have people looking for them, sadly. Strays, you see.” The proprietor patted the frozen leg of a cadaver covered in leather and knives as they spoke. “So if you pay the costs of bringing them back, we put that cost as a downpayment against future adventuring services. So can I interest you in a rescue adventurer? You look like the bookish sort, so maybe you need a strapping defender to keep you safe?”

“I’m really only looking for one, you know, one dead person in particular.”

“Of course, you did say. A sister, was it? Let me check our records.” The proprietor produced, from the aether, a huge tome bound in tan hide of some sort. “What was her name?”

“Ava. Ava is- *was* her name.” said the wanderer, softly.

The proprietor’s eyes rolled back into their head and a sudden gust of wind rustled through the pages of the tome. The shadows in the market seemed to lengthen and the multicoloured drapery whipped around them.

“Ah.” The fell wind quelled suddenly and the proprietor’s eyes returned to normal. “I’m afraid we have no Ava currently. My deepest condolences for your present loss.”

“Oh.”

“Are you sure I can’t interest you in someone else instead? A dashing cavalier? A righteous templar? I can do you a deal on a rugged woodswoman - if someone doesn’t take her in the next few days, we’ll have to put her down. In the ground, that is.”

“What? Why?” the wanderer exclaimed, equal parts confused by and caught up in the proprietor’s spiel.

“I can only keep their souls from crossing over for so long, I’m afraid. I’m good with guiding the dead, but even I have my limits.” For a moment, the proprietor seemed very strange; their face too long and too sharp, a shriek hidden beneath their soft voice. Then they slapped the cheerful mask back on. “You know what they say: styx and stones may take my bones, but wards can barely hold me.”

The wanderer thought for a moment.

“Alright. I’ll pay for the woodswoman.”

“You will?” The proprietor’s eyes lit up.

“Yes.” said the cloaked wanderer. “After all, if Ava isn’t here … I may need help finding her.”

---

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[wonderjanga]

I love your headcanons!!! Do you think that with Fawcett being a time bubble and magical influence and when new technology is introduced to the city that it changes? Like the engineers study magic as well due to the proximity to the Rock of Eternity? I'd imagine like perpetual motion machines do exist and parts of the plumbing system are fantastical magic animals. Like the old telephone wires are autonomous snake-like entities that Marvel has to untangle sometimes. (They do get tangled up). It's all very surreal and dream logic stuff.

I would love to see what's under the hoods of their cars. Do they run on pixie dust or dragon tears? Are there small sprites keeping it all together?

I’ve actually never really thought about this but here are some ideas! I think they would study magic when getting engineering degrees cause I’m pretty sure they’d just think of it as apart of engineering maybe. Like for example, when building houses they’d make fairy doors in certain places. I also think that instead of Lightbulbs for street lamps they hire fairies every night to make themselves light up. They get payed in pretty stones. Detectives can hire ghosts to help solve crimes. I think their cars run on either, but they’d be higher quality gas so most people would use normal gas. I also think there would be lawyers who work specifically with cases about fae. There’s gonna be lawyers to get that first born back. People might use magical herbs in everyday cooking too. Like someone might get a dried leaf called mystic petals because when ground up, they taste similar to sugar. (The plant makes hair, skin, and eye color more vibrant) One of the teachers at an elementary school is a Lich that has nothing better to do but teach. Or a Centaur works as a PE teacher. I also think that Fawcett could be so affected by magic that the buildings and sidewalks could be sentient. Like a little kid’s about to trip on a crack and the pavement moves the crack out of the way. Or someone who’s vandalizing a building gets hit in the face when the building pushes a brick out. Certain roads seal up their potholes, and maybe Billy is running down an alley being chased or something and the alley walls close up behind him cutting his pursuers off. The flowers grow all year around in a certain part of a city, it could be hot all the time in another, it could snow frequently in another, and trees could start turning orange and letting leaves fall in another because of the presence of spring, summer, fall, and winter fairies who split Fawcett up into small kingdoms. Billy oversees their diplomatic affairs. You find Santa at the grocery store buying cookie mix because “it’s cheaper here than at the North Pole”. The Spirit of Halloween would start pestering people in beginning of September to put up their Halloween decorations. The Easter Bunny would be a local attraction to go see, as it would be in a meadow every Easter making eggs and giving them to other bunnies to go hide. There’d be tones of restaurants in Fawcett with from from multiple creatures. You can go to a small place on 45th, where you can order from fairies who make sandwiches and soups using traditional fairy recipes and herbs. Or a small stand ran by orcs who sell Owlbear on a stick and roasted Blood Hawk legs. There could be a pair of yetis who sell snow cones using snow from the Himalayas. They have human flavors like grape, and yeti flavors using fruits grown from their tribes. When zombies crawl out of their grave, there’s insurance for both the damage to the coffins and the ruined grave and for people who get bitten. Doctors tweaked the polio vaccine for zombification. Wind elementals help people they favor when they fall. Water elementals help move snow from roads. Earth elementals help with construction. Fire elementals help melt down metals for jewelry stores and factories. Harpies sing for crowds. Gelatinous Cubes can be used as lubricants for machinery and extremely strong glues. I also think the rock messed with time. There are dinosaurs displayed at the zoo. Certain buildings look like they’re from different eras. Gothic architecture, favored by vampires. Victorian architecture. Neoclassical architecture. Also there are wyvern. Though they’re all the size of vultures. They’d have multiple different scale colors which have been made into jewelry or bags. Animal rights activists heavily protested that, and did the same thing they would do to mink coats in the 90’s to the dragon scale items. They threw paint on them. Mimics have exterminators to sniff them out. Shapeshifters wear certain tags while in magical form so they won’t get flagged for animal patrol. There’s also a bunch of other races such as lamia, gorgons, lizard people, homuncules, and goblins.

[skulla-rxcks]

Costumes in the night

Paring: hyunjin x afab reader

Rating: explicit

Genre: smut

Warnings: PIV, squirting

Ktober 14

Taglist: @f3lix00 @channiesgoodgirl @mal-lunar-28 @bangchans-gf5 @fun-fanfics @iwannabangchan @linosluver

Please dm me or use my inbox if you’d like to be added to the taglist ^^

!THIS IS PURE FICTION, NOTHING IN THIS IS REAL ITS JUST A STORY!

Hyunjin and I are going to a costume party with some of our friends. We begin finishing up our makeup before leaving and driving to the party, for this years party we decided to be the big bad wolf and little red riding hood. Hyunjin being the wolf. I finish up my makeup with the final step of putting red lipstick on to match the lipstick I’m wearing. “Ready to go?” He asks me waving around the car keys in front of my face making me giggle. “Of course I am” I reply, looking at Hyunjin and I’s costumes in the mirror. He’s wearing wolf ears with grey sweatpants and a black jacket with nothing underneath, his chest on show.

We walk out of our house, locking up before heading out to our driveway and hopping in the car. “Are you driving or me?” I ask him, looking into his eyes with a mixture love and excitement. “You since I need to message that were on the way” I nod in response and turn the keys; starting the car I reverse out of the driveway and begin driving to the address that the parties at, it’s a different address this time because apparently there’s going to be way more people than last year so it needed to be held in a big enough house for everyone to fit in. We arrive at the house, there’s hundreds of Halloween decorations outside; fake spiderwebs, pumpkins, ghost cut outs and even fake grave stones to finish the look off. We park the car at the end of the street and walk up to the door.

“Look who finally arrived!” Chan says greeting us with a smile and leading us inside, he’s one of Hyunjin’s friends. we walk inside and greet everyone before sitting down at a table with the rest of our friends.

“So who are you guys dressed as?” Han asks us.

“She’s little red riding and I’m the big bad wolf.” Hyunjin responds. “So you’re taking Chan’s thing, strange to see you as a wolf” Han adds on.

Han begins to talk about how he’s going lately with the others adding on things that happened and stuff. While the conversation continues and goes on Hyunjin’s hand creeps up my thigh, slowly moving it higher and higher, eventually pinching my inner thigh making me let out a whimper. “Go get a room guys, Jesus.” Chan chuckles. And so we do exactly that.

We walk up the stairs past all of the drunk couples making out and eventually find a spare room, Frist few times we accidentally walk into people fucking, probably forgot to lock the door, but we don’t care about that. We make our way into a spare room and lock the door.

Hyunjin pushes me onto the bed and helps me take my costume off almost immediately. “Need you.” He says, unbuckling his belt and pulling his pants off before taking his dick out, it’s already hard somehow, that was fast.

“Put it in me please..” I beg, reaching into the night stand next to us and finding a box on condoms, making sure it’s the right size before handing one to him. He smirks and rips the packet open and rolls the rubber onto his cock, positioning himself against my wet folds before pushing inside of me with a grunt of pleasure. “Shit!” I gasp, holding him closely as he begins to move inside of me. “Tight..” he mumbles before picking up the pace of his thrusting. “Hyunjin.. baby..” I whimper, wrapping my arms around his waist as he fucks me, needing more of him. “Shh.. just let me fuck you nice and good.” He says, reaching up to massage and squeeze at my breasts, still continuing to fuck me, slowly starting to pound me so hard the bed squeaks and my boobs jump up and down with his pace.

“Cum for me.” He whispers into my ear before gently biting my ear lobe. “Jinnie.. fuck!” I cry out, feeling myself squirt my juices all over him and the bed, completely making a mess for whoever will have to clean it up later. “Let’s go home I.. I need you even more..” I whimper, putting my costume back on before helping him out with his. We say goodbye to everyone and make our way back to the car, ready to see where the night takes us.

[rise-my-angel]

Heart of the Great Wolf

62 - Reunions and Realizations

Pairing: Jon Snow x F!Baratheon!Reader, Robb Stark x F!Baratheon!Reader (Past)

Length: 17.9k

Warnings: angst/hurt comfort, animal death, past character deaths, mentions of sexual violence and rape, reference to traumatic childbirth

Notes: If y'all thought I wasn't going to shoehorn in this dumb little moment between Jon and Tormund from the show, you were sorely mistaken. Previous Chapter Here, Series Masterlist Here

“What were you doing down there?”

Strange the first question to be asked of you here of all times and places, yet your slight tilt of the head had not indicated that you were returning her question with skepticism. Imagined you did, you were not the easiest person for one to reunite with. But then again, much like her sister, Sansa appeared to be torn between two images as she stood before you. One vastly older and one none changed from the final days you had seen of her. You could even sill picture it.

Her orange red hair down loose in pretty waves to match the gentle shade of violet her dress was, made herself with the collar decorated with flowers all along the edges to match the brightness of the city she then lived in. You wondered how quickly those pretty flowers faded for her once her father was gone. Quickly no doubt. But now she was not that. Her hair was longer, flat and done partially up in the back halfway but not a trace of snowflakes sitting there as was in yours, like her hood had been up until just now to hide where she stood.

She clutched something under her cloak tightly in her hands but from the hidden shadows you could not see it. Choosing instead to answer her question as uncomplicated as possible, “I had someone I needed to see.” Sansa asked no further question, nor did you expect her too. But, she stood awkward and there was her other side. The bright blue eyes so much like Catelyns looking at you in an uncertainty, but also the hint of the child you left behind. Something that wished to reach out, but the woman in her did not know how too. “Sansa, I know things here aren’t what-”

Finding her voice, Sansa spoke up with a question of her own, changing the subject nearly to it’s complete opposite end. “You saw them take Lady back.” You only blinked once in a heavy manner as if attempting to bridge the gap of what she meant, before Sansa continued as she took a step forward. “That night at the inn. You were the last one to see Lady before they brought her back here.” That time you nodded, but only once again, assuming rightfully that there was more on her mind. “Where did they bury her?”

Voice gentle as you spoke, you did not need her to answer the question you knew would follow. “The lichyard. I can show you.”

The lichyard was a small graveyard at the back of the entrance to the crypts near the far castle walls. Used to bury typically servants of the old Kings in the North, but exceptions made many times over to bury others which did not fit. Traditions only meant something it keeping them meant dishonouring those whom passed. Only the Kings and Lords of Winterfell with their immediate family surrounding them, were buried in the crypts and only the highest with statues. Ned Stark had made Lyanna an exception.

Sansa walked close to your side but not quite the degree you could comfortably reach out to her in any way, she was silent and stiff looking around. You didn’t linger in once spot for long, you knew right where to go. The headstone was simple, already coated in snow like a cake doused with a powdery sugar, half covering the lichen growing across the stone all eventually were taken over by.

Her name was etched across it but too was covered by snow. You didn’t rush her with moves or words, simply crouching down to the space and brushing off what was hiding her name plain as day. The wolf carved into the stone under her was not quite as large and fierce as that of the direwolf sigil of the Starks, but then again, much like the smooth and underdeveloped features of Lyannas statue, Lady had died too young to grow into anything which could stand out amongst stone.

Pushing your self back up you moved only feet from Sansa as she looked in silence. A tenseness in her figure and jaw clenched tight as if holding back the urge to let anything come up, as no doubt the woman in her did not wish for you to see the water forming behind her eyes. You would not offer words in her fathers defence, you did not know how she felt of that anymore and would not make assumptions when she stood before the memory of what her remaining siblings all still had. “He made sure she made it here. Lady was born here, she deserved to rest here.”

Sansa only nodded, and seemed to grip whatever she held in her hands tighter. Her voice just as strained as the rest of her gave off the impression of. “You spent time with her after she was gone.”

Only the assurance you could give in such air, “Your father knew the last you saw of her would be a far better memory then that. Even after I-” Forcing your words to be much less blunt and straight forward for once, you sought something a little less harrowing to think of. “After I took care of her when getting her ready to come back here, you still wouldn’t have wanted to see that. If you haven’t been there before to watch an animal die, a companion you love dearly was not a good place to start.”

Sansa nodded, only then finding the courage to come closer. Not rushing her in any way your eyes trailed along as she made her way, kneeling down on the cold ground in front of the headstone. Not reaching out or anything, but her grief was her own, not for yours to judge. Now more then ever before did you understand the Starks connections to their direwolves were something different then an owner to their pet, and you felt that guilt of how she was the only living one whom had long lost hers so permanently.

“I hardly even spoke to him after that. I told Septa Mordane I never wanted to speak to him again, that I would never find it in my heart to forgive him.” Slowly kneeling down beside her, your hands resting gentle on your thighs, eyes bright and wide looking over to hers, the same on her towards Lady but in a far more held back manner. “The last few months he thought I hated him-”

Cutting her right off, your voice was stern. “He knew you didn’t hate him, Sansa. He knew why you were upset, and he never blamed you for it. Your father more then anyone understood how painful it was for you. You begged for mercy in front of the court for him, you pled for his life right before he died.” She nodded but again, you refused to push her for anything further. Where her mind was and what she was thinking or even wanted, you had no idea.

You certainly had no idea what it was which ran through your head, certainly not after the night you had forced yourself into. But, she came to it on her own. The thought, the pain you considered of how long had it been since Sansa faced the reality of what occurred that night, of what it all had spiralled into before it was too late. Pulling it from her cloak, there sat the doll. It looked the way you hoped, as close to what the original looked like as possible. Clutched tight in both hands, your eyes drifted to it as hers did.

“You remembered.”

You nodded knowing she couldn’t see regardless. “I did. I know you weren’t happy with it when your father gave it to you, but it would’ve been one of the last things you truly had from him. Leaving it behind in Kings Landing made sense, how you left there, but it was still something your father gave you. Still a reminder-” Finishing for you, saying it was a reminder that they were family and he had still loved her. “Coming back here hasn’t been easy I imagine, but I thought maybe having just one thing from your father again might remind you that this still is your home no matter how different returning is then you expected. You still belong here with your brothers and sister.”

A hand gentle running through what strands of her hair loose down her back sat, you felt the almost indescribable lean back of her into your touch as her own hand ran much more noticeably over the yellow hair of the doll. “I told him I hadn’t played with dolls since I was eight, and here I am. Eighteen and I’ve carried her around with me for hours.”

The huff of a laugh that left you just barley managed to leave her. “You didn’t have much of a chance to experience the rest of a childhood. None of you did. I think it’s fitting you find part of that, now that you’re home.” The name almost left her lips as you cut it off. “I didn’t give this to you, to bribe you to talk about that. I had it made, to remind you that you’re home, truly home. It’s been a long time I know since you’ve been allowed to think that way, I just want you to remember that.”

Heart breaking at the waver in her voice, the girl you knew came back out. “I still dream about her. That we’re running or she’d curled up with me on my bed. Then I wake up and she’s gone.” Voice cracking as her words faded out, the hand in her hair grew more firm, as you had pulled her the slightest bit closer. The rest of her followed as muscles stopped tensing in her, and something else much needed for her heart begun to fill and shake instead. “Cersei killed her and I blamed everyone but her for it. I wish I never went on that stupid walk with Joffery, we’d have never run into Arya and none of that stupid fight would’ve happened, and Lady would still be here.”

Her body suddenly turning, you felt her fall much more into your side as you wrapped an arm around to gently hold the back of her head keeping her close as you could from where you both sat. The tears fell freely much like you heard through the muffles of her door that same night, but these fell without hangups or hiding. Not right now, with you.

You knew Arya and Jon both would have their own issues to handle with her, but in that moment, Sansa was but that little girl who clutched at your leg growing up always begging her mother to let you stay and be her big sister everyday. That little girl by the time you came to Winterfell with the Kings Company had already felt long gone, but even if only for that very moment in front of Lady’s grave, was Sansa still just that little girl.

A little girl who had never quite come to terms with losing the direwolf she was bonded to in a way no one but the other Starks could ever possibly understand. Just as no one understood what it was like to live without that bond when only having her for months.

For now, you had no doubt Jon wished to handle Petyr Baelish, so you as best you could from just the support love could offer, would try to handle Sansa. Bring her down enough that the rest of her siblings had a chance to reach out as well.

You didn’t know what he had told to her in lies, but you know she would tell you all one way or another in time.

The day she had, one moment you felt a stunning realization fall over you, the next, you felt as if flying through the air falling from one sight to the next. Eyes to eyes to eyes, you felt as if you had never stopped but certain words echoed in your head the longer they flashed by.

“He saw us.”

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

“There’s only one dagger like this in all the Seven Kingdoms.”

“He killed your father, he murdered the Hand of the King.”

“Tyrion Lannister. The imp.”

The room was tied, Sansa and Arya both closest to Bran by his side as he gasped for the air you too awoke in need of. On the other was you, as if fallen to the ground sat up partially by Jon keeping you upright and Theon on the opposite. Your name coming firmly from Jon but your eyes only flew up to meet Brans.

Putting together what he saw as you were, his voice breathless still from where he sat spoke through the noise of his siblings as if to you alone in the room. “That’s what it was trying to show us.” Your nod was slow as your mind caught up to your present, the feeling of touch against your skin only barley starting to come back. Neither of you acknowledged the ask from Sansa of what was going on.

Moving passed it, you suddenly felt the wave rush over you. More then even Bran had put together, you had the information that none of them had. You had the information that only one man left alive other then you had, but you were smart enough to put it together which was why-

Shooting up suddenly, Jon and Theon both nearly yanked you back to them the moment you turned to the door, a mutter breathless on you and deaf to their protests as you threw it open and walked out of it, not even bothering saying you needed a moment. One hall then the next, the a door pushing open as you stepped out into the cold of the evening.

Shining in your eyes, forcing a squint, you felt the shiver of cold seep through your thinner clothes and shiver within your bones. Lungs stung filling with the wold air and yet all your mind did felt as if it burned and burned. Overheating like a furnace too worked through and leaving you exhausted and dizzy but it’s flames were memories and it’s smoke was the words which followed.

You knew of those days, Catelyn had told you all when she had arrived at the army camp at Moat Cailin. You knew what Lysa Arryn had done and the lunacy she nearly prevailed with, but yet those details did not at all match what you knew now. Two murders and one failed attributed to the malice of one man, and yet all of it spun a web you had never considered before. He murdered your father, that was what Lysa told little Robin. Lysa put him on trial for the murder of Jon Arryn, but you knew better. You knew the secret Jon had died for and none of that led back to Tyrion Lannister. Tyrion would not poison the Hand of the King to protect a secret that had nothing to do with him, and now that you knew who did it and why, you certainly realized that Tyrion would have not a single reason to want to murder Bran. One Lannister tried to push him out a window, and when that did not work, he was framed by another with a well calculated plan of another.

But more death had come, more fell to the wayside and it was all but forgotten in contrast to the betrayal he stood for in the throne room. Jon had pointed out as Sansa spoke of the day she escaped in suspect. “If Joffery just died, how would he have known it happened or that you fled the scene of his murder, or that you’d be accused?”

Sansa had been honest, and she felt no better saying it then when she learned of it. “Because he killed Joffery. He and someone else, I don’t know who he never said, but he..had someone gift me a necklace, one of the stones had a vial of poison on it and that was the one...” Her hand had traced up as if to go through the motions of a memory she was realizing was part of it, but had saw fit it seemed to not bring it up, for now at the least as she continued. “He knew he had to get me out that day, because he had used me to carry the poison that killed Joffery and Cersei would find out. He knew she’d accuse me of doing it and-”

Jon too, had put together that final piece. “And if Cersei hated Tyrion then she would’ve accused him of helping you.” Littlefinger had wanted Tyrion to be accused, because then fleeing away with Sansa made him look that much more guilty and put more pressure onto trying him then finding her. It was all clever in a rather horrific manner. Every single person in the room had reason to want Joffery dead, but the manner Sansa described it was obscenely a cruel way to die.

Yet that was what had you lightheaded, palms cold against the snow covered stone trying to force the world to cease it’s floating spin. That was three times Tyrion was accused of a crime, and twice Littlefinger was to blame for pointing the finger. But three times he was accused. You all knew the Lannisters killed Jon Arryn, Lysa had said as such in her letter to Catelyn. But she accused Tyrion, and Tyrion wouldn’t have murdered him for Cersei and Jaime’s secret. Lysa accused him because she was told to accuse him. It was foolish to go against Tywin Lannister in that accusation towards even his most hated son, but still he had set the Riverlands on fire for it. Lysa was not right in her mind, but she was not stupid. She wouldn’t accuse him for the sake of it, she accused whom she was told to accuse.

Now she was dead. Everyone involved in the act or uncovering the mystery of Jon Arryns murder was dead, and everyone involved in the act or uncovering the truth of the attempt on Brans life was dead. All but two.

It was that which had you out there. Muttering a whisper you barley could hear over the beating of your heart in your ears. “It was him this whole time.” From the moment the bells tolled signifying the death of the Hand of the King, to the night you stood before the demonic shadow of Catelyn Starks echo was one person always behind it. You hadn’t even heard your name being called or the figure throwing the door open.

Almost jumping the moment he grabbed your arms, you spun with a gasp as Jon steadied you by your upper arms repeating your name firmly. But you were just as lightheaded as seconds before, eyes wide looking up to this grey ones both concerned and angry together did you say what had led you out here in the first place. “It was never about Sansa.” His brows furrowing asking what, before covering that up and trying to pull you inside saying it was freezing out here, you stayed in place as if the thick bog of a swamp had plastered your feet from being able to move. “Barrowton, the Brotherhood, none of it was about getting rid of me to make putting Sansa’s claim up easier.”

Jon cupped the side of your face, the worry growing in him the longer you stayed in such a high strung state like this. “Darling, what are you- what did you see?”

If one asked what yourself and Jon had learned so far North, both of you knew the answer was, too much. This time felt the same, you saw too much and realized what you truly were in this situation. “Littlefinger. He isn’t trying to use me to side against you for Sansa’s sake..he’s trying to convince her to get me as far away from you as quick as she can.” Jon again tried getting you to tell him what was going on, but knew in this state you struggled to form anything close to thoughts well put together as you rambled in hopes he followed. “He wants to isolate me, just like he did in Barrowton. He needs to get me alone because thats the only way he can even try to kill me.”

Jon leaned down to meet your eyes, repeating your name firmly as your skin felt like it shaking under his warmth against the cold. “I know it’s not easy, but I need you to tell me what’s going on, because even Bran isn’t sure what it is you realized that he didn’t, seeing the same things.”

Inhaling deeply, your eyes closing as long as it took to try and will your heart to slow down just a pace enough to feel Jon more then just his warmth, but perhaps that was the cold too kicking a numbness in. “You and Sansa both have parts of his story, some idea of the crimes he’s committed but he knows you both don’t have the full story. He knows you both together could only come up with just enough to possibly find a rightful accusation towards. But he needs me either gone or dead, because I’m the only person left he’s afraid of.”

For a while, you knew your father was a smart man about how he handled what he knew. Jon Arryn, the man he uncovered the truth of Cersei’s children with mysterious died, and he no doubt could sniff out the lie it was only a fever which took him. He fled to Dragonstone and closed off any ability to get to him because he knew too much. Stannis Baratheon was the one man Petyr Baelish feared because he saw through every bit of his weasely facade and would stick his head on a spike before the night was out if he had his way.

But you were even more dangerous then your father to Littlefinger. Because if you were not alive, no one would be able to know the truth of the sins he’s cast out upon the world and people you’ve known and cared for. You could recall Lord Varys telling you and Ned Stark that Jon Arryn was killed for asking too many questions, but you knew why your life had been the target this time. You were the one with all of the answers for those with those questions. “I’m the one person left who knows exactly how many crimes he’s guilty of. He tried to kill me, because I know things he’s done that no one but me is alive who could put it all together.”

Looking up to the cold, Jon turned slightly to pull you into his side. “Letting you stay out here and freeze any longer won’t help, will it?” The shiver ran down your spine, finding the rest of you as Jon pulled your head closer, leaving a kiss firmly at the hair on the side of your head trying to keep you as close to his warmth as possible.

If anything, it did strike those in the room now, that when you were in the same position as Sansa before, it was so far removed from what so closely looked like an interrogation. The white fur once Jons, wrapped around you properly so you could warm up from how strikingly cold your skin had gotten in the unknown time Jon spent trying to follow in your fleeing footsteps. He now sat beside you, to keep his own body temperature helping yours as well as not willing to move away from where you could stay in his reach.

The commotion having woken little Eddard up, the eyes of his siblings tried not to stare at how of all people Jon was the last they expected to see as a father, let alone sitting with his own son in his arms with such a natural ease it was as if he had prepared for it his whole life. Reading each small noise from the baby and moving accordingly, normally giving him part of his fingers to try to reach out and hold with what little grip his tiny hand had, or shifting him a bit more to rest against his side against his torso and facing a bit up to see you.

You had noticed each one as they did but in a very different reading. Trying to put your life at risk, you knew it would not stop there. Restraint was not best suited for a man like Littlefinger. He had shot and hit the target of killing a King before, and you knew what reason would he have to stop this time? Killing the King of the Seven Kingdoms was a far grander pull off then killing the King in the North. Those thirsty for power would not stop at you, they would not stop at Jon, and they would next go for the small bundle snuggled into Jons arms. The one thing you had done in your new life that mattered, given Jon the one thing he truly never thought he would deserve and you refused to let anything take that from him.

The story was new to most, and some details expanded upon to others. A life long passed you, but so deeply woven like a spiders web but the source was the insistent singing of a mockingbird. More then once you needed something to soothe your throat, you weren’t sure you had done this much talking since the night you stood in Moat Cailin refusing to give up your plight to defend Jons life and honour of all the freedoms he had only just acquired for the first time in his life.

Only much more was at stake as you spoke. Bran knew enough to fill in some details, putting together from what he and you saw together slowly in a calm fashion. Arya more then once was visibly shaking in an anger only held back from what you knew was a lack of manner to lash out on. Some of this, Theon knew, he was there to give specifics that you nor Bran could on your own, from his own perspective through his own eyes. Jon did a better job at hiding his anger then Arya, but there was a growing darkness in his eyes that looked more wolf then man as you spoke.

The only whom did not speak a word, was Sansa. So far removed from a single shred of these events, it was all new, and all in a shock she hadn’t seem coming. The danger, the lack of trustworthy she knew of Petyr Baelish paled in comparison. She too sat in silence though, watching the harmony at work. Arya, Bran and Theon all spoke up, all added to the story and conclusions working off of the others theories, but more then that, she watched you and Jon.

Forcing herself not to do it, not to fall down the hole she had before of what to think of Jon. In her worst interpretation, Jon spoke over you and for you. Taking control of your talking instead of allowing you the freedom to slowly let it come out, but yet you could build off of his finished thoughts with ease and he never spoke against it. She felt unsure if he was letting you speak your mind or not, but he had told her as much. That there were things about his relationship with you that she would not understand, but it was full of conflict.

He could sense it too, the way she tried to still figure out what she was looking at, looking for. Still seeking the worst answer, but he couldn’t worry about that right now. Couldn’t allow you to worry about anywhere close to that right now. The facts were out in the open, if you knew too much against Littlefinger and his plan at creating a divide between you and Jon did not work, he could once again resort to violence. To getting others that is, to do violence for him.

By the evenings close, all had much to think about, and Jon had much to plan. He was going to do this the way his father raised him to. Fairly, with honour and justice and without rushing into things with impulse. But then that wave would wash over him once more, almost in a mocking to ask which father did he mean. Jon knew what father he meant, but it felt as if that unshakable darkness did not.

His mind couldn’t be a mess right now, he needed to find a way to clear it and quickly. You almost did not help in that matter, coming up behind him, your hands running up his back and attaching to his shoulders before Jon simply wrapped them around his front for you. Gentle against him as you both stood beside your slumbering son by the open window. “You’re certain we’re ready for this?” Barley turning to glance at you, did a wave of guilt hit, the worry he thought you meant in doubt. “I only mean, we’ve just started to get Sansa to open up, I’ve only just started to-”

Gripping your hands tighter, the intention was clear as you cut yourself off. Jons low rasp almost flying into the cold air and out the window as opposed to finding its way to your ear. “I have everything else ready, we have him right here. Everything he’s done, I won’t let him run this time.”

Nodding, your head moved to rest against his back, something much more calming falling into your senses at his warmth as if the thought of what was to come in certain days did not also fill you with a rising dread. “What if I’m not up for this?” Affirming without thought that you were, you sighed deeply. “We think I am now, but what if I get up there and I don’t know what I think I do?”

He did not falter in his tender hold on your hands against him. “That’s why Bran is there. If you can’t, he can. But you were there for more of this, the other Lords will understand better if they hear if from you firsthand.” Only a nod once more, the feeling of Jon raising up one of your hands to press a kiss to hit, holding it against him there as if pondering leaving another.

You on the other hand, rose up on your toes to press your lips gently to the back of his neck, exposed through fallen strands of dark curls not still kept up from the day. If that was a very well hidden shiver you felt, then you only added to it by pressing another, then another until Jon mumbled your name both in warning and a chuckle vibrating from within his chest. “How did you do it? Convince them to come forward?”

A certainty was thick in Jons voice however, you could see from even behind his grey eyes wide and bright looking out to the starry sky of night beyond Winterfell without any doubt. “He betrayed my father, he tried to hurt you, my sister, my brothers. He’s used nearly every one in my family against each other, it should’ve stopped the day my Uncle Brandon beat him in a duel.”

“So you’re ending it now.” Jon was the one to nod that time, your head returning to rest against his back in a surprising degree of comfort. “Fighting has never worked against him. Perhaps you’re the only one smart enough to use his way of doing things.” Jon only muttered it was practical, not smart but your lips moved into a small smile. “I promise, you are far smarter then you’re giving yourself credit for, Jon.”

The smile on his face was so much brighter against the starlight shining in. “Coming from you.” Muttering in a jest what that was supposed to mean, Jon finally turned you both. Now sideways from the open window, Jons hands found themselves attached to your hips as yours rested high on his chest. The smile shined as beautiful as it always did in his eyes. “Married a smart girl, is all.”

If you had it in you to tease, it was for another day. Not so late at night and not so crawlingly close to what Jon had prepared for, since even before you both left beyond the Wall. Everything you both saw out there, but your nerves raced for this coming here and now of all things. “I’m not doubting you-”

Jon leaned forward, nudging your nose with his. Hot breath dancing across your face with every word. “I know, darling. You’re allowed to be scared, but it’ll be alright. I promise.” Nodding, Jon left your hip, two knuckles tilting your head up so his lips could gently press against yours. His kiss soft and chaste, but your hands wound around the back of his neck as his arm moved to pull you from your lower back further into him. His other keeping you by your jaw tilted to his kiss alone.

Only interrupted by the small mutterings of the bundle below, Jon let out a breathy but heartwarming laugh as he rested his forehead to yours. “That sounds like hunger to me.” Asking almost with a giggle how would he know that, Jon pressed one more kiss to your lips. “He’s my son, that means he has my appetite.”

You could almost roll your eyes, he loved to hint at how he was right all along. He said he knew it was a boy, and he was correct. But finally, it didn’t bother you. You would give him a daughter, and this time around you found yourself actually looking forward to it. Little Eddard didn’t have much of a plan for so long out there, but you both would go into little Lyanna with many. But, Jon for now, was still right.

The thought coming into your head as Jon sat down beside you undoing the laces keeping your dress closed, as you held the baby. Something Maester Wolkan had said, and how in more ways then just winter was what he said clearly true.

Eventually, the Starks are always right.

The morning next, sun hiding behind the clouds in the sky seemed to be making it’s way closer to the middle of Winterfell signifying it was reaching mid day. The warmest hour which the castle would ever get for a long time was right at the peak of morning as it bled into the afternoon and the hustling noise around the courtyard was at it’s busiest. For quite a while now, Jon had walked through with you by his side.

As friendly as Jon was with his people, you were quiet and not disruptive but never shied away from the respect you always gave by his side. Though, what was proving to be disruptive, was how utterly simple it became for attention to wander from task to task to give their greeting to the still small and shy baby you carried warm in your arms beside Jon. Trying to keep a respectful distance from you, Jon was clearly shoving down the urge to keep you pulled close each time you strayed too far from him. Speaking to one person and you another, you felt Jons eyes on you flicker each instance he couldn’t stop himself.

But you allowed the distance, Jon was busy with men far more important then the growing normal of gushing the older women adored giving. Little Eddard was shy, always making noise in protest when someone got too loud or close to him, shifting him up to rest against you, so he could hide in your neck and shoulder with hands grasping what he could pull close of your hair. He never quite put the strands in his mouth, but would keep them in his little fist, and that would always sit close to his mouth, the way an infant would do so with a toy acting as a soother, but just what he had of you.

Sometimes, he would simply refuse to come out from hiding. Tucking himself further into your neck and the blanket warm around him because he didn’t like so much attention so loud and close and so attempting to be physical. Unable to escape the cooing of a group of girls, eventually it seemed you had found saviour in Jon making eye contact with Selyse and gesturing to you.

Your mother coming up behind, hands guiding you by the upper arms with a polite smile and dismissal not easily argued against in her voice. “She appreciates your good will, but there is always much to be done in the life of a Queen.” A muttering of a thanks in your whisper as she kept a guiding grip on you until a respectable distance away, closer to where Jon had made his way in work outside. A jest on your mothers voice seldom heard, “And you wondered why we kept you inside most of the time as a child.”

Turning to look at her, you raised an eyebrow. “Because cooing and grabbing at my son is a common past time for women?”

The jest from your mothers tone though was not a single thing compared to the unfiltered teasing that came from your right from Maege’s sudden appearance. “No, because you grab everyone's attention all day. Good and bad.” Your head whipped up and over to give her a questioning glare when she shrugged with a smirk on her face. “I assure you, your grace, no one is quite as silent and uptight as you while also managing to always be the bloody centre of attention.” Muttering that you didn’t try to do so or enjoy it, she shared a glance with Selyse. “You left Winterfell for almost seven moons and came back with a newborn son. Tell me, in what version of our world would that not make you the centre of attention?”

Your tone dropped, dry and as flat as one could manage without looking at either woman on your sides. “No one crowds around Jon this way.”

Mage again had the simple answer always right at the tip of her tongue. “He’s King. How many people would risk getting on his bad side by pestering him day in and out. That’s what he has you for.” Her and your mother both laughed when you so dryly thanked her for the compliment, but your eyes looked to Jon in the distance.

You never saw him truly as Lord Commander of the Nights Watch, but there was no doubt how he got there. He could laugh and joke with his people as much as he too could walk up and jump right into business and waste not their time nor his. He ruled a leader as if he were born to it, but was he? That was a mystery not even your gift of sight could answer, what intentions lay behind his birth truly. Thankful to all the gods, that Jons own son held a meaning straight forward. Born because his father and mother were in love, and tried to bring him into this world for love alone.

A far cry from a bastard boy born for a purpose never told to him nor understood. Yet you thought, the blood that preceded his birth was not so different then the blood shed after little Eddards. But the closer you came to seeing that blue eye and smooth voice with changing intentions, the more you would hold your son a little closer, a little tighter, and part of you wishing you could go to Jon to feel the same for you.

Jon had compared what Ramsay had done to you, to what Rhaegar Targaryean did to his mother, but Benjen Stark had compared what Euron planned to do to you with what Rhaegar Targaryean did to his sister. No matter which way you looked, the truth cold or burning in blood was doused with the same things. How many chances remained for you to escape Lyanna Starks fate? Twice now, it couldn’t be many more.

You could only hope you did not leave Jon to fight the winter storms alone when you did so.

You had vaguely noticed your mother seemingly making some form of gesture towards Jon as if to tell him something not long before finding your way up away from the crowed more onto the landings less busy above. Asking Maege to give you both a moment, with none but you both up there glancing down to the sights did she broach the topic.

Her voice low but with a purpose. “We won’t be able to hide him.” Your brows narrowed, hands gently adjusting the baby more comfortably against you as she took as a continuance. “He is biding his time by not bringing it up, and when he does he will use it to try and paint you as a traitor. You know as well as I do that he has either already figured it out, or knew he was here in the first place.” Asking what was she suggesting with a tightness in your throat, your mother took no personal slight of it. “I put him into hiding to protect him. He isn’t happy he’s been in the equivalent of a prison cell, but he’s been safe. But he won’t be safe for long if we let Lord Baelish dictate the narrative. We need to prepare for the inevitable.”

Low and careful, both of you were aware the full truth being talked around in case of any prying ears. “Are you suggesting I make him reveal himself in front of the court?” Your mother only lowly chastised that you know better then that, giving you the space to come up with the same solution. “I never brought him here for anything like that. Not for my own gain, not to undermine father, none of it. I brought him back here because if he’s with me I know he’s alive and safe. Whatever he wishes to paint me as for doing so to my people, that won’t change anything. Bastard born or not, he might be the only chance to keep the family line alive.”

Cutting through just as low, your mother made a point you had already long since considered. “Naming him legitimate will only cause further troubles between him and your father’s claim.”

Nodding, you glanced down to the still open but heavy hooded eyes of your son resting on your shoulder, hand still keeping strands of your hair close before looking back up to the courtyard. “Being related to the heir of the Iron Throne doesn’t always mean it will come down to that. If I went down to him right now and asked if he wanted it, he’d no doubt look at me as if I’m an idiot. If it weren’t for Arya, he wouldn’t want anything to do with highborns at all in the first place.” Glancing to your side, you caught the question ready to come out and put an end to it before it could form words in her mouth. “Don’t ask me, mother. I really do not wish to even consider a thing about that.”

The unexpected flat jest of words coming from your mother always continued to surprise you in your new times with her. “He’s also your blood. Meaning you know too well what men in this family can be like.” Nodding with a grimace, if you did not think about it you never had to imagine it. It was like attempting to consider Shireen ever having a crush on a boy, you wouldn’t care for them no matter how innocent or good willed they were. Shireen was younger then Arya was now when- but still you never could consider her getting older and being interested in boys.

Speaking up with an exasperation on your voice, it almost made your mother smile in amusement. “Seven hells, is this how you felt when I left for Kings Landing?”

If one could speak even more flat then before, your mother pulled it off without effort. “I felt that way since the day you returned home saying the two closest friends you made in this place were Lord Eddard’s sons.” Your eyes dragged narrow and almost bemused in question as her eyes trailed to the baby down to Jon. “You married one, and had a son with the other. I’m not so sure you can argue by worries were unfounded anymore.”

Not much of a refute could be found. Inhaling deeply, smothering a small smirk you looked back out to the courtyard changing the subject once more back to the more pressing matter. “He’s our blood, so you and I when the time comes have to protect him. We stop hiding him, Littlefinger will name him anyways when the time comes. But he’s our responsibility to keep safe. Ser Davos was the only one to protect him last time, but this time we need to protect him as a family.”

You didn’t need her verbal agreement to know she and you were on the same page. It was but a rare but growing sense of solidarity between mother and daughter not often found in your life, let alone with the woman who did truly birth you. You never had a true stable dynamic of a mother and father no matter which family you lived with, and you failed to keep safe those you loved in both. Three uncles dead, five Starks dead, your own sisters blood on your hands and those were only such direct family.

You couldn’t even consider the death in Kings Landing, what Joffery had done. How many were killed and how few you had ever known the names of. One still lived, but you knew the other. Little Barra ripped from her mothers arms and murdered in front of her, you dared not imagine her screams and cries being forced to watch. You hoped her screams and little Barra’s final cries haunted the ears of the gold cloaks who did it for the remainder of their lives.

There were less of you then there were Starks now, you had to protect what was left of you all, no matter against who or for what. The image of a tall blonde struck within your mind, but you shoved it away. A man as the Hound had not survived a fight with her, and you were none the warrior he was, but if it came down to it? No, you thought. What is here in front of you, handle that. Nothing more, not yet.

It was hardly any time later when the courtyard had become a scene of it’s own, only in different ways then the last two times the return of a Stark came through. You had remained out there for some time on your own, the air not freezing yet but cool enough that you felt the freshness in your lungs, the blanket around little Eddard snug against your front keeping him warm and sleepy, also adding to your yet unwillingness to move.

Some of the approaching riders had been expected, or more accurately, one had. But the guards familiar with those coming and going the more the gates were kept up and closed, the more they knew who was easily welcome. You hadn’t yet moved from your spot watching, the noise surely to come was not one that was conducive to keeping the little one relaxed against you, but the sight surely was one of interest in various ways.

As you had always seen him, a man of the Nights Watch, did Benjen Stark ride into the courtyard, the figure at the back of his horse one which, even at your great distance, did you hold the baby just the slightest bit tighter to your front. She had ropes around her wrists kept at her front with no fuss, and no fight in her eyes but one of a kind of defeat. But Benjen climbing off his horse, she didn’t make any move to climb off either, staying put knowing her fate well before coming here.

With him though, some additions to the company which you had not seen in some months, but the striking feeling inside that their own reunion was going to be a far less strainious one then that which surrounded most of his others in the past weeks. Men around familiar with both found an ease in greeting, especially for Benjen. This was his home, it still was no matter where his duties had come to lay in his life, and there was a degree of ease which could exist in him this way.

But still for now, you stayed put. Eyes trying not to stare at just one in particular.

Jon knew his uncle was set to arrive sometime soon, but the day hadn’t been set. Seeing him out there, and again at Castle Black, that was one thing. But as Jon stepped out into the cold of the courtyard by the main gate did he feel something odd, not so far from where they had last stood together in Winterfell but the circumstances so vastly different. That did not stop of course, the feeling of relief that he had made it.

A grin felt forming on Jons face, did he move, making way to greet his uncle. Though, not the only one with plans it seemed did another ride with him, with plans of his own. If his Uncle Benjen had seen this coming, the amusement derived from it was not any less substantial. The one thing too Jon knew, was that if being a King did not change one thing, it was how he was treated by his closest friends. Certainly in front of others, causing only more to laugh along side his uncle.

Within mere feet of embracing his uncle did Jon feel as if he had been thrown to the side by a great sized boulder. Though, this boulder moved more then the a normal one and was far more eccentric then nothing. With all his strength, Tormund had nearly tackled Jon as if he man was hiding just to take him off guard out of nowhere. Pulling him steady though, both felt that same relief from months of unknown since the last they saw one another.

Were the Jon from years ago to look forward and see he and Tormund greeting again, grasping the other by the arm with a genuine feeling of missing the other, he’d have not a clue what life was in store for him. But it was, and without any bother of formality did Tormund not hold back. “My little crow. Was starting to think we had lost you.”

Sighing out with a nod, letting the memories to accompany that truth sit free Jon could barley get out, “Almost.”

A proper hug shared between both of them, did Tormund have the decency to let Jon address the bigger issue nearby. Though, what he understood of the situation, Jon did not yet know but no doubt would be telling the man in great detail come nightfall.

Jon and Benjen greeting each other much the same albeit less forceful, did he hold Jon by the arm turning towards where she sat on the horse. “Yara.” She barley gave any indicator of return, but Jon did not blame her. There was no hiding what she was here because of. He could register her own slipping upwards and flickering around as if seeking something but not yet finding it.

Benjen getting more to business out of the way, “What should we do with her?”

Glancing back over, Jon thought for a moment but knew whatever he did was only temporary, there was far more behind the simplicity of others within the cells down below then her. “Put her in one of the isolated cells away from the rest.” Looking to Yara and back. “Until I figure out what to do with her long term.” Many he knew would just say to execute her and be done with it, but Jon was aware again, there was much more going on.

And judging by the approaching voice, firm and projecting without any doubt did whatever guilt sat in Yara visibly begin to eat away at her. “I’ll take her.” Jon nodded, and one returning from Theon there was not the animosity he once feared. He had told Theon the truth, all of the truth of what happened, including Jon being the one to kill his uncle, but Theon had come to a conclusion after much thought. Saying that Jon was the one who told him he was a Greyjoy and a Stark, that one family tried to hurt the other on purpose instead of in defence. That there was no question about what was right there, no matter how genuinely Jon tried to place responsibility on his own shoulders.

Yara’s voice was the hint of mocking it had been for much of what Jon knew of her, and yet something so distant it sounded like it almost was meant to torment herself with it and not others. “Brother.”

Theon’s short answer as he helped her down to her feet, but keeping a not so kind hold on her still tied up person, was a bit cold. But that was between them, not for Jon to judge. “Let’s go. Not keeping you out here to make a scene.” If Theon caught it, Jon didn’t know, but he certainly did. The ever so subtle glance she took upwards finally.

Jon following her eyeline, did he spot you higher on the landings, the baby held high on your person in your arms with narrowed eyes looking down. Unblinking but not with the confidence that Theon or Jon would’ve, but with a hesitation and weariness that flared something up within him to go to you, no matter what else he had to handle here and now. Yara said not a word to you, nor you even doing anything but watching and following her retreating figure until she was out of sight. Only then did Jon see you look down to the baby, and disappear into the warmth of the castle finally.

Whatever he did with Yara, Jon wasn’t about to give her the kind of freedom Theon had the right too all those years ago. This was different, had any one of Yara, Victarion, or even Eurons men succeeded, Jon would’ve been desperately planning a war all of his own choosing to get you back, and there was no room to doubt if she played an integral role in almost allowing that. What she did to help him and you after was one, but nothing could be easily forgiven to a wolf almost having his mate taken from he and his son.

A son, it seemed, Benjen had told Tormund about. An arm wrapping around his shoulders, Tormund tugged Jon into his side as they both watched where you had been seconds before. Rumbling low but with a tease so thick one could grasp it in their hands he started already. “Do you want to tell me how the fuck you went out there with her alone, and came back a daddy?”

Jons eyes only looked, a bit darker to Benjen, clearly hiding a very poorly covered up smirk, his defence as unbelievable as was his false attempt to look casual over it. “I didn’t say anything he wouldn’t find out about eventually. Not my fault you never open up.”

Cracking out from Jon almost without a single thought, was his tone dry. “Coming from you.”

Both had a laugh, but Jons attention drawn back to the large man at his side guiding him towards the door inside. “Come on, you can do all your noble shit later. I’m going to need every detail about how the fuck you two have a newborn.” Jon jesting back he assumed Tormund knew how that process worked only had a grunt leaving Tormund in place of a laugh. “Trust me, little crow, I do. You and your girl had been married what? A few months before you put a baby in her and my daughter’s sack of shit husband can’t even get anywhere near doing the same after two fucking years. What’s the point in calling him Longspear if he can’t even use it for the one reason he’s got it?”

If Jon did miss one thing, it was the easy manner Tormund had about almost anything he could speak his mind on. And in the current days where he was surrounded by having to watch what he says and did for the various spying eyes, it was a breath of fresh air he desperately needed.

The opposite side was the truly that, opposite. An unforgiving contrast as one did not know what to say and the other wanted her to say nothing. Theon guided his sister down into one of the isolated cells of the dungeon, releasing her restraints, but the moment she tried, “Theon-” Did he close the locking bars behind her and turned without a seconds thought. “Theon, please, just listen to me-”

Cutting her off with a yell, he didn’t even turn back or stop walking away. “What did you do?” He knew but he wanted her to say it. But the answer was so much less then what he deserved to be told.

“Almost something very bad.”

The echo of the door closing behind him was painful as she stood alone in the cell, but then the guilt set in. She wouldn’t have come and gone without any fight had she not understood her crimes were no ones to answer for but hers. Theon knew it too, but even worse, Yara had almost done it to the one person who acted like the sister she should’ve been to him.

Yara hadn’t done a thing to earn that loyalty, and had not a clue if she could ever recover at this point.

But sisters in one way or another, with what she had done it was you who had every reason to be checked if you were alright. But you sought out Theon, you cared about how he felt here, not to be coddled when you weren’t the one with a family so tormenting as the Greyjoys.

It was frustrating, the degree to which you were not one who could sneak about this castle. Even up on the cold of the battlements, you still were not the one to speak first unseen or unknown. “I’ll tell you the same thing I said to Jon when he told me the truth.” Pausing mid step, your gloved hand braced against the wooden door frame open to the high winds, Theon leaning against the edge looking out to the wintery sight below as he continued, but not with any anger in his tone. “Two of my uncles hunted you both down all the way north of the Wall, trying to kill him so they both could try and separately kidnap you. And the first thing you both want to do is apologize for? For what?”

You hadn’t expected the swiftness he turned to look at you, the narrowing in his eyes challenging what he knew you had come to say. Mouth opening then closing more then once, you swallowed down the uncertainty in how the air suddenly moved and pushed out into the cold more, the firm coverings of the baby keeping him well protected now both kept covered and tucked away close within the warmth of the fur cloak around you both with many feet still between you and Theon. “For your sister, for what happened to Vi-”

Theon almost scoffed, looking at you almost as if about to call you an idiot and his tone backed up the emerging theory. “Jon killed my uncle, because he and my sister tried to kill him. Because they had their men already kidnap you. All because my other uncle ordered them too. Why should either of you be sorry for that?”

Baffled almost by how much he was willing to dismiss what occurred, you did not understand. “Theon-”

He however, had much he understood and thus subsequently a significant amount to say. “Jon told me. The day after you lot got back, he told me what happened himself. He killed my uncle and so he took responsibility for that and my sister. Didn’t leave anything out, wanted me to know exactly what he did because it was my blood he did it too. Then, this afternoon does Benjen Stark show up with my sister as a prisoner with him. So I asked her what she did, and do you know how much she told me?”

You shook your head no, and the answer Theon gave of what she said in response to being asked what did she do, you perhaps had understood the anger here was not directed where you had come to apologize for. “All she said, was that she almost did something very bad. Nothing else. Just that. As if that tells me anything. Jon told me everything, and you were about to apologize for everything.”

Shaking his head, jaw twitching in frustration he looked back out to the cold sight of the wolfswood. Stepping closer, standing beside him with a safe distance from his uncertain demeanour to your quiet voice. “Neither Jon nor I want you to simply accept what happened-”

The scoff bordered on a mocking laugh but towards himself. “I don’t. I’m angry. Jon killed my uncle, because he tried to kill him. My sisters a prisoner, because she tried to kill him too. And all of it happened, because for some bloody reason, Euron wanted you.” Your eyes blinked heavily as if to shoo away the heavy sting of reminder. You had yet to go back to the connection so blatantly made now, you weren’t at all ready for that. So, you stood allowing Theon to speak. “Yara, Victarion, even Euron. They’re my blood, but if I was going to chose them over you I would have long before now. So don’t do what Jon did. Don’t apologize for it.”

A heavy nod, you did not say much else if only out of a lack of knowing what response was appropriate to the strange state he was in. You too, had a feeling Theon was being far more blunt about it with you, then he would have been to Jon. Theon had little qualm about informing you when he thought you were being daft or stubborn, so you thought to give no more reason to garner another lecture about it.

The snow falling against the ground was gentle for once, and the light still bright in the sky above spoke that if would not last much longer, leaving a fresh untouched coat to shine in the moonlight as dark would soon encroach. In the cold winds bringing it, it stung against your cheeks but otherwise well hidden in layers and fur, you were much more quipped to stand out here in this way then years prior in little on purpose.

When anything came into the air again, it was a question which sunk down your throat to strangle you from within. “Only thing Jon wouldn’t answer me was, what does Euron even want with you in the first place?”

All the answers, but that you still did not know. Your shrug registered to the side of his vision just enough it needn’t not require elaboration. The scoff was not directed towards you, but a terrifyingly blue eye was behind your eyes making you feel, for once, as if he was too close. It was uncomfortable, what you knew from dreams and visions and yet now the differences which made his identity not clear, were also similarities detectable in Theon beside you.

The smallest of mannerisms likely all Greyjoys shared, and a despising feeling festered in your gut at the strangers audacity to share it with Theon of all people. Too you knew, it was still difficult giving him a name, as if speaking it even in the private of your mind would bring him back into your world and take what he wanted, no matter what that extended to possibly being.

Theon asked another question, “How did he even know you two were all the way out there or where to tell the others to find you both?” Within a single flash in front of you, it was as if the eagle flew by your very face as his caw screeched in your ear. You knew, but you didn’t want too. Jon was right, a mind more then just a bird existed within the eagle, but it no longer was the mind of a man Jon killed.

Somewhere, somehow, it was overpowered by someone much more terrifying then a man named Orell could have conceived of being. “You’ve been through this part before.” The glee in his voice and shine in his eye as he realized you would not fight against his strength on top of you. He had recognized what someone like Ramsay had done to you, and it only served to excite him more. As if he had just learned, he wouldn’t even need to take time like Ramsay had to, to break you in.

You dared not tell Jon about that part. Though part of you wondered, if you didn’t need too. A Greyjoy already once broke your personal secrets, and told the truth of horrors done to you, to Jon. Neither said it was Theon or what he told him, but you had a feeling Theon sometime between arriving at the Nightfort and the night you learned you were with child, did he tell Jon some of what you spent months hiding from him.

You had little doubt, should this Euron find his way into your life here, he’d speak of what he almost did as well. But unlike Theon, it would be far more like Ramsay. Taunting you in front of Jon for what he refused to say he had done, but enough to anger the White Wolf into something blindingly red and rageful. Surrounded by men using their usage of you, to torment Jon solely because they felt the better men by doing so.

No, you did not wish for Jon to know about that dream just yet. Considering you could see the upturned gaze of Ghosts eyes from down in the courtyard below, Jon was not joking about not letting you out of his sight. If you told him the truth about this one, you may never leave Jon or Ghosts side ever again.

Theon at the least, did not need solid answers to connect much of that on his own without even a sliver of the extending detail you withheld from everyone else. “My uncle died trying to bring you to Euron. And after everything Ramsay did, if stopping all that from happening to you again at the hands of my uncle meant Victarions life? I’d have killed him myself.” You said nothing, not did he need you too. “Yara’s my sister, but I barley knew her. Even before. Then I came back, and..” Theon took a moment, and still you did not speak of what she told you. That day was not yours to intrude on, it was his no matter how much he had told you of it, the second night of your return. “You’re the sister I chose. So you and Jon need to stop trying to pretend like you two have shit to apologize to me for. You don’t. Neither of you do.”

All you could muster was a simple ask. “You didn’t ask her anything else?”

Theon however, gave once more that laugh as if speaking to you like about to call you an idiot. “If I had something to say to her, I’d have done it when she tried begging me to come back to Pyke last year. But I didn’t then, sure as hell don’t now.” Only for another moment did quiet sit between, when as his usual, did Theon find a way to drag out the easily amused side of you in an instant. “Remember when we first met? And I called you a contentious bitch?”

With a dry quickness, it would’ve taken many off guard at the language coming from your mouth were it not Theon. “I believe the phrase you used was contentious cunt, actually. Bitch was the word you used when trying to talk your way out of Lord Stark getting you into trouble.”

The laugh Theon let out was low and mostly breathy, but you joined too. Both looking out to Winterfell as if strangers to that life before. “Right, and I remember it not working. If I didn’t hate you enough already, the man treated you like his daughter.” His mind almost connecting names one to the other, looked more down at you with a narrowed question in his eyes. “Speaking of, how long have you been back and yours hasn’t come to meet his grandson?”

Nodding down to your alone person, you shrugged a shoulder with an ease in your gaze. “Sons are a touchy subject within my family. I don’t really know how much to blame my father for not knowing what to say, even in writing. Not good at communicating the members of my family are.”

“I’ll say.”

Your mouth fell open in offence in an instant as you looked at him incredulously. His shrug of bemused indifference only caused you to lean over and shove at his side with yours, much like a child. All alone, was the only time Theon ever considered returning the gesture. The baby being his only cited reason why he didn’t retaliate, it once more became easy to forget that somehow, some way, he was so closely related to the growing phantom haunting your dreams.

“You let him take a pregnant woman all the way out there?”

Jons elbow was propped up against the table they all sat around, hand pinching the bridge of his nose as his face twisted in frustration. It has so far, been a constant debate about this. About what he had done and if it was right regardless of what he had to do. He wasn’t happy or proud of himself for it, but it had to be done and explaining that to his own companions over and over was getting to be an exhausting ordeal.

On the other end, Sam and Tormund were actually both on the same sides just with vastly different ways of explaining themselves. Gesturing to Jon, who had been silent for some time now, Sam raised his voice in his own defence. “You try telling him he can’t do something once he’s made his mind up. What was I supposed to do? Stand in front of his horse and tell him no? Because I tried that before and he knocked me to the ground.”

Jon only moved his hand enough to take a long, bitter sip of the ale in front of him before letting it thud to the wooden table. Hand that time pressing more against his forehead before letting it run the length of his face. He didn’t even need to say anything, Tormund piped up right away. “He couldn’t wait a few more moons for the baby to be born before running off to get himself killed?”

Why Sam and Tormund of all people were arguing as if they disagreed on the matter, Jon had no idea but they went back and forth regardless. Glancing over to the living quarters where he knew Sam and Gilly slept, part of him wished he told her and little Sam to stay. Maybe they wouldn’t be going in so hard on him were the two of them still there. Enough time had passed that little Sam had grown big enough that he could sit on someones lap all on his own, and it never failed to make Jon smile that the toddler could look at Jon and feel comfortable enough to do so without even asking.

Though, Jon was fully aware that could fall under the possibility of him using little Sam as a shield during this conversation. But Gilly took the both of them to find you, recognizing the three seemed to have things to talk about that Jon didn’t necessarily think appropriate in front of her. The discussion apparently, had continued around him.

“I still don’t understand why you had to bring her, and not ask Edd to give you rangers used to being out there to come with you.” Tormund piping up to include himself and his own people in that scenario when Jon had his fill of being quiet.

Voice raising to something slightly more stern, both recognized the frustration behind it. “If I could’ve left her behind, I would’ve. I didn’t want her out there, I didn’t want her near anything out there but I had to. There was no choice.” Sam softened a bit, moreso recognizing that gloss over his eyes which always seemed to come about in pain of mentioning you. Tormund though, Jon knew understood possibly more then Sam what the things out there were Jon didn’t want you near. “She was barley two months, if I waited until our son was born then you’re asking me to abandon my wife and newborn child and I wasn’t-”

Cutting himself off, he refused to allow the thought to come forward. That was not an option, allowing you the comfort of having your entire pregnancy and labour here where it belonged to happen, only to leave and possibly never come back right away. That wasn’t even what his father did to his wife. His father had gotten Lady Catelyn pregnant right before leaving for war, he probably didn’t even realize until the end he was to have a son when he came back. This was asking Jon to go through the whole nine months with you, be there when you gave birth with the proper care and comfort midwives and a maester could provide you with, and hold his son his arms before leaving you both behind.

He could leave right now and find you, but still, the thought of doing that made Jon feel ill. The thought that he would miss these first precious weeks. Waking up over and over because his son needed something, gently shushing you into not waking up unless the baby needed feeding. Getting you ready in the morning the way he liked, working with you to dress the baby before getting to be the one to wrap him around your person to keep the baby attached to your front. Miss watching you feed little Eddard from your own breast because you refused to let the wet nurse anywhere near him? Feeding the baby had a routine, even when Jon wasn’t there he knew the routine by heart.

He could still recall one night out there, before reaching the Wall, everyone had settled in camp for the night as you had to feed the baby. Just at the very end of gently burping him did just the slightest bit of spit up come out from such a small thing, and the only reaction you both had was to laugh gently. Jon cleaning you without a second thought as you cleaned little Eddards mouth and soothed him gently in your arms before the sensation of it coming up upset him. Naturally by the time you had just let your head fall on Jons shoulder to sleep, did he decide he needed to be fed again because he spit up half of what he ate an hour prior.

If he thought about it, he could still see the way the others tried to pretend they weren’t watching. The way Bran and Benjen both looked at him almost in an awe of what Jon of all people had now, what his life looked like after being separate from them for years. He could see the way Meera glanced between you both and Bran and Benjen. The hiding of a sadness mixed with envy in her eyes as she wrapped her arms around her knees and gazed back into the fire. He knew the feeling of loss in her but too the feeling of being surrounded by family and being all alone.

Yara was too, but Jon knew Meera was almost more hostile towards the Greyjoy then Bran was. Jon has asked her about it, and she explained it almost a bit ashamed. She knew Bran had more of a reason to distrust her, considering that the Greyjoys never actually managed to take anything in Greywater Watch because of how difficult the lands were and as she put it, “Our Keep always moves.” But she also said that she didn’t know much of Euron Greyjoy, but she knew enough that anyone who had tried to help him take you was as bad as him. And separating a father and newborn son from a mother who just gave birth was nothing short of evil.

His voice more of a husk as he pulled himself back by a force into the present discussion. “The plan was to get her home before she gave birth. I never planned to keep her out there and force her to-” The second cut off for himself Jon downed an even more bitter amount which spoke volumes of how he struggled to discuss this the further he had to think of the night.

Tormund gestured to Sam with the mug in hand, “Your girl gave birth out there too, right?” Sam confirmed she did, but did add that in a fairness, she had her sisters all with her and she gave birth at home in her fathers Keep. That Gilly had to raise her son the first months out in the outside North, but she gave birth at home with family. “What about her man, where was he?”

The look Sam and Jon shared, a thought all who knew despised discussing, but Jon took the reigns for Sams sake. Putting it as bluntly as possible, knowing a man like Tormund no doubt wouldn’t need an elaboration on what it meant. “Gilly was one of Crasters wives.”

The laugh the man let out, a single sound almost in a disbelief as something powerful took over like speaking on a long since piece of gossip. “That dirty daughter fucker?” Jon nodded with a look of disgust partially falling over it as it would for many, but Tormund continued. “That crow lover who gave up his own sons to those things?”

Jon and Sam perked up in a moment, the former asking, “You knew about that?”

Tormund nodded. “I knew it, because Mance knew it. Anyone who was anyone knew Craster was giving his sons up to those things, as if fucking your own daughters wasn’t shit enough.” Shaking his head as that more serious wave hit him, Jon knew again that Tormund was well aware that was not just any strange choice the man made one day. “No one knew why, we just knew he did it. You managed to not only woo one of his girls, but took her for yourself? You’ve got more balls then I gave you credit for, Tarly.”

Jon could almost smirk. He wasn’t wrong, Sam was indeed far braver then his father ever saw in him that was certain. For a moment, he almost could hope it wouldn’t come back around, only the talk of Sam and Gilly did not last long. Sam of course, was the prime culprit as he brought you back up. “Jon had to be the one to deliver the baby himself, all on his own.”

Asking if he knew anything about delivering a baby, Jon could only gruff out not much, as Tormund looked at him more seriously, regardless if Jons eyes were glued to a spot of nothing on the table. “Women where I’m from are tough, you know that. But even the best of them have more then enough people around when they give birth. Woman in the clans I grew up in, they go into labour on their own, the men all get their asses up and either move her somewhere with help, or go out and drag help to her. We don’t have your medicine and maesters, but women still all work together when it comes to it. But you two doing it on your own?”

Jon interrupted, that same dark feeling in the put of his stomach of a horrible few hours returning to the surface as it reflected in the way his face twisted. “I delivered the baby, but she was alone.” Neither man said a word. “Something was wrong and she was in so much pain.” Jon finished off whatever was left in the mug as Tormund didn’t hesitate to refill it for him. “I know it hurts but something was wrong that night. I couldn’t comfort her, or even help her. I had to let her suffer through it like torture all alone because I had to focus on the baby.” That darkness that time fell so much closer to a burning self hatred. “We didn’t do it together. I was right there, but I still made her do it all alone. I never would’ve made her go out there if I knew that’s how she was going to give birth. In a cave hundreds of miles from home all alone, screaming in so much pain she genuinely couldn’t even speak. I never wanted that for her.”

Let alone what came after he thought. All the way he dragged you through and back in such harsh, freezing lands, what you both found when you got there...He knew some people would never understand why Jon brought you knowing you were pregnant, but no one hated it more then Jon hated himself for it. Sam finally asked what he hadn’t yet, what he wasn’t sure Jon was ready to say. “So why did you? You said you had no choice, what left you with no choice but to bring her?”

Out of everything they had known of you, of what lurked out there, Jon knew they had not prepared for the answer he gave them. “Because they demanded it.” Tormund asked who, but he knew. “The Others. One of them wanted me to come all the way out there, go to their lands, and they demanded I bring her. They wanted to see her for themselves.” Again the ask of why, but spoken by Sam that time. It took Jon a good long moment of silence to say a word again, but he knew the answer had left out details they’d have no possible way of connecting on their own. “Because she was pregnant with my child.” His own emphasis on the fact that is was his child specifically, not at all the implication of her being pregnant in general.

Tormund asked how they would’ve known that, but Jon had no idea truly. That wasn’t a question of priority by then. Sam however, had the real question with the real answer Jon didn’t know how to go into. “You’ve fought them, you’ve killed them. Maybe they called you out there the same way Lords on opposite sides of a war can sit down and discuss terms, when the solider are all still out there killing each other. But what would be so important about meeting the woman whose carrying your baby to them?”

Jon learned too much, if he couldn’t comprehend it in his own thoughts, how was he supposed to explain it to anyone else? That wouldn’t help them, that wouldn’t prepare them, it was something to haunt few and stay secret. Like it had done so for thousands of years, Jon could only wonder through where did that knowledge stop? Which was the last to know that truth, and why not pass it down? Why leave the rest of them in the dark to it all?

Interjecting into the silence, Tormund asked, “If they wanted her to come with you, why attack her? You said she was attacked by wights twice out there. Why attack her if she was so important?”

Summarizing, Jon was aware they sensed he was talking around something, not to hide, but as if attempting to find the right way to speak it into existence. “It’s like Sam said. The wights are just soldiers, and soldiers don’t know the difference between whose important whose not. They just attack the enemy like their told.”

“The first time sure, but you said they attacked her twice. How many were there the second time around? Six? Seven if you count the baby. Nine adding in those wolves of yours. Why attack only her the second time?”

Opening and closing his mouth, Jon was physically stalling from saying anything further when a stroke of luck granted his struggling mind a mercy. The door opened and there was no better time to interrupt then that very moment. Before that though, the trail followed to get to that opening door was not filled with a path full of nothing of importance.

As you made your silent way down the halls of the crypts, you had the worry festering in the back of your mind that you had no right to invade on his privacy down here.

You did not know him the way his nieces and nephews did, but you could not shake that feeling of a long forgotten care that you had not experienced in years until the night he rescued you from the Ironborn. Your intention was to be as quiet as possible, but little Eddard had a mouth of his own and seeing his mother so tense and quiet for so long had drawn him out to make a small babble as if to grab your attention and cheer you up.

Within an instant, your feet stopped where you stood and a tight, closed lipped smile came over as you breathed a little laugh through your nose at the timing. Turning his head, Benjen Stark looked over to you with his brows raised in an amusement, not hesitating to speak up and break that uncertain silence. “I assume you meant to be more quiet then he let you?” A nod of yes, he reached a gloved hand out, waving you over. “Come closer at least then, I know it echos but there’s no need to shout.”

Coming within a foot or so, he laughed to himself saying wolves don’t always bite, indicating your needless gap as he, almost in a manner like Robb or Jon, just tugged you closer in a comfortable manner, with a more tender grasp not to jostle the little one. “I didn’t want to intrude I know I shouldn’t be down-”

Benjen did not even allow you the chance of finishing. “You’re family. You do belong down here.” Biting your tongue, your eyes cast downwards as you stood next to him for a moment. The firm way he said it without hesitation, still it felt strange of a thing to allow. Calling you family. It was odd when Jon said it to you the day you both stood down here to bury Rickon, and it still felt odd now.

It seemed in his journey, he hadn’t actually gotten very far. Beside where you stood was the statue tall and stern of what you had assumed was Lord Rickard Stark, which meant the large statue before you, even in stone radiating a dashing charm as beside him too was that of his brother, the tomb Benjen had been visiting as you approached was that of Brandon Stark, the one eldest of the previous generation of Stark siblings.

Much like Robb, murdered horrifically far before their time, but unlike Robb, got to rest here memorialized in stone as he deserved. You dared not look at the empty tomb a statue of Robb with the loyal Greywind deserved to stand. A statue would be pointless. There was nothing to bury. An echo of a resting place Robb will never have. At least you thought, Brandon could be visited. No one visited Robb but the carrion crows whom picked apart what the Freys did not desecrate of his body, and the maggots which laid rest the rot left behind until only bones were scattered to the wind.

A low rasp just like Jon though, muttered through with a careful respect through the only flickering sounds of torch flames along the walls. “I was only a boy the last time I saw most of them. Thirteen years old. Brandon was getting ready to marry Cat, so most everyone was down south. I wanted to go, but my father told me what he always told us. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. So I stayed here, and for a long time, I didn’t understand why none of them came back. I didn’t even know Lyanna had been taken until I learned my father and brother were murdered by the Mad King.”

Your eyes looked up to the statue of a man with the reputation of being both hot blooded and dashing, yet again, a feeling deep within you of how much your mind forced you to not look to where the tomb of Robb did not rest.

Benjen continued, the understanding that your silence was not of an awkwardness, but that of a respect to allow him to get out what he needed in his time. It was the same you knew with Jon, let him say it at his own pace or he may never go back to the topic. “It’s not easy to handle. Spending a year not knowing what was happening. The war started with my father and brother dead, and ended with my sister dead. Ned came home suddenly the head of the entire family, with a wife and two sons of his own. I probably had just had my fifteenth nameday when I left. Robb had just turned one, Jon hadn’t even reached that yet. But I left. Ned had a whole new life to figure out and I just couldn’t see where I belonged in that yet.”

Only one question in prompt, your voice was as much of a whisper as could be. “Why the Nights Watch?”

You had heard his answer many times, it felt as it if was the one ingrained in the heads of each member his family. “The Starks have manned the Wall for thousands of years.” With a pause he found the real answer. “A year before the war, the tourney of Harrenhal, I met a brother of the Nights Watch, told me he travelled the Seven Kingdoms looking for recruits, and it was the first time I had someone able to tell me about what they did, what it was all for. He told me the vow, the one we all swear the night of our initiation. Out of everything he said, I never forget one part. The shield that guards the realm of men. After the realm took away almost everything I had, it felt more important then ever, finding a purpose to guard what was left.” His eyes glanced to you, flickering down to the brighter wide eyes of the baby, now looking up at his back.

Catching the exchange, the curious bright eyed look was so striking as little Eddard looked up at him. “Do you want to hold him?” The very second you even slightly shifted him, did the baby make a protesting noise, turning to hide into you again, causing both you and Benjen to laugh. Running a hand over his head, your voice was a soothing lull towards him. “Come on now, you’ve met him before.”

Slowly turning to face him a little better, Benjen moved just as slow to not startle him. The chuckle still present on his tongue though. “He’s more shy then I last saw him.”

Prompting the baby to look more at Benjen again, those bright eyes shined a smaller flash of familiarity, a small coo of question leaving as the baby looked back up to you who nodded with a smile, resting your head at the side of his with a playful whisper just for him. “See, you’ve met Benjen before, you’re safe with him.” A little hand reached out just barley, causing Benjen in return to pull his gloves off, giving him a small grasp of his own hand as if letting an animal sniff them before accepting anything. Your voice speaking back that time to the man himself, “He’s had a busy week. Presenting him to the Lords and Ladies only meant suddenly everybody wishes to come close or try and hold him, it’s been a bit overwhelming.”

Finally little Eddard allowed Benjen to take him, keeping him held carefully in his arms with a smile, patient to receive one from the baby right back as you both stood there. “You got bigger.” Little Eddard hadn’t made any noise, but not shying away from him was a better sign that he was beginning to remember who this was. Changing the subject swiftly, you suspected he had taken advantage of the easier state you had fallen into for honesty. “Tell me something, what’s all the fighting I’ve heard about between my nephew and niece?”

He did not need to elaborate, it was painfully obvious what he meant, but the truth was of no use hiding. Arms crossing over your front, you glanced towards the statue in front of you once more as if using a distraction. “Petyr Baelish brought her here under the assumption that because Robb was gone without..and not knowing Bran was even alive, it would mean Robb’s crown would pass to her.” Benjen specifying the obvious that it wasn’t as it to prompt you further. “No.”

It was almost easier to explain to Benjen then it had been when more then one Stark so directly involved in the issue was looking at you intently the first time, and never once did he find himself disagreeing. “Good. Never liked the Lannisters, never trusted them. Robb taking away any chance of them getting the North was the right thing to do.” Muttering quietly that Sansa did not make it easy to remember that, Benjen was straightforward about it in a way it seemed he could sense you needed to hear. “She didn’t choose to marry him, but she still did. By law, she’s a Lannister if she likes it or not. You give those yellow haired pricks even an inch to try and take this place, they’ll run with it. My nephew didn’t disinherit her from the family, just his line of succession. There’s worse things to come home to then just no crown. I thought she’d understand that.”

“She should. Or does. But Sansa isn’t the problem, and she’s not the one who will kill to get what he wants.” Meeting your glance, there was only one question on Benjen’s mind and you were grateful to be down in the crypts as you spoke it. “Actually, I came down here to ask you something.”

Asking what, you could see where Ned Stark rested from here, and maybe you thought, it was time he heard the full story too. That is, before everyone else will. One thing at a time, and right now, that one thing was drawing closer and closer to the forefront of what to deal with.

Jon, Bran, Benjen, all of you had different pieces of a story with intentions to come together and put it all together to find a conclusion before it was too late. Petyr Baelish however, needed everyone with their separate sides to stay apart to keep everyone else but him in the dark. But that was why he tried to have you killed after all. Not for Sansa’s claim, not for anything for anyone but himself. You needed to act now, because you and Littlefinger both knew you were the only one aside from him who could pin more on him then he ever had previously thought possible. Or at least, that’s what Jon was now banking on him thinking. Afterall, everyone else was either loyal to him, or was too scared of him to betray that loyalty.

“Don’t admit anything, don’t say anything. He might do whatever he can do divert attention from himself, and you are the best way he could try.”

Asking in a frustration as he walked beside you, the most he complained he had stretched his legs in a week or something close to that. “So why bring me out there, huh? Why go all this trouble to hide me when none of it matters?”

Your eyes tore to the side at Gendry in a firmness and not any hint you were not being extremely serious about this. “The less we could keep you in his attention the better, but he still knows of you and no doubt heard you were here because of me. If you corner an animal enough, they will find the one way they can to bite back and knowing I know who you are and have not said anything about it means he could try and use that as his only way out.” Asking what that has to do with showing his face, you almost snapped interrupting him. “I kept you hidden here for your safety, my mother hid you for your own safety, I will not have him using me hiding you from my own people as proof I am keeping you secret for my own gain.”

You were likely, the most nervous of all of them. Jon had told you he was handling this, and you knew and trusted him, but it did not change how much you were to be at the centre of both. Of what accusation the crime towards him was to be, and what Littlefinger could point to you for in desperation when he finally realized how cornered he had made himself. Perhaps you had felt too similar to last time.

Secrets behind you that were legitimate and fair, and how easily they could be spun into painting you as a traitor, how quickly situations could turn on you. No matter how much you told yourself to trust Jon, you still could feel it. You worried you were all rushing into this, but Jon had reminded you. How often did you think you had more time then you did, only to realize the enemy still cut that time even shorter out of nowhere?

Jon had put it plainly, as long as he thinks he has Sansa on his side he will stay, but as soon as he realizes he doesn’t have the hold on her he thought he did, he has no reason to stay and everything he’s done he will get away with the moment he leaves the North. Something Jon would not let happen.

You could see Arya’s eyes dart over wide and in question the moment you appeared in the main hall with Gendry, but both of you only made your way to where Selyse was standing off to the side, when coming up behind you, was a warm and low voice in your ear all of the sudden. Jons hand on your lower back with a quick ask, “Where’s the baby?” Telling him with Gilly, you could see a little less tensity in Jons eyes when you looked up to him. Keeping him with only those you knew to trust right here and now until it was dealt with. Looking to Gendry then yourself, he was less gentle in a single switch of breath when not directed towards you alone. “Whatever happens, don’t do or say anything if he brings it up. He’ll take any chance to get himself out of this, and he’ll use you two to do it.”

Your mother was the only one with a voice it seemed out of the three of you. “Are you sure we aren’t rushing into this?”

Grey eyes flickering to where Sansa and Arya up behind the main table pretending to look as casual as possible, then to where Bran sat at the tables end. Both he and Meera standing behind him giving him a nod with more confidence then you still felt.

Looking up to him, it was clear Jon held no waver in his eyes. A look something flying before your eyes, was just as sure as Ned Stark stood in the throne room declaring Joffery had to claim. If Jon could read your hesitation, he did not encourage it with any words. “He’s had years to try and plan this, to try and manipulate my sister against me. I’m not waiting to see which member of my family he tries to have killed next to act.”

Guiding you with him up to where you both sat in the meeting hall, Jon was no less serious but something soothing waved up your spine like a shiver as he murmured into your ear again. “I need you to trust me.” Quickly whispering at you always will, Jon pressed a kiss to the side of your head. Hand slipping up to the back of your neck almost in a massaging manner. “We can’t wait any longer, he’ll run the moment he realizes he doesn’t have Sansa on his side anymore and I’m not letting another person who hurt the people I love get away with it.”

Where she would sit beside him, Jon much more even toned asked Sansa if she had it, only to be directed with a brighter look in her eye to Arya beside her. “Arya has it. I knew where it was, but I’m no thief-” Arya glaring up at her arguing she wasn’t either, but the mocking tone of her older sister was far less aggressive then it would’ve been years ago. “Okay I’m less of a thief then you are, happy? It’s supposed to be a compliment.”

“Well you’re still bad at them.”

Jon ignored both of them, moving passed and kneeling more down to his brother, a hand cupping the side of his head. “Are you sure you want to be here for this? All of this? No one will blame you for not wanting to hear about what happened.”

Just as confident as Jon was walking into this though, both brothers held the same certainty, as did the confidence of Meera behind him. “I’m staying. No one’s ever told me the whole truth about that night anyways, good time as any to learn it.” Jon only pulled his brother closer, a small kiss left to his forehead before looking up to Meera, firmly telling her not to hesitate to get him out if it’s too much. “Jon, I’ll be fine.”

Nails tapping at the top of your own chair, you hadn’t even noticed when Jon made his way back to you. “I’d ask if you’re sure you’re ready to do this, but I know the answer is no.” A huff of a laugh left you, not quite reaching your eyes when he turned you to look up at him, the hand on your cheek just barley letting his thumb run over the skin he could reach. A whisper asking once more, if he was sure he wasn’t rushing into this, but Jon nodded. “We might be, but we have to do this, and it has to be now.”

He knew you did not doubt him, but the plan was made so swiftly that you struggled to come to terms with it all, almost a complete opposite of whom you were the last making such grand claims at the side of a Stark. Nothing of that confident highborn girl you were now that you stood as a Queen. “I don’t mean to question you-”

Tilting you up to meet his eyes closer, Jon kept you looking at the brightness of his eyes. Wide and grey as if entrancing you to calm by their very nature. “I’ve been planning this long before he got here, and I’m not letting him leave here until we handle this. I’m not letting him leave period. Not after everything he’s done, what he’s been trying to do. I’m not asking you to stop being worried, I’m only asking you trust me.”

One hand of yours reached up, sitting higher on his chest as Jon almost uncharacteristically grasped it gentle holding it against his chest uncaring of the public nature the affection looked for once. “I trust you.”

“That’s all I’m asking.” Nodding, Jon pulled you by the back of your hair close, that time the press of his lips to your forehead was followed by gently tilting your head just enough to leave another on the bridge of your nose. “I told you, I’m protecting you from now on. This is part of that.” Hardly a voice existed as you spoke only for his ears, a worry of what if he still had some of his own, but again, the confidence and calm in Jon was the one thing keeping you from seeing the betrayal so swiftly forced upon you so many years ago. “Darling.”

Dropping your head with a sigh, Jon let a grin sneak out as he cupped both your cheeks to turn you to look back up at him. Your only defence against the handsomeness gracing your eyes was a simple, “I love you.”

Just the slightest hint of teasing, Jon ran his thumb over your cheek again. “I know you do.” If that was meant to make you both roll your eyes and smother a grin, it worked, and there was no hiding it from his watchful, adoring gaze.

But as the other Lords begun to filter into the meeting Hall, Jon turned so you both faced the front, a hand pressing against your lower back as if to ensure you always felt his presence. By the time the final so called guest walked into the room, unlike many meetings always free for the smallfolk to watch did the doors behind him close, as did the ones to rest of the castle halls at the end of the room, and the side doors beside the high table where this particular time, the only ones stood up there, were not the main council. Just wolves all taking a seat, followed by the others with one main in the middle of them finding himself standing out all of the sudden. A question on his lips as he looked around, “Your grace-

Interrupted only by Jons voice, far less soft and much more cold and projecting without leaving any room to question him on the order. “Lord Petyr Baelish, step forward.”

[tteokdoroki]

𑊡˚+₊🍼✦ — pretty hands + katsuki bakugou.

૮ ͈>◡< ͈ა warnings — fluff, gn!reader, you paint his nails + some bakugou appreciation tbh.

every part of bakugou is pretty— it would take a fool not to notice how gorgeous he is.

with his lopsided grin and hooded ruby eyes, his golden skin that shimmers under golden hour. his rounded cheeks with sunspoted freckles so faint you might think the gods smudged them while creating him, not to mention the shape to his body— as if he was carved from the finest stone, made by those very same gods. your boyfriend is the epitome of perfect, you know that.

but his hands have always been your favourite part of him.

they’re burned, rough to the touch especially on his palms— callous when they cascade over the curve of your hips and the expanse of your skin. but katsuki’s hands are beautiful. warm when you hold them even though he thinks that they’re sweaty, gentle when he tilts your chin up to kiss you or guides you in public to make sure that you don’t get hurt.

katsuki’s hands…so capable of destroying are also able to mend your heart, touch your soul and make you feel alive. his hands work so hard to provide you with a life of comfort— you can’t help but love them and admire them as if they’re a work of art.

so when you bring his hands up to your lips to blow on the nail varnish you’ve done for him— you can’t help but let praise slip from between your lips. “you have pretty hands, kats,” you mumble quietly as you reach for the bottle of black polish you’d been using on him.

“hah? you’re just sayin’ that cause you did my nails all pretty,” the blonde smirks at you, looking up from his phone he’d been scrolling through with his free hand. “can you use the chrome powder on some? i like it when there’s a bit’a silver.” bakugou almost pouts like a puppy when be asks and you giggle while reaching for it— decorating his nails some more.

“not because i’ve done your nails, but because they’re loving—“ you take the phone from his grip and lace your fingers together— your chest bristling at the connection and the warmth of bakugou’s hand against yours. “they’re soft, they protect me and hold me so gently. i love your hands,” pausing, you lean over the mess of scattered nail polish bottles and chrome powders— steady hand between your boyfriend’s crossed legs. “i love you, katsuki bakugou.”

“oi! don’t smudge my nails.” bakugou grunts lowly in disapproval though he tilts his head upwards to close the gap between you both— meeting your anticipating lips halfway. the kiss is slow, thoughtful and loving, a physical manifestation of everything you feel for one another. “would hate to ruin all the hard work y’put into makin’ my hands look even prettier.”

you know that bakugou is teasing, but you can tell by the way he admires the patterns you’ve done on his nails; that he appreciates the compliments.

[zeciex]

The Vow of Blood - 85

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 85: The Red Dress

AO3 - Masterlist

In the grandeur of the throne room, wine poured freely and indulgently. 

Aemond presided over the festivities from the high table, his steely gaze watching the commotion with cold indifference. Tables had been meticulously arranged between the towering columns, each laden with a sumptuous array of dishes. The offerings included succulent dire boar, whole roasted pigs, tender oxen, and an array of birds, each accompanied with its own sauce. Alongside these meats were platters of steamed and roasted vegetables, and a rich selection of fruits, nuts, and berries. The heavy scent of the meat permeated the air, rich and overpowering, almost overwhelming the senses. The kitchens would have toiled ceaselessly, preparing the banquet, and it seemed Aegon had spared no expense.  

Perched prominently on the dias before the throne, the King’s table was a spectacle of lavishness, set apart in both stature and decoration. From his elevated position, Aemond observed the revelry below with a detached air. His brother had already abandoned the formality of their royal seating, mingling among friends with a wine goblet casually in hand, his laughter echoing through the hall. 

Aemond, however, remained seated, solitary at the expansive table. He gazed out over the dancers and the diners with an expression of utter disinterest. While the ostensible purpose of the feast might have been to honor him, Aemond was all too aware of his brother’s motives–it was an excuse cloaked in celebration, a veneer of honor that  thinly masked an indulgence in excess. The joy and revelry that animated the faces of the other guests seemed to him a stark contrast to the cool, calculated thoughts that swirled silently in his own mind. 

Turning his attention from the boisterous crowd, Aemond’s gaze climbed the imposing columns where the stern faces of past kings seemed to pass judgment on the festivities below. His eye settled on the visage of Aenys Targaryen, the eldest son of Aegon the conqueror and his successor. Aenys I had been a king as fragile in rule as he was in constitution, his reign notably brief and tumultuous. 

From the contemplative face of Aenys, Aemond’s gaze drifted to his half-brother, Maegor, whose countenance were rendered enigmatic, almost condemning, as they were deliberately shrouded by a sculpted hood. Maegor had seized the throne through sheer force, his ascent marked by the brutal elimination of his nephews, Aegon and Viserys, in an act of kinslaying. 

History had condemned the former king for his merciless brutality, naming him Maegor the Cruel. Even the significant achievements of his reign, such as quelling the uprising of the Faith Militant, were overshadowed by the dark stains of the blood he had shed.

They say that in the act of killing his nephews, he had cursed himself in the eyes of the gods and man. And so, he had met his end by the very thing he had spilled so much blood to secure–found lifeless and impaled on the swords that protruded ominously from the ground around the Iron Throne. 

Aemond’s gaze drifted from the obscured visage of Maegor the Cruel, feeling the weight of judgment searing against his skin. It emanated not only from the stern, silent kings immortalized in the stone who stood sentinel over the throne room but also from the living occupants within its walls. Though none openly condemned him, Aemond sensed their censure all the same. He was marked as the Kinslayer. Beneath their superficial smiles and trivial conversations, he detected the revulsion they harbored for him. The dual judgment–from both the dead and the living–cast a chilling pall over his presence among the revelers. 

He had always yearned to be admired–to be respected and revered. He had wanted to carve out a place for himself in the annals of history, to be remembered. He wanted to command the same respect and power as his uncle, Daemon, had before him, to be esteemed with the same reverence as the Rogue Prince. 

He had wanted to be something more. 

Yet, despite all his desires and efforts, all he would ever be now was Aemond the Kinslayer. In the eyes of the realm, and in the judgment of history itself, he would be cursed–as all kinslayers are–doomed to be remembered not for any good he might achieve, but solely for the blood on his hands. He came to the realization: he would never be respected through admiration or love, but perhaps he could command respect through fear. If the world was determined to call him a kinslayer, then perhaps he should fully embrace the monstrousness they expected of him. This dark acceptance crept into his thoughts. He would earn their fear. 

As the dancers wove their patterns across the dance floor, moving rhythmically to the jubilant music that filled the hall, a sense of dread crept up Aemond’s spine as something caught his attention, standing still amidst the revelry. For a fleeting instance, Lucerys stood there, his skin deadly pale and marred with chunks of flesh missing. He appeared sodden, as if pulled from the depths of a dark, watery grave, and then, as the dancers closed ranks, his apparition dissolved just as swiftly as it had appeared. 

With a clench of his jaw, Aemond averted his eye, his gaze falling to his own hand as it tapped an uneven, restless rhythm on the polished surface of the table. Each tap was drowned out in the clamor of the feast, his fingers marked by scrapes and cuts. His gaze lifted once more as he noticed his brother approaching, the rhythmic tapping of his fingers against the table ceasing for a moment, as Aegon climbed the steps to the dias. 

“Must you always wear such a gloomy expression,” Aegon chided, stopping on the opposite side of the table. His voice carried a mischievous lilt–bordering on mocking, as it always did. “You look as though someone has died–,” he said, reaching for the flagon of wine, pausing for a moment, and then added with a half-hearted shrug, “Well, I suppose someone has–but someone we actually cared about, that is.” 

The jest, light as it might have been intended, hung briefly in the air, prickling against Aemond’s patience. It was not mocking, but it was close to it. His expression darkened as Aegon carelessly filled his cup with wine, nearly spilling it in his overzealous pour before setting the flagon back on the table with a clunk. He chose to remain silent, his glower deepening as he observed his brother. 

Aegon, willfully ignoring the tension, casually lifted the goblet to his lips, taking a deliberate sip. He paused, wetting his lips as if to prepare for further conversation, though the hall was rife with servers and wine at every turn–clearly, his approach to the king’s table was not for lack of refreshments but rather to needle Aemond. 

“This entire spectacle is in your honor, brother,” Aegon proclaimed with a sweep of his hand, indicating the lavish spread and raucous festivity surrounding them, His smile was amused and slightly inebriated. “You might at least pretend to enjoy the effort I’ve put into this.”

Aemond responded with a cool detachment that barely masked his irritation. “I believe it was the Hand who made the arrangements for this.”

While Aegon might have commanded the feast into being and outlined his desires to his Hand, he certainly hadn’t been the one to arrange the details. If it had been left to Aegon’s own devices, Aemond mused, they would likely have found themselves dining in Flea Bottom at some brothel rather than the grandeur of the throne room. 

“On my orders–that is what the hand is for, isn’t it? What the King dreams, the Hand builds,” Aegon retorted dismissively, with a nonchalant wave of his hand as if to brush aside Aemond’s point. “At least enjoy the fruits of the Hand’s labor; this celebration is in your honor, after all. It is you we’re celebrating.”

“I am enjoying myself,” Aemond declared flatly, his voice devoid of emotion and betraying little sign of any true pleasure. 

Aegon’s eyebrow arched, his expression dripping with skepticism. “Then perhaps try showing it. We’re celebrating your victory!”

Aemond only glowered in response.

“Don’t tell me you regret killing the little bastard–”

“I don’t regret it,” Aemond interjected sharply, his voice steady and dripping with disdain. He fixed his brother with a cold, unwavering gaze. “The bastard got what he deserved. I fed him to my dragon, and I will feed the rest of them to Vhagar as well–she’s developed quite a taste for bastards now.”

Aegon’s response was a wide grin, a chuckle escaping him as he glanced around at the assembled nobility. It seemed many had overheard Aemond’s dark declaration. Good, he thought, they crave my cruelty, and they shall have it. He felt no remorse for the killing of Lucerys, nor would he ever concede that it had been anything but deliberate. He had killed him, and they condemned him for it. So be it; what was a little more damnation?

“Then what’s with the sour mood?” Aegon teased, leaning in slightly, his voice lowering as though to probe a more personal sore. “Is it your lovely little betrothed that grieves you?”

Aemond’s gaze narrowed sharply at his brother, his hand resting on the table curling into a fist. Blunt nails scraped over the polished wood, drawing inward until they dug into the flesh of his palm. He felt the ache of healing wounds pulling tight across the skin, felt the ghost of a sting. 

“Oh, it is,” Aegon cooed, his voice laced with a jeering edge as he observed Aemond’s clenched fist. “Seems you’re a bit… on edge, brother? I’d wager your impending nuptials will prove rather frosty. I’m genuinely surprised she hasn’t taken your head for killing her brother–such devotion, she must truly love you.”

Aemond tore his gaze away, the muscles in his jaw clenching as he struggled to maintain his composure. He swallowed hard, forcing down the surge of emotions that threatened to shatter the stoic, steely facade he had so meticulously constructed. Yet, despite his efforts, the insinuations felt like a dagger twisting in his gut, each word a cruel reminder of the tangled web of his actions and their consequences. 

Aegon, unfazed by Aemond’s clear attempt to end the conversation, leaned forward on the table with a crude smirk on his lips. “Once the festivities grow stale, we should head to the Street of Silk. Let’s truly celebrate your victory–with wine and women! Perhaps we’ll even find a girl who bears a striking resemblance to your soon-to-be wife, though decidedly more eager. We might even find one that is a bastard if that’s your preference–”

The cutlery rattled noisily on the table as Aemond slammed his fist down onto the polished wood, standing abruptly from his seat, the feet of the chair scraping noisily over the dias. A crack had appeared in his carefully maintained facade; he could feel it, a crack through which his anger seeped. It surged within him, a hot, seething burn in his chest, and at his fingertips. He wanted to reach across the table and throttle his brother right there. The restraint he usually exhibited was thinning, strained by the provocation of his brother and aided by the constant tension hidden just beneath the surface.  

Aegon merely leaned back, blinking slowly at his brother, the trace of an amused smirk still playing on his lips. Before Aemond could retort, the sudden announcement of a new arrival pierced the sounds of the revelry, halting the music and drawing all attention to the doors of the throne room. 

“Princess Daenera Velaryon of House Velaryon.”

A profound silence quickly blanketed the room, almost tangible in its intensity as the festive noises abruptly ceased. The quiet seemed to echo throughout the grand hall, marking the significance of her entry. 

As Daenera entered, the searing anger within Aemond extinguished, like flames doused by a downpour. The heat that had just moments ago licked at his chest and fingertips was replaced by a cold, heart-rending sensation. It was as if her mere presence shifted the air around him, replacing fury with a piercing chill. 

There she stood at the threshold of the throne room, her appearance striking even amidst the grandeur.

The gown she wore was a deep, unforgiving red–as though a bleeding wound set against her pale skin. She paused momentarily at the entrance, allowing the assembled crowd to take in her appearance. Then, gracefully lifting her skirts just slightly, she began her descent down the steps to the floor of the throne room.

The crowd instinctively parted for her, much like flesh yields to the keen edge of a blade. They moved aside, not merely in deference but as if in fear that even the slightest brush against her might stain them with her blood red grief. 

With each step she took towards the king’s table, Aemond felt his heart wrench painfully at the sight of her. Daenera carried herself with the poised grace of a drawn blade, her elegance belying the steel hidden beneath the porcelain mask she wore–a cold, measured expression painting her soft features. Yet, despite her composure, he could discern the signs of her suffering–the haunted look in her eyes, the shadows that hollowed her cheeks, and her lips, frayed and painted a vivid red to match her gown, spoke of silent torment rather than concealment. 

As she drew nearer, the intricate details of her dress became more apparent. Adorning the bodice was a metallic golden dragon, masterfully crafted from beaten gold to resemble the creature’s scales, hammered in such a way that it seemed to move with the play of light. The dragon’s head rested on her lower abdomen, with wings that extended upwards to her shoulders, giving the impression of watching the beast from above. The fabric of the gown was rich and heavy, cascading around her and flowing to the floor like a waterfall. Her sleeves, long and sweeping, brushed the ground with her movements, and the deep neckline revealed the delicate pallor of her bosom and the gentle curve of her collarbone. Around her neck was a small ribbon, adorned with rubies shaped like droplets–pouring forth as though her throat had been cut. 

There existed a savage kind of beauty in the collective yearning to witness her sorrow laid bare–the sorrow she wore like an open wound. The crowd seemed to feed off her desolation, as if her grief were a spectacle to be devoured, a feast for their insatiable appetite. The cruelty in their hunger was almost poetic, a macabre dance between the observed and the observers, that left both of them with little semblance of humanity left in them. 

While many among them harbored a measure of pity for her, the court thrived on the spectacle of seeing someone else fall.

But she did not fall, and she did not cower beneath their gazes, instead she held them–held them until it hurt. 

Her presence cast a pall over the festivities, as if she were a mirror reflecting the darker undertones of the celebration. Many around her shifted uneasily, their discomfort evident as they met her gaze—like errant children suddenly aware they were to be held accountable for their misdeeds.

Aemond, perhaps, felt the weight of her silent accusation more acutely than anyone else.

His fingers prickled with an overwhelming urge to shield her from the prying eyes of the crowd–to cover and protect her from their relentless scrutiny. Yet, he remained motionless, acutely aware that she would never allow such protection–not from him. After all, she had chosen to be there–to make a spectacle of herself. 

He swallowed hard, his clenched fists easing as his fingers lightly brushed the surface of the table, seeking a momentary anchor in the solid wood. His gaze remained fixed on her with searing intensity, yearning for her to meet his eye, yet dreading the accusation he might find in her stare. She had come to haunt him, her dress a vivid reminder of the blood he had shed when he had killed her brother–the same blood she now wore as fabric, wearing his crimson guilt as a reminder and as a rebellion on the nobles' complicity. 

Aemond saw it for what it was; a careful presentation. There was a certain fragility to her–the visible scrapes and cuts on her hands spoke of her grief and turmoil, echoing the sorrow that had once reverberated through the halls of Maegor’s Holdfast, and the hollow absence of her screams that seemed to linger thereafter. 

She dressed her wounds in finery–but there was still a wound, and it was still bleeding. 

Her attire was an ostentatious display, masterfully crafted and worn beautifully–pity me, it seemed to whisper. Look at me and see what has been wrought upon me, see how they deny me my grief. Pity me, for I am a sister bereft of a brother. Pity me, for I am a broken bird trapped within a cage. Yet, beneath the facade, a warning lingered–still, I possess claws. 

Aegon moved along the edge of the table to position himself in front of his seat. As she approached, he towered over her from his position on the dias.

The tension in the air thickened as Aemond watched her approach the dias where Aegon stood, his body tensing instinctively. The entire room seemed to hold its breath, all eyes riveted on her–they had all heard her screams, were aware of the havoc she had wreaked upon her room, and knew of how she had collapsed before the hearth, remaining there for days. Aemond had caught the whispers snaking through the halls of the Red Keep, heard the rumors that she had lost her sanity, that she had been confined for fear of what harm she might do to herself or others. It was said she had been sedated with milk-of-the-poppy, confined to her bed, and he had felt each rumor pierce him like needles under the skin, each one embedding itself a little deeper. 

But Aemond knew the deeper truth–that she was not mad or weak, but vengeful, and she now stood before them as a ghost come to haunt him.

Daenera’s piercing blue eyes met Aegon’s, holding his gaze with an intensity that belied her calm demeanor. Her gaze remained fixed on his brother as she stood defiantly, refusing to bow. Her spine was straight, her head held high in spite. With a clear and controlled voice that carried across the silence of the room, she spoke, “Forgive me, Your Grace, for my late arrival and for not offering the courtesy of a bow. As you may be aware, I have been well for the last few days and I was aware that a celebration was being held in honor of your brother’s accomplishments. I fear that should I bow, I might find myself unable to rise again.”

Aemond’s gaze shifted sharply from Daenera to Aegon. He noted the slight curl at the corner’s of Aegon’s mouth, which twisted into a petty and mocking smirk that suggested he might deny her the leniency she sought and instead force her to bow–and to publicly submit to his will. 

“Of course,” Aegon responded smoothly, his voice laced with feigned warmth. “We’ve all been privy to your… resilience in the face of your brother’s fate.” His smile then broadened, a glint of cruelty flickering in his eyes. “It is indeed a pleasant surprise that you’ve decided to join our celebration of your betrothed’s victory in battle.”

Daenera’s demeanor was disquieting, her expression meticulously composed, betraying no emotion, yet Aemond could see the intense hatred smoldering in her eyes–burning like a cold flame. 

“What a fine dress for a celebration,” Aegon commented, his voice carrying across the room, loud and taunting. He grinned widely, seeming to cast his gaze out over the crowd. 

Aemond’s fist clenched tighter, the skin stretched and tender from healing beginning to strain under the pressure. His heart pounded with apprehension as she watched a flicker of icy fire pass through Daenera’s eyes. 

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Daenera replied, eyes burning. “I would have chosen a more suitable dress for mourning my brother, but, unfortunately, all my black dresses have been removed and I am not afforded such courtesy.” 

Her voice, though light, carried a sad, fragile quality that resonated throughout the room–and it became clearer, then, why she had chosen that dress, and what she meant by it. 

Aegon paused, letting the silence swell before he added his voice to it. “And yet you stand among us,” he began, descending a step on the dais, still towering over her. His voice grew louder as he surveyed the crowd, saying, “It is indeed curious, how one so stricken with grief finds the strength to join us, dressed so… strikingly.” 

The insinuation lingered in the air, a silent accusation that cast a shadow of doubt over her mourning. Daenera held her head high, her spine straight as a sword as she bore the scrutiny of court, and yet, Aemond could see the way Aegon’s words crept under her skin, the way she drew in her breath and held it.

With a smirk twisting into a sardonic half-smile, Aegon cocked his head in a dismissive half-shrug and took another step down. “But we welcome you nonetheless to the celebration of your betrothed. He has won a great victory after all.”

Aemond’s jaw tightened, his muscles clenching in visible tension.

Descending the final step, Aegon deliberately invaded her personal space, leaning towards her as she stood her ground. His voice then dropped to a low murmur, a tone intended only for Daenera–and Aemond–to hear. “One might question where the line is drawn between genuine sorrow and mere preformance… After all, how could a sister who truly loved her brother attend a celebration of his demise?”

Daenera’s eyes flared with a silent intensity, and Aemond could see the fissures forming in her stoic facade as her composure began to fracture under the strain. 

“Please, princess, take a seat and enjoy the revelry,” Aegon said, his voice smooth as he offered her a crude smile. He gestured towards Aemond and the empty seat beside him. 

Aemond’s gaze lingered on Daenera as she gave Aegon a nod of acknowledgement, her head bending slightly in feigned courtesy. 

As she started to move, Aegon called out with a flourish, “Music and more wine!” 

The musicians picked up their instruments, and the lively tunes filled the air once again, drawing out the brief silence. The room buzzed with renewed energy as conversations sparked up. 

Daenera made her way around the table, the heavy fabric of her gown rustling softly against the smooth stone floor as she ascended the dias. Throughout her approach, she avoided his gaze, denying him even the briefest connection. She moved with purpose, refusing him both the beauty of her eyes and the cruelty that might lurk within them.

Aemond clenched his jaw as Daenera settled into the seat beside him, willfully ignoring his presence. He drew in a sharp, agitated breath before himself sat down, the chair scraping loudly across the wood of the dias. Even though she was positioned on his blind side, her presence was felt, pressing into the edges of his perception like a shadow just out of sight. 

The closeness of her made his skin prickle, and he found himself casting a brief glance over the crowd. It was clear they had become the focal point of whispered discussions. 

“You should not be here,” Aemond murmured under his breath, his fingers beginning to tap restlessly on the table’s surface. It would have been better if she had stayed away. This was no place for her, nor was it a celebration he wanted her to witness. 

“Where else would I be,” Daenera responded, her voice cold as ice, slicing through the clamor of the feast. Aemonf felt the sharp sting of her focus on him, like the cold bite of a blade at his neck. He turned to face her, meeting her penetrating gaze. “But by your side,” she continued, her tone laced with bitterness, “as you are celebrated and honored for murdering my brother.”

Their gazes locked in a prolonged, tense silence, underscored by the lively melody that filled the hall. Around them, dancers moved rhythmically on the smooth stone floor, their steps resonating through the air, mingled with the constant hum of chatter. Aemond was the first to look away, swallowing hard as he felt her scorn burn against his skin. 

“I don’t want you here,” Aemond managed to say, his words forced through gritted teeth as he felt a constricting pressure in his chest, as if his ribs were digging into his lungs.

“Why?” Daenera questioned, her gaze sharp even if her voice wasn’t–it was almost soft. Almost. “Is it because I remind you of what you’ve done? Or is it because you fear what I might do, now that you’re being celebrated for murdering my brother?”

Aemond maintained his composure, tightly gripping the facade he presented to the world–cold as steel and just as biting. And yet, he yearned to keep her distant from the revelry–the curious glances darting her way, waiting and wanting to see her breath, the pervasive hum of celebration, and the mingled pity, mockery, and judgment that filled the air. More than anything, he wished to spare her the cruelty of witnessing her brother’s death being celebrated like this, with wine and food, with music and dancing, with laughter and happiness. He wanted to offer her the mercy of being removed from a scene where his sins were lauded. 

And, perhaps, it was as much for himself. 

“Mayhaps it is because you’ve come to realize the horror of what you’ve done, and are not ashamed–”

“I am not ashamed,” Aemond declared, his voice strained as he forced himself to meet her gaze once again. Why should he feel shame? Lucerys had gotten what he deserved. He did not have any regret for the act itself, only for the manner in which it had unfolded–a momentary loss of control. Yet as he faced her cold, accusing stare, he felt his heart tear itself open upon her eyes. 

“You should be, Kinslayer,” Daenera said–almost a sneer, but far too soft. She averted her gaze, and he noticed the slight shimmer of unshed tears, the way she blinked rapidly and the tightness around her mouth as she fought back her emotions–her mask cracked then, if only just a little, and through that crack tears seemed to pour. 

In that moment, despite everything, Aemond felt an overwhelming urge to reach out to her, to bridge the chasm of grief and guilt that lay between them. It itched beneath his skin, and he extended his hand across the smooth surface of the table before he clenched it shut again–finding a strange sort of comfort in the way the action pulled at his healing wounds. 

“How does it feel to get everything you’ve ever desired?” Daenera’s voice cut through the air, laden with resentment. Aemond turned to face her again, encountering the icy facade of that porcelain mask–deceptively soft yet harboring a beautifully sharp cruelty, like silk veiling a blade. “To finally achieve the revenge you’ve longed for. Does it bring you satisfaction? Has it made you whole?”

Aemond attempted to ease the tension in his jaw, but the effort was fleeting; almost immediately, he found himself clenching his teeth again, feeling the sting of her words like the kiss of steel. His fingers traced the table’s surface, blunt nails scraping across the wood grain, instinctively curling towards his palm where they fretfully picked at the scabbing wounds. 

No, it had not made him whole. It hadn’t restored his eye or reversed the injury inflicted by the injustice–it had not given him back that part of his soul that was taken when the maester had pulled out the remnants of his eye. Instead, his quest for vengeance–for regaining that part of him back–had exacted a heavier toll, allowing the festering darkness to bleed further into his soul. He acknowledged, without remorse or guilt, a grim satisfaction in Lucerys’ Velaryons death–it had been just. Yet, the tainted satisfaction was marred only by the manner of its execution: he regretted not the act itself but the loss of control that had defined it. 

And he regretted the pain it brought her. 

“You have your revenge now,” Daenera stated, her voice thick with bitterness as her fingers restlessly toyed with her fork. “You’ve got your war.” Her words were laden with disgust, scorn, and vitriol, trembling slightly as she spoke them, just loud enough for him to hear. “You’ve gained the power and renown you always desired–Aemond the Kinslayer. Now everyone will know your name. They all know what you’re capable of.” Then, she turned her gaze directly back to him, her eyes piercing. “Tell me, does it live up to your expectations?”

The monstrous darkness that had festered within Aemond since the day he lost his eye–that cruel beast that lurked beneath his skin–seemed to bare its teeth. He swallowed back the venomous words that threatened to spill from his lips, tainted with bitterness. 

“Even me, another piece of your conquest,” Daenera added with a scoff, her voice wrought with pain. Disbelief and bitterness twisted her features, furrowing her brow and pulling down the corners of her mouth–as though she was exasperated with herself for ever allowing herself to love him. 

The sight of her pain drove a blade deep into his gut, twisting agonizingly.

“Power, war, renown, and now me,” she said with an empty scoff. “Your prize. Is it everything you’ve ever dreamed of?”

Aemond’s posture remained as rigid and unforgiving as the blade of his sword, tension coiling between his shoulder blades. His muscles tightened beneath his skin as he turned to face her further, reaching out to cup the side of her face. His touch was possessive, fingers brushing against the small curls at the edge of her hair, her skin searing against his–he committed the sensation to memory, savoring it as solace for the long and lonely nights ahead. She stiffened under his grasp, her lips pressed tightly together, her eyes wide with a tumult of emotions–anger, resentment, hatred–and she leaned back slightly, though unable to escape his touch. 

A heavy silence stretched between them, laden with the weight of the response he owed her–a response that hung in the air, unspoken and resounding with a silent no.

However, Daenera seemed oblivious to the silent response conveyed by his demeanor. Her brows furrowed into a pained expression, her eyes rimmed with red and gleaming with unshed tears–tears that seemed to cling to her, always at the edge of being shed. It appeared she perceived only the answer she expected. 

Aemond’s voice, chilling and sharp, sliced through the air like a finely honed blade. Yet, underneath the surface, there was a slight tremor in his tone that betrayed how deeply she had managed to poison him. “I do not possess all that I desire…”

“Remove your hand,” Daenera demanded through clenched teeth, her voice sharp and cold. It was then that Aemond noticed she was gripping the fork tightly in her hand, the metal gleaming ominously in the dim light, her knuckles white with tension. “Or my dress won’t be the only thing that is red.”

Reluctantly, Aemond withdrew his hand. The touch of her skin lingered on his palm, sparking a mix of longing and regret, urging him to pull her closer once more. Yet, he restrained himself, curling his fingers into a fist and retreating to his own space. He redirected his attention to the dancers, watching them move rhythmically across the floor, their bodies synchronizing with the lively music. His gaze then drifted to his brother, Aegon, who stood at the end of a table, a wide grin on his face as he glanced over at Aemond and then returned to his conversation, his laughter shared by the friends gathered around him. 

Agitation smoldered within Aemond’s chest, a fire kindled by tension and conflict. 

Daenera loosened her grip on the fork and picked up a cup of water instead, lifting it to her lips. Her eyes, sharp and assessing, swept over the crowd before settling on Aegon. 

“You’ve already been branded a kinslayer,” she said, her voice steady and piercing as she met Aemond’s gaze with a challenging intensity. “Why not remove the final hindrance and claim what you truly desire?”

A humorless smile tugged at Aemond’s lips, devoid of any genuine amusement as Daenera’s words pricked at his ambition and sense of duty. His gaze lingered on his brother, who cast his arms wide as he spoke with his friends, his face split by a wide grin. It would be dishonest to claim he hadn’t entertained the thought during the darkest hours of night, when his mind wasn’t consumed by the thoughts of her. Yet, removing Aegon wouldn’t be as straightforward as merely executing him; it would brand him not only a kinslayer twice over but also a kingslayer. Moreover, Aegon wouldn’t be the only challenge he’d face. 

Despite being a thorn in his side, Aegon was still his brother. 

“There’s not just one hindrance to consider, as you well know,” Aemond responded, his voice low and measured, his fingers resuming their restless tapping on the table. 

Daenera’s reply was laced with a chilling tone, almost ringing with the iciness of her accusation, “And here I was, thinking you weren’t above the act of killing children.” 

His gaze shifted back to her, studying the unyielding coldness of her facade. He watched her for a long moment, feeling the tumultuous twist in his gut, the beast within him recoiling at her words. What she was insinuating was monstrous, even for him, and he didn’t believe for a second that she genuinely wished for him to follow through–not even she could harbor cruelty of that magnitude. She would never bring such horror upon Helaena, nor upon Jaehaerys, Jaehaera, and Maelor. Yet, her mere suggestion frayed his restraint.

“I am not above killing bastard children,” Aemond retorted, his voice almost a sneer, heavy with disdain. 

Their gazes locked in a long, tense moment– a moment where the air between them seemed to thicken with unspoken words. Resentment and bitterness crackled silently, an almost tangible force, as they stared each other down. 

Their intense exchange was interrupted as Aegon sprang onto the dias with a flourish, snagging a knife from a nearby platter. He rapped it against his wine-filled challice, the sharp clink resonating above the din, commanding the silence from the gathered nobles. With a casual flick, he tossed the knife back onto the table, his movement exaggerated and theatrical. 

Drawing in a deep breath, he stood tall before the king’s table, his presence asserting dominance over the suddenly hushed room. His voice boomed, robust and clear, filling the expansive space. “As everyone here is undoubtedly aware, tonight we’ve come together to honor my brother’s triumph in the battle above Shipbreaker Bay!”

As Aemond reasserted his impassive demeanor, the cold detachment enveloped his face like a mask, seamless and impenetrable–he wore it like a second skin, natural and familiar from years of use. And he fixed a steely gaze on his brother’s back as Aegon held the court’s attention. 

“Much has been said in these past few days,” Aegon declared, mastering a steady, authoritative tone that resonated through the now silent hall. He briefly locked eyes with Aemond, giving him a knowing look before his gaze swept across the assembly. “But allow me to tell you the truth of what happened.”

Aemond caught the suppressed grins of Aegon’s closest friends–Ser Leron Estermont, Ser Martyn Reyne alongside his sister, Lady Cira Reyne, and Ser Wyllam Lefford. They seemed to relish in the theatrics of the moment. 

Agitation stirred beneath Aemond’s skin.

“My dear half-sister dispatched one of her bastards to remind Lord Borros Baratheon of a long-forgotten oath sworn when she was our father’s only child,” Aegon narrated with a calculated pause, allowing the weight of his words to permeate the room. “She sent a bastard boy to do a man’s job. The boy must have quivered in his boots at the mere sight of my brother.”

A ripple of amusement undulated through the crowd. Aemond clenched his jaw, and although Daenera was out of his sight, her presence was palpable, as if an extension of his own being. He sensed her anger emanating like heat from a blaze, tasted the bitterness that filled her mouth, and felt the sting of impending tears in her eyes. He couldn’t see her, but he could imagine it–could feel it. 

Aegon carried on, his voice resolute, carrying a sense of triumph and smug amusement, “The boy had been sent to persuade House Baratheon to usurp my crown, yet he arrived with nothing more than empty hands and stale words. Borros Baratheon would have sent the boy back to his mother the same as he had come had my brother not intervened.”

A breath slipped from Daenera’s lips–a fragile and pained exhale that seemed to tremble in the air, seeping beneath Aemond’s skin and hollowing him out from within. The hand that had previously tapped absently and restlessly against the table now curled into a tight fist, the wound’s on his palms threatening to split apart. He endured the heavy gazes of the court, feeling it prick along his skin with the same piercing iciness as the rain that had drenched him when he had pursued Lucerys through the storm–prickling against his skin as icy needles. 

“My brother, Aemond Targaryen, generously offered to spare the bastard’s life if he would forfeit an eye in payment for his own,” Aegon declared. As he spoke, Aemond felt a surge of memories pressing against the edges of his consciousness–the sharpness of the blade slicing through muscle and bone, the warmth of the blood cascading down his face and through his fingers, the piercing sting of the needle as it stitched the wound, and the persistent ache that lingered long after. The scar throbbed and itched, reminding him acutely of the sapphire that now filled the eye socket–feeling its etches within his skull, feeling its coldness against the tissue. His heart echoed the discordant rhythm it had pounded on the night he confronted Lucerys–when the boy had mocked him with a half-hearted apology, when the chase had driven them both through the tempest. 

Aegon’s voice carried on, laden with contempt, “A fair exchange for the agony my brother endured at his hand, I would think. Yet, the coward refused to settle his debt. He fled, tail between his legs, no doubt seeking the comforting folds of his whore of a mother’s skirts!”

Laughter swelled once more, filling the room as murmurs hummed among the guests. 

“Had the bastard merely settled his debt, my brother would have let him go,” Aegon proclaimed. Aemond wasn’t entirely convinced he would have done so, but the point was moot now–it didn’t matter, all that mattered was what had happened. “Instead, Aemond was compelled to exact justice on his own terms–he pursued the bastard and his dragon through the storm…” Aegon’s eyes flicked towards them, his expression sharpening, a growing smirk marring his face. “You killed the bastard, fed him to your dragon! What did you say, brother? You fed him to your dragon and you’ll feed the rest of them to Vhagar as well now that she has gotten a taste for bastards?”

Aemond heard the slide of her movement–could almost taste the steel she clutched–and as he turned his gaze towards her, his heart shuddered at the way her eyes were aflame, burning bright and cold, filled with sorrow and rage and a familiar desire for destruction. Despite the fire in her eyes, her expression remained nearly blank, her composure a finely crafted mask–slowly starting to crack under the strain of her emotions. His eye followed her movements down to her hand, which was clenched tightly around the knife on the table, her knuckles white from the grip, the tip of the blade quivering slightly. 

He moved subtly, placing a hand over hers to still it–knowing that she wanted to plunge the half-dull blade into his brother’s neck, or even his own. Her skin was cold beneath his touch, yet it burned against his skin all the same. Daenera neither flinched away from his touch, nor did her eyes move from his brother. As Aemond’s hand slid up to gently pry the knife from her grip, the moment the weapon slipped from her fingers, her own snapped down on his. He felt the sharp sting of her nails, felt the promise of bruising, and he welcomed it. 

Yet, despite the pain intended by her touch, it brought him an unexpected solace–her marks were a testament to her presence, and he found a twisted comfort in the pain, as long as she touched him. 

Aemond kept his face impassive–the usual sharp smirk on his lips, but his eye bore into his brother’s smirking visage with a glare sharp enough to cut.

Aegon, unfazed, turned back to the crowd, his voice carrying a cruel amusement. “With each passing tide, the rumors swell that our dear half-sister has lost her senses and is searching the coast of Shipbreaker Bay for her bastard’s remains… It appears she hasn’t realized that she ought to be searching a pile of shit just beyond the city walls if she wants to bury her son… but I suppose what Vhagar didn’t consume, the sea claimed. A bastard in life, a Velaryon in death…”

Laughter swelled around them, and Daenera's grip tightened on Aemond's hand, her nails digging in with such force that he was certain they would leave crescent-shaped indentations in his skin

“It’s a pity Vaemond Velaryon isn’t here to stake his claim on Driftmark. If only he had waited another week…” Aegon jeered. He then raised his chalice high, shifting the focus of the celebration. “To my brother, for his first victory in battle!” 

Aegon’s grin widened as he turned towards Aemond, lifting his chalice in a gesture of respect and honor. “You are the true blood of the dragon!”

Aemond responded to his brother’s toast, his fingers reluctantly uncurling to grasp his own chalice, lifting it in acknowledgement. 

With a wide grin, Aegon turned back to the assembled crowd, his brother booming with fervor, “Let this first blood of war serve as a warning to all who dare oppose us!”

As the hall erupted in cheers and chalices were hoisted high, Daenera’s fingers withdrew from Aemond’s hand, leaving behind a sharp sting from the emerging bruises and the residual heat of her touch. This sensation seeped into his veins, twisting in his gut, and he quickly gulped down his wine to wash away the bitter taste clinging to his tongue. The realization of how deeply he craved her touch–whether gentle or cruel–struck him as profoundly pathetic.

The music swelled once more, weaving through the renewed buzz of conversations as the celebration continued. Aegon swiftly drained his wine and placed his chalice aside, then strode along the table to position himself before Aemond and Daenera. With a slight tilt of his head and a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth, he addressed them. “Princess, I’m delighted you could join us for this celebration. Your presence must be a great comfort to my brother, standing by his side as we honor his achievements. And again, brother, well done.”

Aegon flashed a quick wink at Aemond, then turned and strode confidently down the dias, rejoining his circle of friends. He was greeted with cheers and raucous laughter. Meanwhile, Aemond remained where he was, enveloped in a heavy, oppressive silence that lingered between him and Daenera. 

He felt a desperate urge to speak, to say anything–to apologize for his brother’s tactless words, to atone for his own harshness, to confess his love. Yet, when he opened his mouth, the only words that emerged were, “You shouldn’t have come.”

“No it is good that I came,” Daenera responded, her voice trembling yet icily calm, “I see things clearly now.”

Aemond’s gaze fixed on Daenera. Her composure had begun to fracture, the cracks in her facade widening, yet beneath the porcelain exterior, ice seemed to gleam. Her eyes, brimming with unshed tears, met his with burning intensity. She was devastatingly beautiful–like summer snow. 

She stood abruptly, the chair scraping noisily across the dias. Reacting instinctively, Aemond rose swiftly to his own feet, his chair skidding back, nearly toppling in his haste. 

“Will you excuse me,” Daenera said, her voice measured and cool, “I fear I have worn myself out.”

“Let me escort you to your chambers,” Aemond offered, his voice laden with a faint hope that she would accept, granting them a moment alone, away from prying eyes–where he might be honest and soft and pathetic. 

Daenera raised her hand, halting him with a gesture. “No, this feast is in your honor; you shouldn’t leave. I have Edelin, she will escort me back.”

With that, she turned and descended from the dias, her silhouette gliding behind the columns and melting into the shadows. She traced the periphery of the throne room, where she might be left in peace, making her way discreetly towards the doors. 

Aemond stood motionless, his gaze tracking Daenera until she vanished behind a column. He searched the shadows for her, eye darting between each pillar, catching only a fleeting glimpse of her as she slipped through the doors and into the hall beyond, disappearing from view. 

Aegon approached then, breaking Aemond’s reverie by clapping a hand firmly on his shoulder. “The feast is growing tedious. Let’s take our celebration to the Street of Silk, brother.”

[cokoweee]

✨🧚✨

Writing action is so hard :(

~

Obligation sat heavy in his chest, chaining him to the roof. He hated city sweeps with a passion. Sure it was fun to kick around bad guys, but he’d so much rather be in his bed. Sometimes you run just to feel your lungs burn he supposed.

So here he was. On top of a building. Staring at an empty alleyway.

He pressed his face against the wall, his goggles leaving painful imprints in his skull. He grounded himself in the way they cut into his skin. They were doing their job, reminding him of his cruel existence here on this roof.

Wind whipped through his hair as he watched from his perch on the building. He could move of course, find somewhere else where he could be useful. But his limbs refused to listen. He felt like he was made of stone. Just like a gargoyle he thought, amused. Perched atop a building. In theory protecting, in practice, just a decoration.

That’s all he was. A decorative piece of stone, crafted to defend, but nothing more than a hunk of muscle.

A hooded figure ripped him from his thoughts as they wandered into the empty alleyway. Maybe the night wouldn’t be a bust after all. He shifted his weight to pounce as he watched the figure move. They headed deep into the alley, shrouded by the darkness, poorly hiding a package under their shirt. He rolled his eyes and waited patiently for another figure to arrive.

His joints creaked slightly as he leapt, stiff from standing still for so long. Landing silently, he melded to the shadows creeping close enough to hear their conversation.

“-one followed.” The voice said, hushed. “Yes. I made sure no one saw.”

The other voice grunted something unintelligible as they held out their hand. He took notice of the small knife secured in the figure's belt pocket and placed a hand around his bō. He didn’t think the girl would be able to do much damage with it, but it was better to err on the edge of caution.

“I saw.” He sing-songed, stepping into their line of view.

He was already here. Why not have a little fun?

The hooded figures spun around, one brandishing their knife, the other a blunt stick. He stared, unimpressed as they swung their weapons wildly. Until finally- finally, the male figure squared his shoulders and threw himself at Donatello.

He grinned.That’s what he was waiting for.

He held up his bō to deflect the blow and quickly stuck it under the baton and pulled. The figure immediately fell forward, thrown off balance. He repressed a small smile as the figure looked up from the concrete bewildered. Poor guy had probably never fought a day in his life.

Blood rushed through his veins as he brought his bō down swiftly to his head. He pushed away the twinge of guilt as he saw the terror in the man’s eyes. He didn’t like it when they looked like that. He took a deep breath as he set his gaze to the second figure.

Flinching as the staff came flying at her face, she stumbled to the ground, barely dodging and cursing wildly. “What the- Dude!”

He didn’t say a word letting the girl get back up. May as well give her a chance.The hooded girl rushed toward him, a knife held tightly in her hand.

He let it happen.

Her fist collided with his face. His lip split, blood bubbling from his mouth as he looked down stupefied.

He hadn’t expected that. The hit, yes, but for it to break skin?

She raced forward again, twisting as she stopped in front of him, using the top of her foot to land a blow squarely to the middle of his chest. He didn’t move.

He hasn’t been in a fight since the invasion. Little squabbles here and there, sure. But nothing where he was required to use any sort of his past training. She was clearly amateur, but it was the first time in a long time he’d had to consider going back to the dojo.

He watched her move. She had lacked any true power in her kick. Probably better for her to stick to punches he thought dimly as she launched herself at him again.

She punched him again, knife in hand. He balked as she sliced just above his eye. Blinking away the red flowing freely into his eye, he shook his head to clear the funk, and readied himself for another blow.

He was getting tired of this.

She ran at him again, her knife tucked away in her jacket. He waited for her to get within fingertips touch before reaching out and grabbing her arm. Twisting her arm until the heel of her hand pointed toward the ceiling, he pushed her to the ground, placing his right shoulder in between her shoulder blades to force her against the ground.

She struggled against his grip, sticking her arm out in a vain attempt to free herself. She thrashed wildly, throwing pebbles and whatever else she could grab into his face as he pressed her down further. Her knife clattered against the pavement as she whipped around.

He knew, rationally, that he should stop. Leave an anonymous tip to the police that two idiots were selling drugs in the alleyway. But he didn’t. His blood seemed to hum as he moved. This is what he was made for. Destruction. Pain.

The girl had apparently noticed his hesitation and used her freed hand to grab her knife and punch his side.

Hard.

He hissed, tightening his grip around her as she screeched. Something warm trickled down his side as he stood slowly. He brought his bō over her head, knocking her out effectively and grabbing her companion.

He placed them at the entrance of the alleyway, making sure to keep himself in the shadows. He tapped his wrist tech to send an alert to the police force before slinking back into the darkest corner he could find.

Something was wrong.

Asphalt crunched beneath his back as he sank to the ground. He took shallow breaths, clamping his hand against his side. Blood seeped out faster than he could staunch it. He gritted his teeth as he watched it trickle down his torso.

When had that happened?

His hand shook as he tore it from his stomach to inspect the damage. He was hot. So, so hot. It was the middle of September. Why was he so hot?

He stared at his torso reluctantly. There was a small wound right in the middle of his ribs. The actual stabbing had missed any vital organs thankfully, but it looked like it had been twisted at some point. Probably when she had yanked it out he assumed.

With all his mutations he was relatively protected from particularly life threatening symptoms. He could probably make it home if he tried. Probably.

He clasped a hand over the exposed scales of his side and stood up shakily. His legs screamed in protest as he moved, somehow still stiff from hours of perching on the rooftop. His free hand flew to the wall, supporting his weight as he stood.

His fingers filled with warmth as more thick blood oozed from his side. He ignored the way it slipped from his hand and into the ground, filling his ears with a steady drip. He tapped a message to Sheldon, his vision swirling in and out of focus.

He just needed to get ho-

~

Ooga booga 👹

-writing anon

I’ll send the last part ( the fun stuff) tmmr

I KNEW I READ SOMETHING FROM YOU

ACTION ID HARD MAN I FUCKIN FEEL U MAN AAUUGHHH ARARARASRARARARAR

Part 2