#he’s one of the most talented young men alive

[whimsiwitchy]

Controversially Young Girlfriend (part four)

series masterlist & main masterlist

Hugh Jackman x popstar!reader 

summary: y/n is a globally beloved pop star. She is known for her talent and dedication towards her craft. Recently, she has also been known for her preference for older men. After a breakup with her former older boyfriend, she had a run in with the hottest dilf right now, Hugh Jackman. Y/n tried to warn him, but what can she say, she has an effect on hot, older men. 

warnings: age gap (23/55), cursing, y/n used, implied shorter reader, afab reader, she/her pronouns, sexual themes, fighting (verbal).

warnings will change as the story progresses! all descriptions of real people in this story are FAKE. I do not know these people and this is purely fiction. Please let me know if I missed anything!! <3

authors note: I don’t have much to say other than enjoy! Please leave your thoughts and opinions in the comments or message me! I’d love to hear what you have to say <3

part four: friends for now?

Hugh let you drag him through the club by your intertwined hands. The crowd seemed to be never ending as you walked through, trying to make it to the bar. A few people stopped you along the way to congratulate you and give their praises, but the night no longer felt special. It didn’t even feel like these people were here for you. They were just strangers attending a random party. Most of them already way past tipsy and probably wouldn’t remember anything in the morning. When the bar was in sight, you did a quick scan of the area. In the right corner, you saw a small, tall table that had two tall stools, perfect. 

“Heyyy y/n! I’ve been looking for you!” Ashley yells over the music with a big smile on her face. You don’t miss the way she glances back at Hugh. “Where have you been?” She asks and you can hear the accusation that’s hidden behind her words. Hugh squeezes your hand and it makes you realize just how close he is to you, the front of his body a whisper away from touching the back of yours. “I’ve been making the rounds. I was looking for you but kept getting stopped along the way.” You’re yelling back at her, trying to sound alive and bubbly by letting a laugh out at the end. You weren’t sure if she bought it. Ashley gives you a look that tells you she doesn’t. “We were gonna grab a drink, you wanna come?” You offer her but she shakes her head. “No, I have one over there.” She points to a group of girls sitting at a larger table that sits on the left side of the bar. “I’ll see you later okay?” She leans to give you a quick hug and she notices the point of contact between Hugh and yourself. “Don’t be stupid y/n.” She whispers in your ear and leans back from the hug with a smile. “Love you!” She’s yelling this time as she walks away. Her comment made your chest burn. You could tell that she thought something more was happening between Hugh and yourself but he saved you. He helped you get away from Pedro and she had no right to be accusatory. 

This night kept getting worse, the only thing keeping you from going home and leaving your own party was the warmth of Hugh’s hand. The warmth suddenly vanished, Hugh letting go of your hand for the first time since he helped you off of the couch in the backroom. He pulled back one of the stools for you and offered his arm to hold as you climbed up to sit. Your foot faltered slightly, causing your leg to buckle, but Hugh was quick to grab your waist to stabilize you. “Thank you.” You say again. 

“Do you want a drink?” He asks julting his thumb towards the bar behind him. 

“Oh! I'll take a pop my cherry margarita please.” You smile, voice full of excitement. Hugh lets out that rich man laugh that you haven't heard since the day you met him. 

“A WHAT?” He’s still laughing, it’s so contagious that your own laughter slips past your lips unexpectedly. 

“Pop my cherry margarita. It’s a real thing!” You explained to him that you wanted to create a drink menu that matched the album song titles. It was the one detail you really had a say in. “I thought they were handing out pamphlets at the door that explained that. Did you not get one?” Hugh’s eyebrows furrowed but they relax just as fast as he pulled a folded up pamphlet from his back pocket. You gasp dramatically. 

“You didn’t read it?” Your voice held a joking tone but you couldn’t help but feel a ping of hurt within your chest at the thought of him not taking the time to at least skim over the silly little paper. 

“I was looking for you when I first got here.” He admits shyly, an emotion you didn’t know Hugh was capable of having. He was always so confident and loud, never shy. It was cute. 

“Well in that case, you are forgiven.” His words made your heart swell. 

“I’ll be right back.” He gives your shoulder a light squeeze and walks over to the bar. 

Taking a look around the room, you’re glad that people are enjoying themselves. Your album only has three more songs to play before you’d have to go back on stage to give your thanks again. The club was booked all night, meaning that everyone was welcome to stay until it closes at two am. You didn’t plan to stay that late and after the events of the night, you weren’t sure if you’d stay any longer than your second ‘speech’. You glance back over to Hugh. He’s leaning on the counter, making conversation with the bartender. He was so charismatic, easily falling into conversation with anyone he met. You were certain that there wasn’t a person in the world that disliked him, he was the definition of likable. The reality of the situation was starting to settle more clearly now that your mind wasn’t clouded by the brief altercation with Pedro. Hugh hadn’t left your side since the moment he found you, he helped you collect yourself, and now he was ordering you a drink. You weren’t sure what this meant for him- you knew exactly what it meant for you. All of his acts of kindness were starting to overfill the file in your head labeled ‘big fat crush on Hugh Jackman’. 

“Here you are, one pop my cherry margarita.” He slides the glass in front of you and sits in the stool across from you. The drink is a bright red with a silver shimmer throughout. Two cherries sat on the top of the ice with a lime hugging the sugar lined rim. You took a sip, the tequila a little too strong for your liking, but the sweetness of the cherry and the slight hint of lime was refreshing.  “Mhmm that’s good. What'd you get?” You ask while squinting at his drink. “Slut me out martini?” He says unsure. You laugh. “Hm. Slut me out is probably my favorite song off the album, a good ‘ol dirty martini fits the vibe of the song.” He takes a sip and nods. “Hey.” You say to catch his attention again. “I’m sorry you didn’t get to actually listen to the album. You’re probably disappointed, given you’re such a big fan and all.” You’re mostly joking, the only sincerity being behind the fact he didn’t get to do what he came here to do. What you invited him here for. “Stop apologizing sweetheart.” He grunts out giving you a pointed look. 

“I did hear the first few songs, they were really good.” He says, taking a sip of his martini. 

“Just good?” You question. It looks like he thinks for a moment before speaking. 

“They’re surprising.” He says slowly. “How so?” You’re quick to respond. 

“Just… didn’t expect it. It’s different from your other stuff, it’s seductive.” 

“Hm..are you seduced?” His eyes lock onto yours. Your tongue darts out to pull the straw that sits in your glass to your lips. You can see his eyes move down towards your lips as you suck on the straw. When his eyes match yours again, he’s repositioning himself on the stool and lets out a low chuckle. “You’re something else y/n.” He shakes his head and you hum in satisfaction. 

You glance over to the dancing crowd, eyes moving over the groups of people. You meet Stacy’s eyes and you can hear the buzz of the last song fill your ears. She started making her way towards you, disappearing every few seconds as she weaved through people. “Shit.” You mumble as you try to think of ways to get out of getting on stage and thanking everyone again. “What’s wrong?” Hugh’s voice was filled with concern, the same tone he had used earlier in the night. “Stacy..my uh.. my assistant, I guess, is making her way over here right now and I like really, really don’t wanna go up on that stage again.” You frown. You were being stubborn, you knew that. The smart side of your brain tried to tell you that it wasn’t professional to just leave your own event. 

“C’mon.” Hugh is standing up quickly, offering his hand once again. “Huh?” You asked him, confusion written all over your face. “I’m getting you out of here. Let’s go.” You look around the room one last time. Stacy is about ten feet away, stress present on her face. “Okay.” You grab his hand and he helps you down, his other hand instinctively meeting your waist. “Y/n! I needed you on the stage like three minutes ago!” Stacy yells across the lowering distance. Hugh tugs your hand and you follow. You’re trying your best to keep up with his long legs as he walks swiftly through everyone. He pushes open the door and flashing lights blind the both of you. Covering your face, you tried to block the paparazzi’s cameras, completely trusting Hugh to guide you through this all. Once you reach the small parking lot that sits on the left side of the building, Hugh is opening the passenger door for you and helps you in. He hurries over to the drivers side and drives off as fast as he can, escaping the leeches that are trying to take as many pictures as possible. “Oh my god, you’re literally a life saver.” You say, adrenaline rushing through your veins. Pulling out your phone from the small purse that’s been draped on your shoulder most of the night, you sent a quick text to Stacy, responding to the endless texts and calls you’ve received from her in the past five minutes. 

You: I’m sorry Stacypoo. I’ll explain later. Love you <33

You knew work Stacy would be mad at you for some time but once you explained everything, friend Stacy would understand. “Do you want me to take you home?” Hugh asks. “Yes please. I’m pooped.” You huff out and he chuckles. You connect your phone to the car bluetooth and set your address on the GPS. The silence in the car calmed your body down at a rapid rate. Exhaustion took over your body and you could feel the ache in your feet from the heels. You were only at the party for an hour, yet it felt like you had been there all night. Looking at the time, the clock read 11:30pm. Hugh was quiet and you were afraid you might have caused too much trouble for him. That he wouldn’t want to be around you again after this. “Thank you Hugh. Really, you totally made this night so much better.” Your head is leaning against the headrest and you roll it slightly to look over at him. The faint light coming from the street lights shined on his face dimly. He was so handsome. You wanted to tell him. “You don’t have to thank me. I enjoy your company.” He glances in your direction with a smile. The silence fills the space again.

 “Did you purposely wear a gray shirt to match my outfit?” You asked curiously. You meant to ask earlier but it slipped your mind. “What?” He’s smiling. “You heard me. Did you?” Your tone was teasing. “Maybe.” 

“Yes or no Hugh Jackman.” His name rolled off your tongue in a joking matter. You could've sworn you could see a slight blush but it was too dark in the car to tell. “Is this it?” He asks, pointing to your house. “Yea that’s me.” 

He pulls into the driveway and puts the car in park, cutting the engine. Hugh opens his car door to get out. “Oh! You don’t have to get out, it’s okay.” He ignores you, walking over to your side of the car anyways, closing the door once you’re out. You awkwardly walk up to your front door and search your purse for your keys. When you find them, you turn around to face Hugh. “Thank you for driving me home Hugh.” “No problem sweetheart.” He smiles warmly and you take a moment to take it in. Your eyes rake across every wrinkle in his face, showing the life he’s lived. His smile lines set deep into his cheeks and you can’t help but think how perfectly they suit him. His facial hair was just past a stubble but not quite filled out into his full beard yet. “I should get inside, don’t wanna keep you out any later.” Your voice is soft and you want to invite him in but you couldn’t. “Okay darling.” 

This crush on Hugh was something that felt deeper after tonight. If anything were to happen with him, you wanted it to be right. No rushing. The feeling was mature. Hugh was someone you didn’t want to lose, no matter how he fit into your life. It was a little scary to think about- how much you wanted him in your life. 

“Goodnight Hugh.” 

“Goodnight y/n.” 

You turn to unlock your door and just as you're twisting the handle, Hugh wraps his large hand around your arm. He gives you a small tug, urging you to turn around. “Y/n…” He speaks softly. “Yes?” He doesn’t say anything. “Hugh, are you okay?” His hand releases your arm, both hands coming up to cup your cheeks. His hands are rough. You can feel a few calluses along his hand, undoubtedly from the gym.  He’s searching your eyes but you're unsure what he’s trying to find. “Can I kiss you?” 

Oh. 

“Yes.” It’s barely audible, the only confirmation that he had heard you came from his lips meeting yours. The kiss was slow, soft, like he was afraid to move too much. Hugh’s lips melted into yours perfectly, dancing together in a rhythm that felt natural. He was bent down slightly to match your height, your heels aiding him. He was the one to break the kiss, you weren’t sure if you would have ever stopped kissing him if he didn’t pull away. You wanted to ask him so many questions, get into his head. You always had this impeding urge to know everything but you wanted to live in the sweetness of the moment. Hugh’s hands dropped from your cheeks and a small smile rested on his face. “Goodnight gorgeous.” He kisses the top of your head for the second time that night. “Goodnight..” You walked inside, standing half way out of the door, waving at Hugh as he drove away. 

You: text me when you get home so I know you got home safe! p.s. ur a good kisser.  

Walking around your house, you slowly stripped from your outfit, gathering your things to start your nightly routine as you waited for Hugh’s text. You hopped into the shower and thought about the crazy events that had happened in just a few hours. The kiss was something you hadn’t expected and it was killing you to not know what it meant for your relationship with Hugh. When you were brushing your teeth, your phone lit up on the bathroom counter. 

Hugh <3: Just got home. You’re not half bad yourself lol. 

You: really though, did you try to match my outfit? 

Hugh <3: Goodnight y/n… 

You: fine. I’ll get the truth out of you one day!! 

You: goodnight hugh! <3 

When your head hits the pillow, all you can do is think about the feeling of Hugh’s lips on yours, his hands on your face. You fell asleep with a smile on your face. 

—

The constant buzzing of your phone woke you up. It’s been going off for close to an hour and you tried your best to ignore it but the vibration under your pillow was starting to give you a headache. You winced at the brightness of the screen as your eyes adjusted to the light that invaded your eyeballs too suddenly. Squinting at the name, you let out a sigh. “Oh fuck me..” 

“Hi Stacy…” You say it sweetly, hoping it would ease whatever was coming your way. “Y/n, I need you to explain why the fuck you decided to run away from me last night.” Her voice is eerily calm, you’d prefer if she was yelling at you. “Oh yea…” You clear your throat. “So you know how when we started to plan the event, Pedro and I were still very much together?” You ask and she gives a short ‘yes’. “Well, when we had the last meeting, I completely forgot about him being invited already and forgot to take him off the list.” “Y/n, can you get to the point please, the label is on my ass right now trying to clear things up.” “Sorry…he uh.. Pedro showed up last night and he was mean Stacy. He kept saying how he wanted me back and he kept trying to grab me.” Your voice falters slightly. You couldn’t understand how Pedro, who was once so sweet and loving, had turned so cruel. “I’m so sorry y/n… I didn’t know, nobody knew.” You can hear the sympathy in her voice. “It’s fine, it’s over. I tried to stay, but I really wanted to leave. I’m sorry Stacy.” “It’s fine.” She sighs.

 “Have you been on your socials yet?” 

“No…why?” 

“Look at what I sent you.” 

You put her on speaker and open the text thread between Stacy and yourself. There were at least a hundred texts from her between last night and this morning. You click on a link she had sent and when you opened it, there was a picture from last night of Hugh and yourself leaving the party hand in hand. There were articles upon articles questioning if Hugh was your ‘new older fix’. There were also pictures of Pedro leaving the party with rumors of you cheating. It was all one big mess, but every single article seemed to agree on one thing:

Y/n L/n was a slut who liked older men. 

They weren’t completely wrong, you loved being with an older man, but you weren’t a slut, or a cheater, or a gold digger, or any other names they had called you. The rumors and name calling never bothered you but it always had a negative effect on the men in your life, even if they never got the shit end of the stick. It was why Pedro broke up with you and why everyone before him never wanted to make anything official, or even be seen with you. You felt so stupid for not telling Hugh that you needed to go out the back way, that he shouldn’t be seen leaving with you. Your dating life brought nothing but a bad reputation and you didn't want Hugh’s name involved in it. You're thankful that this article was centered on dragging you down and not Hugh. 

“Shit..” You whisper. “How mad are they?” You ask, referring to your management team. 

“They’re pretty pissed off. They keep nagging about how they warned you with Pedro. They’re worried about your image.” 

“God, I wish they would get over that already. It’s literally not that big of a deal.” Your irritation grew. It had always been something you hated about the industry, that they cared so much about minor personal details. As long as you were making music, making fans happy, and making them money- why does it matter who you’re seen with. You hated how much everyone ‘cared’ about what you did. 

“I know y/n, it sucks. I’ll try to get them calmed down and prevent any unnecessary meetings. I want you to focus on whatever you need to. Don’t stress yourself out about this.” “Thank you Stacy. I really am sorry if I got you into trouble last night.” 

“It’s okay. I understand why you did it and I’m glad you did something for yourself for once.” 

The rest of the conversation is short and ends with Stacy complaining about Mark, the guy from the meeting, was blowing up her phone. 

You needed to talk to Hugh as soon as possible. There were so many things that needed to be discussed: the paparazzi pictures, the kiss, what we are, can he handle being your controversially old boyfriend- if that’s even what he wanted. You couldn’t help but wonder if he had already seen the headlines, if his team was just as mad as yours. 

You: hi hugh! could we meet up and talk sometime today? 

Hugh <3: Of course darling. Just tell me a time and place and I'll be there. 

You: 3pm at my house? 

Hugh <3: See you then. 😀

The emoji he attached made you laugh, Hugh texted like your parents and it should make you cringe but it does the exact opposite. You sent him your address, not expecting him to remember where you live, and started to prepare for his visit. You had a few hours before the agreed upon time, allowing you to clean up around your house and get presentable. Not wanting to go overboard, you decided on a pair of black flared leggings and a dark green crew neck that had ‘New York’ across the chest. You could feel your nerves working up as the time ticked away, each minute that went by increasing your heart rate. You were sitting on the couch, when there was a knock on your door. Taking a peek through the peephole, you could see Hugh standing there. You opened the door wide and gave him a tender smile. “Hi sweetheart.” He greets you with his own warm smile. “Hi Hugh. Come in.”  You open the door wider and he slips past you, waiting for you to close the door. “You can take your shoes off here if you want, but you don't have to.” He slides them off and you lead him into the living room. You take a seat on the couch, smacking the cushion next to you with your hand, urging him to take a seat as well- he does. You don’t speak right away, trying to find the right words to say, what to talk about first. “You okay y/n?” His expression is full of worry.

“Have you seen the pictures or anything about last night?” 

“No…?” You can tell he’s confused and you don’t say anything. Instead, you open your phone to the link Stacy sent and hand it to him. His eyes are moving back and forth slowly as he reads and scrolls through it. When he's done, he hands the phone back to you and sighs. “This is what you wanted to talk about?” He asks. “Yea…and other things.” 

He sighs. “Y/n, I already told you I don’t care what other people say. I don’t think what these people are saying about us should matter.” 

“I don’t want to drag you into this mess though, Hugh. It’s not fair to you, especially when everything they’re saying are lies.” 

“That’s just the way those people make a living. It won’t matter in a week, everyone will forget and move on, so don’t worry about me baby, worry about yourself. They said some nasty things in there, don’t let that get to your head kid?” His hand rests on your thigh and scrunch up your face at the nickname. 

“Hugh, for moral reasons, you can’t call me kid when you kissed me just last night. It's weird.” Your voice switching from the previous unsure and scared to serious. He lets out a laugh and a quick sorry. His hand still rests on your thigh and you reach out to place your hand on his, fingers slightly intertwining at the awkward angle. “Why did you kiss me last night?” Your doe like eyes look up at him. “I wanted to.” His answer is too brief for your liking and you can tell he’s teasing. “Why did you want to?” You ask further. “You looked really pretty in your sparkly little outfit last night sweetheart. You always look really pretty, truthfully. There’s just something about you that draws me to you.” He confesses. “Yea?”  “Yea…It’s a little scary if i’m being honest, how drawn to you I am.” “I’m scared too, Hugh.” You admit. “I’m terrified that whatever this is or whatever it leads to is going to get taken away from me.” Your willingness to be this open shocks you, but this needs to be done right. You would put your fears behind you for him. He squeezes your hand. “What do you mean?” 

“I just feel like every time I get something good that makes me happy, it’s gone faster than I can enjoy it. I mean..with uh…with Pedro, everything was going great, I was so happy…and he just.. left. All because things got hard, because he cared too much about everything else. I was getting attacked consistently, but he couldn’t handle it. My happiness got shattered. I don’t want that to happen again, especially not with someone like you. It sounds insane, we only just met, but Hugh, I really like you.” 

“I really like you too y/n.” He smiles and leans forward. His lips are getting closer to yours and as much as you want to kiss him, you can’t, not yet. “Wait..” You put the hand that isn’t holding his hand on his chest, stopping him from moving forward. “What’s wrong baby. You don't wanna kiss me?” there's a cocky smirk on his face and it was the sexiest thing you’ve ever seen. His voice was smooth and seductive. “As much as I want to shove my tongue down your throat right now, I really wanna do this right.” His eyes widen slightly at your words. “Right?” He questions. “I wanna get to know you more and take it slow. I like you too much for this to be rushed and ruined.” “Hmm. I can work with that, but just to be completely sure, you don’t want to kiss me?” The smirk is back. “God..you’re too hot for your own good.” You grab his neck and pull him into you. You kiss him with as much passion as possible, it would be the last one for a while, until time passes and these feelings are certain. His tongue slithers across your bottom lip and you pull back from the kiss. “You’re really testing your luck Jackman.” You laugh and he shrugs. 

“Is waiting okay with you? I don’t want you to feel pressured or tied to me in some way.” You’re playing with his long fingers. “That’s fine by me baby, I'll wait for you as long as I need to.” He leans back into the couch. 

“Friends for now?” You ask. 

“Friends for now.” He nods.

Thank you for reading <33

part five

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[eggtargaryenii]

EAST OF THE SUN | PART III

"Bastards are supposed to be born of lies and temptation, not love," Jacaerys said, "at least according to the Faith. If we are indeed the bastards of Ser Harwin and my mother, then we are proof that lies and temptation are all that existed between them.” You thought of all the septas and their prayers and Alicent Hightower screaming at you to behave. Bastards are not so different from the daughters of whores, you mused. They see us all as products of sin.

11.1k words, aemond x fem!reader x jacaerys. childhood friends to lovers (except it's cousins), political drama. chapter warnings for targaryen incest and themes of xenophobia/racism and misogyny. dividers from @/cafekitsune.

SERIES SUMMARY & MASTERLIST.

IX. THE EMPRESS

“You raised the girl to be too clever, Alicent. I fear she cannot be controlled.”

Otto Hightower did not often show weakness, but his voice was heavy with exhaustion—or perhaps frustration—as he spoke to Alicent. He was poring over the papers you'd put together for your petition earlier in the day: a detailed summary of all of the records of your father's spending in Essos during his diplomatic visits, presented as evidence that none of your inheritance in the Iron Bank was actually Crown wealth. Apparently you'd gone and stolen the ledgers in the middle of the night—with the help of that Strong bastard, the one who was besotted with you—and done the maths yourself. All current and past Masters of Coin still alive—Lord Beesbury, Prince Daemon and Tyland Lannister—examined your work and could only attest to its accuracy.

It was unprecedented, but not too surprising to Alicent. Of all your lessons as a noble lady—in the Seven, in dancing, in needlework, and so on—you really only ever paid attention to arithmetic and household stewardship. So I may someday be a competent wife and oversee my husband’s affairs, you once explained to Alicent, after my Queen chooses a match for me, of course. When Alicent then advised you that most men enjoyed graceful women who could sing and dance, you had replied to her that you did not want to marry a man—you wanted to marry a lord.

Just as you and your father want me for me, do you not? you had asked. I do not wish to disappoint either of you in that regard. It would be no good for any of us if I married a man who tossed me aside because he met a woman more graceful than I could ever be. But if I kept his household running flawlessly and his accounts full of gold? Well, he might eventually take another lover, but he would never want to take another wife.

You had been so young when you’d said that—younger than she’d been when she wed King Viserys, but no less aware. Alicent understood your play then, and she never chided you for neglecting your needlework ever again.

“The girl has a talent for figures,” Alicent admitted. “She has a keen eye for household management.”

“Figures?” Otto laughed in a way that sounded derisive. “It’s not the maths that impressed me. You can hire any steward to do maths. No, it was her foresight in stealing those ledgers. And the way she talked in the throne room—gods, can she talk!” He laughed, though it was entirely mirthless. “Though I suppose Rhaenyra may have prepared her. The blacks have never been interested in her before, but now it seems that they want her as an ally.”

It did look that way during the petition, with Daemon backing you every time the Hand seemed to corner you. As usual, the man could hardly string together a coherent argument, but he did not need to. What really mattered to all the smallfolk and nobles watching your petition was that every time Otto alluded to your disgrace of a mother and your mongrel pedigree, Daemon never let them forget that you were also a trueborn Targaryen.

You would steal from your kin by marriage? he asked. You would deny her birthright? You would spit in her father’s legacy, after all he has done for the Realm? You would disrespect my niece?

Niece. Alicent found it laughable. Daemon had never spared you a glance as you grew up in the Red Keep, nor did Rhaenyra.

“Of course they want her as an ally,” Alicent said, her words sharp with frustration. “Rhaenyra ignored the girl when she had nothing, but now that she’s come into enough wealth to hire an entire army of sellswords and more, the princess is suddenly her greatest benefactor.”

Alicent was wroth to think of it. She had wanted no part in raising you, had resented you for it when her husband charged her with the duty. She could hardly manage her own children, let alone some foreign waif who was loath to speak the Common Tongue and threw tantrums whenever she was forced to pray at the Sept. Worse yet, your mother had been a bed slave from Lys—a country of harlots, criminals, and sin—and Alicent knew, just knew by looking at you, that you were likely to end up equally sullied. It was in your blood.

But you had no mother.

You were at court, a young and lost girl, and you were entirely motherless. She still remembered how you wept after your mother kissed you goodbye, the way that you would sneak off to Blackwater Bay just to wait for your father to return. Alicent’s heart ached for you then, for she too knew how horrible court could be for a young and motherless girl.

Rhaenyra was your kin by blood. She should have looked out for you. She had been more than capable, but she was too busy with her sham marriage and bastard children and that paramour of hers. What could Alicent do but care for you instead? You had no mother.

The Seven would have never forgiven Alicent if she simply left you to the wolves of the court. She could not leave you to her father’s court. You would not have survived. You would have been married off at ten-and-two to some lord thirty years your senior, tortured in your marriage bed until you were swollen with child while still a child yourself. Alicent could not let it happen.

Even if Alicent would never love you—and she knew she never would—she knew she must still care for you.

And today she watched as you spat in the face of her protection. How you paralyzed her when you turned to Daemon and chided him: I am familiar with the prudence and wisdom of Her Grace, as well as her kindness, you'd said. I know she would never intentionally try to take someone’s rightful inheritance. It is merely an ambiguity of the law that has led us here. She only thinks of the Realm.

Said in front of King Viserys, with his daughter-heir in the room? Alicent had no choice but to support your position, lest she look like a scheming traitor.

And the worst thing about it was that, despite her father’s ponderings, Alicent knew that Rhaenyra had not coached you to say that. For she had raised you, and she knew your talent for speech and for people—and she knew those words came from you alone, and you had learned how to say them from watching Alicent.

Rhaenyra could have never taught you how to appeal to people like that. Rhaenyra had no need, for she could always do whatever she pleased. She could flout the rules and disrespect the entire court, and King Viserys would only protect her. But you—just like Alicent—could not. For you had no mother, and you had no father, and you were the daughter of a foreign whore. All you had was Alicent, and for your sake she tried to make you disavow your sinful mother, for your sake she tried to make you find the light of the Seven, for your sake she tried to beat out of you your wilful nature. For your sake she tried to save your soul from both the Seven Hells and from the judgemental eyes of the Red Keep, the lords and ladies who saw nothing but a sinful whore when they looked at you. But you always resisted, as if you wanted to be a pariah, as if you wanted to suffer despite her best efforts—but Alicent could not hate you.

How could she hate a powerless girl without a mother?

“I do not think it was Rhaenyra who taught her how to speak in court,” Alicent voiced, thinking of all the hours you spent watching petitions, watching her. “Rhaenyra does not know how to handle herself with such grace nor subtlety.”

“Ah. So it was your influence.” Her father laughed, sounding genuinely amused. “If only you had raised Aegon to have even half the talent—then perhaps the King would have changed his mind about his succession.”

Alicent’s fingers tightened, and then she found herself picking at her nails.

“It is no fault of mine that Aegon was born with his disposition,” she said. “I tried my best.”

“You did,” Otto agreed. “You did not fail in all regards. Aemond, at the very least, has talent. Were he your firstborn son and that girl born a Targaryen princess—my, imagine the power they could have on the Iron Throne together. Our family would be untouchable. A pity.”

Alicent’s jaw tightened. She could not hate you, but she also could not stand to think of you sullying any of her sons. Your influence on them had already done irreparable damage. Your habit of tempting men had already driven Aegon into terrorising innocent women with his lust, and whatever silk-sweet words you whispered into Aemond’s ears had turned her lovely boy into someone cold and distant.

No—Alicent could not imagine you wedded to either of them.

“A pity, but there is no use in mourning it,” she dismissed. “Aemond will be matched to a respectable lady of the realm, and we will use the girl to buy the loyalty of a useful lord—as was always your plan.”

“Yes. My plan.” Otto looked at your papers thoughtfully. “I think we will need to make haste with her marriage. The blacks intend to ally with her, and I believe she is too ambitious to decline their offer. We cannot let her inheritance fall into Rhaenyra’s hands—we shall need to find her a match and send her someplace else immediately.”

Alicent swallowed. She had hoped to push for your match to a Northern house. She knew you would be happiest in the North—with people who worshipped the Old Gods, and a husband who was far enough removed from the politics of court to care much about your heritage. Starks were known for their honour, and the Warden in the North had carried himself with great dignity during his time at court. She knew that Cregan Stark would not have mistreated you. Lord Manderly’s son seemed promising as well, and the young Lord Bolton would have been keen for a dragon. But the political benefits of those matches were modest at best, uncertain at worst—Alicent knew her father would not have chosen any of those betrothals for you.

You had no mother. Only she could defend you.

“And where,” she asked carefully, “would we find a match on such short notice?”

She hoped for Lord Stokeworth or the Tully boy. The former was kind and the latter was dutiful, and she had already convinced her father of both proposals. But when the Hand smiled, his eyes glinting sharp, she knew it was neither of them.

“It is, in some ways, fortunate that she is so clever,” he replied. “The Tyrells have been here for the past few days on their own business, and they watched her petition. They were quite impressed with her and have made an offer to take her as a ward—and to eventually marry her to one of their sons.”

Her eyes widened. The Tyrells were one of the great houses, and ordinarily would only be interested in a betrothal with a Targaryen prince or princess. “Was it the talent they wanted,” she asked, “or the gold?”

“The gold for the marriage—and her dragon, of course. But the talent is why they want her as a ward.”

Alicent considered the offer. They likely wanted to groom you for something, and as long as it was not dancing or needlework, it would keep you happily busy. You may eventually find yourself content with such an arrangement. But she could not help but feel that something was amiss. The Tyrells kept strongly to the Faith, and they cared greatly for status. They would not be so eager to take someone like you into their family.

“And which son would they want to squander upon her?” Alicent asked.

“The bastard they just legitimised. To wed a Targaryen lady with a dragon would be quite the achievement for such a man—hardly a squander.”

“You wish to marry her to Arthur Flowers?” she asked, appalled.

“Of course. We are buying the son of a great house with her. The son of our liege lord!”

“Arthur Flowers is a bastard and a raper!”

“Arthur Tyrell is now a legitimate son of the family controlling the Reach!” Otto sighed. “Do not detest me for this, Alicent. We will need to secure all the help we can get when the succession of the Iron Throne is contested.” Otto gave her a severe look. “And remember,” he added, “this has always been your plan too. You have always wanted to use the girl for the sake of your own children—or would you rather that Rhaenyra use her instead?”

Alicent could not say anything. She could not stop this match, she realised. No one would speak in your defence, for you had no mother—you only had her. And Alicent, at the end of the day, was not your mother.

She was a Hightower.

X. TEMPERANCE

The edge of the Kingswood today was peaceful. The sky was a clear blue; the birdsong was a soft warble in your ears. Vhagar—who was old and liked to rest when she was not at war—was calm beneath you, her saddle rising and falling with the rhythm of her breath. Aemond, never one to chatter, was equally quiet. Even though Vhagar had been at rest for a while, your arms were still wrapped tight around his waist, and your cheek was pressed against his back.

You had not held or been held since your parents departed from King’s Landing. Given your reputation, it was impossible for you to touch anyone without setting off whispers, and none of the septas who cared for you had any desire to touch you—your blood was too dirty for it. But sharing a dragon with another person offered a kind of analogue to an embrace; allowed you to feel close to someone without raising brows. You would never admit such a thing aloud, but you liked to ride with people partly because of that.

Aemond was, of course, the only person in King’s Landing who would ever ride with you on any dragon. Ordinarily you would limit contact with him—he did not strike you as a person who particularly liked being touched, and you did not want to scare him off—but you needed to feel close to someone today. You had just spent three days without sleep to prepare for your petition, and during the manic rush of having won it, was approached by Alicent Hightower with dampening news of your betrothal. She'd finished her announcement by requesting that you plan your father’s funeral; it was plainly an attempt to ruin any happiness by reminding you to grieve.

Too proud to show weakness, you’d agreed and committed to yet another three days without sleep.

But you were plainly exhausted. You did not want to think about the funeral. You did not want to think about your betrothal. You did not want to think of anything at all. You simply wanted to relax, wanted to feel safe and warm next to someone, so now you were sitting with Aemond in the most desolate place you could find, the both of you on Vhagar’s saddle.

“I'm afraid I'll fall off if I let go,” you explained to Aemond, when he asked why you were still holding him.

“But we are not in the air.”

“Vhagar likes to buck and fight—she could kick me off at any moment.”

“Vhagar is very calm right now. And she likes you. She feels at ease around you.”

“I suppose that's true.” You closed your eyes, enjoying the warmth of him. “I'm fond of riding her too.”

Despite his questions, Aemond did not protest to your touch. He merely hummed, after which a long silence passed. Larks kept calling out, their songs a beautiful trill in your ears. The day was windy; the trees whispered loudly in the sky. To anyone a distance away, the noise of the forest would surely mask your voices—as long as you kept them low.

“I'm betrothed to someone now,” you said quietly. It was not quite upset, but your voice sounded oddly fragile.

“Hm.” Aemond did not sound bothered; instead, he seemed pensive. “To whom?”

“The Tyrells. The bastard they just legitimised.” You opened your eyes, staring at the rustling trees. The scenery of the Reach would be similar, you found yourself thinking, for it was close by—too close for your liking.

“The Tyrells,” Aemond repeated thoughtfully. “The Hightowers are their bannermen. Otto Hightower wishes to trade you for the guaranteed support of his liege, and at the same time he will ensure that your inheritance will not fall into Rhaenyra's hands. It seems my grandsire has done exactly what you predicted.”

“As I said,” you replied bitterly, “his daughter raised me. I know how your family thinks.”

“As do I.” You felt him shift; he may have been looking back at you. “Do you know anything about Ser Arthur?”

“Nothing other than that he’s fought in the Dornish Marches. He displayed great feats during battle—I heard many tales in the Throne Room during their petition. Ser Criston looked strangely at him the whole time, though.” Your brow furrowed. “I wonder why.”

“They may have served together, or else he may have some kind of reputation within the Marches,” Aemond mused. “I will ask Ser Criston later.”

“Do tell me what he says. I would like to know the character of my future husband.” Your arms tightened around Aemond. The day was not particularly cold, but you found yourself clinging to him. “I need all the knowledge I can of the Tyrells before I leave. Surely Highgarden cannot be worse than the Red Keep, but I want no surprises.”

“You have already resigned yourself to being taken away.” You felt Aemond touch your hand; you nearly jumped before realising he was only adjusting his chains. “I told you that I would handle the matter of your betrothal.”

“What can you do?” you asked miserably. “The Queen has already agreed, and who knows what kind of marriage your grandsire will force me into if I offend the Tyrells by outright rejecting them. I would not put it past the Hand to tie me up and send me away in the middle of the night, at this point.” You pressed your forehead into Aemond’s back, sighing. “Will you take me to Braavos so I may escape the mummery of the Red Keep? If we leave on Vhagar now, we may be there by the morrow.”

Vhagar beneath you rumbled, as if in complaint. “Ah,” you said, “your old lady seems unwilling to carry us. I suppose I'm done for.”

Aemond laid a hand on your wrist, perhaps searching for another chain. You did not push it away. “You need not offend the Tyrells,” he said. “When the time comes, simply play along as needed. You will not be held accountable for whatever may come.”

“Will you be held accountable? The guilt would eat me alive, if you were.”

He hummed. “If I were, it would not affect my standing greatly. You know I would not make such a misstep.”

“I suppose.” You allowed yourself to feel, for just one moment, reassured. Aemond was one of those few players in court who felt both reliable and safe, or at least not openly malicious. Perhaps to others, but not you. It was not unlikely that he could solve this all.

The breeze changed. You realised that your excuses to cling onto him had dwindled. “I suppose we should dismount now,” you said mournfully. “Come—let’s enjoy the woods, as we said we would.”

“I don't feel much like looking at trees today,” Aemond said. “Would you like to fly along the bay instead? The whole length of the shore.”

You lifted your head to give him an incredulous look. “That will take at least an hour in flight.”

“Then I suppose you will need to hold me for an hour. I do hope that won’t be a bother.”

It took you a beat to realise what he'd just offered, but once you did, you squeezed him tightly.

“As long as there is no complaint from Vhagar,” you said. “I know the lady likes her rest.”

Vhagar clicked beneath you, more agreeable now to your request. “She will do what I want,” Aemond reassured you. “Dragons are influenced by the desires of their riders.”

“So you want to nap and lounge all day like an elderly woman?”

You could hear the amusement in his voice when he replied, “Not terribly, though it is an option for us today if you wish.”

How lovely that would be, you thought. If you could lie with Aemond in the grass, shielded from the sun by Vhagar, and spend the afternoon slumbering. To ignore the funeral you needed to plan, the grief you had been procrastinating, the bridegroom you needed to meet.

Unfortunately, Aemond was not such a lout that he would waste the day like that, and you had your own responsibilities. You could not run for long from the death of your parents, from the ramifications of this inheritance mess. It was better to face it all promptly, matching the cold efficiency that the Hightowers operated with. That was how you had survived all these years, after all: matching the Hightowers.

But at the very least, you could allow yourself one more hour of delay.

“Napping would be nice,” you admitted, “but I'd rather spend the time in flight.”

“As you wish, my lady.”

Vhagar’s wings began to beat, ancient but mighty. The trees swayed and rattled from the gust of her flight. The chains around your waist shook with the force of the great beast, but they held steadfast—binding you to Aemond, their hold inescapable.

X. DEATH, UPRIGHT

“Dracarys.”

A brilliant fire roared to life, consuming a boat drifting peacefully by the shore. Emerald flames erupted from the wood, devouring shimmering Qartheen jewels and priceless Myrish silks—all the belongings of your father.

Your father’s dragon had died in his youth. In her absence, it was Wildfyre who was chosen to set the pyre aflame in this sham of a funeral. The fire was the colour of alchemical wildfire, though given your dragon’s middling age of ninety-and-three, they of course burned much hotter. Despite being grown and having lived through both war and death, though, Wildfyre still behaved like a child: screeching and roaring and squawking miserably as the pyre burned, as if crying in your stead.

Your own face was bone-dry. You only stared dully at the pile of burning valuables, which were meant to be a substitute for your father’s body.

Technically, all of the objects in the pyre belonged to the Crown, but in a fit of spite you had publicly petitioned to the Hand to have them burned in the funeral. In a throne room where various nobles and smallfolk spectated—most of whom were already sympathetic to you, after you had to argue for your own inheritance just two days before—Otto Hightower had no choice but to grant your request, lest he look like a monster. You were glad to see all the treasures burning to ash in front of him, all that wealth forever out of his reach.

The Hand and the Queen had not appreciated this insult; neither of them offered their condolences during the ceremony, and likely only came out of obligation. Your closest kin offered no real words of consolation either. Aegon was so grossly uncomfortable during the affair that he could not make eye contact with you; Helaena only gave you a mournful and disconcerting stare, as if she were grieving you instead of your father.

Aemond, though very dear to you, was equally clumsy with handling you in your grief. He stood by your side and asked if you were well, to which you only gave him a long, dead-eyed stare. You had just spent three days without sleep to prepare for your petition during which his grandsire wrung you out; then you spent another two days without sleep to prepare for a funeral at which you thought no one would grieve.

Of course you were not well.

None of Alicent Hightower’s children had ever experienced loss; that much was clear. It was different with your other cousins, however; Luke, Jace, Baela, and Rhaena neatly offered their sincere condolences. I'm so sorry, they all said, before taking your hands and squeezing. I am always here if you need company. Say the word and I will come by.

You absolutely would not take them up on the offer, but you did appreciate it.

Surprisingly, though, you were not entirely alone in your mourning. King Viserys had asked to delay the funeral until he was well enough to attend, and he now stood in the front, watching solemnly. Beside him was Prince Daemon, who for once seemed subdued and reflective. You were not sure what to make of Rhaenyra’s face, which seemed appropriately mournful, but potentially inauthentic. She had actually known your father as a child, though they were not close, and she never involved herself with you when you were a child except for when Jace wanted to play with you.

You supposed it was Prince Daemon and King Viserys who had the greatest right to grief, perhaps even more than you. You had known your father for ten years; they had known him for nearly thirty. Daemon sought you out shortly after the service, speaking in Pentoshi Valyrian.

“Your father was the only person who brought us news of our aunt in Volantis,” he said. “He always saw that she fared well—did he ever tell you that?”

“No,” you replied honestly, and with great surprise. “He never mentioned her.”

“It was how he knew your mother,” Daemon said. “The Lysene pillowhouse that Saera once worked in—your mother was a courtesan there. She introduced them to one another.”

You were stunned by the news. Saera Targaryen had been exiled and King Jaehaerys had forbidden the rest of the family from ever speaking with her again. To think that your father had not only sought her out anyway, but had found your mother through her, was shocking.

“I did not think my father would break his uncle’s decree,” you said.

“Defiance was in your father’s spirit. I do believe you inherited it.”

“Thank you,” you said. You were deeply confused—this was probably the fifth time in your life you'd ever spoken to the Rogue Prince, for he scared you when you were a child, and he himself did not care much for toddlers. You did not think he could be so kind. “Perhaps defiance is in our blood. My father always spoke highly of your exploits, and he respected Princess Saera as well.”

The corner of Daemon’s mouth lifted in something that could not really be called a smile, but was probably meant to be a sign of approval. “Those born of fire and blood have a tendency to be untameable. Your father and I were not just kin—we were kindred. If you wish for the company of like-minded people”—Daemon glanced at the Hightowers and their children—“rather than those who disapprove of us… do seek me out.”

King Viserys, with his missing eye hidden by a patch, offered fewer words, but more heartfelt: “I have always tried to care for you in my cousin’s stead,” he said. “Nothing about that will change in his death.”

You bowed. “Thank you, my King.”

He laid a hand, shaking and emaciated but warm, on your shoulder.

“I regret that I am no longer well enough to spend time with you in your hour of grief, but I know that my children and grandchildren will keep your loneliness at bay.”

He did not mention Queen Alicent, nor did you. “I will be grateful for their company in my mourning,” was all you said.

Truthfully, though, anyone’s company would likely make you scream. You did not feel like coddling anyone as they struggled over what they should say to you after you lost a man that none of them had known. All you wanted to do was sneak back to either your rock by the sea or the dung pit to cry in absolute solitude, but now that Aegon and Aemond knew both of your misery spots, that was not an option.

Your expression was grim as you left the funeral site, and you prayed that no one would disturb you in your self-pity—but to your displeasure, Jace had been thoughtful enough to wait for you.

“I was worried about you,” he said, so gently that you wanted to throw up.

“You need not be,” you replied stiffly. “I did all my grieving for my father while I was working through those ledgers.”

Jacaerys had helped you sort through the books when you were crying too hard to read clearly, so you knew he was being genuine when he replied, “I know. But…”

“But?”

“It's just,” he started, and you could hear the hesitation in his voice, “is there to be a service for your mother?”

You stared dumbly. He sounded earnest when he explained, “I would like to attend, if there is one planned.”

“No,” you replied, and your voice sounded oddly strangled, and your throat hurt terribly. “No, there is not one planned. No one asked me to make arrangements for one, so I did not.”

“Would you rather that there wasn't one?”

“I had not thought about it—I did not think there was anyone who would like to come,” you admitted, which made you feel both horrible and sorry for yourself, and suddenly you were turning around to wipe away at your eyes. Oh, how you longed to be in the dung pit right now.

“Why would you even want to come?” you asked, sniffling. “You did not know her.”

“I would want to come for you,” Jacaerys said simply, and the sob that came out of you was so ugly that you felt embarrassed. Not once did you cry like this while reading through all the Iron Bank ledgers, but for some reason, the thought of your mother hurt your heart so much that you did not know how else to release the pain but with the most guttural sobs possible.

You felt a hand on your shoulder. You noticed then that you had crouched down to cry into your knees, and Jace had lowered himself to sit with you.

“When Ser Harwin died,” he said quietly, “Luke and I were not allowed to attend his funeral.”

“Oh,” you said, lip wobbling. You did not know where he was going with this.

“We still wanted to say goodbye, though, so instead we went to the Kingswood and buried the training swords he gave us when we were little. We did it alone.”

“O-oh.” More tears welled up as you realised what he was about to ask.

“I know you have not been allowed a proper funeral for your mother—but is there anything you would want to do, to say goodbye?”

You could not manage a yes, so you instead let out a whimpering sob.

“Meet me at the hour of the wolf tonight, at the bottom floor of the Kitchen Keep,” you said once you were coherent again, and Jacaerys nodded.

XI. DEATH, REVERSED

After Prince Velarion cast your mother out of the Red Keep, the septas, in their unending grace, offered you a kind of cruel consolation: Your mother was always going to be cast out anyway, they told you. She was merely a whore, seducing your father with temptation rather than marrying him out of love. He was always going to free himself from her spell and find the Seven again. This was inevitable.

They also told you, You were not a child born of love. You were born of sin and temptation. Your mother was bound to leave you as well, for her feelings for you were disingenuous; how can a whore love an accident of her sins? But now—her influence is gone, and you can find the love of the Seven instead.

And when Alicent Hightower said, Stop crying, sweetling, the septas are speaking the truth—this is all for the better, you realised that you would always hate her and her Faith.

Maybe you could have found the Seven if it were not for her words, but she ruined her gods for you with that one sentence. You burned your copy of the Seven-Pointed Star; you kicked and screamed as the septas dragged you to the High Septon’s service; you called Alicent a monster when she struck you for your misbehaviour. So horrific was her treatment of you that even Aegon—who had often been on the receiving end of her strikes himself—felt sorry for you.

Not that he actually helped you, of course. Only Aemond spent any time with you though it all, sitting next to you in the dragon pit as you cried.

You did not believe any of it, of course. You were not a child born of sin, for your mother and father loved each other. Your father did so much for your mother—told her he loved her in her mother tongue, grew persimmon trees in the courtyard to keep her homesickness at bay, lit nightfires for her so she could pray to R’hllor. Your father loved her so much that he took her to Lys and decided to stay, even if it meant leaving you.

There was no way he didn't love her. There was no way they didn't love you.

There was no way, and this was what you told yourself every time you heard those whispers: She merely seduced him. She merely used him. He did not truly love her. How could a prince truly love a whore?

And her daughter—that girl is a child of sin. How could they have loved her?

You had become so skilled at ignoring it all, and nearly delighted in being irreverent of it. But despite all of your efforts to laugh at the gossipmongers and the septas, several years of whispers now echoed in your ear as you made your way to the Kitchen Keep. They nicked at your heart, and you wished your mother and father were here to dispel them. But your father was a pile of bones somewhere on Bloodstone, and your mother was lost to the sea.

Your heart was so heavy with these thoughts that you did not say anything to Jace and Luke when they met you at the Keep. You merely dumped two piles of firewood and kindling in their arms and beckoned them to follow you. You led them up a long flight of stairs, carrying a bundle of beautiful silks, until you had all reached the top of some decrepit tower.

The winds were calm tonight, a cool breeze rather than a violent gust. It made it easier to light up the old fire pit—you struggled only a little before you remembered how.

“My mother and father used to come here at night,” you finally explained, your voice tired. “It is a practice at Red Temples in Essos to burn nightfires like this. They are meant to allow R’hllor to protect us from the dark. But there are no such temples in King’s Landing, so my father would do this instead to comfort my mother.”

Jacaerys and Lucerys both listened quietly as they sat next to you, faces lit up by the crackling heat. Luke was not very close with you—you had always felt too awkward befriending him, after the incident with Aemond’s eye—but he had wanted to come to help you honour your mother, so sorry he was for your grief.

He seemed genuinely interested when he asked, “Does it bring you comfort too?”

“It reminds me of my mother,” you said, and the two brothers nodded in understanding.

“And those silks you're carrying?” Jace asked.

“Things of my mother’s that we found in my father’s room.” You looked at them balefully as you took a piece out of the bundle, revealing a golden scarf with Lysene embroidery. “I think—I think I should burn them. I don't have anything else of hers.”

The two of them nodded. You fed the silk to the nightfire, watched as it ate through the gold thread. Your heart clenched as it burned to ash; you had so many times imagined that your mother was wearing this scarf as she walked by the harbours of Lys, holding your father’s hand.

“I always thought,” you said quietly, “that my father took my mother to Lys and loved her too much to come back.”

The both of them stayed silent. Waited.

“But”—your brow twinged—“I do not know what to think anymore. People always said my mother was a whore, you know? That my father married her out of pure lust and would eventually leave her. I always thought they were wrong, because he stayed in Lys and gave up his position here, all because he loved her too much to leave her. But now I don't know what to think.”

You did not know if he truly loved her. If the sword and the silks and even you were really evidence of his love, and not simply evidence that he was doting on his pretty concubine. If the ceremony in the Great Sept of Baelor was truly proof of their devotion, or if it was the impulsive decision of an infatuated man. For your father was supposed to be in Lys, loving your mother too much to return, spending the rest of his days with her in the Essosi sun—but instead he was a pile of bones, and she was lost forever.

You felt a familiar wetness on your face, a burn in your eyes that had nothing to do with smoke.

“But if he had stayed,” Luke asked quietly, hesitantly, “doesn't that mean he would have abandoned you?”

“That would have been fine,” you replied truthfully. “And I thought—I thought they'd visit someday, and I would get to see them again then. At the very least they'd love me enough for that.”

At the very least, you would for one last time be held by people who loved you.

You bit your trembling lip. Now that you'd said it all out loud, you were uncertain if you made sense. “Is it strange that I'm questioning it all now? That for nearly twenty years I believed steadfastly in their love, but now that they are gone, I do not know what to think?”

Neither of them said anything. Luke was looking down; Jace was staring into the flames.

“I wish I could ask them,” you whispered, and this seemed to strike Jace.

“I do not think it strange to question it.” Jacaerys did not look at you, but you knew he was not lying. “I have thought about it many times—about the relationship between my mother and Ser Harwin. I always thought they loved each other and that they loved us, when I was little—but now I'm not so sure. And I cannot ask him, no matter how much I wish for it.”

You gave him a long look, and you were strangely hopeful—as if the knowledge that Ser Harwin loved the three of them would somehow mean that your father loved you and your mother too.

“I do not think,” Jacaerys finally confessed, “that my mother loved Ser Harwin.”

Your heart was wrenched with pain.

“Oh,” you said quietly. “Why?”

“She did not cry after he died.” Jace sounded odd, his voice terse but brittle. “She did not cry and she told us that we shouldn't cry either. Like he meant nothing to us. I think now that he was a distraction for her, or a plaything. If the court whispers are true, then it is not the first time she would have done such a thing.”

“That can't be true,” you protested, perhaps too desperately. Rhaenyra had to have loved him. She risked her station just to bear his children—just like how your father lost his to have you.

But Jace seemed disconsolate. “Why not?” He gave you a wry look. “Bastards are supposed to be born of lies and temptation, not love—at least according to the Faith. If we are indeed the bastards of Ser Harwin and my mother, then we are proof that lies and temptation are all that existed between them.”

You thought of all the septas and their prayers and Alicent Hightower screaming at you to behave. Bastards are not so different from the daughters of whores, you mused. They see us all as products of sin.

“Fuck the Faith,” you hissed, and Jace seemed startled, as if not expecting the edge to your voice, but you did not falter. “I do not believe a person as kind as you could have been born of anything other than love.”

Jace’s eyes widened a little, but then his face settled into a kind of smile. Small, but gentle nevertheless.

“Then I do not think that you could have been born of anything else either.”

The corner of your mouth lifted. You turned back to the fire, eyes still hot, but a little less watery. Your fingers gripped the red-and-gold silk remaining in your hands—your mother’s wedding veil—and you meant to feed it to the nightfire, but you did not. You did not want to let it go.

You did not want to let her go.

“I’ve always thought that,” you confessed, “my mother loved me enough to someday come back to King’s Landing. She promised me, you know. She said she would.”

Jace gave you a soft look. “I'm sure she meant it.”

You wiped your eyes again. “Why do you think so?”

“Just a feeling.” He went quiet for a little, hesitating. But eventually he shared, “Ser Harwin said he would come back someday. He died, of course, but”—Jace looked down—“I believe he was telling the truth. He loved us, I think.”

You nodded, and the squeeze around your heart finally eased. It was entirely illogical, but you somehow knew this was true: Ser Harwin loved his children; that meant that your parents must have loved you too. It only made sense. Your father had wanted to come back for you after one hundred days. Your mother wanted to return after your grandsire died. She loved you so much that she would cross the seas for you again.

She must have crossed the seas again.

Your fingers gripped the veil even harder. Your eyes felt heavy, five days without proper sleep wearing them down. You fought to keep them open.

“You're tired,” Jace said. “You should go back to your room and rest.”

“No,” you said, but your eyelids were fluttering shut anyway, and you felt yourself start to sway. “No—the fire is supposed to burn all night. Until the dawn breaks and the light of R’hllor returns to us.”

“Will that bring you comfort, if it burns until daybreak?” he asked. You began to lie down—curling up on the stone floor.

You answered with your eyes closed: “It will remind me of my mother.”

You entered a strange dream after that, or perhaps a memory. You were sitting around the nightfire with your parents, a child once more. You were shivering and crying, for the wind was cold, and the night was dark and full of terrors. But your father had you lie down, your head in his lap, and he covered you with his cloak as your mother ran her fingers through your hair, and they held you. They loved you. You knew they loved you, and they loved each other too. Your father went to Lys and loved your mother so much that he never came back. Your mother loved you so much that she crossed the Narrow Sea once more just to see you.

And you would, for one last time, be held by someone who loved you.

(When you woke up in your bed the next morning, you were covered by a cloak that smelled of nightfire and dreams.)

END PART III

notes: FUN FACT when i was a teenager i was extremely obsessed over sansan and the cloak = marriage metaphor had a formative influence on me and that has definitely come thru in this fic lol. anyway - thank you for reading!!! i would greatly appreciate it if you reblogged & drop a line if you enjoyed this chapter! <3

[blackswaneuroparedux]

If Caravaggio were alive today today, he would have loved the cinema; his paintings take a cinematic approach. We filmmakers became aware of his work in the late 1960s and early 1970s, and he certainly was an influence on us. The best part for us was that in many cases he painted religious subject-matter but the models were obviously people from the streets; he had prostitutes playing saints. There’s something in Caravaggio that shows a real street knowledge of the sinner; his sacred paintings are profane.

Martin Scorsese on Caravaggio

Michelangelo Merisi, known to most of us as “Caravaggio,” was born on September 29, 1571 in Milan, Italy, to parents who were from the small town of Caravaggio. In the span of his 38 years long life he revolutionised painting with innovations like a unique use of chiaroscuro - with dark shadows contrasting with dramatic areas of light - and a deep sense of realism that later inspired the Baroque movement. But most of all, he developed such an iconic style that most of us can probably look at a painting and know if it’s a Caravaggio, or Caravaggio-inspired. 

Merisi spent the first few years of his life in Milan, studying painting, and later moved to Rome, where his early talent impressed Cardinal Del Monte, who introduced the young painter to other high-profile Catholic figures who became commissioners of some of Caravaggio’s best work. It seemed there was no end to the artist’s creative genius. Caravaggio, much to his patron’s delight, would pump out one masterpiece after another. It seemed the more out of control his personal life became (cheating, brawling and murder were standard fare), the more his art would become more refined, more potent.

In the long list of masterpieces he left behind, both secular and religious works stand out. But it is perhaps in his religious works that the artistic transition of the master is more evident. Caravaggio is, in fact, known to have changed his style after harsh personal life experiences led him to reassess his outlook on life.

In May of 1606 Caravaggio took part in a deadly brawl in Rome and was charged with murder. He fled to Malta, in search of asylum from the Order of Saint John, a Catholic order dedicated to helping the sick and the poor. The order commissioned some of the most important late life works of the Milanese artist.

It is in these works that we notice the shift in Caravaggio’s art, from a strong focus on aesthetics to an interest in the spirituality of his subjects, which critics believe was motivated by his own introspection.

On the streets surrounding the churches and palaces, brawls and sword fights were regular occurrences. In the course of this desperate life Caravaggio created the most dramatic paintings of his age, using ordinary men and women - often prostitutes and the very poor - to model for his depictions of classic religious scenes.

By representing biblical characters in a naturalistic fashion, typically through signs of aging and poverty, Caravaggio's populist modernisation of religious parables were little short of trailblazing. Although not without his critics within the church, by effectively humanising the divine, Caravaggio made Christianity more relevant to the ordinary viewer.

For some, though, his art was too real. Bare shoulders, plunging necklines, severed heads; this raw humanity didn’t always fly in 17th century Rome. As a result, many of his pieces were rejected as altar pieces and as church hangings. One such piece, the Madonna of Loretto (now hanging in a church in Rome) was widely criticised upon its unveiling. The people of the day were shocked to behold the Mother of God leaning nonchalantly against a wall in her bare feet while holding baby Jesus in her arms.

It is ironic that the very art that today we consider “classical” and “iconic” to the Catholic faith was considered questionable and perhaps void of modesty and virtue. Yet, the fact remains that no individual artist has made such a lasting impression on the world of modern art. Truly, many have called Caravaggio the “first modern artist”. It is no surprise, then, that his style has sparked both widespread admiration and imitation throughout the centuries.

Before Pope John Paul II refined a theology of the body beautiful, Caravaggio's paintings suggested a reverence for the inherent beauty of human form.

Troubled though he may have been, his art speaks eloquently of the dignity of the mundane. Though the original medium may be weathered and cracked, the message of beauty still echoes down the centuries. And this same beauty still fuels, escapes and reduces artists to relentless seekers as surely and as forcefully as it did in Caravaggio's life.

[nessjo]

Velaria embōñar issi

Note: This is kinda a Fem Lucerys Story, since the OC is his twin sister. This story is inspired by the talented @thefutureibraheem please check the blog out and the phenomenal story 'A Bride for an Enemy'. (937 words)

Pairing | Aemond Targaryen x Lucerya Velaryon/Strong (OC)

Summary | Two years after the birth of her first child, Rhaenyra is about to give birth to her next children

Warnings: Friends to Strangers to Lovers Trope, Targcest, 16+, meantions of birthing, not proofread, English is not my first language

Velaria embōñar issi masterlist

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter 1: The birth of Lucerya and Lucerys Velaryon

Two years after Rhaenyra gave birth to her son Jacaerys she was pregnant again and by the size of her tummy the maesters believe for her to be pregnant with more than one child.

It would be a lie If Rhaenyra said, that she wasn't scared. Her first birth was a painful experience in itself, but the thought of giving birth to two multiple children just terrified her, because it reminded her of her mother's pregnancy losses and her eventual death.

Thankfully, not only was the pregnancy easy, but she also had the support of her husband Laenor but also that of her lover and father of her children, Ser Harwin Strong. These two men were both excited, even though only one was allowed to show it. But it would be another lie to say, that they both didn't imagine all the things that they would teach the children in the near future.

Laenor somehow managed to convince not only Rhaenyra but also the King and his council that the children should be born on Driftmark, since one of them would become the potential Lord of the Tides and Master of Driftmark. At the end, Rhaenyra was happy to go through her pregnancy away from King's Landing, away from the Red Keep and most importantly away from the Hightowers.

It was a storm night and the sea was raging with waves as high as the Grand Sept when Rhaenyra gone into labour. The wind was hounding and the rain was pouring out of the sky as if the world was going to end tonight. The young princess felt as if she was burning alive on the inside with tears rolling down her red cheeks and her knuckles turned white from her grabbing the headboard of her bed while trying to stay conscious from all her screaming of pain.

After what felt like a lifetime just as the nautical dawn began the first baby came into the world and with its first cry in this world the storm outside suddenly stopped, as if the young child controlled the sea and its powers. "It's a girl!" came a joyous cry of one of the handmaidens that were there to help Rhaenyra through the birth.

But before the new mother could enjoy her little bundle of Joy, the pain started again. Thankfully this time a lot quicker, and not even 14 minutes later Rhaenyra held both her little girl and boy in her arms close to her heart after her maids cleaned both her and the children. Both of her new children shared their father's dark brown hair and light eyes.

Rhaenyra looked with nothing but pure love at her two children and whispered to them in High Valyrian, "Ñuha dōna byka zaldrīzoti. Nyke kivio ao bona nyke kessa mīsagon ao lēda ñuha olvie issare ēva mazeman ñuha mōrī jelevre." ("My sweet little dragons. I promise you that I shall protect you with my very being until I take my last breath.")

An overexcited Laenor came into the chamber, followed by his parents, Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys. "I heard it was a boy and a girl." He was grinning from one side of his face to the other while approaching his wife and taking a seat beside her. "Mhm", Rhaenyra agreed, "and what an entrance your daughter made."

Corly looked out of the window at the now calm sea, "and like a true Velaryon the sea bends to her will." Rhaenys stud near her husband with a knowing look on her face, but decided not to say anything since everything was still relatively new.

Laenor and Rhaenyra both noticed Rhaenys's look but decided to ignore it and just enjoy the two new souls that are now under their care. "Have you two come up with a name for them?", Rhaenys finally spoke up, walking closer to her son and good-daughter, she could help but give a small smile while looking at her new grandchildren, no matter who the father was, and softly caresses their small chubby cheeks.

"For the boy, we decided on the name Lucerys. For a girl, I originally wanted to name her Visenya, but now that I look at her, I think Lucerya suits her better." Rhaenyra explained while looking at her husband to see if he would approve of her decision. Laenor could only nod, while looking at them with pride in his eyes, "Yeah, Lucerya is good." "Would you both like to hold them?" Laenor turned to his parents and they couldn't denied his question.

Corlys took Lucerys and Rhaenys took Lucerya and at this moment you could see the clear love they both held for their grandchildren. "Lucerya for sure is going to grow up to be a beautiful young maiden, and Lucerys is going to be a handsome young man." Rhaenyra and Laenor were both grateful for Rhaenys's kind words, that she clearly mend.

Corlys looked at both his grandchildren and spoke, "Princess Lucerya and Prince Lucerys Velaryon, welcome to Westeros."

The News of the King's newest grandchild spread like a wildfire over the seven kingdoms and everywhere the smallfolk celebrated their arrival, using these news as an excuse to get away from their day-to-day life, same as they did with the arrival of Prince Jacaerys.

In the Red Keep whatsoever, one, the Queen Alicent wasn't as pleased about the news, as for she found it inappropriate that the heir didn't give birth in the Keep, and she only hoped, that at least these children would look like Laenor Velaryon.

[deliciouskeys]

This fic has been entirely inspired by @vanshoundd's Butchlander cowboy AU art. I went feral after I saw it and wrote 3k words as soon as my work week was over. The art didn't need fic, but... um... now you have it.

(thank you for keeping the Butchlander tag alive with your pretty art, Vans)

Frontier Justice. Butchlander.

Billy had just ordered his third glass of whiskey when a blond stranger strolled in through the swinging doors of the bar. The man decided to situate himself on the stool right beside him even though there were plenty of empty seats at the bar at this early evening hour. Billy glanced over as the man took off his bright white leather hat and set it on the stool beside him, wiped the sweat off his brow and took out an actual comb to rearrange his matted hair. He looked so very familiar and Billy was trying to place him. When the barman came over to ask the stranger ‘what’ll it be?’ and he ordered a sarsaparilla, Billy couldn’t hold it in any longer.

“You’ve gotta be kiddin’ me.”

“Bout what?” the man asked nonchalantly, even as popped the metal cap off the glass bottle the barman took out from underneath the bar.

Billy realized it was odd to be irritated by another man’s beverage choice, but this was ridiculous. “Enjoyin’ that?”

“Yeah?” the other man answered in an equally querying tone.

Looking at him carefully, Billy suddenly pieced together why the man looked familiar. “Say, aren’t you that Jack Lander fellow?”

“Indeed,” Jack answered, taking another long sip from the long bottle neck. “You a fan?”

“Just didn’t recognize you without all ‘em rhinestones and garish boots.”

Jack Lander was a notorious figure in the area. He gained his fame by traveling around with the Wild West Show that went around the bigger towns. He was an incredible natural talent, probably the best marksman this side of the Mississippi, and an expert with the lasso, although Billy always thought it was mostly showy tricks than good old-fashioned useful skills. Jack used to wow audiences with all sort of ridiculous feats like standing up on a galloping horse and managing to shoot glass bottle targets on the run. Billy attended twice before the show shut down, the first time dragged against his will by Hughie, a young ranchhand who was eager to see the show. The next year when the show came around, Billy went into town on his own, and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t like seeing Jack Lander’s gaudy button shirt with rhinestone highlights across the chest and shoulders, catching the afternoon light seductively. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t notice how pretty Jack’s ass was in those newfangled denim dungarees you couldn’t get at most supply stores, stretched drum-tight around his hips and legs, a pretty blue color. And he’d be lying if he said he didn’t rub one out in his tent that night, remembering the way Jack looked doing all his fancy trick roping.

Jack hmphed into his bottle of root beer. “What was wrong with my boots?”

“Other than the fact they were scarlet red and the spurs were painted to look like gold? Nothing at all.” Billy chuckled.

“Those were for the ladies in the audience,” Jack said flatly.

Jack Lander was certainly a ladykiller, but the reality was there were still not many as many ladies out here as fellows, and Billy couldn’t believe this man didn’t enjoy at least some attention from men on the side. “Didn’t realize it was exclusively for the ladies,” he said, winking, taking the last sip of his whiskey, gauging Jack’s reaction out of the corner of his eye.

Far from rebuffing the flirtation, Jack finally turned and looked at him, and smiled amiably. He made to clink bottle to glass before noticing Billy had finished his whiskey, and motioned the bartender over to ask for a refill for his ‘friend.’

“I’ll be paying for it,” Billy reassured the bartender who looked at the two of them skeptically. “It’ll be my fourth and the sun ain’t even set yet...” Billy warned Jack as he raised the refilled glass.

“Should have ordered sarsaparilla,” Jack said in sing-song, winking, clinking bottle to glass.

“Why are ya drinkin that vile kid stuff?”

“Because I’m thirsty?” Jack paused before adding. “And I like my hand steady and my wits about me.”

“Wits, huh. Well you might enjoy the conversation with me a bit more if ya didn’t have so many wits about you.”

Jack laughed, flashing his miraculously perfect white teeth, none of them crooked, broken, or worn down.

Billy glanced down to see he had not one but two holsters at each hip. What the hell did he need four revolvers and such a steady hand for? All Billy knew about Jack after the Wild West Show shut down a few years ago was that he started making his living bounty hunting. Sometimes it was runaway criminals, awful men. A lot of the time it was Apaches and Comanches that he’d shoot on sight, which was against the law, strictly speaking, not that there was anyone around here who would ever enforce it. It was a risky and cruel profession compared to driving herds across the plains like Billy was usually hired to do. It was a wonder that not only was Jack still alive, but that he looked not at all worse for the wear, even though his days of sleeping in a comfortable wagon trailer and getting glammed up for shows were over. His outfit was more practical, certainly-- baggier, brown trousers and coat with grime on the lower hems, a wide brim hat with no embellishments, unless one counted the visible salt fronts from head sweat. But he still had a small red bandana tied around his collar, and the shirt peeking out from underneath his coat was still a crisp white cotton number from what Billy could see of it. Billy was surprised at how tempting it was to peel Jack out of his layers and see if he was still a dandy at heart, and if his shirt was tailored to be form-fitting.

They both finished off their drinks, eyeing each other. They got up and Billy paid both of their tabs.

As soon as they walked out of the bar, Jack pulled Billy into the narrow shady alley between the bar and the next building—an inn of ill-repute of some sort.

“Can you really afford to be paying for other people’s drinks, William?” Jack asked in a hushed tone. Billy’s body was responding swiftly to being in close quarters with this man, but he soon felt the end of a revolver pressed into his chest. “From what I’ve heard of you, all you’ve done is rustled some cattle for someone else every now and then. Truth be told, I don’t even know why there’s a large bounty on your head when you haven’t held up a train or robbed a bank or been in any sort of bandit gang.”

Billy smiled wryly. He had his long rifle slung over his shoulder, but there was no way he could defend himself with it now. “Should’ve figured they’d put a bounty on me. Reckon it might’ve been the sheriff I shot over in Bitter Creek.”

“Ah, that’d do it,” Jack grinned, and his perfect white teeth looked more menacing in the shade of the alley. “Why the hell would you do that, William Butcher.”

“You can call me Billy if you’re going to end me. The sheriff was a piece of work, I got on the wrong side of him and it was going to be him or me. I didn’t run afoul of anything, he just took it into his mind that he didn’t like me. He hanged eight innocent people in the span of a few months working at that godforsaken little outpost. Mad with power. But I guess someone like you wouldn’t be judging a man for that.”

Jack smiled, more friendly this time without the rowful of teeth. There wasn’t really anything to lose. Billy leaned forward, despite the barrel of the Colt digging into his flesh, flicked the hat off Jack’s head and full-on kissed his would-be judge and executioner.

Jack inhaled in surprise, but returned the kiss full force, the faint taste of whiskey and the soft drink still on their lips intermingling. Jack eased the gun away, fumbling to put it back in the holster, breathing a quiet muffled moan into the kiss.

“Fuck-“ he said as he tore away. “Jesus Christ.”

“I would like the honor of fucking you. Just once. Before you bring my head in or whatever it is you do for proof of your kills.”

Jack was staring at him, pupils blown wide, still breathing hard.

“Take off your fucking coat. Let me look at ya,” Billy said, surprising himself with how imperious he sounded when he was in pretty dire straits.

Jack obeyed him wordlessly. Took off his coat, but didn’t give Billy much of a chance to admire him-- launched himself right back into the kiss, as if he were parched and Billy’s mouth was water. Jack’s figure hadn’t changed much since the show years, nice tapered waist that Billy instinctively grasped. Jack was a couple of inches shorter than him, and light enough that Billy simply lifted him off his feet, planting him on one of the water barrels stored in the alley. Jack didn’t protest, only pulled Billy in closer, pulling his hat out of the way before kissing him again.

They came apart again. Billy was out of breath too. “I’ll be honest, if you tease me like that I’m liable to just fuck you in the alley. Rather do it somewhere else. Unless you’re in a real rush to get to your next target.”

“Can’t say I am,” Jack said, still catching his breath.

“I don’t have a room at the inn. I sleep in a tent outside of town until there’s another cattle run.”

“Fine by me.” Jack shrugged. “I’ll fuck you under the stars. Inn here’s nothing to write home about-- got lice the one time I stayed the night coming through here before.”

Billy smiled wistfully. They rode out of town, the sun already low near the horizon, and the air quickly shifting from stifling to pleasantly cool to chilly. Jack was following behind him, having taken Billy’s rifle too. Billy thought about how maybe this was all a strange ploy to just kill him outside of the town line. Jack could shoot him from behind, and knowing his aim, he wouldn’t have any trouble dispatching him with one shot to the head, before Billy knew what hit him. But when Billy dared look behind him, Jack would smile, looking eager for what they had planned. No fear that Billy could lead him into an ambush of some sort. Pure unadulterated confidence. Billy found his tent site, and took a few minutes to build a small fire in the stone ring he’d made before. Maybe he was just stalling, knowing that once they did the deed, he was probably not long for this world. He saw Jack’s black boots come into his view once the fire was going strong.

“You wanna get on with it?” Jack said, and there was a note of whininess in his tone.

“Put the guns away, at least,” Billy muttered. “So I can peel you out of that outfit.”

His tent really wasn’t made for fucking—too narrow and low for anything but sleeping. The air wasn’t too cold yet. Billy lay out as many thick blankets as he could on the ground and Jack seemed to have no reservations, starting to strip himself down.

“You a seasoned rider?” Billy asked tugged off his brown pants.

Jack pulled a face. “Ridden my share. Tame, wild, you name it. Just so long as I like the look of it, I’ll ride it.”

This was a fantasy come true. That irritating pretty rodeo cowboy he was so taken with years ago was lying underneath him, ripe for the taking, admitting to wanting it. Billy opened his shirt carefully, not wanting to ruin the fancy tailoring or ivory buttons. The shirt wasn’t pristine white—there were pitstains and a bit of yellowness around the back of the collar. Jack wasn’t as perfect up close as he was in the rodeo ring. He smelled like horses, hay, and gunpowder.

“Reckon I’ll spare you if you’re real sweet to me,” Jack said, a smug smile on his face.

“And what if I’m rough?” Billy asked. He was almost reluctant to do it but reached into his boot and pulled out a sizeable knife that he pressed against Jack’s throat. Jack’s breath hitched, but he didn’t look too unnerved. This sick son-of-a-bitch looked like he was getting a thrill out of it.

“What if I’m rough with ya and take what I want then just slit your throat and leave you here in the desert for the crows?”

Jack was still smiling. “You won’t want to.”

“Why? Cause you’re such a good fuck?”

“Cause I like your style and you don’t seem like the kind.” Jack leaned forward, so that Billy instinctively moved the knife away from his throat before remembering himself.

Billy shoved him down into the blankets, holding him there because Jack kept trying to get up and resume kissing, or maybe intent on getting away and getting to the guns he’d discarded a few yards away. “Soft enough for you? Warm enough?”

Jack nodded. As Billy pulled Jack’s pants off his legs, his cock sprang out of its confines, raring to go. You’d never know they were negotiating who was going to murder whom. Jack Lander was a pretty little thing alright. A deadly, dangerous, unscrupulous little thing with a terrible profession, but Billy didn’t mind.

Billy didn’t want to have the knife in his hand. He wanted to take his time and enjoy this. As long as he kept this self-satisfied little strumpet of a man underneath him, he could probably hold him down with his weight. He threw the knife out of reach and picked up Jack’s legs over his own shoulders. He spat a gob of spit into his palm, quickly preparing himself, testing the body in front of him out with two probing fingers.

Jack squirmed but looked receptive, but when Billy pushed himself inside, there was a grunt of discomfort.

“Don’t have oil on me,” Billy muttered, kneading his hand against the soft flesh of Jack’s ass.

“Didn’t think you would,” Jack shot back, laughing.

Billy spat more into his hand, pulling out just enough to add a bit more to the mix.

“You gonna fuck me or what?” Jack said, sneering, moving his knees so Billy’s neck was squeezed tight between his calves. What Billy thought was a vulnerable position for Jack now let him choke Billy with relative ease. Billy shoved his legs down but Jack just wrapped his legs around Billy’s waist, digging his heels into him out of habit, as if even without spurs the motion could cause things to move along faster.

“Don’t you worry, I’ll fuck ya,” Billy gritted out through his teeth and set up a fast pace. He still couldn’t believe his fortune, both good and bad. He never thought anyone would bother looking for him—he hadn’t even shot that sheriff fatally, but he left town to be on the safe side and heard through hearsay that the bastard died of blood infection anyway. But if there was ever a good way to get hunted down this was probably it. If Jack Lander still managed to kill him, at least he got to fuck him first.

It was growing dark and the campfire cast flickering light along Jack’s pale skin, and their shadows against the tent looked elongated and distorted. Their two horses watched them from the post they’re tied to. Jack turned out to be quite a screamer, shouting and cursing into the empty desert when he came, hands going from tight fists to falling completely limp by his side. Billy pushed in quickly, relentlessly, satisfied that he made the other man mewl first. It wasn’t long before he came too. He slumped down on Jack, as much out of physical tiredness as growing mentally weary when he thought about how he’d probably have to kill Jack. At the very least, he’d have to take all the guns and both horses if he didn’t want Jack to follow him to the next town.

“You plottin’ what to do about me?” Jack asked, as if reading his mind. “I’m not gonna kill ya. I’m not gonna turn you in. I don’t need the money. I do this for my own pleasure.”

Billy relented and shifted his body weight off of him, courteously offering Jack the side closer to the campfire, but saying nothing.

Jack moved closer, pressing his body into Billy’s and looking sleepy. Neither was probably planning on it, but they fell asleep in the open air, only waking up when the fire died down and the air had gotten nippy. They shuffled into the tent, Jack falling asleep before Billy, squeezed close, arms in a loose embrace around him.

The next morning Jack was sitting there, watching Billy build another campfire. He looked half-asleep, shivering, wrapped in one of the blankets, with only his head showing and his hair mussed.

“I don’t have any more wood. We’re gonna have to resort to prairie coal this morning.”

“You think I’m so soft? That I never slept outdoors or made do with what’s out here?”

“You don’t look like you have.”

“Well you’re mistaken.” Jack looked away towards the horses before turning back. “I was meaning to ask you... if you were interested in my line of work at all?”

Billy only laughed in response.

“It’s not the most glamorous of jobs, I’ll give you that, but it’s better than doing cattle drives for other people. You might be good at catchin’ these villains.”

“Catching? Thought the point was to kill them. Dead or alive usually just means dead.”

Jack sighed.

“Why’re you so eager to get more competitors in your territory in any case?” Billy asked, finally stepping back from the fire to admire his handiwork, before putting a pot of morning coffee on.

“I was thinking more along the lines of a partnership. I do well enough on my own, but everyone needs a backup now and then. And it gets lonely out on the trail.”

Billy laughed. “Nah, you and I? We ain’t got anything in common. I never wanted to kill people as a profession.”

“Well, I know we’ve got an interest in the same type of night entertainment at least,” Jack muttered under his breath.

Billy stopped himself short when he caught himself imagining that kind of life. It was insane to even consider it.

“You don’t think Lander & Butcher has a certain ring to it?” Jack asked, smiling, unwrapping himself from the blanket and moving closer to the fire, stretching out his hands towards the flames. “We could bring some real frontier justice to these parts.”

[anakinfests]

day two is here! check out these beautiful works!

day two twitter thread: here

01. Wants and Needs by anonymous

On a planet whose atmosphere is filled with a gas with... interesting side effects, Anakin and Obi-Wan are sent to take out a Separatist base. Fill for the Rough Sex square in the 2023 Obikin Bingo as well as a prompt claim for the Sub!Anakin Fest

02. Bare grace misery by anonymous

Anakin let out a pained sound. “I failed my men, I failed you, and now… and now this. Could you, Obi-Wan? Could you come from this humiliation?” His voice broke, and then he was weeping, hot tears streaming down his face even as he kept stroking himself, his sobs of shame intermingling with his whimpers of pleasure. The mixture was so unbelievably erotic Obi-Wan felt his head spin. Or: Anakin gets poisoned, and the antidote that saves his life has some uncomfortable side effects.

03. Serenity, Serenity by anonymous

After learning that the Separatists have gained the favor of a weapons manufacturer that has the power to overturn the Clone Wars, a freshly knighted Anakin and Master Obi-Wan must infiltrate the organization's inner circle and eliminate the partnership at an exclusive event posed as black market dealers. The problem is, the two of them have to act as a married couple, Anakin assuming the role of coy, submissive husband to a domineering and firm handed Obi-Wan. Between Anakin's not-so-subtle pining, Obi-Wan's suppressed emotions, and the fate of the Republic on the line, the two of them must confront their messy feelings for one another over a game of high-stakes, winner takes all sabacc.

04. Subakin and his Obi-Dom by anonymous

Anakin Skywalker was forever in denial. He could not admit, no sorry, would never accept he was a sub. No Never. He, the great and powerful Jedi Knight, was destined to be a dom, and he would not stop until his desires came to pass.

05. no fault of my own by anonymous

“You know you’re not supposed to like this,” Obi-Wan murmured, “and here you are, so wet for me and I’ve barely even touched you.” Anakin looked away, blinking back tears that threatened to well up in his eyes at his master’s disapproval, but he leaked more slick into his lap all the same. “I’m sorry, Master,” he quavered. “I can’t help it!”

06. En Garde, Prêt, Allez by anonymous

Anakin Skywalker is a highly skilled fencer, known for his fast pace and brutal attack style. Young and arrogant, he carries himself as a man who knows he's going to win - no matter the cost. Obi-Wan Kenobi is an equally talented fencer who has more titles and championships attached to his name than most could ever dream of, and who has the respect and admiration from everyone in the community. When the two are paired off against each other during the World Championships, Anakin is caught between wanting to prove himself and win the title, and not dethroning a man who has inspired him both on and off the piste. They say never meet your heroes - and certainly never kick their ass in front of a stadium full of their peers - but winning on the piste might bring more treasures and rewards to Anakin than he ever thought possible.

07. Who's Loving You by anonymous

Anakin Skywalker was the luckiest man alive. He had the relationship he had always desired. Well, almost.

[edai-crplpnk]

Some Abruame OCs!

It's Shino's birthday so I rushed to colour the lineart I commissioned from @calvin-arium!!

I have a bunch of other Aburame OCs (I have a master post about them here!) and I hope to do more eventually, but it was only right to start off with Shino and his closest family.

[CW: mentions of death and infant death, mention of homophobia]

Shikie is Shibi's father and the clan head at the time of my main Aburame fic, The Smell of the Rain (circa 2025, blank period). She was a young girl when the clan first joined Konoha under the impulsion of Kodama, her mother and the first hive-bearer. She became the clan head after her in her 50's. She is very much a shinobi of the old guard and has been alive through both the warring state period and the 70 years of global wars that followed. While she does, to a certain extent, support the Shinobi Alliance, she is also still very wary of its future, and has learned to secure the safety of her clan above any other matter. She has had to make sacrifices for it throughout her life, but knowing that her people are where they are today, alive and well, eases a lot of her regrets. (Although, of course, never all of it.) She and Shibi are very different in a lot of ways, but she is proud of him, and he will most likely be the one to inherit her place in the near future.

Yoshino was Shikie's second son and Shibi's younger brother. Very talented Shinobi from a young age, he was promoted to Chuunin during the first exam opening after the Second War, alongside his teammate Amanmori Nagomi. They kept working together a lot after that, working on combined attacks that used Yoshiki's hive as a catalyser and guide for Nagomi's Lightning Release. They started dating as teens, secretly at first, then shortly in front of Nagomi's family, who came from a civilian background with much different pressure surrounding relationships and bloodlines. He came out to his mother shortly before the Third War, who answered she couldn't, given the political context and the state of their clan at the time, be supportive of a childless union. Both young men were deployed together during the Third War, and died in the same battle.

Mahono was born to the Sarutobi clan, of Sarutobi Natsumasa, Hiruzen's older brother. She was a skilled Fire Release user, a technique she used both alone and in combination with chakra blades. She faced Shibi during their first Chuunin exam and overpowered him quite significantly (although, to his defence, the age difference did probably play against him). She still took note of his persistence and willingness to take risks in battle. They met again later and became sparing partners, him to improve his hand-to-hand combat, her to improve her options against wide-range techniques. She joined the Anbu in her late teens and he eventually first asked her out when he was 17 and her 20, a couple years before the Third War started. They had a first daughter shortly after the Third War, Yukatomu, who died from hive implantation-related complications during her first days of life, and then Shino a bit over two years later. She died on a mission when he was five.

[delightfulkingtyphoon]

Hi 😀

I'm going to share with you guys some headcanons I have of my dear, beautiful and wonderful princess Daniel Robitaille :3 (aka. Candyman)

❗Remembering❗

Everything I say here is my interpretations of the character and >>my<< headcanons about him. If you have another interpretation, agree or disagree, you are free to share your opinion in the comments 👍

Let's start

✿~Favorite hobbies, skills and talents

• Daniel Robitaille is a talented and very detailed artist. He always seeks to do the best in his paintings. He likes to put passion into everything he does.

He has loved painting since he was young, which is why he studied at the best schools of his time to create magnificent works. He enjoys learning and applying new techniques to his arts.

• In addition of learning the best painting techniques, he also learned to behave like a polite gentleman in the society, learning to dance, speak several languages and play an instrument.

Not that he needed to prove something to someone, but to challenge himself. He likes to learn new things.

• He knows how to lead a waltz like no one else. He is a gentleman from the 19th century, and at that time, if you wanted to conquer and impress the most beautiful women in the ballroom, you needed to know how to dance. And Daniel is the best in terms of charm and elegance when dancing.

• He is bilingual, knowing how to speak French perfectly and a little bit of German. He knows how to speak other languages such as Greek and Spanish, but due to lack of practice, he remembers very little of the lessons from his time.

• One of his favorite hobbies, besides painting, is literature. He loves romance and poetry books. His favorite type of romance is those that end in tragedy. For him, there is something poetic about death and love. If you mix the two in the right amount, it's a perfect dramatic love story.

• He was taught to play instruments such as piano and violin, but he was not very interested in learning that. He is more of a listener than a musician.

• He loved going to concerts and theaters when he was alive, his favorite type of music is serene, sweet as honey. And his favorite type of theater plays are mainly dramas. But he loves a good comedy.

✿~Favorite foods and colors

• Daniel Robitaille loves good food (and who doesn't, right?) He loves roast meats, savory pies, cakes and any type of sweet.

• He loves shortbread cookies accompanied by good coffee sweetened with honey. After all, he loves sweets and sugary things.

• His favorite type of sweet pie is lemon or cherry. He loves chocolate and strawberry cakes.

• He is also a fan of good wine. He likes the ones that don't have a very strong flavor more.

• He loves colors like yellow or red (he looks good in red.)

✿~Love, sexuality and relationships (and a little of lore)

• Daniel Robitaille was and IS a very charming, seductive and charismatic man. So much charm that he could have the most beautiful girls he wanted... And the most beautiful men too.

Daniel has been interested in many women of his time, even men, but he can never date or seem interested in any man, oh no. Never!

It was a difficult time for a black person, imagine a black and queer person. Bisexuality was something abominable in those times. Many desires were repressed, forcing him to hide in the shadows. But he found safety in the lips of his beautiful muse and beloved Caroline.

• Daniel loved Caroline like he never had before. His passionate young heart was emotional, and full of affection. The two loved each other very much and swore their love every day and night. For him and Caroline, their love was strong and not even that prejudiced society could separate them. Even after their deaths.

• Daniel after spending years wandering throughout the afterlife like a ghost, waiting for someone to summon him again, he found a shelter in the underworld so he could rest while waiting to be called again. There, he sympathized with a hideous demonic creature not receptive or pleasing to people's eyes, but to his, he was the most beautiful in all of hell. The Hell Priest Pinhead

• It took a while for the cenobite's heart to soften, but he was unable to resist Daniel's charms. The two fell in love and live off the pleasure of each other's love, the comfort in each other's arms. Daniel loves his beloved Pinhead intensely, just as he loves him just as much. Intense, pleasurable.

• Daniel can finally explore his sexuality, discovering new things about his own body and mind. Feeling and satiating every bit of what Pinhead had to offer him. Intensifying the love he felt for Pinhead and his pleasures. He loved him. He loved him so much that he chose to remain in hell with his beloved for all eternity. Even if someone summoned him again, and he went to the world of the living, he would always return to his beloved.

Bonus:

✿~Other things he likes

• Daniel loves cats. He always wanted to have cats when he was alive, that's his favorite type of animal. He acts tame when around kittens, always wanting to pet them and play with them.

• He also really likes birds, he likes to hear their serene singing when he is in the world of the living.

• He also likes butterflies, they are his favorite insect. He likes how their wings are colorful and have different patterns. It gives him a lot of inspiration to paint when he see one flying.

• He doesn't get along very well with dogs, they are too noisy and agitated for him, so he avoids them.

• He loves flowers, all kinds of flowers. He likes their colors, their smells. They are all beautiful to him. Red roses, lilies, hyacinths and chrysanthemums are his favorites.

.

.

.

End of Headcanons (for now)

[joshuaorrizonte]

Here is, as promised, Dragonsinger, Chapter One: The Vanished.

@eventide-imp you said you're interested so have a tag! If anyone else wants to be tagged, just let me know!

Kain Dragonsong was a dragon rider.

It was a respected, almost revered occupation. The dragon riders were few and far in between, although hundreds of young men and women came to the shrines to become one when they were on the cusp of adulthood. Most were turned away at the gate, not having the magical talent needed to communicate with the dragons. The most of the rest were turned away when no dragon would choose them. 

Kain was lucky; he just barely had the magical talent, and his dragon, Stormsong, had chosen him the moment their eyes met. She was small, a runt, really, who wasn’t expected to live past infancy. The dragon masters hadn’t liked that they had to let Kain into the shrine, and liked it even less that he’d been chosen so quickly. But the fact that his dragon was sickly and on death’s door was a comfort to them; he wouldn’t remain there long, and he could return to the town and join the town peacekeepers, as someone of his station and talents belonged. 

But he had used every bit of his magical talent as he could to save Stormsong. He rarely slept in the days following that initiation; he nursed Stormsong, kept her warm, kept her alive, fighting bitterly against death itself for her life. And she lived, growing into a sleek, agile, ethereally beautiful creature. She was never really healthy, always the smallest dragon present, but he wouldn’t trade her for the world. She was his life, his partner. 

His ordeal, laced with the dragon masters telling him in frustration to just give up and let the poor thing pass in peace, taught him a valuable lesson: to never give up on anyone. 

It was that lesson that came to mind as he watched the dark knight stride through the town, noting with a kind of calm alarm that he was beginning to attract a crowd. His nerves set on edge as a woman hissed at him, “Your kind isn’t welcome here.”

The dark knight’s voice was soft and unreadable as he replied. “I know I’m not welcome. I’m sorry. I just need to replenish my supplies and I’ll be-“

“Your money’s no good here.” The dry goods shopkeeper had come out from his shop, and was now glowering coldly from his shop’s doorway. “Go away, you hear me? You’re not welcome here. Go on, git!”

The dark knight lowered his head and kept walking, but it wasn’t enough for the bystanders that had come out to see what the commotion was. Someone threw a rock at him, and Kain’s patience abruptly ran out. “Hey!” He bellowed, darting out from his position in the shadows. “That is unacceptable!” 

The man who’d thrown the rock turned to him, surprised. “Kain!” Then his face flushed. “He’s a dark knight! You know what kind of evil they-“

“I know what kind of evil they’re capable of, yes, but this man has done nothing to us,” he hissed. “All he wants is to buy supplies with perfectly good currency and be on his way.”

“I’m not selling a damned thing to scum like this,” the shopkeeper spat.

Kain’s expression went cold. “Then I will,” he snarled. “What do you need, stranger?”

The dark knight had stopped when the rock struck him, and Kain could see his eyes widen beneath his helmet. “I… I am nearly to my destination,” he said softly. “I just need enough to get me there. Whatever happens afterwards… well. I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it.”

Kain’s eyes narrowed. “What is your destination?”

“The Dragon Shrine of Light.”

At that, he inhaled sharply. “What could a dark knight possibly want at the Shrine of Light-“

“I am a dragon rider,” the man cut him off bluntly, “without a dragon. In fact, all night elves are without their dragons. They’ve disappeared.”

~*~

Kain bought supplies for both of them. He scoffed as the dark knight dragon rider, a night elf named Gavin, told him that he was seeking the other shrines, looking for any that still had dragons within them. The Dragon Shrine of Light was the most remote shrine; and his last chance to find evidence of the dragons. 

Of course the dragons were still there. His Stormsong would have told him if she was leaving. 

Something in the back of Kain’s mind, though, told him to believe the night elf. The man’s soft voice had a sincerity to it that, in Kain’s short experience, was rare. Gavin was telling the truth. He didn’t know how he knew that; he just did. He scoffed again at his own naiveté. Night elves were evil creatures, and that went double for night elves who were dark knights. Cruel and ruthless, dark knights trained in how to use their own pain to hurt others. A well-placed injury on a dark knight’s body could devastate their opponents. Very few would accept combat from a dark knight head-on; and even fewer survived if they did not kill the knight in a single blow. 

Kain himself had never fought a dark knight, and hoped he never would have to. He didn’t want this stranger to turn that power on his fellow townspeople, otherwise he’d have walked away from the confrontation. But keeping the town safe was his one goal in life now, and if that meant cavorting with night elf dark knight, then so be it. 

Several of the townspeople tried to convince Kain not to go, to let the dark knight do what he wanted. Night elves were natural liars; it was more likely that he’d mistreated his dragon until he left, and now Gavin wanted to steal a dragon from them. Kain shook his head in disgust at the accusation. He had no doubt there was more to Gavin’s claims than he was telling them, but they simply had no evidence of what they were claiming. Even night elves deserved the benefit of the doubt. 

No, Kain would accompany this dark knight to the Shrine of Light, and then, with the help of the dragon masters, interrogate him, demand to know what his true purpose in coming to Reythak was. He would give Gavin the rope he so desperately wanted, and help him hang himself with it.

But not a moment prematurely. Until Kain knew for certain that Gavin was lying, he would continue on as though he trusted him, as though he could take the night elf at his word.

They struck out that same afternoon, walking together. Gavin explained the whole tale for Kain once they were on their way. Gavin had been the one to discover the Shrine of Stars empty; he'd gone to check on his dragon, Starfall, and discovered not only Starfall missing, but every other dragon. He'd been to every shrine between Darkfall forest and Reythak, and discovered the same at every one: the dragons were gone. "Like I told you in town," Gavin said softly, "if we find them gone at the Shrine of Light, I will know at least that the dragons are gone, somehow."

"You know I don't believe you, right?"

"Acutely aware. Yet I'm grateful for your presence. Very few people took me seriously enough to want to see for themselves that I'm not lying or mad."

There was something painfully sincere in Gavin’s soft voice, something that Kain wanted to deny and ignore. He found he couldn't, and it frustrated him. Why was he so compelled to trust someone who was inherently untrustworthy? There was simply nothing more to it: night elves, and dark knights, were sadistic, compulsive liars. And Gavin had done nothing to prove himself an exception. So why did Kain feel compelled to trust him?

After that, they traveled in silence. Kain ruminated on what was happening, how it defied logic. They made good time, reaching the shrine by nightfall. Gavin was beginning to flag by then, but pushed on without outward complaint. The longer he was with Gavin, the greater his grudging respect for him grew. Gavin had been traveling all day, and a lesser man might've asked to stop to rest. Kain would've granted such a request; he wasn't so hurried to be away from the man that he'd have pushed him when he couldn't go on. Night elves didn't have the best constitution, and he had to be utterly exhausted by nightfall. 

He realized then, as they came within sight of the shrine, that Gavin's urgency just gave credence to his claims. They were nearly there; "Do you think we can move a bit faster?" he asked Gavin, genuine concern in his voice. "We're almost there."

"Yes," Gavin replied, ever soft-spoken. "We should hurry. The sooner we know, the faster we'll be able to figure out what to do next."

A feeling of deep foreboding filled Kain. The thought that Gavin was telling the truth filled him with such dread as he'd never felt before. 

As they approached the shrine, one of the pages came out to meet them, riding a pony and leading two horses. "Dragonrider Kain," the boy greeted. His gaze lingered on Gavin for a moment, curious, before turning back to Kain. "We were hoping it was you who was coming. Come, hurry. There's something you need to see."

"Wait." Gavin's soft voice got Kain's attention as he began to mount one of the horses. They both looked to him, staring at the page. "You have to tell me," Gavin said, his tone low and desperate, and Kain knew with sick certainty, suddenly, that he had been telling the truth.  "Are the dragons still at the shrine?"

The page gulped and looked to Kain for guidance. Kain nodded gravely, and the page answered, "No, sir." Kain closed his eyes, exhaling deeply, trying to control the panic. Then his eyes snapped open again, hope blossoming in him as the page said, softly, "Except one."

~*~

"So."

"Shut up."

"This is what you call a dragon here."

"Shut. Up. She was a dragon last time I saw her."

The small child before them said meekly, "I still am a dragon, big brother."

Kain stared at her, wide-eyed. "S-Stormsong? You... You can talk?"

Stormsong, with her wide silver eyes and iridescently pink hair, nodded, staring back up at him, eyes just as wide. "I've always been able to talk. We just didn't speak the same language. Or rather, we couldn't speak each others' languages." Fascinated, Kain knelt before the child, reaching out to touch her shoulder. She darted into his arms, wrapping hers around his trunk, hugging him tightly. "I thought you'd never come for me, Kain," she whispered, her small voice distressed. "I was so scared..."

"I'm here now," he said, trying to sound reassuring as he returned her embrace gingerly, as if afraid that he'd break her if he hugged her too tightly. "Can you tell me what happened?"

"I would like to, but I don't know," she whimpered. Now that she was in his arms, she seemed to crumble, the strong facade falling apart. "I think I was asleep when it happened. I felt like someone was... was calling me. All the other dragons in the shrine started leaving, and I felt like I was being pulled along with them." She looked up at him, eyes wide and watery. "The only way I could stop it was to make myself human, and-"

"Wait," Kain said, his voice gentle but firm. Stormsong immediately stopped talking, and Kain asked, "How long have you been able to do this? Turn into a human, I mean.”

Stormsong regarded him shyly. “All dragons can do it. We just chose not to.”

“Why?”

“Because… because.” He could tell from her reaction that she didn’t actually know why. “We just don’t, unless we have a very good reason.”

“Like being compelled to do something you don’t want to,” Gavin said, sounding mystified. “But… what does that mean for-“

Abruptly, he cut himself off. As Stormsong was murmuring, asking who that man was, Kain said, “Yes? What does that mean for who?”

Gavin stared at him, then shook his head slowly. “It’s not important. At all. What’s important is that if this girl is truly a dragon, then there’s one left. She can help us find the others.”

“Kain, who is he?” Stormsong insisted, trying to hide behind her rider.

Kain hesitated. How was he to answer her without scaring her? “He’s the man who told me what had happened to your kin,” Kain said finally. “Is he right? Can you help us find the rest of the dragons?”

Stormsong buried her face in his shoulder again. “I’m scared…”

“It’s alright,” Kain said, as soothingly as he could. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

“Kain!” Gavin hissed. 

Kain glared at him as Stormsong whimpered and pressed closer to him. “Have some propriety,” he growled. “She’s just a child!”

“But we don’t have the luxury of letting her not help us!”

“We don’t have the luxury of forcing her, either! You people really are as heartless as-“

Gavin gasped. “And to think that I thought you were different for a while,” he snapped back, turned, and stormed from Stormsong’s stall. 

“Same to you!” Kain hissed at his back. As Stormsong whimpered, Kain pulled her closer. “It’s alright. He won’t force you to do anything you don’t want to. I won’t let him.”

“What… what did you both mean when you said you thought each other was different?”

Kain sighed softly. How was he to explain this to a little girl? When she was a dragon, he wouldn’t have thought twice about discussing this with her. But her age now just drove home the fact that Stormsong was still a child. “I don’t know what he meant,” he said finally, “but night elves are generally bad people-“

She pulled away from him abruptly. “What are you talking about?” She asked, wide-eyed. Surprised, Kain stuttered for a second, and the child shook her head. “Night elves are not bad people, anymore than humans or dragons or sun elves are!” Stormsong exclaimed. 

“Stormsong-“ Kain cut himself off, at a genuine loss. “Even if that’s true, and I’m not sure it is-“

“It is true,” Stormsong insisted. “Just because you don’t understand them-“

“-then the fact that he’s a dark knight makes him a bad person.”

She frowned sharply. “Wrong again,” she said softly. “Maybe you’re not as wise a person as I thought you were, big brother.”

He swallowed hard, feeling horrible for having disappointed her; and even worse because he didn’t believe her. "All I know is what I've been told, really," he admitted. 

"Maybe you shouldn't believe things without proof," she replied, her voice soft and neutral. 

Chastened, Kain looked away briefly before taking a steadying breath. "I'll talk to him, if he didn't leave," he said quietly. 

"He's still here. Go talk to him. I'll... I'll get ready to go." At his questioning look, she gave him a little smile. "I'll go with you to find the dragons. I don't want to be apart from you."

Kain returned her smile, reassuringly. "Are you sure? Don't take Gavin’s opinion into account. Don't even take mine into account. What do you want to do?"

She answered immediately, confidently. "I want to be with you. If you're going to go looking for the dragons, then I am, too."

Kain hugged her, enthusiastic for the first time. "Thank you, Stormsong. I can't tell you what this means to me."

"It means the world to me, too." She sounded relieved, and not a small amount of excitement was in her voice. "I've always wanted to see the world with you. Now I'll get to do that, and find my family, too."

Kain smiled brilliantly at her. "Yes, it is exciting, isn't it?" 

"She nodded enthusiastically, but her smile wavered a bit. "You better go talk to your companion. You'll need to be able to work together."

"Yes, we will," Kain said, feeling inexplicably ashamed of himself. "Yes, we will," he said with a grimace. "I'll be right back, hopefully with him in tow." 

Stormsong gave him an encouraging smile, which he returned wanly as he stood and headed out of the shrine. Gavin stood there, his helmet in his hands, face turned to the sky with a dream-like expression. Kain’s breath nearly caught in his throat at how breathtakingly beautiful the night elf was. Fair skin tinted bluish and hair that shimmered silver in the moonlight, with ears slightly pointed, Gavin was, undoubtedly, the most gorgeous person Kain had ever laid eyes on. 

The night elf didn’t look at him as he approached. He didn’t say anything, either. It was as if Kain simply didn’t exist to him at that moment, and Kain expected irritation. Instead, he inexplicably felt sadness. He needed to say something. “Gavin, I owe you an apology.” Gavin didn’t deign to answer him, keeping his gaze on the sky, although now that gaze was stony. Kain swallowed hard; the night elf was going to make this difficult. 

So be it. 

“I was out of line,” Kain said softly. “I… I’ve never known a night elf. Or a dark knight. I only know what I was told growing up. And… it wasn’t flattering, to either population.”

“I could guess as much,” Gavin said in that soft voice of his, “based on the reception I got at Reythak.”

“Yes… well… Stormsong has disabused me of those notions,” Kain said, looking away, turning his face to the sky, trying to figure out what Gavin was staring so intently at. He couldn’t tell. “I can’t say that it was enough to make me trust you already,” he said quietly, “but I doubt you trust me all that much more.”

“You’re right, I don’t.” Gavin finally looked at him. “But you’re the only dragon rider who’s given me the time of day, who’s believed what I had to say.”

“I didn’t.”

“What?”

Kain didn’t look at him. “I didn’t believe you. I’m… sorry for that, too. You had exactly no incentive to lie, and I couldn’t see that past my prejudices.”

Gavin gave him a wan, insincere smile. “You only knew what you were told,” he replied, his voice acerbic. He didn’t raise it, and Kain wondered idly what it would take to make the man do so. But instead of provoking him, he just stared at him. As he was about to admit that he deserved that bit of mocking, Gavin sighed. "And I'm sorry for that," he muttered. "Your bad behavior doesn't excuse mine."

"No, I'm pretty sure you were justified there." He sighed, and looked at Gavin again to discover the night elf looking back at him, and he could see Gavin's eyes for the first time. Something in Kain shifted as their eyes met. Gavin's eyes were such a deep blue they seemed almost violet. "Let's start over," Kain managed to say, his voice only slightly strangled by the inexplicable attraction he was suffering. "I'm Kain Dragonsong. I'm a dragon rider from Reythak."

Kain extended a hand to him. Gavin's gaze was distrustful; regardless, he took Kain's outstretched hand, his grip firm. "Gavin Skyglow. Dragon rider from Darkfall. It's an honor to work beside you."

[supermarine-silvally]

Hey Hadley! I know I could ask you this in our DMs, but I’m asking it here in case anyone was wondering the same thing.

Since you did a Ice Hockey x Ice Skater Portada AU, what do you think a Mafia Portada AU would entail?

A mafia Portada AU?? Your mind is BRILLIANT asdhjkdfsd I LOVE a good mafia AU omg

Below the cut because this got loooooooong (sorry the formatting is weird, tumblr wouldn't let me directly copy/paste it from the doc)

Send me a Portada AU and I'll write some headcanons/plot points for it!

Ace is the son of the former King of the Criminal Underworld, Gol D. Roger, who was caught and executed before Ace’s birth. Like canon, he resents his birth father, especially for all the pressure it put on him and his mother all his life (yes, Rouge is alive in this AU. You’re welcome). Rouge would’ve preferred to keep Ace out of the mafia life, but wasn’t surprised when he formed his own gang and decided to rise up in the world to rid himself of his hated father’s legacy.

A young but undeniably talented upstart, Ace decides to move in on the territory of Edward ‘Whitebeard’ Newgate of the Whitebeard Family, a mafia don who was an old rival of his father’s. Though he has no biological children of his own, Whitebeard has a massive family linked to him through loyalty. Many men have sworn their allegiance to him and treat him like a father figure. He affectionately refers to all his underlings as his ‘sons’, and they call him ‘Pops’ in turn. 

I said Whitebeard doesn’t have any biological children, but he does have an adopted daughter, Yara, who was abandoned shortly after birth. He found her when she was a child, on the run from cruel foster parents, and took her in, legally adopting her and raising her as his own. She is his sweet precious little princess and he treats her like his most prized possession. Though as a woman, Yara can’t participate formally in the mafia life herself, she often advises her father and works behind the scenes to keep the Whitebeard Family running. 

Like in canon, Ace and the Spade gang get a little too bold and end up essentially challenging Whitebeard to a fight. Whitebeard’s men apprehend them easily, even after Ace stays behind to let the others escape. Whitebeard is so amused by this snot-nosed brat and finds it admirable that he chose to save his friends’ lives over his own (a very atypical trait for a mafia leader wannabe) that he decides to bring Ace and the Spades back to his hideout. His medical team treats their injuries, and when Ace wakes up, he meets one of Whitebeard’s ‘commanders’, Thatch, who explains to him what happened.

Ace realizes that he lost the fight and now he’s essentially Whitebeard’s hostage, though he still demands to fight Whitebeard. That is when the door to the makeshift medical clinic opens, and in walks the most beautiful girl Ace has ever seen. He is just. Absolutely dumbstruck. Barely able to get a word out when she speaks to him. Thatch takes the opportunity to tease him about his attraction (“You know that’s the boss’ daughter, right?”), enjoying how Ace blushes and trips over his tongue whenever Yara is in the room. 

Finally, once he has recovered enough, Ace is brought in front of Whitebeard, who is still amused by all the fight left in this young upstart. Impressed with the small but effective operation Ace had going as well as how loyal his men were towards him, Whitebeard (who is known for taking promising young gangs under his wing) then proceeds to make Ace an offer he can’t refuse: “Swear your loyalty to me and fold your operation under mine. In return you will become my son, and I will support you. And to formalize that process-- to seal the deal-- I will give you one last thing: My daughter’s hand in marriage.”

Both Ace and Yara are shocked by this. Yara wasn’t consulted beforehand, but she trusts her father and agrees to the match, even if a bit reluctantly. Ace is very surprised Yara agreed, and decides to accept the offer as well. 

Ace spends lots more time with the Whitebeard Family in the weeks that follow, growing attached to them and rising through the ranks quickly to reach the promotion to a ‘commander’ role. His men are all assimilated into the Whitebeard Family’s ranks and find themselves quite at home. Even Rouge is given her own living quarters and protection. 

Ace is actually quite shy around Yara at first. She’s very emotionally closed off and though she performs the support role that any fiancée of a mafioso is supposed to, her heart isn’t in it and he can tell. He feels terrible about the situation, reaching the conclusion that she never would’ve chosen to be with him willingly.

He goes to his mother to ask for help, and Rouge is just like “You dummy. Have you ever tried to get to know her outside of mafia-related things? Take her on a picnic. Spend some time with her. You just need to get to know each other.” (She can’t imagine anyone NOT falling in love with her son once they get to know him). 

So he just… takes Yara out for coffee. Through gentle coaxing, he finally gets her to begin to open up to him. She tells him about how she was abandoned, and how she doesn’t know her parents (though it is suspected that her mother was a now-deceased daughter of a yakuza family), and how Whitebeard took her in when she had nowhere else to go. In turn, Ace finds himself opening up about his own struggles, especially around his father. To his surprise, Yara (who didn’t even know who his father was until this point), reassures him that it doesn’t matter to her who his father was, and that he shouldn’t be judged for whatever crimes his father committed.

They start to do more things together. Ace even helps Yara track down her biological father using his mafia contacts. Yara begins to smile more, and Ace finds himself getting super excited to see her at the end of his long, intense days of organized crime business. He’ll come back to their apartment with blood on his suit and a bouquet of roses like “Honey, I’m home!” (Yara deep-cleans his suits when they get dirty, and gives him a good scolding about being more careful each time). 

As the wedding date approaches, Ace decides that he doesn’t want to force Yara into marrying him, and tells her that he’ll tell Whitebeard to break off the engagement. Much to his surprise, however, Yara begins to cry, thinking that Ace is rejecting her because he doesn’t want her anymore. Panicked, Ace admits the truth: that he loves her more than anything, but he doesn’t want to force her to be with him if she doesn’t truly want to be. She, however, reassures him that she does, and he comes to the realization that she actually loves him too. Elated, Ace proposes to her on the spot, which Yara tearfully accepts.

The wedding-- like all weddings of high-ranking mafia members-- is grandiose. Whitebeard insisted on only the best for his sweet daughter and his new ‘son’. It’s a show of power on his part, too. Ace and Yara don’t care much for the extravagant nature of it, however. As long as they’re together, they’re happy. 

In the months that follow, Ace takes on more and more responsibilities, his reputation in the underworld growing. He can be ruthless to his enemies, but all he wants at the end of the day is to curl up in his (well-fortified) apartment with his beloved wife, who always greets him with a gentle smile and a kiss. Yara isn’t allowed to participate in any mafia meetings, but Ace always fills her in anyways, valuing her intelligence and thoughtfulness. 

When the couple learn that they are expecting their first child, Ace is over the moon. He does get a little more paranoid, though, worried that his enemies may try to target his wife and baby, and has extra security posted around the apartment complex. Almost a year after their wedding, Yara gives birth to their son, Shiro. With a little family of his own, Ace has never been happier.

One day, Whitebeard confesses to Ace that his illness has taken a turn for the worse, and he won’t be around for much longer. Through his marriage to Yara, Ace is now the heir apparent of the Whitebeard Family. Whitebeard admits to Ace that he’d been ill for quite some time and was looking for a successor. He found him a promising candidate, and decided to test his resolve by offering him that which was most precious to him-- his daughter. Had Ace treated her cruelly and abused his power, Whitebeard would’ve had him killed, but he suspected that that wouldn’t be the case, and he was right. Whitebeard had also been under pressure from other mafia families with eligible sons to marry his daughter off to them, but Whitebeard didn’t trust them and wanted to find someone he knew Yara would be safe with, and who would cherish her as more than just a bargaining chip. 

Ace succeeds Whitebeard and ushers in an era of unprecedented prosperity for the Whitebeard Family. As per their canon, Ace and Yara have five children together and live happily for the rest of their days on top of a vast and sprawling criminal empire.

[witchthewriter]

𝑼𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒏𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑨𝒑𝒑𝒍𝒆 𝑻𝒓𝒆𝒆 𝐶𝘩𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝐹𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑡𝑒𝑒𝑛.

Personalised story for @leniabranch Pairing: Otto Hightower x Lenia Branch Word Count: 2k Authors Note: If anyone wants a personalised story, here’s my PayPal, send me a message and we can get started!    

The ship swayed as Otto watched the sailors carry on with their duties. Men in loose white shirts hung from ropes and rushed around the deck, securing lines and lowering the sails as they dropped anchor. The Hand’s nose was filled with an array of various smells and not ones he was used to. At first, the salt from the sea was the only thing he could smell, but as he moved around the boat he could smell the urine, sweat and faeces’ from the crew. It didn’t help his churning stomach.

 No one but he, was feeling sickened by the ocean. The constant swaying and spraying of sea water made his stomach stir. The Hand closed his eyes and let himself get lost in thought.

   Lenia. Lenia. Lenia.

His mind brought thoughts of you, your skin, your hair, and eyes. It was worth it. Enduring this would be worth it. He just needed to get to Oldtown.

                                                           -✶-

Your hands flourished in the air, demonstrating to the students how important it was to use the whole body in dance.

  “Lady Branch, I don’t think my arms can be that delicate.” The second youngest daughter of Lord Lyonel Tyrell pouted and dropped her arms by her side.

You chuckled and glided over to her, lifting her arms gently you motioned to her to mimic you.

   “Everyone is able to do what they wish, one way or another,” you said while repeating the motions.

The King had asked you to teach a few dance lessons for the noble children at court. They were mostly made up of girls, but every now and then you taught a class of fifty which included many young, hormonal noble boys. During those big classes, you showed them how to dance at feasts.

With your days so busy, you usually fell asleep as soon as you put your head to the pillow. But the absence of Otto made sleep difficult. You were worried, not just because of the distance but for his safety. Many would risk a chance to take revenge on the Hand of the King.

  So, you often visited Sanah and Ormund for dinner, and drank a few chalices of wine before feeling drowsy and making your way to your chambers.

But tonight, you decided to miss your shared meal and stay in your room. The melancholy was too great, and you knew you couldn’t keep a smile on your face.

  Stepping out of the now lukewarm bath, you pattered over to your calendar and marked off another day.

Only a week until Otto would be home.

                                                            -✶-

Oldtown, one of the most prestigious and well-known cities in Westeros. In its possession is the Citadel, home to the Order of the Maesters.

The Hightower is the tallest building in all of Westeros and serves as not only a lighthouse but represents the city’s power and wealth. If that wasn’t a big enough achievement for the House, the Faith of the Seven also presided in the city too. The Starry Sept, a huge temple dedicated to the Seven, is one of the most remarkable religious buildings in Westeros.

But travelling to Oldtown wasn’t a journey for the King, nor was it for a family visit. Otto had ventured to his home because he needed one single possession. A family heirloom ring that had been passed down through generations of Hightowers.

 Otto’s mother was still alive, but his brother, Hobert, was now the Lord of the Hightowers. And Otto wasn’t sure if he would permit him the heirloom.

                                                             -✶-

You hadn’t seen a lot of Darrick recently, he was too busy creating a name for himself in the art world. His commissioned pieces were becoming more and more popular. Ever since creating a family portrait for the King, all the other nobles thirsted for his talents.

  Lords and Ladies sat idly as he sketched and captured. There weren’t many other artists in the city with social standing. And you liked to remind Darrick of that. So that he understood gratitude, and what wealth brought.

Your family had decided to permanently stay in King’s Landing, and you were overjoyed by it. However, all the Branches except for your father, mother and siblings had left to return home. It was a big decision, one that relied on the information you did not yet know.

 Elrie wasn’t settling in with the other girls as much as your parents wanted. There was a wildness in her that the other little noble girls rarely had. It was only the other day when a servant had come rushing to your mother with the news that Elrie had bitten another child.

 Sanah had laughed when she heard the news.

“Elrie, why would you do such a thing?” Your mother chastised her hands on her hips. Your mother had marched Elrie back to her chambers and did all she could not to slam the door.

       “I was hungry…” she trailed off, slowly looking from the ground into her mother’s eyes. She flinched when she saw the fury in them.

“We’re guests here. The King has asked us to stay, and you go and do something like this.” Onatah slumped into a chair and pinched the bridge of her nose, feeling an oncoming headache.

   “But I don’t like it here!” Elrie whined and copied her mother’s actions.

“Well, neither do I! But I don’t go around biting people!”

     “Maybe you should,” Elrie mumbled and crossed her arms. “It feels too heavy here,” she whispered. And your mother, knowing exactly how your sister felt, silently agreed.

                                                             -✶-

Otto Hightower stood before his brother, who was a foot shorter than he.

   “I’m sorry brother, but our mother will not give it up. Not until she dies,” Hobert motioned for Otto to follow. They slowly made their way through the magnificent tower. The lower levels were open to the public, but those with social or religious standing were able to climb higher.

“I thought you might say that.” Otto looked at his brother was a sort of grim expression, one that was mixed with suspicion.

   “You did, did you? Well you can talk to her yourself. See if you can sway the old woman’s mind.” Otto’s eldest brother wasn’t too hard to figure out. Although he had his moments of manipulation, he was usually caught out sooner or later.

“Hobert, I already know that you’re in possession of the ring. I have not asked you for anything, but I am now,” the stoicism which Otto always exuded seemed to faltered. Only for a few seconds, before Hobert sighed.

    “You gave it to me after your Lady Wife passed, I did not think you would be asking for it back.”

“I understand. It must be frustrating. But arrangements have changed, as I had not thought another wife was in my future.”

A few moments passed between the brothers. Silence from both of them. The noises of Oldtown filled the gap; idle chatter, the sound of horse hooves, someone praying.

   “Do you really love her?”

The question was simple but one that stirred so much emotion that Otto blushed.

“Yes.”

                                                             -✶-

You stood on the docks, waiting for a specific ship to arrive. Every few seconds you craned your neck to see if there was something on the horizon. But to your dismay, nothing was there. Not a blag flag with a red dragon in sight.

  Again, you missed dinner with Sanah and Ormund. Your stomach churning too much for you to be able to eat. Food no longer looked appealing. Not when you didn’t know the status of your Otto. Dead, captured, kidnapped for ransom, you nearly went to the King the next day to ask if he knew anything.

  Instead, you went to Rhaenyra, who was happy to be needed.

   “Of course, I can. Do you want me to go straight to my father or to the head maester?”

Rhaenyra ended up going to both men, and neither of them knew. You were nearly in tears by then, and Rhaenyra took you to your sister.

    “Lenia, I’m sure he’s fine.”

“He was due back days ago!” You spluttered, trying to wipe the unending tears.

   “Come here,” Sanah wrapped her arms around you and did her best to soothe you.

The days seemed to blur together. One after the other, your dance lessons were forgotten and you rarely left your bed. Everyone knew this was serious. It wasn’t like you to be this way. Not at all. Usually, there was a smile on your face. Usually, you were the one cheering others up.

                                                           -✶-

It had only taken longer than anticipated for Otto to start his journey back home. Hobert had given him the ring that day after dinner, but the state of his mother made him uneasy.

  He thought his mother was faring well. On some days she forgot little things like the servants names, but on the others, well, it was mayhem.

Oldtown had the very best healers, as the Maester’s headquarters were no more than 20 kilometres from the Hightowers. Salves, medicines and herbs were given to Otto’s mother, but nothing seemed to aid her. Nothing except milk of the poppy, which only put her to sleep.

 And so, the dinner was an uneventful one. Their mother had been given a small amount of the drowsy liquid so that she was awake but not alert. Able to lift her spoon but not enough to yell or question where she was.

 Otto was ready to leave by the next morning. But he felt guilty about leaving his mother. Even though he knew exactly where he wanted to be, he couldn’t leave without saying a proper goodbye. He knew this would be the last time he ever saw his mother.  

                                                           -✶-

“Lenia, Lenia get up!” Sanah said, closing the door behind her and opening your wardrobe.

Your chambers had changed in the years since you first arrived at court. The Branches were given their own wing, where the chambers were larger and looked over the courtyard grounds. It was a beautiful spot, one that was the envy of many nobles. But the King thought so highly of your family that he didn’t care.

  You didn’t answer your sister. You merely rolled over and clutched onto the only piece of clothing you had of Otto’s.

“You have to get up.” She pulled the blanket from atop of you and let it drop to the floor.

     “No I don’t,” you replied back. Your eyes were hard to open, they were red, swollen and dry.

“You do if you want to see the man you’ve been longing for all these years.”

     Your head shot up instantly, “what? Now? He’s here?”

“Get dressed first!” That was all you heard before you jumped out of bed.

                                                                  -✶-

The sunshine glinted off the ocean, making it look like a mass of twinkling white. You stood eagerly, watching with so much built-up anticipation that you thought you would burst. Alicent stood right beside you, her hand clasped in yours.

   “I’ve missed him,” Alicent muttered, squeezing your moist hand.

“Oh gods, me too.”

It seemed like forever, watching his ship drop anchor and the walkway being hauled on top of the docks. Alicent and yourself watched as items from Oldtown were carried down the boardwalk, and then you saw him.

  Slightly dishevelled yet eager.

“There he is!” Alicent pointed in his direction and you nearly burst. You squeezed Alicent’s hand and watched as the love of your life walked down and onto the timber dock.

  Alicent let go of your hand and almost nudged you toward him. A small sign that she understood your feelings, and that you should be the one to greet him first.

“Otto!” You muttered and flung yourself onto him. The Hand of the King buried his face into the crook of your neck and squeezed you tight.

    “My Lenia,” he whispered into your hair, taking in a big breath.

It was a long hug, but for you, it felt too short.

           And then suddenly he let go and stepped back.

     He took something out of his pocket and got down on one knee.

                           “Lenia Branch, will you do the honour of marrying me?”

[impala-dreamer]

Captives of The Court - Chapter Eleven

A Supernatural Series

~Strange things are brewing in Connecticut, so Dean and Y/N go check it out. After stumbling through town, they fall into something that’s been going on a very, very long time. Can they put an end to the bloodshed and make it out unscathed or will they need a little help this time?~

Starring Dean Winchester x Y/N Y/L/N

Series Warnings and Info may be found on the Masterlist Here 

Impala-Dreamer’s Masterlist  ~  Patreon  ~ Published Works

Once every few generations, a child is born with such amazing and natural talent that, with the proper instruction and will, can become one of the most powerful witches alive. They can suspend time, force nature to bend to their whims, control the hearts and minds of men.

Bronwyn Cromwell was one such witch. Born to the teenage mistress of a Puritan minister, Bronwyn grew up in the shadows, cast aside by the colony and condemned to be treated as an abomination until the day she died. As she grew, however, her natural talents became apparent and she defied fate and became its mistress instead.

Her magic was strong, her desires great. Anything she wanted, she could have, anyone moving against her was well punished.

Cunning and intelligent, she moved under the radar during the Witch Trials and came out the other side stronger. Over time, she gained the trust of locals who came to her for everything from sudden fevers to love spells and she honed her talents on the colonists of Connecticut.

Three hundred years later, Bronwyn was one of the most powerful witches in the country, known and feared by many. Including, The Grand Coven, who, upon many occasions, tried in vain to get her to join. Forever declining their forceful invitations, she was content to live in her small town, working her magic on the townsfolk and keeping a select few loyal followers young and prosperous through her hand-crafted spellwork.

Sure, a dozen or so people needed to die every ten years, but that was a rather insignificant price to pay for keeping herself young and beautiful. Besides, she spread the wealth with others, and her brand of magic was rather delicious to experience if you were among her chosen acolytes.

Y/N was teetering on the very edge of consciousness, her body laid out and trembling beneath Dean’s heavy nakedness. He sucked at each breast, licked at the scrapes his teeth made down her sides, drew his fingertips across her flushed skin. She was trapped in moments of bliss, straining to clear her head and focus, to push Dean away and confront their captor, but his mouth was so hot, his perfectly plump lips tasked with driving her wild.

She raked a hand through his hair and tugged, hoping to wake him up even a little bit, but the pain only spread through him and made his suckling mouth work even harder.

She gasped and a gentle laugh sounded above her.

Bronwyn was circling them, watching as they fucked again and again. She had changed into a tight black dress of lace that clung to her curves and exposed her arms and shoulders. The leather corset bound around her middle accentuated every inch of her, and for a second, Y/N felt her mouth watering at the sight of her milky skin.

Dean shoved his face between her thighs and she startled.

“Wh-what are you doing to us?” she panted out, barely about to think about more than Dean’s nose thumping against her clit.

The witch smiled, ruby painted lips curling at the edges. “Just watching… I enjoy watching.” She paused and leaned in a bit, eyes on Dean as he licked through Y/N’s slick cunt. “He looks like he’s good at that. Is he?”

Y/N shook herself, trying to wake fully. It felt like kicking for the surface in a black ocean; hard to know which way was up.

“He’s…” She let out a deep moan and bucked her hips uncontrollably into Dean’s face. “Yes…”

Bronwyn hummed in appreciation. “Lucky girl.”

Y/N lifted her head from the plush carpet and hissed. She tried to move more, to swat at Bronwyn as she came near, but her arms were limp, hands capable of littler more than clinging to the carpet or Dean’s broad shoulders.

“What do you want from us?”

Bronwny knelt down beside Y/N’s head and smiled sweetly. “I just want you to cum, Y/N.” She dragged a finger down Y/N’s face from temple to jaw and her eyes rolled in ecstasy. “Will you cum for me?”

The witch’s touch was like a drug that seeped through Y/N’s pores into every cell. Her heart pumped the tainted cells through her body, flooding every inch of her as Dean devoured her aching cunt.

“I just need all those yummy little orgasms…”

Pleasure surged inside and Y/N screamed in unadulterated bliss as Dean tipped her over the edge. She came hard, pulsing on his thick fingers, and a wisp of purple light floated from between Y/N’s legs and up over their heads.

She tried to follow it, confused about what it was and why it was, but Dean had quickly shifted between her open thighs and fit his heavy cock against her heat.

“Dean… wake up, baby. We gotta-”

He thrust his hips and her vision went dark. She sank down again, lost in the pleasure, trapped by the spell.

The light continued its journey, slipping into a brass jar on the stone altar. Bronwyn grinned and snapped the lid shut, keeping their power safe.

It was all about the power. The act of sexual pleasure expelled an amazing amount of natural power and Bronwyn had long ago found a way to capture and harness that power for her spells. Every little act extruded a bit of power. Sex, love, impregnation, birth. It was all magic. One simply had to know what to do with it…

[oddberryshortcake]

I love hearing about OC's

Tell me about yours! Fun facts hc whatever let me hear it!!

Okay so for twst oc characters that are now publicly known- (and please look at Emilio on Cozymochi's blog he's great, I'd probably say he's mostly hers but I write with him a lot and we share lore!)

Katerina Vallis is a 3rd generation Greek-American. Her grandparents immigrated to America from Greece (both pairs of them, but only her mom's side of the family is still alive.) Her mother's maiden name was Panagopoulos, and her father's last name is Vallis- which funnily enough, Vallis comes from the Greek status name "Valis" which means "Prefect"

Kat had a bad experience with a past boyfriend that has made her generally distrust men. This is a problem as she gets spirited away to an all-boys magic school.

She's a talented fencer as she was trained as a child. She hoped that if she could help her school's female fencing team win the state championship, that her teammates would want to be her friends. They didn't. Most of these hobbies were imposed by her parents, particularly her mother. Among fencing, she was also introduced to modeling at a young age and horseback riding. If she got to choose, she'd draw and make a little story.

Emilio Estrada Alvarez came from a family of fisherman before his parents perished at sea, leaving him to be adopted by his Aunt and Uncle at 6 years old. He's been living with them, his Grandparents, and his cousins ever since, who are infinitely richer and prominent figures in their home country (His uncle is a member of the grand council for the Queen.) Emilio's sense of self has been skewed over since and he obsessed over status and recognition.

He and his cousin's mothers were sisters. His Aunt sometimes says he looks like his mother.

Emilio gets special permission to leave campus and return to his home country to celebrate a holiday that celebrates deceased loved ones in November

[hplovecraftmuseum]

There have been several introductions to Lovecraft's works in print suggesting that H. P. Lovecraft's childhood years were filled with unhappiness and pain. In actuality Lovecraft considered his childhood years the most happy and fulfilling of his life. Lovecraft many times looked back on his boyhood with considerable nostalgia. All his life he wrote of a longing to return to those years. Like many great artists Lovecraft retained many childlike qualities. For reasons we shall explore here he never fully abandoned the hopes and dreams of his childhood.

. 1. Lovecraft's beloved coal black cat - who shall remain nameless here! - was alive from the time he was a virtual toddler until his young teenage years. Although there is some mystery about the actual ultimate fate of this feline companion, Lovecraft wrote of the creature with the greatest admiration. Though HPL never seemed particularly maudlin when recalling his one and only pet, his friends told tales of how much deep and direct emotional affection he exibited towards any and all cats wherever he met them. 2. Although Lovecraft's father had been instutionalized when HPL was around the age of 3, his beloved mother was always a supportive presence. His mother may not have been physically expressive towards the boy, but she did believe in his poetic and intellectual talents. Though his mother might have spoiled the young Lovecraft, allowing him to eat sweets unchecked and avoid a balanced diet, she was also aware that his various physical weaknesses were real and posed serious dangers to his survival. Despite any desire Lovecraft might have wished for normal boyish roughhousing his mother rightly judged that such could have resulted in serious complications. Lovecraft's extreme allergy to cold weather was not feined. At least once as an adult he was caught outside in a cold snap and fell into a near coma. He was saved by passersby who dragged him indoors. 3. When Lovecraft's father was committed to Butler Hospital for his serious mental problems, the child HPL and his mother moved into the large Victorian house of his mother's father. In the early years of his time at this address the boy Lovecraft was exposed to his grandfather's extensive personal library. He and his cat companion explored the carriage house, meandered among the family servents, and on warm days frolicked in the wooded areas near the house as the pair grew a little older. Lovecraft's grandfather became the most important male figure in his life and may have served as the model for the several stalwart old men featured in a number of his later tales. 4. Another issue we might want to consider is the fact that the pre-pubescent HPL was quite a handsome little boy. As an adult Lovecraft made it plain that he considered himself particularly homely. The unusual elongation of his face, the growth of his ears, nose, chin, were so exaggerated from boy to teen that it boarderd on freakish. If lovecraft had been born ugly his adult looks might have been a bit less disturbing an experience? 5. It is generally understand that Lovecraft was a strict atheist, however, this was not always so. At age 6 the boy Lovecraft discovered the Classical World. To be continued. . . (Exhibit 443)

[zapreportsblog]

A Shift in Perception

➥ summary: Iketeru Daga wasn’t always going to remain innocent

➥ Iketeru Daga x reader, Life Lessons With Uramichi Oniisan x reader

Iketeru Daga, the dangerously handsome and incredibly talented actor, walked into the studio with a spring in his step and a grin on his face. His co-workers, used to seeing him as the sheltered child-like figure, were taken aback by the sudden change in his demeanor.

"Ooh, what's got you grinning like this, Iketeru?" one of his co-stars, Kaori, asked teasingly.

Iketeru chuckled, a playful glint in his eyes. "I had the most wonderful night with (Y/n) last night," he replied, his voice tinged with excitement.

The studio fell silent for a moment, everyone staring at Iketeru in disbelief. The idea of the ever-so-innocent Iketeru Daga being involved in a passionate romantic encounter was beyond their wildest imagination.

"(Y/n)?" Mitsuo Kumatani, another co-star, asked with a raised eyebrow. "Wait, do you mean (Y/n) as in (Y/n) from the marketing department?"

Iketeru nodded, his smile unwavering. "Yes, (Y/n) from marketing. We've been dating for a while now, and last night was... amazing."

The shock on their faces slowly transformed into amusement and curiosity. They had always seen Iketeru as the sweet and naive young man, unaware of his appeal and the attention he garnered from both men and women alike. But now, here he was, openly talking about a passionate night with his girlfriend.

Akiyama, another co-worker, couldn't resist teasing him. "Wow, Iketeru, you're not as innocent as we thought!"

Iketeru blushed slightly, but he didn't seem embarrassed by the revelation. "I've always been aware of how people perceive me," he admitted. "But being with (Y/n) has made me feel more confident and alive. She sees me for who I truly am, not just as the sheltered child everyone else thinks I am."

Mitsuo, who had been silently observing the conversation from a corner, sweatdropped at Iketeru's candid confession. He had always seen the potential for growth and maturity in the young actor, but he had never expected such a dramatic change in perception.

"Iketeru, it's great to see you so happy," Kaori said, smiling warmly at him. "We're glad that you found someone who makes you feel this way."

Iketeru's eyes lit up, and he nodded gratefully. "Thank you all for your support. I just wanted to share this with you because (Y/n) means a lot to me, and I want you all to know how much she's changed my life."

As the day went on, Iketeru's co-workers couldn't help but notice the subtle changes in him. He seemed more confident and at ease with himself, no longer hiding behind the façade of innocence. The knowledge of his passionate romance had transformed him in their eyes, and they admired the growth they witnessed.

In the coming weeks, Iketeru continued to embrace his newfound self-assurance and share more of his experiences with (Y/n) with his co-workers. He talked about their adventures, their shared interests, and the meaningful conversations they had. Slowly but surely, he shed the image of a sheltered child and emerged as a man who had found love and happiness.

As the studio filled with laughter and camaraderie, Mitsuo Kumatani watched from the sidelines, proud of the transformation he had witnessed in Iketeru. The young actor had broken free from the constraints of how others perceived him and had embraced his true self.

‘Iketeru Daga,’ Mitsuo thought with a smile, ‘you're no longer the sheltered child they see, but a man who has found his place in the world, guided by the love of (Y/n). And I have a feeling that your journey has only just begun.’

[anakinfests]

it's time for day two reveals! give these wonderful works some love, please!

01. wants and needs by matchesonlyburn

On a planet whose atmosphere is filled with a gas with... interesting side effects, Anakin and Obi-Wan are sent to take out a Separatist base. Fill for the Rough Sex square in the 2023 Obikin Bingo as well as a prompt claim for the Sub!Anakin Fest

02. bare grace misery by thedunesea

Anakin let out a pained sound. “I failed my men, I failed you, and now… and now this. Could you, Obi-Wan? Could you come from this humiliation?” His voice broke, and then he was weeping, hot tears streaming down his face even as he kept stroking himself, his sobs of shame intermingling with his whimpers of pleasure. The mixture was so unbelievably erotic Obi-Wan felt his head spin. Or: Anakin gets poisoned, and the antidote that saves his life has some uncomfortable side effects.

03. serenity, serenity by obikined

After learning that the Separatists have gained the favor of a weapons manufacturer that has the power to overturn the Clone Wars, a freshly knighted Anakin and Master Obi-Wan must infiltrate the organization's inner circle and eliminate the partnership at an exclusive event posed as black market dealers. The problem is, the two of them have to act as a married couple, Anakin assuming the role of coy, submissive husband to a domineering and firm handed Obi-Wan. Between Anakin's not-so-subtle pining, Obi-Wan's suppressed emotions, and the fate of the Republic on the line, the two of them must confront their messy feelings for one another over a game of high-stakes, winner takes all sabacc.

04. subakin and his obi-dom by stevewell0022

Anakin Skywalker was forever in denial. He could not admit, no sorry, would never accept he was a sub. No Never. He, the great and powerful Jedi Knight, was destined to be a dom, and he would not stop until his desires came to pass. Later that very same day?!!?? "Yes, Master. Thank you for allowing me to clean your boots, Master." Anakin Skywalker. Famed Jedi. Woefully and fecklessly in denial. It would take a gentle super-dom to bring Anakin to heel. Obi-Wan, the renowned selfless Jedi that he was, would of course volunteer for this heavy burden, and save the galaxy from a darker fate.

05. no fault of my own by denims

“You know you’re not supposed to like this,” Obi-Wan murmured, “and here you are, so wet for me and I’ve barely even touched you.” Anakin looked away, blinking back tears that threatened to well up in his eyes at his master’s disapproval, but he leaked more slick into his lap all the same. “I’m sorry, Master,” he quavered. “I can’t help it!”

06. en garde, prêt, allez by lemon (lemon_sprinkles)

Anakin Skywalker is a highly skilled fencer, known for his fast pace and brutal attack style. Young and arrogant, he carries himself as a man who knows he's going to win - no matter the cost. Obi-Wan Kenobi is an equally talented fencer who has more titles and championships attached to his name than most could ever dream of, and who has the respect and admiration from everyone in the community. When the two are paired off against each other during the World Championships, Anakin is caught between wanting to prove himself and win the title, and not dethroning a man who has inspired him both on and off the piste. They say never meet your heroes - and certainly never kick their ass in front of a stadium full of their peers - but winning on the piste might bring more treasures and rewards to Anakin than he ever thought possible.

07. who's loving you by demon_dean

Anakin Skywalker was the luckiest man alive. He had the relationship he had always desired. Well, almost.

08. untamed and full of teeth by deanswade

Obi-Wan felt something inside him break. It cracked and ruptured and rippled. He felt when the tongue met his skin, hot and dry. It didn't have enough strength to latch, but this boy, his boy, was smart. Obi-Wan shivered, as the boy lapped. So clever, so good, he drank until he couldn't anymore, stilling in Kenobi's hold before going lax. "Hold on for me, little one," Obi-Wan whispered, "Be brave. Don't let go." Or Obi-Wan is the owner of local high-end bar for vampires, when one night an unfortunate boy stumbles through his door, half-turned. Obi-Wan, who had never made a fledgling before, falls for Anakin hard and fast.